by John Burke
Peter Tompson had been the gold medallist of his year and one of the most brilliant students to come under Sir James’s tutelage. He had had a keenly analytical mind and it had been something of a shock when he turned his back on the golden opportunities which were offered to him: instead of becoming a specialist, he had chosen to go into general practice in a remote part of the country. Sir James had disapproved but had admired him for it. Peter had felt that the modern methods of 1905 should be applied to less fortunate people in rural communities rather than reserved for a wealthy few in the metropolis. He favored a useful life in the country and membership of a small, solid community above that of a Harley Street baron.
Two years in the country must have sapped his intellect. Two years ago he would have been utterly incapable of slapping down such gibberish on paper. His description of his problems made no sense; his analysis of symptoms added up to nothing; his appeal for help was incoherent.
Sylvia said: “This sounds dreadful, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know how ill his patients are,” said Sir James, “but I would hazard a guess that he’s pretty ill himself.”
“Are you going to help?”
“How can I? I don’t know what he wants—can’t make head or tail of it.”
“Poor Alice.”
“What’s Alice got to do with it?”
“It can’t be very pleasant for her if Peter’s . . . disturbed. I wish . . .”
“What do you wish?” Sir James had an uneasy premonition that his daughter was about to spoil all their plans. He tried to cling to his picture of Scotland, of clear water racing over the stones, of a splendid salmon being swung out of the water and on to the bank.
To his consternation the picture began to fade.
Sylvia said: “Father, couldn’t we visit them?”
“It’s not the quickest route to Scotland.”
“Cornwall should be very agreeable at this time of year.”
Sir James nodded at the letter in her hand. “That doesn’t sound any too agreeable.”
“So you don’t want to find out what’s happening?”
“I . . .”
Sir James gave up. What he really wanted most of all was to go fishing. But he knew that the chance had gone. With Sylvia’s eyes on him he could not shrug off the worries which Peter’s letter had awakened. There would be no real tranquillity on holiday with a memory like this nagging at his mind.
“I’ll go and pack,” said Sylvia. “Most of our things are ready, anyway. And I’ll arrange the train tickets.”
He nodded glumly. Suddenly she ran to him and kissed him, and then he didn’t feel quite so bad. He knew they were doing the right thing.
The journey was tiring. It did not take as long as their trip up to Scotland would have done, yet a cloud of weariness and depression began to settle on Sir James as they penetrated farther into the west country. He tried to forget about Peter Tompson’s letter. Speculation was fruitless: the only thing to do was to wait until they arrived and then sit down with the young man and thrash it all out. It was unscientific to build theories on so little evidence. Yet the recollection of it was a brooding shadow at the back of his mind.
A decrepit carriage took them over the last few miles of the route. The noise and fumes of the motor car, beginning to make themselves known in London, had not yet polluted the bumpy lanes of this remote county. By brute force ragged stone walls seemed to wrench the roads and lanes into strange, twisted shapes. On bleak hillsides the chimney stacks and engine houses of deserted tin mines thrust up like splintered bones.
Sir James closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the jolting, coarsely padded headrest.
“Father, look . . . a fox!”
He was jerked awake. Sylvia was leaning forward, peering out of the window. She tugged excitedly at his arm.
“I’ve seen a fox,” murmured Sir James. “Several of them, in fact. And I’ve no doubt that aesthetically and anatomically your fox looks very similar to all the others.”
She pulled a wry face and returned to her passionate study of the landscape.
The reddish-brown stain against the green fields moved swiftly down into a gulley. It disappeared, then emerged once more as a mere streak of color before racing on its way into the shelter of a crumbling wall. At the same time a group of young bloods on horseback came into view on the horizon.
“Oh!” Sylvia let out a wail of dismay. “They’re hunting him.”
“Men have always hunted.”
“For food, yes. But not for . . . for sheer blood lust.”
Sir James groaned. Arguments of this kind often entertained him in the evenings after dinner, when he and Sylvia sat and talked and played with abstract ideas. This was really neither the time nor the place.
“Can’t we do something?” Sylvia was urging.
“I have not travelled all this way,” he said heavily, “to interfere with local customs and antagonize the people just to satisfy your over-developed sensitivity concerning the welfare of wild animals.”
“But, Father . . .”
Decisively he closed his eyes again. The coach rumbled on its way and then, abruptly, he was thrown forward and narrowly escaped being shaken off the seat. This was not the most comfortable journey he had ever undertaken.
“Whoa, there,” someone was shouting outside. “Whoa—you!”
Sir James pulled his daughter away from the window and looked out.
The huntsmen had blocked the road. An arrogant young man with features just too handsome to be attractive was edging his horse closer to the coachman.
“Have you seen him?”
“Who, sir?”
“The fox, you fool.”
“No, sir. I’ve been keeping my eyes on the road, you see . . .”
“Idiot.”
Sylvia tugged at her father’s sleeve. When he turned to see what she wanted, she squeezed past him and looked out again.
“If it’s the fox you’re looking for, he was running that way.” She waved up the road in the direction from which they had come. “I saw him go along the ditch up there.” As the young man looked doubtful, she said quickly: “You’ll have to hurry if you want to catch him.”
He laughed. “We’ll catch him, my dear lady, never fear.”
They swung away with a great clamor of shouting, taken up by the barking of the hounds which had been clustering at the roadside. Leaping over a low hedge, they went charging off parallel with the road.
As the coach resumed its way, Sir James said: “I have a distinct feeling that you were not telling that young man the truth.”
“Your distinct feeling is correct, Father.”
“The fox will be grateful. I doubt if the same can be said for the young man. I hope you don’t meet again.”
Fifteen minutes later they were rumbling between two rows of tumbledown cottages and then out into the village square. Before they had time to do more than catch a glimpse of a church tower on the far side of the constricted space, the coachman was reining in sharply again.
A small funeral procession made its slow way out of a narrow street. It headed for the gates of the churchyard. The mourners appeared to be few: an elderly vicar led the pathetic cortège, with six men shuffling beneath the weight of the simple coffin. Apart from the sound of their feet there was silence in the square.
Then it was broken by the approaching clatter of hoofs. Three or four of the young bloods on horseback burst out of the road down which the coach had come. Their leader rode down on the mourners, brushing them to one side so that their burden rocked perilously. Then he drew in beside the coach and stared in through the window.
Sylvia faced him, pale but defiant.
“So,” he said quietly but with a terrible menace in his tone, “the fox went that way, did he?” He jerked his crop contemptuously. “Then, young lady, I think you should go that way!”
He lashed out suddenly. There was a shrill whinny, and the coach was j
olted forward. The coachman let out a yell as the wheels grated and skidded across the cobbles. Sir James tried to pull himself towards the window, and saw the funeral procession looming closer. One old man panicked and dodged out from under the coffin. The others struggled to keep it level and at the same time to dodge away from the oncoming coach. They failed. The coffin began to tilt and slide, and went down to the ground with a splintering crash. It rocked over on one side, and the lid was thrown open. A huddled corpse rolled out and came to rest with its dead face staring sightlessly up at the sky.
The coachman got his horses under control. Sir James, furious, wrenched the door open and got down. He confronted the derisive young men, who had enjoyed every moment of it.
Another man strode forward. He was one of the younger pall-bearers, and although his face was weatherbeaten while the face of the dead man was pale and drained, there was a clear resemblance between them. He raised a hand as though to attack the young huntsmen, as though to fling himself madly upon them, horses or no horses. The vicar gasped and caught at his arm.
“No, Martinus.”
Sir James looked up, equally enraged. “What the devil do you young idiots think you were playing at? Have you no respect?”
The leader sneered down at him, shrugged at his companions, and turned his horse away. They rode out of the square, laughing among themselves.
Sylvia had descended from the coach. She moved towards the little group where the corpse was hurriedly being lifted back into the coffin. The broad-shouldered young man who had been addressed by the vicar as Martinus hurried to intercept her. He bent over the coffin as though to protect its inmate.
“Please,” said Sylvia, “if there’s anything—”
“Get away from us.” He glared up at her with naked hatred as though allying her with the young bloods.
“It wasn’t our fault. Surely you could see that?”
“Get away. Leave us alone.”
Sir James moved to his daughter’s side. Keeping his voice level and reasonable, he said: “We understand your feelings, but you must have seen for yourself that this unfortunate incident was none of our doing.”
“I said leave us alone.”
Martinus turned away. He and his friends lifted the coffin and shouldered it again. They waited for the vicar to take up his position at the head of the procession once more. He hesitated, then edged timidly towards Sir James.
“You must forgive the boy. The dead man is his brother. They were very close. A tragedy . . . a tragedy for the lad. And I’m afraid our people here regard all strangers with suspicion. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
Martinus growled impatiently in the background.
Sir James said: “We are looking for the home of Doctor and Mrs. Tompson.”
“Young Tompson?” The vicar pointed to a corner of the square. “That’s his house. The one with the wrought ironwork above the door.” He was about to turn away, then said hesitantly: “If you’ll excuse my asking . . . mm . . . is it some time since you last saw him?”
“Nigh on two years,” said Sir James. “Why?”
“I fear you will find a great change in him. So much has happened here lately. So much.” The vicar shook his head despondently.
“What sort of thing?”
“Death. There have been so many.”
The vicar shuffled back to the procession. He took his place and they went on slowly towards the open gate of the churchyard.
3
The door of the little house was sadly in need of a coat of paint. The windows were tightly shut although it was a mild afternoon, and the accumulation of dirt in one corner of the frame nearest the door did not match up at all with Sir James’s memories of young Alice Tompson.
The coachman knocked and waited. Then he knocked again. The door rattled loosely on its hinges. The summons was loud enough; but there was no reply.
The coachman looked inquiringly at Sir James.
“Try again.”
A third hammering shook the door. Just when it seemed that there would never be an answer, the door opened a fraction. Through a crack Sir James glimpsed the figure of a young woman—tall and pale, her eyes dark-rimmed as though from lack of sleep. It needed no eminent physician to diagnose that this was a very sick woman. He took a step forward.
The woman said dully: “The doctor’s not here.”
She was about to close the door again. Sylvia, incredulous, said: “Alice . . . ?”
“Who is it?”
“Alice—is it you?”
This time the door was opened wide. As the light fell full on the young woman’s face, Sir James was appalled. He could not have believed that this haggard girl was the bright, eager Alice who had been his daughter’s liveliest friend.
The girls ran into each other’s arms. Over Sylvia’s shoulder Alice produced a travesty of her old smile.
“Sir James, what a lovely surprise! Do come in. Please.”
“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Tompson.”
As he went in, Sylvia gave him an undignified prod. “Don’t be so starchy, Father. You always used to call her Alice.”
“Very well . . . Alice.”
They were in a small parlor, darker than it need have been because of a grimy film on the window. Sir James held out his hand. As he and Alice shook hands, she winced slightly. Automatically he looked down and saw that her wrist was bandaged—and automatically, with the professional brusqueness which terrified some of his patients and students and amused others, said: “Hello. What’s this, hey?”
“It’s nothing. Just a cut.”
“I hope you’re looking after it.”
Alice nodded but looked uneasy. Something forced him to go on:
“You can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t want any complications. Easy enough to get infection in . . .” His gaze took in the shabby little room and he had to make an effort to suppress a critical note in his voice. “Would you like me to look at it?”
“It’s all right. My husband is a doctor.”
“Ah, yes,” said Sir James dryly. “So they tell me.”
“He’s a very good doctor,” she said with the first sign of spirit she had shown since they arrived.
“Stop pulling her leg,” said Sylvia. “Now, let’s have a good look at you.”
She stood back to examine her friend. Sir James saw a flush of embarrassment creep into Alice’s sallow cheeks. Her hand moved up unconsciously to her hair and she pushed it back from her forehead. She blinked awkwardly.
“I’m afraid I . . . I wasn’t expecting . . . I look so untidy.”
Sir James thought privately that it was not so much her untidiness as her pale depression which ought to be dealt with as soon as possible. The country life was supposed to be a healthy one, but Alice was a poor advertisement for it.
In the doorway behind him the coachman scraped one foot and coughed deferentially. Sir James turned to find that their luggage had been unloaded and piled on the step.
“Not here,” he said testily. “Surely there’s an inn—what’s that building over there, by the wall of the churchyard?”
“I won’t hear of it.” Alice pulled herself together. “I wish I’d known you were coming, but now you’re here you must certainly stay with us. I’ll just . . . er . . .”
She looked round helplessly. Small as the house was, it had clearly defeated her. She was unable to cope.
Sir James said: “Nonsense. We wouldn’t dream of marching in on you. We’ve come down here to eat and drink and walk—over the moors, down to the sea, all that kind of thing. They can look after us at the inn, and you must come over and dine with us and we’ll talk about old times. And new times.”
“I’d . . . I’d love you to stay here.”
There was an appeal in her voice which, Sir James suspected, startled even Alice herself. He and Sylvia exchanged a quick glance. Their expressions did not change but he knew that they were in immediate agreement.
Sylvia said: “There’s nothing we’d like better, really. But if we’re going to take advantage of an offer like that, I’ve got to help you get things ready.”
She overrode Alice’s vague protests. Within five minutes it was as though the house were Sylvia’s and had always been so. She sized it up with an appraising eye and set to work at once, jollying Alice along so that there was no time for her friend to take offence. Sir James waited until they had gone babbling away into the back of the house and then indicated to the coachman that he could bring the luggage inside. The coachman looked relieved. Sir James paid him off and listened to the coach rattle away. Then he looked round the room, taking in every detail now that he could do so at his leisure.
The house could have been a charming little place. Perhaps it had been spick and span when Peter and his wife moved in. They must have been proud of it. A niche by the fireplace held a vase of dead flowers. Surely in their early months here the flowers must have been cared for, replaced when necessary? The chimney corner was cosy and the old settle was a fine piece of country craftsmanship; but for how long had dust and ash been allowed to drift over everything?
“Tea,” Sylvia was saying as she came in from the kitchen. “Tea in a few minutes.”
Alice came behind her, looking dazed by the speed of events.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything stronger than tea, is there?” asked Sir James.
“I don’t think Peter bothered to . . . that is, I don’t know if he bought another . . .”
Alice’s pleasure at her friend’s arrival was ready to fade with alarming swiftness. Hurriedly Sir James said:
“Good heavens, I can slip out for one later. And where is that husband of yours, anyway? Out on his rounds?”
He could have sworn that a flicker of fear Alice’s face before she replied. “I . . . I expect so.”
“Plenty of patients?”
“Not as many as we’d like.”