Fool Errant

by Patricia Wentworth

  The hippopotamus and the flea.

  They all—went—into the ark

  For to get out of the rain.”

  Loveday put her lips so close to Hugo’s ear that the soft breath tickled him. The soft breath said, “I don’t sing it to that tune—I sing ‘One more river to cross’ for the chorus.”

  Hugo slipped his hand up and covered the whispering lips. He was afraid to say “Hush” because of the silence. They stood very close together. He felt her lips move against the palm of his hand. And then the silence broke. From the next roof came the sound of feet moving, slipping, going away.

  Hugo watched the other window, the window of No. 50. It was dark. He watched it until a light sprang up in the room behind it. Figures moved to and fro against the light; one of them was a woman. He wondered if Cissie had come back—he thought it was Cissie. Then someone came to the window and shut it, and a hand pulled down the blind. All this time they had stood there motionless and tense; now all of a sudden Hugo became aware of how strange it was to be standing there in the dark, so close to Loveday, with her lips against his hand. His palm burned.

  He stepped back, and he heard the little tiny ghost of a laugh and felt Loveday’s hand on his arm.

  “Where are you? Don’t go away.”

  “Ssh!”

  “I am—Hugo, I am. Don’t go away and I’ll whisper.” Her lips were at his ear again. “No one can possibly hear me, and I’m bursting to know what it’s all about. I don’t know anything. I’ve been frightfully good. Why are we running away?”

  “Ssh!” said Hugo again.

  “They’ve gone away.”

  “I’m not sure. They’d want us to think so.”

  “D’you mean that someone’s lurking? How horrid!”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. They meant to carry you off—they had a taxi.”

  She pressed up against him.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Look here, Loveday, we’ve got to try and get out of this.”

  The little laugh tickled his ear.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We really want a parachute, or an aeroplane, or—Hugo”—she pincned him—“we might get through one of those little windows, the funny little slopy ones in the roof—we might do that.”

  “They’ll be shut.”

  “One of them is nearly always open—I see it from my window. It’s open first thing in the morning, and it’s open at sunset, and I believe it stays open all night except when there’s a frost. They keep plaints there, and they put them out on the roof when it rains—I’ve often watched them.”

  “Which roof is it?”

  “The next, I think.” She tugged at his arm. “Do come and see.”

  It would not be very dangerous to venture on to the next roof. They climbed over the parapet, and then stood waiting, listening in a breathless hush for a sound that did not come. There was no sound.

  They crept between the sloping roofs to where one of the oblongs of window showed against the slate. It caught a faint reflection and looked pale. It looked different from the other windows; it looked pale and it looked different because it was propped open a couple of inches, catching some faint diffusion of light.

  Hugo knelt, slipped his hand through the gap, found and loosened the metal stay, and lifted the window. There was a space big enough to climb through; but so dark—if you stepped on pots, they would make all the noise in the world and bring an enraged gardener-householder on the scene with the police to his aid. Beastly things pots!

  He let himself down very gingerly indeed. Down was only about three feet, and there were no pots where his feet landed He felt with his hands, found the space beneath the window clear, and whispered to Loveday. She slid down, gave a little gasp of surprise when she found the floor so near. And then on the top of that sound there was another. Someone moved on the roof over there by the parapet. Someone—

  Hugo pulled the window down noiselessly, using his own hand as a pad. He slipped his fingers out, found the bolt, and slid it home. They crouched below the window and heard a slow, slow foot go by. Loveday pinched him so hard that he very nearly cried out.

  The step went by, and suddenly from beneath them there arose a sound of splashing. They crouched motionless. The splashing went on. Hugo strained to listen for the step, and after a long, slow time it came again and passed them by and was gone. From the bathroom below came the sound of the bath running out; someone moved to and fro; the water gurgled noisily. Presently it stopped gurgling. The door shut with a bang.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Loveday drew a long breath. Then she shook the arm that she had pinched.

  “Now we can talk! I’m bursting—simply bursting.”

  Hugo was feeling his way. Twice his hand touched pots—finally a packing-case. He wanted to get away from the sky-light, and he too wanted to talk. He felt as if he had come a long way and through strange places to talk to Loveday.

  He said, “Here”; and she fetched up beside him with a whispered “Now—Hugo, tell me—quick—why are we running away?”

  “I don’t quite know. I had to get you away. Who’s the woman in the room opposite yours?”

  “She’s a friend of Cissie’s. I don’t like her husband very much.”

  “She had been told to drug you.”

  “Oh!” Loveday gave a gasp and came closer. “How horrid! She brought me some coffee—I thought she was kind—I drank it.”

  He felt her shiver, and put his arm round her as they sat there leaning against the packing-case. It seemed quite natural to put his arm round Loveday.

  “It’s all right. I say, don’t be frightened—she didn’t do it—she said she couldn’t—she said she wanted to give you a chance. And she opened the door and let me in.”

  He felt her tremble and relax.

  “How did you get there? Tell me—tell me from the beginning. I don’t know anything at all, and it makes me feel like when you wake up in the dark and don’t know which side of the room the window is or—anything. It’s horrid.”

  “But I want you to tell me things. You said you had things to tell me.”

  “Oh yes, I have. But you must begin. We can’t escape out of here until everyone is asleep in the house—can we? So begin right at the very beginning and tell me.”

  It came over Hugo how crass it was of Cissie to think that anyone who had ever heard Loveday speak could forget the quick, tripping way that the words came tumbling out, like a lot of breathless children at play; she had a soft, eager way with her even when she whispered. He wrote Cissie down as a fool, and he wondered what he should tell Loveday and where he should begin.

  “Oh, you’re wasting time!” said the soft whispering voice. “Do begin!”

  Hugo went back to Meade House.

  “There’s such a lot of it. But—you remember you telephoned to me.”

  “Yes, I did, and—”

  “Something happened—someone interrupted you, didn’t they? Was it Cissie?”

  “Yes, it was. But I don’t see how you knew. It was in a shop. It was the only chance I ever got. She was trying things on. And then she came in and pulled the receiver out of my hand and she was frightfully angry. And afterwards she cried and said I’d get her into dreadful trouble if I met you. And she said you were just leaving Meade House anyhow—she knew all about it because of Mr. Hacker being a friend of hers—so I promised I wouldn’t.”

  “She was telling you lies. I’m not leaving. I’m up in town because Minstrel’s away and doesn’t want me. And—I kept that appointment, Loveday.”

  “Oh—did you wait long?”

  “No,” said Hugo dryly, “I didn’t wait long. Miss Cissie met me and pretended to be you.”

  “Oh, she didn’t!”

  “Oh, she did. She’s got a nerve. She pretended she’d got a bad cold, and she actually thought I was mug enough to believe she was you.
” He laughed a little. “I suppose I must look like a mug, because they all seem to think I’m one.”

  “Go on,” said Loveday. She pressed up against him like an eager child. “Go on. Tell me how you got here—tell me everything.”

  He did not tell her everything; but he told her how he had met Cissie that evening, and how he had come to the house and found it dark, and how he had followed a man he did not know up the unlighted stair.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he said. “Tell me why I wasn’t to go to Meade House. You said it three times, and I want to know why you said it.”

  She said, “Three times, did I?”

  “Yes, you did—in the lane, and in your letter, and when you telephoned. Now I want to know why.”

  She drew away a little.

  “I’ll tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you frightfully badly. It was just before I met you in the lane—I told you about running away so as not to wake up and find I was married to James or anything like that. I did tell you that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I ran away. And I just missed the train I wanted to catch, and there I was with hours to wait. So I just put my bag in the hedge, and I began to walk up and down. And then there was a horrible beery tramp. And he was between me and the station, so I had to run the other way. And when I got to Meade House I ran inside the gate because it felt safer. And then I heard people coming, and I crouched right down behind a hedge. And there were two men, and they were talking.”

  “Yes—go on.”

  “They came from the direction of the house, and they were talking about a secretary who had gone, and they said he was a good riddance—they said he knew too much. And I thought that was funny, because I should think you’d want your secretary to know things. They stood there just inside the gate, and they talked. And this is the bit about you. One of them said, ‘Manning’s boy sounds just what we want—no relations, no connections.’ And the other one laughed, and he said, ‘He sounds almost too good to be true—the disinherited nephew touch is a real stroke of genius.’ And then they walked a little way and came back. And when they came back, the one who laughed was saying, ‘He’ll be as easy as mud. Everyone’ll believe he took them. There’ll be no one to kick up a fuss.’ Then they walked a little way again, and when they came back one of them said, ‘Well, he’ll be for it’; and the other said, ‘Poor devil!’ And then they went right away. That’s what I heard.”

  “I see,” said Hugo. He spoke slowly. “They knew I was coming—it was all a plant. Manning—no, I swear Manning’s straight—he didn’t know—I swear he didn’t know—he thought he was doing me a good turn—but it was all a plant from the beginning. I say, what swabs! And, I say—I haven’t thanked you—but I do thank you most awfully. I knew some of it, but you’ve cleared up a bit I didn’t know.”

  “You knew some of it? Oh!”

  “Yes—some—” He gave a low, sudden laugh. “I say, they do think me a mug—a prize, first-class mug! It’s not flattering, because I suppose I must look like one.”

  Loveday laughed too, just in a whisper; but even in a whisper her laugh was pretty, like a trickle of water.

  “I don’t know what you look like. Isn’t that funny? I haven’t seen you, and you haven’t seen me, and—why, didn’t you think Cissie was me?”

  “I’m not such a mug as I look,” said Hugo.

  Loveday laughed again.

  “I want to see you. It’s so silly not to know what you look like.”

  “G-guess!” said Hugo. His stammer had returned suddenly, but he did not feel embarrassed by it. He felt an eager excitement.

  “Guessing’s silly. I want to see you. Haven’t you got a match? Do you think that horrid lurking man would find us if you struck a match?”

  “He m-might.”

  “I don’t believe he would—I believe he’s gone away. Besides, if he tried to get in here, I could scream, and the people in the house would come and help us.”

  “No, you mustn’t. Nobody’s got to see me—nobody’s got to know that I’ve been here, or that I know anything.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’ve got to go on thinking I’m a mug. I can’t tell you any more than that. I’ve got to go on at Meade House; and they’ve got to go on thinking I don’t know anything. It’s most awfully important.”

  She came quite close.

  “Well, I may see you. Do strike a match—I do want to see you so badly.”

  “I want to s-see you, Loveday.”

  Hugo liked saying her name. It was a very easy name to say; it said itself when he thought about her.

  Loveday drew back.

  “I’m all on end like a hedgehog, and I expect my face is all slatey—my hands are, and I’m sure it’s got on to my nose—things do.”

  Hugo took out of his pocket the matches which he had bought from the friendly damsel in the tobacconist’s. It seemed a long time ago. He struck a match and saw it flare up, a little yellow tongue of flame on a tiny stick. He held it up, and by its light he and Loveday saw each other for the first time.

  They both saw the match, with its yellow light rising up into a pointed tongue of flame, and they both saw Hugo’s hand holding it. Loveday saw Hugo’s face, very eager and earnest, his fair hair all ruffled, his eyes very blue and intent. Hugo saw brown short hair, pushed back, wide-set eyes which he thought were grey, a soft little nose, and a wide mouth that trembled and laughed. There was a smudge on her chin and another high up a her left cheek. Under the smudges the chin was very white and the cheek was rather pale. Each saw the other, and then both of them saw the same thing happen, because at one and the same moment the colour ran up to the roots of the fair hair and the brown. Loveday blushed, and Hugo blushed; each saw the scarlet colour rise and felt it burn.

  The match dropped because Hugo’s finger burned too. The flame touched it. The match dropped.

  Loveday gave a little gasp. They drew away, and were glad of the darkness.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Loveday was the first to recover. She drew a long unsteady breath and said,

  “Have I got a smut on my nose?”

  “N-not on your nose,” said Hugo.

  “Where? Oh! How horrid of you!”

  “There’s one on your chin, and one up near your eyelashes.”

  He could hear her rubbing vigorously.

  “You’ll only m-make it w-worse,” he said.

  “I always get smudges,” said Loveday. “Some people never do; but if there’s one single smut in a whole town, it gets on to my nose.”

  “It wasn’t on your nose.”

  “Why don’t you get smuts? You were simply horribly clean.”

  “I know.” He spoke despondently. “It’s one of the things that make people think I’m a m-mug.”

  Loveday nodded in the dark.

  “And you blushed,” she added most unfairly.

  Hugo blushed again.

  “S-so did you.”

  “Lots of people can’t blush,” said Loveday—“lots of them. I think it’s rather dull to be the same colour always. James was always exactly the same colour—rather like soap, you know—and I got awfully bored with it.”

  Hugo felt a certain impatience of James. He looked at the dial of his watch and saw that it was nearly eleven. He wondered how soon it would be safe to try and get away, and he wondered, quite suddenly he wondered, what on earth he was to do with Loveday. The thought rushed into words:

  “Loveday—do stop talking about James.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you w-want to talk about him? I w-want to talk about you. I w-want to talk about what we’re going to do with you.”

  “With me?”

  “Yes. It’s eleven o’clock. By the time we get anywhere it’ll be about midnight. What are we going to do with you?”

  “I don’t know.” She did not sound seriously concerned.

  “Have you got any f-friends in London?”

  “Only Cissie.
”

  “Cissie’s not a f-friend. Look here, Loveday, I don’t want to f-frighten you—but you mustn’t make f-friends with girls like Cissie.”

  “She wasn’t as nice as I thought she was,” said Loveday mournfully.

  “I c-can’t think how you ever thought she was nice.”

  “It was James.”

  “J-James?”

  “Yes—because he was so dull. That’s the awful part of James. It’s like being driven to drink—he’s so deadly that anyone who isn’t deadly seems to be most frightfully nice. That’s why I thought Cissie was nice.”

  “What am I going to do with you?” said Hugo.

  He felt her come a little nearer.

  “You won’t let them!” Her hand touched his and clung to it.

  “Of c-course not.”

  She came closer still, her shoulder touched his shoulder.

  “It sounds silly, but I got frightened of Cissie. She said such odd things, and she wouldn’t let me go out alone, and she gave me such a horrid feeling sometimes”—he felt her hand tremble—“the sort of feeling you get when horrid things are going to happen. I’ve really only had it in dreams before—the horrid sort where quite nice things suddenly turn into something frightening. I used to get that sort of feeling with Cissie, and it was horrid.”

  Hugo put his arm round her.

  “I shouldn’t think about it. I’ll find somewhere safe for you,” he said.

  They stayed like that quite silently for a time. Loveday felt very safe, and Hugo very sure that he could keep her safe. The silence and the peace of the sleeping house seemed to rise up around them. The attic was a friendly place. They sat quite still.

  At last Hugo said, “Loveday—” and then, “Are you awake?”

  “Is it time to go?”

  “I think so.” He lit a match. The light showed a sloping roof, a packing-case or two, the corner of a cistern, and rows of pots, some just bare earth, and others pierced with the green shoots of growing bulbs. A second match discovered a trap-door a yard or two from where they sat.

  “What shall we do if it’s bolted?” said Loveday in a whisper.

  Hugo had no idea. He could only hope that it would not be bolted, and found his hope rewarded; the trap came up and showed a ladder running down to a bathroom below.