The Travelling Grave and Other Stories

by L. P. Hartley

  ‘Two or three days? Listen to the man, how vague he is!’ commented Mrs. Verdew, with a gesture of impatience apostrophizing the horizon. ‘Well, whether it’s three days or only two, you must have learnt one thing —that no one enters these premises without leave.’

  ‘Premises?’ murmured Jimmy.

  ‘Hillside, garden, grounds, premises,’ repeated Mrs. Verdew. ‘How slow you are! But so are all Englishmen.’

  ‘I don’t think Rollo is slow,’ remarked Jimmy, hoping to carry the war into her country.

  ‘Sometimes too slow, sometimes too fast, never the right pace,' pronounced his wife. ‘Rollo misdirects his life.’

  ‘He married you,’ said Jimmy gently.

  Mrs. Verdew gave him a quick look. ‘That was partly because I wanted him to. But only just now, for instance, he has been foolish.’ ‘Do you mean he was foolish to come here?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. Though I hate the place, and he does no good here.’

  ‘What good could he do?’ asked Jimmy, who was staring vacantly at the sky. ‘Except, perhaps, help his brother to look after —to look after----’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Mrs. Verdew. ‘Randolph doesn’t need any help, and if he did he wouldn’t let Rollo help him. He wouldn’t even have him made a director of the coal-mine!’

  ‘What coal-mine?’Jimmy asked.

  ‘Randolph’s. You don’t mean to say you didn’t know he had a coal-mine? One has to tell you everything!’

  ‘I like you to tell me things!’ protested Jimmy.

  ‘As you don’t seem to find out anything for yourself, I suppose I must. Well, then: Randolph has a coal-mine, he is very rich, and he spends his money on nothing but charitable societies for contradicting the laws of nature. And he won’t give Rollo a penny— not a penny though he is his only brother, his one near relation in the world! He won’t even help him to get a job!’

  ‘I thought he had a job,’ said Jimmy, in perplexity.

  ‘You thought that! You'd think anything’ exclaimed Mrs. Verdew, her voice rising in exasperation.

  ‘No, but he told me he came here for a holiday,’ said Jimmy pacifically.

  ‘Holiday, indeed! A long holiday. I can’t think why Rollo told you that. Nor can I think why I bore you with all our private troubles. A man can talk to a woman about anything; but a woman can only talk to a man about what interests him.’

  ‘But who is to decide that?’

  ‘The woman, of course; and I see you’re getting restless.’

  ‘No, no. I was so interested. Please go on.’

  ‘Certainly not. I am a Russian, and I often know when a man is bored sooner than he knows himself. Come along,’ pulling him from the bench much as a gardener uproots a weed; ‘and I will tell you something very interesting. Ah, how fast you walk! Don’t you know it’s less fatiguing to walk uphill slowly —and you with all those fishing-nets and pill-boxes. And what on earth is that great bottle for?’

  ‘I try to catch butterflies in these,’Jimmy explained. ‘And this is my killing bottle.’

  ‘What a horrible name. What is it for?’

  ‘I’m afraid I kill the butterflies with it.’

  ‘Ah, what a barbarian! Give it to me a moment. Yes, there are their corpses, poor darlings. Is that Randolph coming towards us? No, don’t take it away. I can carry it quite easily under my shawl. What was I going to tell you when you interrupted me? I remember—it was about the terrace. When I first came here I used to feel frightfully depressed — it was winter and the sun set so early, sometimes before lunch! In the afternoons I used to go down the mound, where I met you, and wait for the sun to dip below that bare hill on the left. And I would begin to walk quite slowly towards the castle, and all the while the sun was balanced on the hilltop like a ball! And the shadow covered the valley and kept lapping my feet, like the oncoming tide! And I would wait till it reached my ankles, and then run up into the light, and be safe for a moment. It was such fun, but I don’t expect you’d enjoy it, you’re too sophisticated. Ah, here’s Randolph. Randolph, I’ve been showing Mr. Rintoul the way home; he didn’t know it —he doesn’t know anything! Do you know what he does with this amusing net? He uses it to catch tiny little moths, like the ones that get into your furs. He puts it over them and looks at them, and they’re so frightened, they think they can’t get out; then they notice the little holes, and out they creep and fly away! Isn’t it charming?’

  ‘Charming,’ said Randolph, glancing away from the net and towards the ground.

  ‘Now we must go on. We want our tea terribly!’ And Mrs. Verdew swept Jimmy up the hill.

  With good fortune the morning newspaper arrived at Verdew Castle in time for tea, already a little out of date. Jimmy accorded it, as a rule, the tepid interest with which, when abroad, one contemplates the English journals of two days ago. They seem to emphasize one’s remoteness, not lessen it. Never did Jimmy seem farther from London, indeed, farther from civilization, than when he picked up the familiar sheet of The Titties. It was like a faint rumour of the world that had somehow found its way down hundreds of miles of railway, changed trains and stations, rumbled across the estuary, and threaded the labyrinth of lanes and turnings between Verdew Grove and the castle. Each day its news seemed to grow less important, or at any rate less important to Jimmy. He began to turn over the leaves. Mrs. Verdew had gone to her room, absent-mindedly taking the killing bottle with her. He was alone; there was no sound save the crackle of the sheets. Unusually insipid the news seemed. He turned more rapidly. What was this? In the middle of page fourteen, a hole? No, not a mere hole: a deliberate excision, the result of an operation performed with scissors. What item of news could anyone have found worth reading, much less worth cutting out? To Jimmy’s idle mind, the centre of page fourteen assumed a tremendous importance, it became the sun of his curiosity’s universe. He rose; with quick cautious fmgers he searched about, shifting papers, delving under blotters, even fumbling in the more publiclooking pigeon-holes.

  Suddenly he heard the click of a door opening, and with a bound he was in the middle of the room. It was only Rollo, whom business of some kind had kept all day away from home.

  ‘Enter the tired bread-winner,’ he remarked. ‘Like to see the paper? I haven’t had time to read it.’ He threw something at Jimmy and walked off.

  It was The Times. With feverish haste Jimmy turned to page fourteen and seemed to have read the paragraph even before he set eyes on it. It was headed: Mysterious Outbreak at Verdew.

  ‘The sequestered, little-known village of Verdew-le-Dale has again been the scene of a mysterious outrage, recalling the murders of John Didwell and Thomas Presland in 1910 and 1912, and the occasional killing of animals which has occurred since, hi this instance, as in the others, the perpetrator of the crime seems to have been actuated by some vague motive of retributive justice. The victim was a shepherd dog, the property of Mr. J. R. Cross. The dog, which was known to worry cats, had lately killed two belonging to an old woman of the parish. The Bench, of which Mr. Randolph Verdew is chairman, fined Cross and told him to keep the dog under proper control, but did not order its destruction. Two days ago the animal was found dead in a ditch, with its throat cut. The police have no doubt that the wound was made by the same weapon that killed Didwell and Presland, who, it will be remembered, had both been prosecuted by the R.S.P.C.A. for cruelty and negligence resulting in the deaths of domestic animals. At present no evidence has come to light that might lead to the detection of the criminal, though the police are still making investigations.’

  ‘And I don’t imagine it will ever come to light,’ Jimmy muttered.

  ‘What do you suppose won’t come to light?’ inquired a voice at his elbow. He looked up. Randolph Verdew was standing by his chair and looking over his shoulder at the newspaper.

  Jimmy pointed to die paragraph.

  ‘Any clue to the identity of the man who did this?’

  ‘No,’ said Randolph after a percep
tible pause. I don’t suppose there will be.’ He hesitated a moment and then added:

  ‘But it would interest me much to know how that paragraph found its way back into the paper.’

  Jimmy explained.

  ‘You see,’ observed Randolph, ‘I always cut out, and paste into a book, any item of news that concerns the neighbourhood, and especially Verdew. In this way I have made an interesting collection.’

  ‘There seem to have been similar occurrences here before,’ remarked Jimmy.

  ‘There have, there have,’ Randolph Verdew said.

  ‘It’s very strange that no one has even been suspected.’

  Randolph Verdew answered obliquely:

  ‘Blood calls for blood. The workings of justice are secret and incalculable.’

  ‘Then you sympathize a little with the murderer?’ Jimmy inquired.

  ‘I?’ muttered Randolph. ‘I think I hate cruelty more than anything in the world.’

  ‘But wasn’t the murderer cruel?’ persisted Jimmy.

  ‘No,’ said Randolph Verdew with great decision. ‘At least,’ he added in a different tone, ‘the victims appear to have died with the minimum of suffering. But here comes Vera. We must find a more cheerful topic of conversation. Vera, my dear, you won’t disappoint us of our bridge to-night?’

  Several days elapsed, days rendered slightly unsatisfactory for Jimmy from a trivial cause. He could not get back his killing bottle from Mrs. Verdcw. She had promised it, she had even gone upstairs to fetch it; but she never brought it down. Meanwhile, several fine specimens (in particular a large female Emperor moth) languished in match-boxes and other narrow receptacles, damaging their wings and even having to be set at liberty. It was very trying. He began to feel that the retention of the killing bottle was deliberate. In questions of conduct he was often at sea. But in the domain of manners, though he sometimes went astray, he considered that he knew very well which road to take, and the knowledge was a matter of pride to him. The thought of asking Mrs. Verdcw a third time to restore his property irked him exceedingly. At last he screwed up his courage. They were walking down the hill together after tea.

  ‘Mrs. Verdew,’ he began.

  ‘Don’t go on,’ she exclaimed. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say. Poor darling, he wants to have his killing bottle back. Well, you can’t. I need it myself for those horrible hairy moths that come in at night.’

  ‘But Mrs. Verdew------!’ he protested.

  ‘And please don’t call me Mrs. Verdew. How long have we known each other? Ten days! And soon you’ve got to go! Surely you could call me Vera!’

  Jimmy flushed. He knew that he must go soon, but didn’t realize that a term had been set to his stay.

  ‘Listen,’ she continued, beginning to lead him down the hill. ‘When you’re in London I hope you’ll often come to see us.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ said he.

  ‘Well, then, let’s make a date. Will you dine with us on the tenth? That’s to-morrow week.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure---’ began Jimmy unhappily, looking down on

  to the rolling plain and feeling that he loved it.

  ‘How long you’re going to stay?’ broke in Mrs Verdew, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts. ‘Why do you want to stay? There’s nothing to do here: think what fun we might have in London. You can’t like this place and I don’t believe it’s good for you; you don’t look half as well as you did when you came.’

  ‘But you didn’t see me when I came, and I feel very well,’ said Jimmy,

  ‘Feeling is nothing,’ said Mrs. Verdew. ‘Look at me. Do I look well?’ She turned up to him her face: it was too large, he thought, and dull and pallid with powder; the features were too marked; but undeniably it had beauty. ‘I suppose I do: I feel well. But in this place I believe my life might stop any moment of its own accord! Do you never feel that?’

  ‘No,’ said Jimmy, smiling.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said suddenly, taking him to a seat as she had done on the occasion of their first meeting, ‘and let me have your hand —not because I love you, but because I’m happier holding something, and it’s a pretty hand.’

  Jimmy did not resist: he was slightly stupefied, but somehow not surprised by her behaviour. She held up his drooping hand by the wrist, level with her eyes, and surveyed it with a smile, then she laid, it palm upward, in her lap. The smile vanished from her face: she knitted her brows.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said, a sudden energy in her voice.

  ‘I thought you said it was a pretty hand,’ murmured Jimmy.

  ‘I did; you know I don’t mean that. It is pretty: but you don’t deserve to have it, not your eyes, nor your hair; you are idle and complacent and unresponsive and ease-loving — you only think of your butterflies and your killing bottle!’ She looked at him fondly; and Jimmy for some reason was rather pleased to hear all this. ‘No, I meant that I see danger in your hand, in the lines.’

  ‘Danger to me?’

  ‘Ah, the conceit of men! Yes, to you.’

  ‘What sort of danger —physical danger?’ inquired Jimmy, only moderately interested.

  ‘Danger de mort,' pronounced Mrs. Verdew.

  ‘Come, come,’ said Jimmy, bending forward and looking into Mrs. Verdcw’s face to see if she was pretending to be serious. ‘When does the danger threaten?’

  ‘Now,’ said Mrs. Verdew.

  Oh, thought Jimmy, what a tiresome woman! So you think I’m in danger, do you, Mrs. Verdew, of losing my head at this moment? God, the conceit of women! He stole a glance at her; she was looking straight ahead, her lips pursed up and trembling a little, as though she wanted him to kiss her. Shall I? he thought, for compliance was in his blood and he always wanted to do what was expected of him. But at that very moment a wave of irritability flooded his mind and changed it: she had taken his killing bottle, spoilt and stultified several precious days, and all to gratify her caprice. He turned away.

  ‘Oh, I’m tougher than you think,’ he said.

  ‘Tougher?’ she said. ‘Do you mean your skin? All Englishmen have thick skins.’ She spoke resentfully; then her voice softened. ‘I was going to tell you----’ She uttered the words with difficulty, and as though against her will. But Jimmy, not noticing her changed tone and still ridden by his irritation, interrupted her.

  ‘That you’d restore my killing bottle?’

  ‘No, no,’ she cried in exasperation, leaping to her feet. ‘How you do harp on that wretched old poison bottle! I wish I’d broken it!’ She caught her breath, and Jimmy rose too, facing her with distress and contrition in his eyes. But she was too angry to heed his change of mood. ‘It was something I wanted you to know —but you make things so difficult for me! I’ll fetch you your bottle,’ she continued wildly, ‘since you’re such a child as to want it! No, don’t follow me; I’ll have it sent to your room.’

  He looked up; she was gone, but a faint sound of sobbing disturbed the air behind her.

  It was evening, several days later, and they were sitting at dinner. How Jimmy would miss these meals when he got back to London! For a night or two, after the scene with Mrs. Verdew, he had been uneasy under the enforced proximity which the dining-table brought; she looked at him reproachfully, spoke little, and when he sought occasions to apologize to her, she eluded them. She had never been alone with him since. She had, he knew, little control over her emotions, and perhaps her pride suffered. But her pique, or whatever it was, now seemed to have passed away. She looked lovely to-night, and he realized he would miss her. Rollo’s voice, when he began to speak, was like a commentary on his thoughts.

  ‘Jimmy says he’s got to leave us Randolph,’ he said. ‘Back to the jolly old office.’

  ‘That is a great pity,’ said Randolph in his soft voice. ‘We shall miss him, shan't we, Vera?’

  Mrs. Verdew said they would.

  ‘All the same, these unpleasant facts have to be faced,’ remarked Rollo. ‘That’s why we were bor
n. I’m afraid you’ve had a dull time, Jimmy, though you must have made the local flora and fauna sit up. Have you annexed any prize specimens from your raids upon the countryside?’

  ’I have got one or two good ones,’ said Jimmy with a reluctance that he attributed partially to modesty.

  ‘By the way,’ said Rollo, pouring himself out a glass of port, for the servants had left the room, ‘I would like you to show Randolph that infernal machine of yours, Jimmy. Anything on the lines of a humane killer bucks the old chap up no end.’ He looked across at his brother, the ferocious cast of his features softened into an expression of fraternal solicitude.

  After a moment’s pause Randolph said: ‘I should be much interested to be shown Mr. Rintoul’s invention.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not my invention,’ said Jimmy a little awkwardly.

  ‘You’ll forgive me disagreeing with you, Rollo,’ Mrs. Verdew, who had not spoken for some minutes, suddenly remarked. ‘I don’t think it’s worth Randolph’s while looking at it. I don’t think it would interest him a bit.’

  ‘How often have I told you, my darling,’ said Rollo, leaning across the corner of the table towards his wife, ‘not to contradict me? I keep a record of the times you agree with me: December, 1919, was the last.’

  ‘Sometimes I think that was a mistake,’ said Mrs. Verdew, rising in evident agitation, ‘for it was then I promised to marry you.* She reached the door before Jimmy could open it for her.

  ‘Ah, these ladies!’ moralized Rollo, leaning back and closing his eyes. ‘What a dance the dear things lead us, with their temperaments.’ And he proceeded to enumerate examples of feminine caprice, until his brother proposed that they should adjourn to the bridge table.

  The next morning Jimmy was surprised to find a note accompany his early morning tea.

  Dear Mr. Rintoul (it began), since I mustn't say ‘Dear Jimmy.’ (‘I never said she mustn't’ Jimmy thought.) I know it isn’t easy for any man, most of all an Englishman, to understand moods, but I do beg you to forgive my foolish outburst of a few days ago. I think it must have been the air or the lime in the water that made me un po’ nervosa, as the Italians say. I know you prefer a life utterly flat and dull and even—it would kill me, but there! I am sorry. You can’t expect me to change, a mon age l But anyhow try to forgive me.