The Woman at The Door

by Warwick Deeping

  A wire fence separated the parkland from the woods, but there was an oak gate in the fence fastened by a chain and padlock. Mr. Temperley had the key. The heavy green of summer was in the woods. The tree tops spread and merged, and the bracken had become a jungle-growth. A path padded with dead leaves brought Mr. Temperley to Brandon Heath, and turning to the right and up the hill he saw the grey face and the white window-frames of the tower. Half of it was in the sunlight, half in shadow. Deliberately, and pausing now and again to look about him and to listen, he walked up through the fern and heather to the tower. Avoiding the path, and pushing his way through bracken and brambles he came to the fence where the upper rail of one bay had rotted away from the post. Pushing the rail inwards it was easy for him to slip through into the garden.

  Following the strip of rough grass that skirted the fence he passed round the tower on its blind side until he came to the brick ramp supporting the steps. He could see the gate and the tumbledown shed. The silence was complete; even the trees had ceased to drip. He felt in his mackintosh pocket for the key of the green door, went quickly up the steps and let himself in.

  There was dust on the stair-rail. An enterprising spider had slung one of its gossamer stays across the stairs. Mr. Temperley had closed and locked the green door, and he did a thing that might have seemed mere childishness, or the impulse of a compulsion neurosis; he stroked the handrail with the tips of his fingers, and turning the hand palm upwards contemplated the grey film on the pads of his fingers. “Dust to dust!” The recess under the stairs enclosed a cupboard, and opening the door he found that Luce had bundled all his old newspapers and firewood into it. Most excellent! Mr. Temperley snapped his thumb and middle finger, and in the profound silence the sound travelled upwards like a bubble rising in a well.

  Ascending the stairs, he looked into every room and left each door open. It was a pity that the windows could not be treated in the same way, but an open window might have provoked suspicion. And the trap-door in the roof? He climbed the ladder, pushed up the trap and let in an oblong strip of sky. More draught to swell the burning note of this great organ pipe. For half an hour he sat in one of Luce’s chairs by the sitting-room window, watching the sun founder among the trees. It was fortunate that Luce had removed any books that were of value. The woods filled with the dusk.

  Mr. Temperley rose and pushed the furniture into the centre of the room. With both the sitting-room and the front door closed no one could see the kindling of a light, and as he knelt down by the cupboard he was conscious of feeling as exultant as some mischievous boy, though the mischief he was perpetrating was beneficent. He had brought a candle and matches with him. He lit the candle, and arranging all that inflammable stuff under the wooden staircase, he put a match to the paper. He could hope and suppose that the Signal Tower would send out its last message like a flaming cresset.

  He returned by the way he had come. No one saw an old gentleman meticulously cleaning his boots by the park gates, and using for the task a silk handkerchief. Nor did Martha and Mary suspect him of washing that handkerchief in the bathroom basin. The bathroom window looked out over the park to the Brandon woods, and Mr. Temperley was able to distinguish among the distant trees a patch of light that was not unlike the rising of a full moon.

  Some other person, going to a bedroom window to pull down a blind, also observed a patch of light in the sky. Miss Ballard, with the blind cord nipped between a spatulate thumb and a lean finger, put her face closer to the glass in which was reflected the ghostly flame of a candle. She was alone in this sinister house, and determined to remain in it until the river or the woods, or the heathland had given up their secret. Moreover, the furniture, stock and farm gear were to be sold, and she was her dead brother’s legatee. Miss Ballard did not suffer from too sensitive an imagination; she would have sat by the guillotine in the French Terror and knitted, while bloody heads fell into the sawdust. But what was that queer light? She opened the lower sash of the window, and leaning out, screwed up her eyes. Yes, most definitely that light in the sky suggested a conflagration. And where was it? Brandon way, someone’s house or rick alight. Well, that did not concern her. She closed the window, pulled down the blind, undressed and went to bed.

  XXIV

  Brandon station was half a mile from the village, and Luce, arriving about three o’clock in the afternoon, found that Brandon did not provide one with taxis, but since he had so contrived it that his luggage was limited to one suitcase, he set off with it up the shadeless road towards the clouding tree tops that was Brandon. The day was hot and close, with the tarmac becoming squdgy, and the cattle switching their tails in the shade, sleepy weather when a quiet English village should not be expected to cherish sensationalism. Luce’s goal was Mr. Temperley’s, and though he was not aware of it, his progress complete with suitcase up Brandon’s street was evidential matter. Someone sitting in his shirt-sleeves at an official table, and happening to look out of the window, saw Mr. John Luce and his luggage go by.

  Luce put his suitcase down on Mr. Temperley’s doorstep, and rang the bell. Mr. Temperley’s door was painted white, and its lion-headed brass knocker and letter-flap were superlatively and professionally clean. Luce was contemplating the church spire and the high elms across the way when the white door opened.

  Was Mr. Temperley in? No, Mr. Temperley was at his office, and Luce got the impression that the decorous Martha somehow regarded him as an unexpected Odysseus. Could he leave his suitcase in the hall? Most certainly he could; so, Luce, having remarked upon the heat of the day, walked on to the austere white cottage under the elm shade where Mr. Temperley exercised his professional functions.

  Luce was met by a junior clerk. The office staff had received very definite instructions from an old gentleman who was justified in appearing a little irritable and worried. A tenant touring England in a caravan and who left no address, could not be the recipient of urgent telegrams.

  “Will you come in, sir?”

  Luce, shown into that white panelled room with its frieze of black deed boxes and sombre portrait over the mantelpiece, saw Mr. Temperley at his desk, and the round shoulders and bald head of his senior clerk. Mr. Temperley turned quickly in his chair as the clerk in an undertone uttered Luce’s name.

  “My dear Luce! The very man we have been praying for.”

  Being a man of discretion, the senior clerk gathered up some papers and disappeared.

  “Sit down, Luce. We have been worrying our wits as to how to get into touch with you.”

  Luce sat down with his back to the window, puzzled and perturbed by this display of professional agitation.

  “Anything the matter, sir?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “I have just walked up from Brandon station.”

  Mr. Temperley did not wink at him. There were clerks in the next room, and the interview was to be conducted with complete and convincing formality. But he did scribble five words on a writing-pad, pass the pad to Luce, and when Luce returned it to him, he tore off the sheet, crumpled it up, and put it in his pocket.

  “I’m sorry to say the Signal Tower was burnt out last night.”

  “Burnt?”

  “Yes, gutted from roof to basement. A most extraordinary thing. Quite unexplainable.”

  Luce sat and stared at him.

  “You said gutted, sir?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a mere shell. The roof and all the floors and stairs fell in. A complete holocaust.”

  “Any explanation?”

  “None. We are wondering whether a tramp broke in, lit a fire, and left it to fall out on the floor. But about your furniture? Was it insured?”

  “No.”

  “My dear Luce, how very unfortunate! Anything of value?”

  “No. It was more or less rubbish.”

  “Well, that’s a relief to me. I got the news early this morning. A labourer came in with it to the police. I went over at once.”

  Luce gave a sh
rug of the shoulders.

  “Then, it seems, I’m perchless.”

  “Most unfortunate, Luce.”

  “I shall have to put up somewhere for the night. I can go to the Chequers.”

  Mr. Temperley made a face at him.

  “Most certainly not. I’ll put you up for a night or two. Supposing we go across and have tea. We can walk over to the place after tea. I quite realize that this upsets all your plans.”

  “Completely. But, adaptation——.”

  “Is the secret of true philosophy. Any alternatives?”

  “I had thought of going abroad for a week or two in September. Meanwhile, I have a sister in Canonbury who could put me up.”

  “I’m exceedingly sorry you weren’t insured.”

  “That doesn’t worry me. But, the tower?”

  Mr. Temperley’s eyes were mischievous.

  “My dear man, we shall have to refund you a portion of your rent, but as to the building we had it insured for a few hundreds. I think we have paid our insurance company thousands of pounds in premiums on estate property during the last thirty years, and we have never had to put in a claim. Yes, I remember we had one many years ago, and the insurance people tried to wriggle. The beggars can pay up on this occasion.”

  “I’m rather sorry for the old tower, sir.”

  “And not for the insurance company?”

  “Not in the least. But if they pay up you will be bound to rebuild.”

  “It may not be worth while, Luce, and we may never claim, or perhaps we may offer the relic to the National Trust!”

  Mr. Temperley kept a little handbell on his desk, and he rang for his chief clerk.

  “O, Mr. Hames, Mr. Luce and I are going over to look at the tower. Anything you want me to sign?”

  “Not at the moment, sir.”

  “Very well, carry on. Don’t forget the codicil to the Henshaw will.”

  “I have it in hand, sir.”

  2

  The memories of this evening were to be associated in Luce’s mind with the smell of the box hedges in Mr. Temperley’s garden. Luce had enjoyed a bath, and the mature reticence of an old savant who, during tea had consumed cucumber sandwiches with much relish, and talked of nothing but Viriconium and the Welsh border castles, and King Charles’ flight after the battle of Worcester. Luce had filled a pipe, and waited upon Mr. Temperley’s whimsies. And, after all, walls and doors might have ears, and Martha and Mary be children of Eve.

  They approached a blue door in a red brick wall, and both paint and brickwork had lost the rawness of youth, and if Luce was enjoying his pipe and an atmosphere of pleasant suspense, Mr. Temperley was savouring the scent of a burnt offering and an unbloody sacrifice. He would have memories to chuckle over before the winter fire, nor did he or Luce foresee that this winter would be his last.

  “I think we will go by the park, Luce.”

  Between the park hedge and an oak fence they met an old fellow with a scythe over his shoulder, and he and Mr. Temperley swapped salutations. “Evening, Tom. Where’s your hour-glass?” “Evenin’, sir. What sort of glass be that?” Mr. Temperley paused to feel the edge of the scythe, and to remark that to the young life had other edges. They passed on to leave Old Mossy Face to a moistening of the mouth as he reflected upon other glasses. At the field-gate Mr. Temperley stood a moment, looking at this English scene.

  “It’s so soft, Luce.”

  He was prodding the turf with his stick, and the adjective applied both to the turf and the landscape.

  “Notice any footprints, Luce? It is still rather soft after the rain.”

  “Footprints, sir?”

  “I took a stroll this way last night. No sign of the cloven hoof, is there?”

  “Nothing that I can see.”

  He looked intently at Mr. Temperley, and his companion smiled.

  “No, not yet, my dear man. In the middle of this parkland there will be no one to listen, save, perhaps, a few Jersey cows.”

  When they were some two hundred yards from the gate, and climbing up one of the great green billows of grass, Mr. Temperley took off his hat and let his white head sun itself.

  “Well, Luce, you are remarkably reticent.”

  “I, sir?”

  “Yes, you, sir. How did the holiday end, and were the passport officials completely casual?”

  “Completely so. She is waiting for me at Bruges.”

  “No sensational happenings?”

  “It was all supremely simple. I hope that sensational adventures have ceased for her.”

  “So do I, Luce, with all my heart. She is made for gentle things.”

  “So it should be, for a woman, sir.”

  They were passing a big beech tree upon whose trunk someone had cut letters and a date, but the bark had grown and rounded off the knife scars, and date and initials were becoming blurred. Mr. Temperley, diverging, pointed with his stick.

  “What is it, Luce, man’s eternal passion to express himself, to swagger a little? So very young. The lad who cut those letters was killed in the war; blown to bits; all they found was a hand with a signet ring. But I’m talking like a gravedigger in Hamlet.”

  “Won’t those marks last as long as the tree?”

  “But they will grow very faint, like the scars life leaves on us. At my age one knows that nothing matters very seriously, save keeping one’s finger-nails moderately clean and remembering to laugh a little.”

  “Then, why in our case did you vex yourself?”

  “Old men grow mischievous, Luce. O, by the way, I haven’t told you that I have had an offer from someone who would like to take over your tenancy.”

  “Superfluous, now.”

  “Not if we were to rebuild and people did not change their fancies. But don’t you suffer from curiosity?”

  “I am consumed by every sort of curiosity.”

  “Splendid. The prospective tenant is staying at the Chequers. That is why I did not send you there. A literary lady.”

  “Miss Reubens?”

  “Well guessed.”

  They were half-way across the park, and Luce was looking towards the stone temple on its knoll.

  “I don’t sacrifice to Venus. Thank you for the reprieve. But it is another matter that piques me. How that fire started.”

  “Why not Miss Reubens, Luce?”

  “No, even though it would be splendid publicity.”

  “Have you any idea?”

  “I’m groping.”

  “Well, let’s confess that I was the culprit.”

  “You?”

  Luce stood still for a moment, his pipe in one big fist, his eyes very large and blue.

  “You are joking?”

  “No, my dear man, Punchinello did it. The thing seemed so final and satisfying, no clues, no finger-prints, no anything. It closes your chapter here quite convincingly. I don’t suppose that it would occur to the most imaginative of officials that a highly respectable citizen could behave like Puck.”

  Said Luce: “Upon my soul, I take off my hat to you.”

  “Thank you, my lad. So, now you can conclude that I am even more deeply involved in the contumaciousness that society condemns. I have perpetrated an unsocial act. They could bring down my white hairs in sorrow at the Assizes. But you will respect my confession.”

  Luce laid a big hand on the little man’s shoulder.

  “Thank God for people who do not always conform. I was worrying my wits as to how I could best make a convincing and rational exit.”

  Mr. Temperley chuckled.

  “Yes, I rather think that I have served you with a notice to quit.”

  So, walking together through the summer woods they came to the tower. The tall shell was still emitting a little spume of smoke which drifted away among the tree tops. Some of the stucco had fallen, leaving smudges of blackened brick. The windows were empty eyes, and Luce, remembering that morning when Rachel had stood at one of those windows, was moved to secret emotion. Could
a murdered building reproach one? And judging by its past its language should have been that of hard-swearing seamen!

  The silence was complete and somehow unexpected, and humanity absent. Mr. Temperley walked to the foot of the stone steps. The green door, charred and black, hung awry, and down the steps some of the lead from the roof had trickled and set. Mr. Temperley poked at it with his stick.

  “A sad business, Luce, an incomprehensible business.”

  Luce climbed the steps, and peering in, saw nothing but a black chasm filled with a jumble of charred beams.

  “Yes, completely incomprehensible, sir.”

  3

  Luce and Miss Reubens did not meet, for, at a very early hour, Mr. Temperley’s gardener-chauffeur drove Luce and his suitcase and Mr. Temperley to Brandon station. Luce and Mr. Temperley walked up and down the platform, becoming mutually self-conscious and inarticulate as their last moments together assumed emotional restraint. Moreover, there were other Brandon people travelling on the 8.53, and since gossip had been busy, Mr. Temperley and Luce were under interested observation.

  “You will let me know how things go, sir.”

  “Of course, Luce. You will hear from us officially. I expect the representatives of the insurance company down to-day. I wish your furniture had been covered.”

  “That’s a small matter.”

  Luce walked Mr. Temperley to the far end of the platform where no one was within earshot. His words came abruptly.

  “It’s a strange thing, sir, but when one wants to say much, one can say nothing.”