by Ann Bridge
‘Well, anyhow, you have my grateful thanks. That wonderful house!—it’s a privilege to stay in such a place; and its owner matches it.’
‘Yes, he is a very splendid person,’ Hetta said warmly.
‘I’m so glad, for his sake, that precious Luzia has got hold of such an excellent young man,’ Sir Noël went on. ‘He will really do his duty by the place, I feel sure—and he’s such a nice creature. Of course he could hardly fail to be that, seeing the sort of stable he comes out of.’
‘Stable?’ Even after her years of marriage, an English idiom could occasionally defeat Hetta.
‘His parents, I mean. Not only the best possible style, but such an original quality. What could be more delightful than that business of the ring, betrothing generation after generation of Heriots?’
‘Yes, that is really pretty,’ Hetta assented happily. ‘I think they are both quite darling.’
‘As for the shooting, it’s even better than I’d been told. The Duque is very lucky to have got that fellow João; he arranges the drives marvellously—always some sort of obstacle out in front. Usually it’s almost impossible to make these Frenchmen get up.’
‘But what Frenchmen? Here are only Portuguese,’ said Hetta, again quite at sea.
‘The birds, my dear. These are French partridges, the worst possible creatures to drive. But that crafty old boy and João between them always so contrive their stands that one gets some excellent shooting. You’ll see. Ah, here we are,’ as they came up with their host—he and their keeper disposed them in their allotted positions, and after a pause the first drive began. Hetta, amused, did see that the French partridges, driven towards a grove of olives well out in front, rose high and strong on the wing; she watched with satisfaction Sir Noël’s skill, as bird after bird dropped to his gun. ‘Ai Jesush!’ exclaimed the young keeper, unable to contain his enthusiasm, when after reloading the Ambassador swung round to catch a bird far out behind; the spaniel he held strained at the leash, whining with excitement. There followed fulfilment for the dog when, at last released, he raced off to retrieve the birds.
‘Tell that boy, if you can, that there’s another further away to the right—I can’t make him understand,’ Sir Noël said; Hetta obligingly called out ‘Mais um; Mais a direito.’ When the dog and the keeper returned with the birds—‘Minha Senhora, six! And not one wounded!’ the young man exclaimed to Hetta.
The next three drives were equally pleasant. A shooting-brake was always at hand on some convenient track to drive anyone who wished from one stand to the next; but except for the old Heriots most of the company preferred to walk, over the stiff tussocky grass, now pale and dry at summer’s end, or the strips of rough broken ground from which the maize had recently been removed. It was rolling open country for the most part, with here and there outcrops of rocky bluff, sometimes bare, sometimes bush-covered, or straggling groves of olives—some young, and pale of foliage, others of ancient trees with hollow trunks and boughs which writhed in all directions like the arms of an octopus. At the fifth stand the Duke put the Ambassador at the extreme right-hand end of the line, not usually considered a very favourable place.
‘They come particularly high out here, to clear that small hill behind you,’ he explained—‘Paolo assures me that however wide they fly, you will hit them all the same! And there will be one or two beaters as a stop, in any case. I am putting Lord Heriot next to you, and then Gil—poor boy, I want him to have some easy shots; I shall be next to him, and shall leave him all I decently can!’
‘Where will Richard be?’ Hetta wanted to know.
‘Right out on the left—he is shooting beautifully, so he can have some of the wide birds, this time.’
When the Duke had gone down the line to post his other guests Sir Noël took stock of his situation. First he turned round to examine the hillock which was to afford him the high shots. It was some 50 yards behind where they stood, densely covered with a growth of bushes; in front of them was a stone wall, of a comfortable height on which to lean; beyond this the ground sloped away to a straggling grove of young olive-trees. They could see Lord Heriot away to their left, also behind the wall; João, who spoke a little French, had been allotted to him. It was very pleasant there, leaning on the wall; the sun was warm on their backs, the stone warm under their arms.
‘How peaceful it is,’ the Ambassador said; he settled some cartridges conveniently in his pockets, loaded his twelve-bore, and awaited the birds in the peculiar tension that always accompanies a drive, scanning the ground in front of him for the slightest sign of any movement. Presently a distant sound of tapping became audible—the beaters had entered the olivegrove. Nearer and nearer the sounds came; now, through the spindly trees, they could catch a glimpse of moving figures, and then, on their left, a bird came over—Lord Heriot’s shot rang out, and down it came. Now the birds came fast, and right over them, high, as promised; Sir Noël got a left and right, the spaniel began to whine, and there was a perfect fusillade of shots from all down the line. Hetta had moved a couple of yards away from her companion, to give him ample room; suddenly, while he was re-loading, she gave a little cry, and put her hand up to her face.
‘What is it, my dear?’ Sir Noël asked, surprised.
‘Something hit me,’ she said, getting out a handkerchief; blood was beginning to run down her face from a wound near her eyebrow.
‘Impossible!’ the man exclaimed—the olive-trees in front of them were much too far away for a richochet to have been possible.
But Paolo, standing a little behind them, had seen enough to guess what had happened, after Luzia’s warnings. He shouted something to João, unleashed the spaniel, and began to run towards the bush-covered hillock to their rear; the head-keeper, also loosing his dog, followed him, shouting to the nearest beaters as he ran. As Sir Noël, bewildered, put down his gun and bent over Hetta, who was now sitting on the ground, something hit the wall close to his head with a sharp ‘ping’—bits of stone flew out close to his face.
‘Good God! That was a rifle-shot!’ he exclaimed. ‘Keep down, Hetta.’
But Hetta, on the contrary sat bolt upright, and began to look about her; she saw João and Paolo disappear into the bushes at the foot of the hillock.
‘What on earth can be happening?’ the man asked in astonishment.
‘It will be the Spaniards—they must have stayed here after all,’ she replied, not enlightening Sir Noël very much.
That was practically the end of the drive, as far as that part of the line was concerned; the nearer beaters, in response to João’s shouts, were running towards the small bushy hill, from which came sounds of shouting and barking; the partridges, left to themselves, took to the ground and crept back through the olives. The Duke looking angry, strode up to Lord Heriot, who had been methodically dropping every bird that came anywhere near him, and asked where João was?
‘No idea. What’s happening to the beaters?’ the old gentleman enquired.
‘This I also should like to know,’ his host said.
‘The fellow’s taken the dog, too. There are at least three-and-a-half brace out in front.’
‘They will be got later.’ He walked quickly on, but stopped short at the sight of Hetta Atherley, bleeding profusely from a wound in her face.
‘How can this have happened?’ he asked Sir Noël sharply.
‘Someone was shooting at us with a rifle from behind, by the look of it,’ the Ambassador replied. ‘Here are the marks,’—he pointed to two white patches on the weatherworn stones of the wall. Ericeira in his turn looked back towards the small hill, just in time to see João and some of the beaters emerge from the bushes, holding a struggling man in their grasp; Paolo followed carrying a rifle. The Duke started towards them—then turned back to his wounded guest.
‘Excellency, Mrs. Atherley ought to be got back to the house—can you take her? The shooting-brake is just beyond that field, only about 100 yards away. I ought really to go and see about
this. Can she walk?’
‘Yes, I can walk; it is nothing,’ Hetta said briskly—she stood up as she spoke, and also looked towards the group at the foot of the little hill. ‘Oh, Paolo has the rifle—good. But have they only got one of them?’
While both men stared at her in astonishment at this question, Gil came running up.
‘What has happened? Is Madame Atherley hurt?’
‘Someone shot at us with a rifle,’ the Ambassador repeated, rather stiffly.
‘No! So they got her after all!’ the young man exclaimed.
‘Gil, what does this mean?’ Ericeira asked his nephew, in angry bewilderment. ‘Who are “they”, if you please?’
‘Those Spaniards,’ Hetta said. ‘Gil, you will have to tell your Uncle all about it, now.’
‘So I should indeed hope!’ Ericeira said sternly. ‘Excellency, will you see that Mrs. Atherley is taken back to the house at once, and the Doctor sent for? I apologise profoundly for this episode, about which many people seem to be better informed than myself. Gil, come with me.’ He walked off towards the keepers and their prisoner.
‘Hullo, what goes on here?’ Lord Heriot asked, strolling up—since there were no more birds to shoot at, he had left his stance. ‘I say, that ought to be tied up,’ he went on, looking at Hetta’s face; her small handkerchief was by now so soaked with blood as to be useless—he took a large clean one from an inner pocket, folded it neatly, and tied it round her head. ‘Now, we’d better get her home,’ he said to Sir Noël. ‘Any idea where that shooting-brake is?’
The next arrivals were Luzia, Nick, and Lady Heriot, who when her host suddenly abandoned her had stood calmly watching Nick’s shooting, away on her left. But the infection of some excitement spread down among the beaters, who in turns abandoned their proper task and followed their companions; Nick and Luzia, also left with nothing to shoot, and seeing men running, hurried along the wall to learn what all the fuss was about. When Luzia caught sight of the little group round Mrs. Atherley she left Nick to escort his Mother, and ran like the wind, full of foreboding.
‘Oh Hetta, no! So after all!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is it much? Let me see.’
‘It is nothing,’ and ‘No, don’t touch it,’ Hetta and Lord Heriot said simultaneously. ‘Let’s get her home, and let a doctor look at it,’ he went on. ‘Where’s that shooting-brake?’
‘Just across that field—on the track. Yes, she should go home.’ Then she caught sight of João and his captive. ‘Oh, how many of them have they got?’ In the increasing crowd of keepers and beaters it was hard to see clearly what was going on at the foot of the hillock.
‘Only one, I think,’ Hetta said. ‘But Gil and your Father are there.’
‘Oh, so they are. Yes, let us go. I will go and get the brake ready’—and off she ran.
‘Well, let’s get a move on,’ Lord Heriot said impatiently.
‘Someone should find Richard,’ Richard’s wife said, starting across the field on Sir Noël’s proferred arm.
‘Nick can do that,’ Lady Heriot observed. ‘Tell him we’re going home, Nick—but don’t frighten him,’ she added, in a lowered voice.
As the Heriots followed Hetta and her companion—‘What happened?’ Lady Heriot asked her husband, in an undertone. ‘Did the Ambassador shoot her by mistake?’
‘He said someone shot at them with a rifle. Anyhow, all the keepers and beaters knocked off, and spoilt one of the best drives I’ve ever had. That young Gil fellow seemed to have been expecting something of the sort—he said, “So they got her after all”, when he heard about the rifle. Funny sort of party! I suppose we shall hear all about it some time.’
When they reached the shooting-brake they saw why Luzia had raced on ahead: the side of the track on which it stood was heaped with the feathered bodies of partridges, which she and the driver had pulled out; the man was now replacing the back seat, which had been folded down to make room for the birds.
‘Marvellous bag!’ Lord Heriot commented.
‘I think Mrs. Atherley had better sit in front,’ Luzia said—‘it smells a little in there. Bonne-Mama, shall you mind? And Beau-père? Sir Noël, do you come with us?’
‘Thank you, I think I’ll join your Father, and walk home—if you will be all right?’ Lord Heriot also opted for this course; in fact he wanted to make sure that his last three-and-a-half brace were picked up, and also to learn the facts about this highly peculiar episode.
‘Then I think we should not wait for Richard. Sir Noël, will you tell him that we have taken Hetta home?—and that I shall get the doctor at once?’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell him that it is nothing—I am quite all right,’ Hetta called, as the shooting-brake drove off.
Chapter 10
Back at the house, Luzia ran first of all to her Father’s study, and telephoned to São Pedro do Sul for the Doctor. He was in, and promised to drive over at once; all the girl told him was that there had been ‘an accident, out shooting’—but he laid it on her urgently that the wound should on no account be touched till he arrived. So still wearing Lord Heriot’s handkerchief Hetta was taken up to her room, and persuaded to lie down; tea was brought, and she and Luzia and Lady Heriot all sipped it thankfully, and ate small sandwiches. Lady Heriot was of course full of curiosity as to what lay behind the incident, but both the young women were too security-minded to tell her much; to her one cautious question Luzia said—‘I think perhaps Hetta should not talk too much, Bonne-Mama,’ which gave the good lady a reluctantly admiring respect for her prospective daughter-in-law.
Then the Doctor came, and demanded small bowls, boiling water, and all the old-fashioned accessories to an examination; the huge marble wash-stand was cleared of half its cumbersome double set of basins and ewers, maids came flying with a kettle, bowls, towels and napkins—having prepared himself and his instruments, the Doctor made Hetta sit in a chair under the window, and began his examination. The bleeding had stopped, but began again when he put a probe into the wound; Lady Heriot knelt beside Hetta and held her hands in a firm, reassuring grasp.
‘There is something in it,’ the man said; he had laid his instruments out on a towel on a small table, and now took up a pair of forceps.
‘Condesa, tell the Senhora that this may hurt a little,’ he said; Lady Heriot guessed his meaning, and tightened her grasp of Hetta’s hands. But Hetta sat unflinching while he felt in the wound, and drew out a small object about half the size of a pea, which he dropped into a bowl of water; then he bathed the place, and put on an antiseptic dressing.
‘It should really have two stitches,’ he murmured to Luzia, as he washed his hands.
‘For this the Senhora must have a local anaesthetic; she is expecting a child,’ Luzia replied firmly—all this in Portuguese, in low tones.
‘How soon?’
‘In about five months.’
‘So—then she had better have one.’ He hunted in his bag. ‘No, perdition!—I have not brought the stuff. I shall have to go back and fetch it.’
‘Could the chauffeur bring it, if you told him where to find it?’
‘No, for I cannot tell him! It should have been with me,’ he said, vexed. ‘I go.’ But first he turned to the bowl in which he had dropped the thing which he had taken out of the wound. ‘I must see what this is,’ he said; poking about in the pink-tinged water, he drew out the small object with his forceps, laid it on the towel, and examined it carefully. ‘It is not a shot!’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘It looks more like a piece of stone, or mortar.’
‘It is stone,’ Hetta put in. ‘I was standing near a wall, and the shot struck the stone, and the piece must have flown out.’
‘But this is most extraordinary! One would not have thought the pellet from a shot-gun would have had the power—and to cause so deep a wound.’
Luzia of course had not yet had many details as to what had happened; she had arrived on the scene too late to hear the Ambassador’s reiterated remarks a
bout the rifle. But she realised that Hetta’s assailant would certainly have had a more powerful weapon than a shot-gun, and moreover scented danger in any undue curiosity on the local doctor’s part.
‘Dr. Mendes, should you not fetch the anaesthetic at once, so that the Senhora can have the stitches put in, and then be free to rest undisturbed?’
‘Yes, Condesa; you are right. I will leave all this till I return —and I will also bring a sedative with me.’ But he turned back once more to the fragment of stone on the white linen. ‘I do not understand it,’ he said, in a dissatisfied tone, as he left the room.
A moment or so later Richard hurried in.
‘Darling, are you all right?’ Then he caught sight of all the medical litter strewn about the room—‘Goodness, what has been going on?’ he asked in dismay.
‘The Doctor has dressed the place—he will be back soon, to do a little more.’ As she spoke Luzia took up the morsel of stone, wrapped it in cotton-wool, and put it in an envelope off the rack on the writing-table.
‘Are the others back?’ Lady Heriot asked.
‘They will be in a minute—the Duque sent for the Land-rover. I cut across the fields, to save time.’
‘Then I think I will go down and wait for them.’ Tactfully, she removed herself.
‘Where is the man?’ Hetta asked.
‘Coming back in the shooting-brake, with the rest of the bag!’ Richard said, with a wry grin.
‘Did they get only the one?’
‘It seems so. They beat all through the cover on that little hill, but there was no trace of anyone else. He might have got away too, but for the couple of beaters that João had put as stops for the birds—they turned him back, and then the dogs found him.’ He turned to look at the bandage on his wife’s head. ‘Darling, does it hurt much? Will it leave a scar? I wish I could see it.’
‘It is only a tiny place,’ Luzia replied for Hetta. ‘You will see it when Dr. Mendes comes back. Richard, can you help me with something?’