“I’ve just remembered something that may interest you,” Quentin interposed. “You’ve heard of the duck-billed platypus? It’s nearly extinct, you know. The decadent remnant of the vanished species. And that means the individual platypus is rather a delicate creature. Well, I discovered, almost by accident, the nature of its hereditary weakness.”
“What is it?” asked Saturday.
“Catarrh,” said Quentin solemnly.
Lady Keith looked puzzled, Sir Colin sceptical, and Saturday derisive.
“It makes its nest of eucalyptus leaves,” said Quentin. “Now everybody knows that animals and birds have their own remedies—a dog eats grass to make itself sick, for example—and as eucalyptus is a popular cure for colds it seems clear that the duck-billed platypus is subject to catarrh and knows it. Therefore it surrounds itself with an obvious remedy. To my mind it’s plain that catarrh carried off millions of platypi before they discovered the use of eucalyptus.”
Sir Colin and Saturday laughed coarsely while Lady Keith wondered if Quentin was trying to make fun of her. But he looked at her photographs with such genuine interest that she abandoned the idea, and when he exclaimed at the picture of a cock grouse alighting on a heather-hidden rock, “You can almost hear him talking,” Lady Keith said, “You can hear him, if you want to,” and took a gramophone record out of a box.
The gramophone whirred in its usual way, and then out of it a grouse spoke harshly: Bek-ek-ek-ek-ek e-ek!
“That’s at the end of its morning flight, just before it lands.”
In another minute an old gobbling voice was heard saying, it seemed, Go-back, go-back, go-back!
“Now it’s down,” said Lady Keith. “I went to a lot of trouble to make that record.”
The dogs, which had wakened when the gramophone started and hearkened excitedly to the mysterious grouse noises, now sprang to the door, excited by something else, listening intently.
When it was opened they ran out, barking, past the butler.
The butler (who had been old Sir Colin’s regimental sergeant-major and looked it) said, “There’s a man and a lady oot-by, drookin’ wet, wanting to know if you can help them, your ladyship.”
“Go and see who they are, Colin,” said Lady Keith. “And tell the dogs to be quiet,” she added.
CHAPTER XXV
With some difficulty Mr. Wesson turned the car and went back the way he had come. It was the second time that he had taken the wrong turning. On the first occasion the road had ended abruptly without apparent reason; now it led to a tall lodge gate and private grounds.
Joan said nothing, but tried to keep her teeth from chattering. Mr. Wesson was also silent, his stream of reminiscence having been beaten back at last by the tireless rain. The wind howled dismally as he found the main road again and turned north. They climbed hill after hill and the rain leapt in beside them. He drove carefully on a long down gradient and the wind danced outrageously all about.
The road was black as earth and the lights scarcely showed its difference from the black moor on either side. The silver rain-arrows in the gleam dazzled him. Somewhere at the bottom of the hill a river sang its drinking-song, and the wind harped wildly in the birches. The road blurred before him, seeming to split in two.
Joan shouted “Left, left!” but it was too late.
The car skidded over shingle, bumped across a rock, and ran straight into the river till a boulder stopped it. Mr. Wesson sat dazed while the water lipped the top of the door and presently flowed over and all around him. The engine had stopped and the river-song was heard more clearly. The water was cold.
Mr. Wesson suddenly remembered van Buren’s papers, found his attaché case, and held it above his head out of the river’s reach. He sat thus for some moments, like Patience in a reservoir, thinking.
Joan struggled to open the door beside her, but found it difficult because of the pressure of the stream outside. She was laughing hysterically and at the same time her teeth were chattering with cold, so that she seemed to be pronouncing the second letter of the alphabet with incredible reiteration.
The black river swirled past them, chuckling and chanting, the outrageous wind laughed again, and the rain beat a roll on the taut roof of the car.
“Be-be-be-be-be-be-be-be,” said Joan, struggling with the door.
“Please be quiet,” said Mr. Wesson. “I’m thinking.”
“Be quiet!” exclaimed Joan shrilly. “We’ll be d-d-d-drowned if we stay here any longer, and then we’ll be q-quiet enough!”
Mr. Wesson looked startled. Even in the dark it could be seen that he looked startled.
“Climb over the top if you can’t open it,” he said sharply, and Joan struggled out between the door and the roof, tearing her thin cloth skirt as she went.
She stood on the running board up to her knees in water, and Mr. Wesson handed her his valuable attaché case. Then he also climbed out of the car.
But he was too precipitate and instead of finding a safe position on the running-board he fell headlong into the river. He emerged a moment later, flinging his arms wide in the attitude of an earnest young swimmer, and said “Bhou! Bhou!” very loudly. He was so upset by his accident that he began to wade farther into the river.
“Come back!” Joan shouted, and Mr. Wesson turned obediently.
“I mistook my direction,” he said. “Thank you for your timely warning.” A piece of politeness which was entirely wasted, for the wind and the rollicking river swallowed it between them.
They struggled to the bank and found their way on to the bridge where, not long before, the “Blue Bird” had crumpled her shapely mudguards. The Bentley was just visible in the darkness. The river made a little whitish foam about it and sang more loudly against its drowned sides.
“We must get shelter somewhere,” said Joan. “The first house we can find.”
“You will give me your word of honour not to—”
“I’ll give you anything you like if you’ll take me to a big fire.”
They walked on hurriedly, trudging through the mud, shivering, wet through. Mr. Wesson took off his coat and tried to wring it dry. When they came to a road that branched left he said, “I suppose we had better keep straight on.”
Joan, who was too miserable to agree with anyone or anything, immediately said, “I’m going this way,” and took the road to the left, which led to Crosier’s Edge and Cawfield. Mr. Wesson followed her.
By-and-by they saw dim lights over the slant of a hill.
“Look!” said Joan, “there’s a house!” And at once she struck across country in a direct line for the yellow-starred shadow which meant, with luck, dry clothes and a fire. There were trees in her way. A branch scratched her cheek as she brushed through them. There was a stone dyke to climb on which she tore her skirt again, for somehow she managed to kneel on it (and that was not easy, for it was short) and the sodden cloth parted willingly. Mr. Wesson followed her without a word. Only at the very doors of Keith Hall did he remember something: propriety.
“Don’t you think it will appear strange,” he said earnestly, “if we are seen together at this time of night? You are young and unmarried. I—well, I am not related to you in any way. It is unusual, you must admit—”
“I’m cold,” said Joan.
“I suggest, if anybody enquires, that you should pretend to be my sister.”
“Your aunt, if you like,” said Joan.
“We’ve had an accident,” she told the maid who opened the door.
“A serious accident,” Mr. Wesson added.
The maid looked frightened, for their appearance was against them, and Joan swiftly stepped past her when she caught sight of the butler crossing the hall with a silver tray on which decanters stood.
Undaunted by his military expression—which was exacerbated when he saw Mr. Wesson, who looked unpleasant in wet clothes—Joan explained, “We fell into the river. At least our car did. And personally I’m frightened of getting pneumo
nia. Will you tell— I don’t know who lives here, but—”
“This young lady,” Mr. Wesson began, while a pool steadily gathered round his feet—
“I shall inform her ladyship,” said the butler, looking at Mr. Wesson as though he were defaulter’s parade.
The deerhound and the two West Highland terriers rushed out, barking, and Sir Colin limped after them.
“I am Joan Benbow,” said Joan. “This is—”
“I am her brother,” said Mr. Wesson ingratiatingly.
“There’s a large fire inside,” Sir Colin said, “I think you had better come in at once and get warm.”
He held open the door for them. The brighter light of the library made them blink for a moment.
“Joan,” exclaimed Saturday springing to his feet.
“And Wesson,” added Quentin.
Mr. Wesson’s wits returned immediately. He recognized Saturday and his unfortunate position in the same instant and became, after some hours of comparative gentleness, once more like a cornered weasel. His face hardened and his heavy eyebrows half-hooded his expressionless eyes. He took a small bottle from his pocket and with his thumb forced out the cork.
“Stay right where you are,” he said harshly. “I’ve got a little bottle of vitriol here, and if anyone moves an inch it goes straight into Miss Benbow’s face.”
He stood to one side of the door with Joan beside him and kept her back by his left arm which stretched in front of her like a barrier. In his left hand he held the attaché case.
Sir Colin was nearest him.
“Get farther back,” said Mr. Wesson; and Sir Colin obeyed.
Joan stood white and still; or almost white, for the rain off her hair mixed with blood from her tree-torn cheek and ran pinkly over her chin. Her tattered skirt gaped open, rent from waist to hem, and her hat was sodden and shapeless. But Saturday looked at her longingly. Bewilderment petrified his face and wrath made it red. Like waxworks, embarrassingly realistic but unnaturally still, Lady Keith and Quentin and Sir Colin stood at gaze.
Mr. Wesson’s throat moved jerkily. He was thinking desperately what to do. It was stalemate unless he could make a bargain of some kind. No one spoke. And the water dripped audibly off his clothes, falling with a tiny bell-like note on to the hard floor.
Saturday could keep quiet no longer.
“Put that bottle down,” he said hoarsely, and took a step forward.
“It’s she who gets it all, if you don’t stay where you are,” said Mr. Wesson, and raised the small brown bottle threateningly. Joan shrank against the wall.
The dogs had watched intently this strange performance, the terriers alert and questioning, the deerhound still and suspicious. Now, when Wesson threatened Joan, he leapt forward with a growl in his deep throat. The terriers followed, shrilly yelping.
Mr. Wesson saw bright eyes in a rough grey head, white teeth shining, and a glimpse of red mouth. His right hand dropped and he shot the contents of the small brown bottle into the deerhound’s face.
The dog’s growl turned into high-pitched ululation, he checked in mid-air, dropped to the floor, and with frantic paws rubbed at his eyes.
Mr. Wesson pushed Joan aside and darted through the door.
“You damned swine!” roared Saturday, and snatching a gun and a handful of cartridges from the table sprang after Wesson. The outer door closed with a bang. Saturday ran across the hall. A swoop of wind and rain met him as he opened the door. The terriers followed him.
In the library they stooped round the agonized deerhound.
“Don’t touch him,” Colin warned them, “or you’ll get burnt too. Bring some wet cloths, Grant,” he said as the butler, who had heard strange noises, opportunely appeared.
The dog was quieter, though he still rubbed his eyes and whined. There was a pungent smell in the air.
“Come to the fire,” said Lady Keith, putting her arm round Joan’s waist.
“But Saturday!” said Joan tearfully, “he’ll shoot Wesson, He’ll kill him!”
“I’ll go after them,” said Quentin.
“It’s all right,” Sir Colin said from where he sat on the floor beside the dog. “It’s all right, you needn’t worry. Saturday could never hit anything he aimed at. They’re both perfectly safe.”
“Colin knows best,” said Lady Keith, and wiped Joan’s cheeks, and comforted her, and took off her wet hat, and rubbed her cold hands.
Quentin stepped out into the stormy darkness. He could see nothing, and the rain greeted him. But suddenly he heard a shot, made faint by the wind, and then another. He hurried in the direction from which they came.
Saturday, loading as he went, had run blindly. The transition from a lighted room to rainy night was too sudden. And the rain blurred his spectacles, so that he looked dimly through a film of water. He took them off and thought he saw more clearly.
There was a shrubbery to his left, in which Wesson might possibly be hiding. He stalked towards it with a mind too murderously inclined to think of rain or wind or common sense.
Joan with a cut on her cheek and her torn dress; rain-soaked, white and miserable; Joan who had been ill-treated by that swine Wesson; and Bran the deerhound blinded by hot acid—these pictures turbulently filled his brain, and his hands trembled slightly with the surplus of his rage. All the anger of that long day had come to a head and murder crowed cheerfully in his heart.
The terriers had disappeared. Now he heard them barking and ran towards them. Something showed darker than the leaves and Saturday fired at it, once and again. It disappeared.
“Come out of that, Wesson,” he ordered.
There was no reply.
Saturday re-loaded and as he snapped-to the barrel there were footsteps on the gravel behind him. He turned and fired for the third time.
“You bloody fool!” came a frightened voice. “You awful bloody fool! You might have hit me!”
“I thought it was Wesson,” growled Saturday.
“Well, it wasn’t,” said Quentin, “and anyway you’ve got no more right to shoot him than you have to shoot me. Come in and leave him alone.”
“I’m going to kill him,” said Saturday. “I think he’s in these bushes. Will you go in and beat him out?”
“While you shoot at both of us? Not likely.”
“Then stay here and keep your eyes open.”
Saturday pushed half-blindly—for his spectacles were in his pocket—between enormous rhododendrons, hollies, and laurels in search of the fugitive Wesson. Leaves dark and pectinated thrust into his face. Swag-bellied, water-dripping bushes opposed a barrier that was the more effective for its Dædalian recesses. Leaves full of rain emptied their store on him. And still he thrust more deeply into the jungle. There was a smell of wet earth and laurel. Somewhere the wind shrieked Wheee-ooo hoo-hooh! but its voice was muffled by thick black foliage. Shrubs of a fantastic girth, incredibly guarded with branches and masked with a myriad moving leaves, surrounded him. But neither Wesson nor the dogs were there.
As Saturday fought his way out again he heard Quentin hallooing, “Go-one awa-ay!”
“Which way?” he shouted.
Quentin was excitedly marking double-time like a small boy at odds with nature from hydropathy.
“Straight down towards the lodge with the dogs at his heel,” he chattered.
They ran side by side, splashing in puddles, straining to see through the dark. Quentin’s momentary scruples had vanished. It is seldom that one is allowed the thrill of a man-hunt. And the night was savage.
Mr. Wesson, though hampered by his attaché case, made good time, for he had been seriously alarmed by Saturday’s two shots, one of which had spattered a tree not more than a yard from him. The West Highland terriers followed more discreetly than at first, for he had managed to kick both of them.
The road stretched on obscurely, the wind whistled in the birches by the unseen river—to his right a flank of grass dropped steeply towards it—and his breath came sh
ort. Black clouds with here and there a star lit weal thronged the sky. For a few minutes he thought he had tricked the pursuit. And then he heard it behind him.
He began to run from side to side of the road, zigzag, like a merchant ship in war-time when a periscope comes sinister out of the waves.
By screwing up his eyes Saturday could see a dim shape flying before him. He shouted, and might not have fired. But when the shape started to flicker snipe-fashion over the road the temptation became irresistible. He stopped, hurriedly sighted, and pulled the trigger.
“I think I’ve hit him,” he gasped.
Mr. Wesson staggered to a halt and put up his hands.
“I guess you win,” he called, panting for breath.
Saturday and Quentin, who were also badly winded, glared at him through the darkness.
“I don’t think you did,” said Quentin.
“It was a good shot.”
“But you missed him.”
“Did that last one hit you?”
“No,” said Mr. Wesson, “but it might have if I’d stayed on the other edge of the road. Do you mind if I take my hands down? I’ve got a pretty sore stitch in my side. That’s why I had to stop.”
“Where’s my manuscript?” asked Saturday.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” groaned Mr. Wesson.
He huddled down to relieve the pain at his midriff while Quentin and Saturday watched him silently. Quentin wanted to make facetious remarks about Saturday’s shooting, but decided that it would be tactless to do so in the presence of the intended victim. Saturday’s inclination to manslaughter was not radical enough to suggest putting a captive to death. And so when Mr. Wesson had sufficiently recovered they walked back to the Hall, Mr. Wesson still carrying his attaché case.
In the meanwhile Joan had been bathed and wrapped warmly in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, and Bran the deerhound made uncomfortable with boracic lotion in his eyes and a bread poultice over his face.
Joan sat by the fire. Sir Colin’s pyjamas which she wore were yellow silk that caught the firelight, and the dressing-gown was an elaborate affair with gold dragons on it. To Saturday she appeared infinitely desirable, and the thought of revenge on the unhappy Wesson faded almost completely from his mind. No more than a little crooked shadow was left.
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