He moved slowly but with the certainty which comes of custom and practice. Lisle lay passive in the water. She might have been unconscious. He wondered if she were. He could see her face as a pale oval.
Lisle was not unconscious, but her consciousness was of a curious kind. It had limits. Within these limits she could think, but beyond them all was as vague, as dimmed as the sea in which she floated. She was not afraid any more. She was quite safe. Rafe said so. She was safe, but she was cold and very tired. She wanted above all things in the world to lie down and sleep. She felt the movement of the water. She felt Rafe’s arm. She did not know how time passed. She knew that they moved, but she did not know when they turned the point and began to head towards their own beach. She hardly knew when they reached it.
Rafe’s voice calling her—Rafe’s hands pulling her up, setting her on her feet—his arm hard about her—
“Can you walk? Better for you if you can. Can you get to the steps? I can’t leave you here with the tide coming in. Put your arm round my neck and try.”
They got to the steps. They got up them. He was taking most of her weight. At each stage of that journey it seemed as if there was no strength left for the next, yet each stage was accomplished. From the water’s edge to the sea wall. From the wall up the long ride, so green by day, so dark and shadowy now. On, and on, and on among the statues and cypresses of the Italian garden. Across the terrace, and at long last to the house.
There was still a light in the hall. To come into it was like coming back from the other side of another world than this. Lisle roused enough to know how cold she was. And then William was there, and Rafe was telling him that she had had an accident and he must get Lizzie and one of the other maids at once.
The things that happened after that slid vaguely across the dulled surface of her consciousness—Lizzie and Mary being kind—a hot bath—something hot to drink—her own bed. These things slid past like a succession of dreams. They were not so much happenings as impressions. Then, striking through them, something that penetrated the numbness—Rafe’s hand on hers—Rafe’s voice—
“You’re quite safe, Lisle. Lizzie will stay with you. Can you hear me? You’re quite safe.”
She said, “Yes.”
The sense of safety came in like a flood. She sank through it into the deepest waters of sleep.
47
RAFE JERNINGHAM CAME into the study and shut the door. It was a few minutes short of midnight. He sat down at Dale’s table, took the receiver from the telephone, and called the Tanfield aerodrome. The voice which answered was a familiar one.
“Hullo!”
“Hullo, Mac! Rafe Jerningham speaking. Has my cousin taken his plane up?”
Mac’s voice came back to him with its Scottish burr.
“Well, I’m not sure. There was a bit of a hold-up. Johnson was working on the plane, and I’m not just sure if he got off or not. Are you wanting him?”
“Yes. Look here, Mac, if he hasn’t gone, get hold of him. There’s been an accident up here—will you tell him that. Ask him to come and speak to me.”
“I hope it’s nothing bad—”
Rafe said, “Bad enough.”
He heard Mac’s footsteps go away, sounding unnaturally loud in the empty, echoing place. They went over the edge of sound and were gone. He waited for those other footsteps—Dale’s footsteps—hurrying to hear that Lisle was dead. The room was very still.
The footsteps came at last—the quick, impatient steps of a man who is in no mind to be kept waiting. Then the sound of the receiver being snatched up, and Dale’s voice.
“That you, Rafe? What is it?”
“There’s been an accident”
“Who?”
“Lisle. I found her.”
“Where?”
“In one of those pools beyond the Shepstone Rocks.”
“Dead?”
“No—alive.”
There was a smashing silence. Not the faintest sound from all those things which that one word must have sent down in ruin. Then, after what seemed a long time, Dale’s voice:
“Is she—hurt?”
“No.”
“Conscious?”
“Perfectly.”
“Has she been talking?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Then Dale Jerningham said,
“I see.” And then, “What happens next?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Meaning there’s no compromise?”
“How can there be?”
There was another pause. Dale laughed.
“Bit of a meddler—aren’t you! Why couldn’t you leave well alone? Just out of curiosity I’d like to know how you found her.”
“Footprints on the sand—two lots going, and only one coming back.”
“I see—the odd chance. You can’t fight your luck. It’s been against me all along. Well? Do you import March into this?”
“Bound to. There’s Pell—”
“All right, carry on. There’s a letter on my dressing-table in a blank envelope—you might retrieve it. Well, that’s all—I’m just going up. You’ll hear me come over in a minute. So long!” The receiver clicked. The line was dead.
Rafe hung up at his end and got to his feet. He stood there for a moment under the light, looking up at the picture over the hearth. Giles Jerningham, sometime Lord Chief Justice of England, looked sternly back at him.
Presently he turned and went out of the room, switching off the light as he went.
Upstairs in the dressing-room, with all the signs of Dale’s occupancy about it, he found the letter. It was in a plain envelope propped up against the looking-glass—no address, and the flap not gummed down. Inside, a single sheet with a couple of lines in Lisle’s writing. No beginning to them, and no end. Just two lines in a tired, sloping hand:
“I don’t feel as if I can stand this strain any more. Please forgive me—”
Rafe saw the words in a blinding flash of horror. Lisle had written them. When? How? There rose before him a brief interchange of words as they came out of the dining-room after lunch. Dale and Alicia had gone on, and he had said to Lisle in the old light way which was dead, “Why so tired, honey-sweet? You look as if you had been through a mangle.” And Lisle, half laughing, “Well, I have. We’ve been trying to concoct a last appeal to my obstinate old Robson. I should think I’ve spoiled twenty pages and it’s no good really.” And then, quite suddenly, her hand on his arm. “Rafe, I forgot —Dale didn’t want anyone to know. It—it means such a tremendous lot to him.” He could hear himself saying, “All right—I won’t give you away.”
He looked back at the two scrawled lines, and had no doubt that this was one of Lisle’s spoiled sheets. Words suggested, perhaps even dictated, by Dale—words which would have been a convincing proof of suicide when Lisle’s drowned body came ashore, washed up by tomorrow’s tide.
He went over to the fireplace, put a match to the paper, and watched it burn away to a fine ash. Then he opened the long trench window and went out on to the balcony. It was the same upon which Lisle’s three windows opened. There was a light in her room, Lizzie would not leave her. The curtains were drawn back. The light made a faint glow upon the stone parapet—a faint yellow glow, perhaps from a shaded candle.
He stood and looked out over the massed woods to the sea. There, between the trees, they had made their faltering way home less than an hour ago.
Faint and far away, coming up out of nothingness, he heard the beginning of the sound he was waiting for. His whole mind and body were so keyed up that the sound seemed to be felt rather than heard.
There was a moment that was not time. Everything that he had ever felt or known hung in it, suspended between what had been and what was yet to come. It was sharp, and clear, and irrevocable.
The moment was gone again, blotted out by actuality. The insistent drone of an approaching plane clamoured against his ear, and all at once the sound swept up into a roar
ing crescendo—the music of flight, a music which he loved and had always thrilled to. It beat now against every nerve. With its climax he saw the plane, not overhead but away to the left, black against the downs—too black to be seen if she had not cut the dark with so easy and swift a flight. She came round the house in a great sweep, flying wide and low, and turned out to sea. She was climbing now—up, and up, and up, black as a bird against that luminous sky—up, and up. The hum of the engine dwindled. The bird was lost, and then suddenly, dreadfully found again—falling into sight and sound in a downward rushing dive towards the sea. The water took her. Sound and sight were gone.
Dale was gone.
Rafe went on standing there. He leaned on the balustrade and looked out over the sea. But what he now watched was not this place which had been Dale’s possession or the sea which was his grave, but the whole procession of their lives, always linked, always separate ...
Pictures. Dale in the nursery, lordly and strong at five years old, all smiles and charm as long as he had his way. Rafe and Alicia worshipping. Dale at school, strong and big for his age, carelessly protective to a younger cousin who had a knack of passing exams but wasn’t nearly so good at games. Dale captain of football and cricket. Dale winning the mile. Dale putting the weight. Dale with everything he wanted in the world until Alicia let him down. Too many things coming too easily, and then a knock-down blow. Dale who had had everything he wanted, to have everything taken away.
Was it some sudden temptation which had sent Lydia over the cliff? Or was there even then under all the surface charm and kindness another Dale, perfectly cool and ruthless, who must have what he wanted, no matter what it cost?
Alicia gone and Tanfield threatened. Was that where things began to go wrong? Or had they been wrong all the time? Does a man suddenly become a murderer, or has the cold, ruthless streak been there always? If you matter too much to yourself, if your possession matter too much, then other people’s interests, other people’s lives, may come to matter so little that they can be sacrificed without a qualm.
Would things have been different if Dale had married Alicia? Outwardly perhaps. There might have been no murder done, because there would have been no advantage in doing it. Why had Alicia thrown him over? Of the two she was the one who had cared—but she married Rowland Steyne. Why? No one would ever know. Alicia kept her secrets. He wondered whether she had come up against that black streak and been scared by it. No one would ever know.
Dale had married Lydia Burrows, quite willingly and cheer-fully after a well played scene of renunciation and despair. He had certainly had no love for Lydia, but how perfectly he had played the lover—a really notable performance. At what point had he decided to bring the run to a close and ring the curtain down?
As far as Rafe had ever been able to observe, Dale had had no regrets. Lydia’s money made everything easy for him again as long as it lasted.
Give him what he wanted, and no one could be kinder or more generous than Dale. The model landowner, hard-working, public-spirited, careful for his tenants; the good master; the man of many friends—were these all parts which the other Dale had played—easily, enjoyably, savouring them to the full? Did he love Alicia? Had he ever loved Lisle? Had he ever loved anyone at all? Or had he only enjoyed playing the lover, the generous master, the good sportsman? The answer came unwillingly. He loved Tanfield. Not Alicia, not Lisle, not Rafe—nothing human. But Tanfield which was in some sort a projection of himself. His possession which in its turn possessed him utterly.
The pictures went on. The night passed.
When the dawn broke, a low white mist covered the sea. Rafe turned and went back into the house.
48
INSPECTOR MARCH RANG the bell of Miss Mellison’s boarding establishment late that evening. Miss Mellison herself opened the door in a flowered overall and a string of bright blue beads, her face rather flushed, and her grey hair wispy from the combined effects of the July heat and the kitchen fire.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting—it’s my girl’s day out. If you wouldn’t mind—my little sitting-room—I’m sure I’m only too pleased. Miss Silver won’t be a moment. I think you know the way.”
She fluttered towards the stairs, disclosing as she turned a section of a brick-red dress of some woollen material with about two inches of green art-silk petticoat showing at the hem. No wonder she was hot.
March entered the little room in which Miss Silver had entertained him on a previous occasion. The windows were shut and the air thick with the smell of cooking and furniture polish. As he turned round from opening everything that would open, Miss Silver came in, cool, and neat, and dowdy.
“My dear Randal—this is very kind! I have naturally been most anxious to see you. Pray sit down. You have dined?”
“Oh, yes.”
She settled herself, picked up a new piece of knitting of which only a couple of rows of pale pink wool appeared upon the needles, and said with a regretful sigh,
“So it was the husband after all.”
Randal March was so much startled that he was quite unable to disguise the fact.
“My dear Miss Silver!”
She inclined her head in a prim little nod.
“It surprises you that I should know anything about it?”
He gave a rueful laugh.
“I am always expecting you to whip out a broomstick and ride away.”
Miss Silver pursed up her mouth in a deprecating manner.
“My dear Randal—”
Before she could say any more the handle turned, the door was pushed open, and Miss Mellison entered with a tray upon which reposed two cups of coffee, a jug of hot milk, a small bowl of sugar crystals, and half a madeira cake.
“Oh, you really shouldn’t have troubled.”
Miss Mellison said that it was no trouble at all. She had taken off her overall and powdered her nose. The brick-red dress, now fully revealed, was high to the neck and long in the sleeve. The blue beads were of the kind that are sold to tourists in all the Venetian shops. She fluttered from the room and shut the door behind her.
“So kind,” murmured Miss Silver—“she quite spoils me.” Then, in a brisker tone, “Dear me—what were we saying? Oh, yes—it is really all very simple. You are wondering how I come to know about Mr Dale Jerningham having crashed his plane last night. The young man from the Ledlington Stores—his name is Johnson—has a brother who works at the Tanfield aerodrome. When he called with the groceries this morning he said how upset his brother was. There had been something wrong with the plane, but they thought they had got it right. I am afraid I am not sufficiently conversant with such matters to be able to tell you what the trouble was.”
“I’m glad there’s something you don’t know.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“Technical details are always better left to the expert. Well, Johnson told his brother that Mr Jerningham would go up. He was called to the telephone just as he was starting. There had been an accident at Tanfield Court, and whether this news upset him, or whether there was something wrong with the plane, when Mr Jerningham did go up he seems to have lost control and his machine crashed in the sea. One of the coastguards saw it—a man called Pilkington. They were all very much upset when he rang up the aerodrome and told them what had happened. Mr Jerningham was very much liked—very open-handed and generous, so Johnson told his brother.”
March surveyed her with a faint smile.
“How much more do you know?”
Miss Silver sipped her coffee.
“Oh, very little. May I cut you a slice of cake? ...No? It is a little dry, I am afraid ...We heard about Mrs Jerningham’s accident from the baker who delivers at Tanfield Court. Poor thing—Mr Rafe brought her in at midnight soaked to the skin and in a state of collapse. She had fallen into one of those deep pools among the rocks, and they had been caught by the tide. A most providential escape.”
“Yes, I think you may call it that,” said Randal
March.
“After that,” said Miss Silver, “it was really all quite simple. A single accident is quite likely to be an accident—I can believe in it as well as anyone. But four accidents in a row one after another, all connected with the same person, is more than I can bring myself to believe.”
“Four accidents?”
Miss Silver sipped her coffee.
“About a fortnight ago Mrs Jerningham was nearly drowned—she only came round after artificial respiration had been employed for some time. Since that her car has been smashed to pieces and she only escaped death by a miracle, a girl who was wearing her coat has been murdered, and she herself has again been within an ace of drowning. She is rescued by Mr Rafe Jerningham, who then has a telephone conversation with his cousin, immediately after which Mr Dale Jerningham takes his plane up and crashes. I must confess that I find it impossible not to connect all these events. Am I wrong in doing so?”
March’s smile had gone. He put his coffee-cup back on the tray and said gravely,
“No—you are perfectly right. But look here—this isn’t to be talked of.”
Miss Silver drew herself up.
“My dear Randal!”
“No, no—I beg your pardon—I didn’t mean that. You can know about it—you do know about it—but it’s confidential between you and me. I’ve been with the Chief Constable, and he’s most anxious that there shouldn’t be a scandal. There’s more in it than just the wish to avoid stirring up mud about a well known county family. Rafe Jerningham—look here, this is very hush-hush—is having a couple of inventions taken up by the government. I’m told they are very hot stuff, and that he is considered a valuable asset. He is being given a job under Macclesfield. The last thing on earth that anyone desires is that he should be mixed up with anything that invites publicity. Of course Pell will have to be got out of the mess. The facts will go to the Director of Public Prosecutions, and the case against him will be dropped. Jerningham’s dead, and there’s nothing to be gained by washing a lot of dirty linen in public.”
In the Balance Page 23