George wrote as George spoke and, re-reading the letter, she was conscious of the feeling that he was here in this room . . . bluff, cheerful, earthy George with all his faults and all his robust affection and enthusiasm. Compared with George, Rimster was a ghost. Although nothing had been said between them she had guessed that he would not come again to make love to her. That had been as transient as the shoodng star, a brief flare and burning up of desire born from impulses on both sides of little value and certainly no virtue.
She decided to write to George and have the letter sent down by the daily courier the next day. That Rimster might insist on reading it was unimportant.
She wrote:
Darling George—
Not that I particularly think you deserve the ‘Darling’. Still, since I have now got over my anger with you it would be ungenerous of me to withhold it. Oh, Lord, I don’t seem to be writing at all the kind of letter I meant. It’s all coming out so bloody stiff and prim which is perhaps a bit what I am. But I know you will read between the lines.
All I want to say is, please don’t fuss and worry about me. I really have been put in purdah over—you must have long guessed—this Charlie business. But as soon as I can I will be back and we can sort things out. So be patient.
Love,
Jean.
Having written it, she was dissatisfied with it and for a moment was tempted to tear it up. Then she thought, Oh, what the hell. The letter was, in a way, how she was, and George was how he was, and it would have to do. And George, she knew would make do with it because George, ever the optimist and catcher of stray gleams of hope, would read between the lines and be content. Please God, she thought, let Charlie be caught soon so that she could go to George and really find herself and a life which didn’t give her bad dreams at night.
And Rimster, in his room, put down the telephone after talking to Grandison, fixed himself a large whisky and sat drinking and smoking, realizing that he was getting bored with this Charlie business, bored to death with it because there was nothing for him to do except drive around the countryside with Jean Blackwell, imagining that the thousand to one chance might come up that they would spot Charlie and he could reach for the car microphone and make the call that would set him free from this job. But, he mused, only free from this bloody job . . . merely, some time or other, to be shuffled off into another job equally unfulfilling. He had come to the end of the road—no longer finely honed, no longer able to sustain the high pitch of cruel efficiency and frozen feeling which were demanded of his kind. He had seen it happen to others, and now it had happened to him. When it happened to footballers, and athletes . . . aye, and music hall comedians . . . they retired, took a pub, and risked growing fat and boring everyone with tales of their past glory. Even that was denied him . . . no enthralling his cronies with the tales of the past twenty years of high level murder, brutality and callousness, a life—the echo from some past reading beat into his mind—simplicity sanguin- arius atrox. Where the devil did that come from? What did it matter? Where did he come from anyway? Not from a high-perched limestone Yorkshire rectory with decent god-fearing parents, surely? Somewhere along the line some stupid nurse must have slipped a changeling into the cradle.
Suddenly angry with himself, he said aloud, “Oh, for Christ’s sake shut up.” He poured himself another whisky.
And Charlie, lying back comfortably on his bed of straw, well-fed and content, but not feeling sleepy, slowly rose to all fours and began to amble round his quarters in the pale light that came through the glass roof from the strengthening moon in the early stages of its first quarter. He found an old tennis ball and throwing it from him and seeing it bounce was soon happily engaged in playing with it, bouncing and throwing it and chasing after it. When he got bored with this he took the ball back to his straw and sat chewing at its cover until he had tom it to pieces. As he sat there a distant church clock struck midnight. Charlie’s eleventh day of freedom—Thursday, the first of July—had begun.
CHAPTER TEN
LADY CYNTHIA’S WARNING to Horace Simbath not to daydream while he was driving was very justified for Mr Simbath, without his dreams—all of them optimistic—would have been a very unhappy man.
Driving now on his way to Deanfinch Hall, his mind was flighting wildly into the future. Mr Simbath, a man of fifty, a man who dressed impeccably—thanks to a long-suffering tailor—in sober, slightly old-fashioned cut clothes, was a round, roly-poly of a man, short, and with a habit of walking with his toes turned outwards. His dark hair was needle-pointed with grey, his eyes dark and seldom still because he was always apprehensive of missing some golden opportunity, and his smile was amiable and always on show. He was a rogue, but a kindly one and, indeed, had moments of mild conscience when he genuinely grieved at the gullibility and vanity of the general public.
In his time he had failed at many enterprises, but had succeeded in enough to keep his optimism buoyant. It was through vanity that he had met Lady Cynthia, while he had been running a small publishing firm which specialized in inviting the public with poetic ambitions to submit their verse which he published—at their expense. The world was full of unsung and unpublished and unpublishable poets. Mr Simbath had done his best to redress this unhappy state—at a gratifying profit to himself. He had produced a slim volume of verse by Lady Cynthia—which privately he thought awful. But it had been the start, first of a correspondence and then an odd friendship which had equally oddly endured beyond the life of his publishing firm, beyond the realization by Lady Cynthia that her stuff was rubbish, to grow into something like affection on Lady Cynthia’s side and love—with financial overtones quietly and privately nursed—on Mr Simbath’s. He was tired of dreaming up new ventures—presently he was running a one-man mail order business in high-class art books specializing in the erotic temple sculptures of the East—and longed genuinely for marriage and the comfort of a wife who could substantially provide for him.
This morning his hopes were high as he remembered Lady Cynthia’s words that she wanted to discuss with him a very important matter which could not be trusted to the telephone. He knew Lady Cynthia well enough by now to realize that—although he had made his feelings obliquely felt—any proposal of marriage would come from her—probably quite baldly and out of the blue. A remarkable woman, he mused to himself as he drove. Mildly eccentric, of course, but then so was he. Not good looking, but then the pleasures of the flesh meant little to him, companionship and a true communion of spirit, backed by a freedom from money cares, were all. No trouble with the staff at Deanfinch, either. They liked him. Bloody great ruin of a place, of course. And the gardens were terrible, but still, once he had the rights and cares of a husband, he could quietly begin to alter things. Dear Cynthia was not as strong-minded and inflexible as she imagined she was. Somewhere in the heart of her must lurk, as lurk it did in all women—no matter all this tommy-rot about liberation—the need to be cherished, loved and managed.
So, driving, he day-dreamed, but cautiously, over the joys of marriage, a minor squirearchy and the bliss of perhaps one day being able to look his bank manager fairly in the eyes without a single qualm. But don’t build too high too soon, Horace, my dear chap, he told himself. She may only want you to help her compose some scatty letter to the press about some hare-brained cause she’s just espoused. Espoused. He smiled. It was a good word. Espousal, betrothal. . . and do you Horace Macintyre Simbath take this . . . He whistled gently to himself.
He arrived at Deanfinch Hall an hour before lunch, was greeted with a chaste kiss from Lady Cynthia and a glass of sherry, and ten minutes of unrevealing and every-day chat. Not for him to make the first move towards the heart of the matter, he warned himself.
When their sherry was finished Lady Cynthia stood up, tall, and possessed, he could sense, with some inner excitement, and dressed in a loose blue-and-purple smock that almost reached her ankles and reminded him of a bedspread in the past which had covered his parents’ bed.
“Horace, my dear,” announced Lady Cynthia, “I want you to come with me and see something. And I want you to promise not to say anything until we come back here again. Oh, and you’d better have this, too.”
From a bowl on the table she handed him a banana, which Mr Simbath took, smiling doubtfully.
A few moments later he was led into the old billiard room which that morning Lady Cynthia and Tom Paget had converted into more amenable quarters for Charlie. Two thick ropes, knotted at intervals, hung from the roof rafters. A long length of dead beech tree had been fixed so that it ran from the floor to half-way up one of the walls. Much of the old rubbish had been removed from the place and the floor was strewn with straw and sawdust. Five or six packing cases had been arranged to make an open pen in one comer of the room to serve as sleeping quarters for Charlie.
When they entered Charlie was sitting low down on the dead tree length. Seeing Lady Cynthia he raised his head and gave a series of friendly pant-hoots. Lady Cynthia went to him and gently scratched the top of his head and Charlie, enjoying the grooming, dropped from the tree and, while she still scratched him, buried his face in the loose folds of her smock and began to suck at the material. Over her shoulder Lady Cynthia said, “Come and be introduced, Horace.”
Horace, banana in hand, hesitated for a moment. Animals were not his strong point. Cats and dogs he could just take, but horses, cattle, anything of a larger and less amenable nature he avoided whenever possible. And as he hesitated, the daydreams of his drive down evaporated a little, but not entirely. Cynthia could, as most women, be oblique and devious in arriving at some wished for position or desire. Knowing what was expected of him, he played his part obligingly.
He walked over to Charlie and held out the banana. Charlie took it quickly, chattered with a moment’s excitement and reached out and pulled at the smartly creased run of Mr Simbath’s dove-grey trousers.
“He’s thanking you, Horace. In fact—isn’t that good?—I can see he’s taken to you.”
Mr Simbath, keeping to his oath of silence with difficulty, smoothing his trouser leg, said nothing, but thought—For God’s sake, a hairy great monkey . . . Well, well, you never knew with Cynthia. Take a deep breath and keep your aplomb.
Charlie climbed back on the tree and began to eat the banana. Lady Cynthia turned and took Horace by the arm, leading him towards the door. She said warmly, “That’s what I like about you Horace, my dear. What I know I can always depend on from you—an unshakable calm no matter what the circumstances. That’s your great, but not only gift.”
Horace gave her a little bow of his head, patted her hand on his arm, and felt the warmth of hope return to his heart. She wanted something from him . . . there would be time enough for the quid pro quos and the gratitude, no doubt.
As Lady Cynthia closed the door of the billiard room Horace noticed that a good strong hasp and padlock had been fitted to it. And—knowing the billiard room’s usual state and the way it had now been more or less cleared—he realized that the new inmate was not to be a temporary guest. What, in God’s name, was his beloved Cynthia, his bright hope for the future, up to now?
Back in the large sitting room which commanded a view over the tangle of shrubberies and trees westwards, Lady Cynthia poured two glasses of sherry and lit a cheroot for herself. Horace, who never smoked himself, wondered if in time it might be a habit he could break in her, and then dismissed the thought as trivial in the present circumstances.
With a large, big-teethed smile, Lady Cynthia said, “Well, Horace, I must say you took it well. And without a word. You really are a treasure of a dear man. Of course, you know who he is?”
Horace, whose day would have been out of joint without a newspaper to read at breakfast, said, “I do indeed, my dear. The much-wanted Charlie.”
“The poor, innocent harmless creature, raped from his native forest, caged for life and, as we know, vilely used by places like Fadledean. One of God’s creatures tortured and manipulated by Man for the most, I am sure, ignoble of purposes. Doesn’t that make your blood boil?”
“It does indeed, my dear Cynthia,” said Horace without strict truth but with great conviction.
“I knew it would. And that’s why I called for you, a man whom I respect and trust and for whom I have, not only the greatest fondness, but in whom I have the most absolute faith. Now, tell me, what are we going to do with him?”
Horace would have liked to say that they should inform the authorities about Charlie right away, but he knew what was expected of him and what was to his advantage, and he guessed, too, that Cynthia had long by now got some wild idea or half-formed plan of her own.
He said easily, “I’m sure, my dear, you must have given that a lot of thought already . . . a woman of your warmth of heart and deep love of all God’s creatures. Ah, Cynthia, more than any other man I know the way your mind and your generous heart move. So—since you know without me telling you—that in any resolve, out of my deep affection and regard for you you can always command my support, I suggest you reveal what it is in your mind to do and we can discuss it sensibly and consider all the practicalities.”
“Well, Horace, that’s really the trouble. Lots of things have occurred to me. But the problem is to decide which one would have the maximum effect.”
“The maximum effect in what way?”
“Why, to raise public opinion and outcry against places like Fadledean and, of course, to make sure that he never goes back to the horrible place.”
For a moment Horace was silent. He had not quite expected such a dramatic suggestion. Then, seeking for thinking room, he asked, “You think something like that can be done?”
Vigorously Lady Cynthia said, “I don’t think. I know it must and will be done. You’ve seen the papers. There’s enough public sympathy for Charlie in this country to save him from Fadledean—a great reservoir of it. The only problem is how to harness and control that force and make it work successfully. Horace, my love . . .” she smiled at him warmly, “. . . that is why I immediately called for you. You understand the press and the media, as they call it, and the way they all work. I want you to devise a scheme.”
Horace sipped at his sherry, glad that the motion partly covered the smile about his lips. Never before had she called him ‘my love’. My angel, my pet, my dear, yes. But not my love. Rosy visions and a rising heartbeat temporarily put him off his stroke.
“Well now, um, that’s a . . . well a . . . quite a nice little matter of, shall we say, tactics.”
“Naturally, Horace—and you’re the man for it. I could think of no one else. The maximum effect and the maximum publicity.”
“Um, well, let me think.” Absently he reached for the sherry decanter and helped himself, a thing he had never done before and one which, he noted, dear Cynthia accepted clearly, he hoped, as a well-deserved new privilege. It was true, of course, that he knew the ways of the press and the media. He had worked on a provincial newspaper in his callow youth and some years ago had managed the publicity for a pop group which had been highly profitable for well over a year until certain little transactions of mild peculation on his part had come to light. But, yes, he knew the press and the media and, what was more, he was aware of Charlie’s potential. If he handled things right for Cynthia surely the wedding bells would ring?
“You don’t,” said Lady Cynthia, “have to settle anything right away. There’s plenty of time. And let me say, Horace, and I hope you won’t take offence, that I don’t expect you to do this just out of affection and friendship for me. I shall pay you generously. And, what’s more, you must stay here as long as you wish until we have the whole campaign worked out.”
“Well. . . yes, well.” Things were running a bit fast for him but Horace forced himself to push aside his rosy dreams and appear serious and concerned. “What I suggest is that after lunch you give me an hour or so on my own and I’ll prepare a programme for discussion.”
“Excellent!” Lady Cynthia r
ose, bent over him and kissed him on his broad, bland brow. “You are a dear man. . . the dearest. I never cease to be thankful that I wrote that dreadful poetry and so came to meet you.”
Horace Simbath blushed which was something he had not done for over thirty years.
After lunch he went up to his room and sat down at the small desk in the window overlooking the front of the house and began to work on the Charlie problem. He worked efficiently, with complete dedication and with shrewd intelligence and sustaining happiness. It was just like one of the many times when he had decided to pull out of a failing venture and to plan another. When he had finished he was confident that Cynthia would accept the plan. He knew her well and her love of the dramatic combined with noble impulses. In some ways, he could admit to himself, they were different sides of the same coin. Then as he looked out of the window he was surprised to see Cynthia walking across the rough lawn with Charlie lolloping around her playfully. My God, he thought, what a woman! Was she mad? Any kind of larking around outside like that must stop or his whole plan would be ruined! For a moment he was tempted to open the window and shout down to her, but quickly decided against it. If the gods smiled, then one day he would be master in this house, but until then he must tread softly and talk sweetly. Love in its early stages was a tender plant, to bring it to full bloom was the craft of a master gardener. Mr Simbath’s emotional thoughts often still reflected echoes of the bad vanity verse which he had once so profitably published for people.
* * * *
At dinner that night Rimster said to Jean, “Grandison is coming down tomorrow.”
“Grandison?”
“My master.”
“Oh, yes. Why is he coming?”
“Because he’s worried.” Rimster smiled. “He didn’t say so, of course. But I know him well enough to tell that he is. He has a sixth sense which warns him of trouble no matter how distant it is. Like some people can tell two or three days ahead that rain is coming. Charlie’s been out eleven days—that’s just over the halfway mark. Would you ever have thought that possible?”
The Doomsday Carrier Page 17