Fool Errant

by Patricia Wentworth

  At the next station a fat man in a large overcoat got in, and did a cross-word puzzle all the way up to town.

  The clock on Mr. Smith’s mantelpiece struck eleven.

  “Well,” said Mr. Smith, “we shall see what we shall see.” He addressed a stout, round, plump-faced gentleman, who gazed at him with some asperity and replied,

  “That’s all very well.”

  “We shall see what we shall see,” repeated Mr. Smith. “To which I would add the cheering phrases, ‘Don’t be down-hearted,’ and ‘Never say die.’”

  The short stout gentleman snorted. “That’s all very well!”

  “You repeat yourself, my dear Green,” said Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Green snorted again.

  “If what you say is true, that man Minstrel’s assurance is past belief.”

  “Nothing is past belief,” said Mr. Smith placidly.

  “I tell you,” said the indignant Mr. Green, “I tell you, he browbeat me—he positively browbeat me. He said if we hadn’t worried him out of his life, he’d never have sent the papers off by this young fellow-me-lad of a secretary—said it was my fault if they were lost—my fault! Personally, I believe the man’s out of his mind. He raved up and down my room like—like a hyena, and he told me he’d driven at seventy miles an hour to get here. I tell you I think he’s mad.”

  “There’s a little method in his madness,” said Mr. Smith dryly.

  “He’s a most unpleasant fellow to deal with—offensive—downright offensive. He seemed to think I was a policeman—a policeman! Seemed to think it was my job to go dashing round the country arresting his damned secretary! Told me in the most offensive terms that it was my job! Mad, I say! Anyhow the plans are gone!”

  The door opened. Mr. Smith’s confidential servant approached him.

  “Someone to see you, sir.”

  He laid a strip of paper on the arm of his master’s chair. Mr. Smith took it and got up.

  “The dining-room, Walters.” Then, as the man withdrew, “Will you wait a minute, Green? I think—no, I won’t tell you what I think. Converse with Ananias until I return.”

  Ananias cocked a cold eye at the guest as Mr. Smith went out. When the door had closed, he sidled to the end of his perch, once more regarded Mr. Green with distaste, and then in a very ostentatious manner turned his back.

  Mr. Smith went into the dining-room, and found two young people where he had only expected to find one. Mr. Hugo Ross was on one side of the room, and Miss Loveday Leigh on the other. Mr. Hugo Ross was flushed, and Miss Loveday Leigh was pale—Miss Loveday Leigh was very pale indeed. Hugo was the nearest to him.

  He said, “I’ve got ’em, sir! I’ve g-g-g-got ’em!” And without more ado he thrust some badly crumpled papers upon Mr. Smith, who took them in an absent-minded manner and continued to look inquiringly at the pale girl on the other side of the room.

  “L-Loveday got ’em!” said Hugo eagerly.

  “Indeed?”

  “I thought I’d absolutely mucked it up. You see, he sent me off to town with the p-plans, and they drugged my c-c-coffee—only of course I wasn’t such a mug as to drink it. And I let them take the p-plans Ananias sent me, because I’d hidden the real ones in my f-flute—only they took the flute too, and I thought I’d absolutely m-mucked it up—only Loveday got them back. And we had to run like billy-oh to catch our train, and I thought we’d better come straight to you, because I haven’t the l-least idea where to find Mr. Green at this time of night.”

  “How very lucid!” said Mr. Smith. “A—er—most masterly abstract.” He glanced at the crumpled papers, then gazed at the pale young lady. “Miss—er—?”

  “L-L-Leigh,” said Hugo, and blushed.

  Mr. Smith bowed.

  “If Miss Leigh will excuse us, I should like you to repeat, and perhaps elaborate, that highly interesting statement of yours to my friend, Mr. Green—he happens to be in the next room. I feel sure that the flute episode will appeal to Green.”

  He led the way from the room. The door closed.

  Loveday sat down on a chair by the fire. All the excitement was over. Everything was most terribly flat and dull. A horrid succession of flat, cold, dull, unprofitable days stretched out before her to the very end of her life. She would rather—oh, so much rather—be escaping in breathless terror hand in hand with Hugo. What was the use of saying what she would rather do? She would never run away hand in hand with Hugo any more. It was all over. Everything was quite safe, and dull, and cold.

  She put her head down on the arm of Mr. Smith’s shabby old leather chair and began to cry the dreadfully miserable tears of buoyant youth. She went on crying for a very long time.

  She didn’t know when she drifted into sleep, but she woke with a start to find Hugo’s arms round her. Hugo was kissing her, and the dreadful thing was that before she quite knew what she was doing she had kissed him back. It was frightful.

  She drew herself away with a sob.

  “Don’t! Oh don’t!”

  “Darling—it’s all right—it’s all right. Green’s got the plans. We’ve brought it off! Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you happy? Darling—what’s the matter—why mayn’t I kiss you?”

  Loveday strained away from him.

  “You kissed her!”

  “Loveday!”

  “You kissed her—Hélène. Oh, I saw you!”

  It was Hugo’s turn to draw away.

  “Loveday, you don’t believe that!” He got up. “Loveday!”

  Loveday got up too. It is easier to be proud when you are standing up.

  “You did kiss her! I came back to find you, and I was at the bottom of the steps—and you said good-bye to her—and she kissed you—I know she did!”

  Hugo didn’t blush; he got white. A minute ago everything had been all right; and now everything was too rotten for words. He looked at Loveday, and Loveday looked at him.

  “You don’t love me,” said Loveday. “Go away! Go to Ellen!”

  “Thank you!” said Hugo.

  He turned away. She had hurt him so frightfully that he didn’t want her to see his face. He wanted a minute to pull himself together. Why had everything gone to bits like this? He turned away.

  “Why did you kiss her?” said Loveday.

  “I didn’t.”

  Something had happened. Loveday believed him. She couldn’t explain why she believed him, but she did. Whether it was something in his voice, or something in her own heart, she couldn’t have said. But she believed him. She believed him, and she said in la laughing, crying voice,

  “Ellen was always a most frightful snatch-cat. Emily always told me she was. I believe she tried to snatch Andrew. Oh, just fancy anyone wanting to snatch Andrew! Hugo—are you frightfully angry?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Hugo. He turned his head away.

  Loveday had no proper pride. She flung her arms round his neck.

  “Hugo—don’t be! I’m frightfully miserable—at least I was frightfully miserable when I thought you didn’t love me.”

  “Perhaps I don’t,” said Hugo; but he put his arms round her.

  “You do—I know you do! You don’t love Ellen a bit—you love me!” She put her face up to be kissed. “You haven’t told me what’s happened.”

  “You didn’t seem to want to know.”

  “I didn’t want to know—when I thought you didn’t love me. But I want to know now. Tell me! Tell me what’s happened!”

  Hugo hugged her.

  “Green’s in there,” he said—“and he’s got, the plans. So that’s all right. But I say—would you believe it?—he’s had Minstrel and Hacker here already!”

  “How could he?”

  “They must have run the innards out of that old car. Don’t you see? They wanted to get in first with their story.”

  “Hugo—he doesn’t believe them!”

  “I don’t think he wants to have an official row with Minstrel. I think they’ll patch the whole thing up and save Minstrel’s
face. I don’t think they care so long as they’ve got the plans. They couldn’t prove anything, you know.”

  “But you—” said Loveday. “Hugo—what happens to you?”

  He laughed.

  “It’s not me-r-it’s us,” he said.

  “Oh, tell me!”

  “My uncle’s will has turned up.”

  “Oh!” said Loveday.

  “He’s left me Treneath. I knew he meant to—but he really did it. Loveday, we can get married! We shan’t have to wait. We can get married at once. You’ll love Treneath. Oh, Loveday, you will—won’t you?”

  Mr. Smith opened the door gently. He had just let Mr. Green out and made some noise about it, but apparently neither Hugo nor Loveday had noticed anything. They did not notice that the door had opened, neither did they notice when it closed again.

  Mr. Smith closed it and returned to his study. He took out his watch and glanced at it.

  “I think I’ll give them another five minutes, Ananias,” he said.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Benbow Smith Mysteries

  CHAPTER I

  It has been said that life would be intolerable if we could know what was waiting for us round the next corner. Sometimes, of course, one is sure that one does know. On that Monday morning, coming back from a last bachelor week-end with the Raynes, Lindsay Trevor was sure.

  This was Monday, and on Saturday he was going to be married to Marian Rayne. They would spend a honeymoon month in Italy, and when they returned they would have a flat in town and live happily ever after. He had not the least idea when he got into the train at Guildford that he was stepping off the path that he had so pleasantly mapped out. He bought a paper, closed the carriage door, and settled himself into a corner seat.

  He was still unfolding his paper, when the door was wrenched nervously open and Miss Alethea Witherington got in with two bags, a basket, and a dog, and an attaché case, and some parcels. The parcels dropped, the basket caught Lindsay on the ankle, and the dog yapped. Lindsay supposed that it was a dog. It was very small and fluffy, and it wore a pale blue collar with three gilt bells, and was attached by a blue lead to a bony middle-aged lady with an enthusiastic eye and odd clothes. She settled herself in the opposite corner, and just before the train started a tall man with a stoop drifted in and sat down with his back to the engine. He at once produced a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and began to read a shabby book which he pulled out of his pocket.

  The train moved out of Guildford station, and Miss Alethea Witherington began to talk cooingly to the little fluffy creature on her lap.

  “Didums like a puff-puff—didums then? Didums like to travel with ’urns mother, a precious?”

  Lindsay looked over the top of his paper and caught her eye.

  “I hope you don’t object to dogs,” she said at once.

  He murmured something polite and went back to the golfing news.

  Miss Witherington continued to talk to Didums. Perhaps if she went on talking, the young man would put down his paper and see what an exceptionally beautiful and intelligent creature Didums was. It was the chief object of her life to collect admirers, not for herself, but for Didums. The old gentleman was no good at all. Old gentlemen hardly ever liked animals—in railway carriages they sometimes approached rudeness; but young men liked dogs. This was a pleasant-looking young man, quite a gentleman—such a nice grey suit, and really pleasant features, without being handsome. Everyone couldn’t be handsome, but this young man was decidedly pleasant looking and quite a gentleman.

  She talked on. Was Didums warm? Was Didums cold? Was Didums hungry? Was he a clever, clever, clever boy? She had the sort of penetrating whisper which comes through everything.

  Lindsay gave up trying to read, and merely kept the paper up because he felt certain that if he lowered it, he would be inveigled into a conversation about Didums. He envied the man in the far corner, who read his book with an air of classic calm. He himself was naturally impatient, and the woman was getting on his nerves. She was asking Didums again if he was hungry, after which there was a storm of yaps and an overpowering smell of banana. A paper bag crackled, and Didums was seized with a joyous frenzy.

  “Sit then!” said Miss Witherington. “Sit up! No—not on Mother’s knee! Oh, no, a precious—sitting up good and clever on the seat like a grown-up boy!”

  Lindsay took another look round the paper. The creature was balancing its inches of fluff, waving its minute paws, and goggling brightly at the banana which Mother was peeling.

  “Trust now!” she said. She pinched off a bit in her fingers and stuck it on the fluffy nose. “Trust!”

  Lindsay withdrew. He could see that she was simply dying to gather an audience. There was an Ancient Mariner look about that enthusiastic eye, and quite definitely he declined the part of the wedding guest.

  Miss Witherington continued to hope. After all, he had glanced once—and was it possible to glance at Didums once and not wish to glance again? Miss Witherington did not think so—not in the case of a young man who was quite a gentleman and so pleasant looking. Now that she had had another peep at him, he had quite a look of Lady Lorrimer’s grandson—the one who had taken a scholarship and was such a comfort to her; not the one who got into debt at Oxford and so very nearly made a most unfortunate marriage,

  Didums performed his whole repertory of tricks to the back of The Times. Miss Witherington no longer whispered, but the same penetrating quality informed her louder tones. The last trick was the best. Surely no one could be unmoved by the sight of Didums dying for his country.

  “Die for your country, a precious! Die for your country, a clever, clever, clever boy!”

  Didums died very realistically with one glistening eye on the last bit of banana. The Times was not lowered. No applause came from behind it. And then the train ran into Woking station and stopped.

  Miss Witherington’s colour had risen. She was revising her opinion of the young man opposite—an insensible person, and not really like that charming Mr Lorrimer at all. She gathered up the slighted Didums, and his basket with the pale blue lining, and the attaché case, and the paper bag full of bananas, and another bag full of biscuits, and precipitated herself out of the train and on to the neck of the stout red-faced woman, who was Ida Clement and her dearest friend. Ida loved Didums and had invited him specially to spend the day.

  She embraced Mrs Clement more warmly than usual, and did not notice that she had dropped her paper bags until Lindsay picked them up for her. He picked up the basket too, and retrieved the parcels, which she had forgotten, and was snapped at by Didums for his pains. Ultimately he got back into his seat, a porter slammed the door, and the train began to move.

  The train drew out of the station. The man in the corner turned a page and read on with that air of being in another century. Lindsay was wondering whether he so much as knew that there had been a dog in the carriage, when he laid his book down upon his knee, pushed up his spectacles till they rested on his forehead, and said, in a gentle cultured voice,

  “How would you like to die for your country?”

  CHAPTER II

  Lindsay Trevor looked across the carriage with a sort of startled amusement. How would you like to die for your country? What did one say to a total stranger who asked you a question like that?—a distinguished looking stranger, who gazed, not at him but past him at the window which framed a section of railway embankment? He might have been admiring the view, but it did not seem very likely. Lindsay began to wonder whether he was committed to making the rest of the journey with a lunatic.

  As the thought passed through his mind, the distinguished stranger smiled very slightly and shifted his gaze. It rested now upon the cushioned back of the seat a little to the right of Lindsay’s head. He spoke dreamily:

  “Yes—you would naturally think so. But”—here for a moment he looked straight into Lindsay’s eyes—“I am afraid I am quite responsible for my actions.”

  Lindsa
y experienced a curious shock of surprise. The smile was gentle, whimsical, and the eyes were as steady and sane as the multiplication table.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you asked me a question.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “And may I ask why?” said Lindsay Trevor.

  The stranger took out a white silk handkerchief and another pair of spectacles, which he began to polish in an absent-minded manner.

  “Yes,” he said—“yes. Why does one ask anyone anything?”

  “I suppose because one wants to know.”

  He breathed on the right-hand lens and rubbed it.

  “You see, that is my point—I want to know. But if I ask you what I want to know, you jump to the conclusion that I am mad—a little madder, that is, than the vast mad majority. You see”—he stopped polishing—“I really have a reason for asking you whether you would die for your country.”

  He was not mad. It was curious that Lindsay was able to feel sure of this. He was an impressive person—and he was not mad. Lindsay began to have a vague idea that at some time he had seen him before. The pale classic features and thick grey hair, and the air of gentle abstraction, produced some far-away response of memory. He had the impression that here was someone he ought to be able to recognize, and yet he could not believe that they had ever met.

  He leaned forward a little, his interest deepening.

  “That is your question, sir—but I asked one too.”

  “Yes,” he said—“yes.”

  “I asked you—advisedly—whether you would die for your country.”

  “And I asked you why you should ask me such a question.”

  He nodded slowly twice. Then he put his handkerchief on the seat beside him, laid the second pair of glasses on the top of it, and took out a very old Russia leather pocket-book. He extracted a card, a letter, and a photograph, and then laid the case down on the seat between him and the handkerchief. The initials lay uppermost—Gothic letters in tarnished silver—B. C. H. S. With the photograph in his hand, he leaned forward and proffered it to Lindsay.

  Lindsay stared at it. The face was as familiar as his own—four years at Harrow, two years of the war. He had the duplicate of this photograph in an album at the flat.