Behold a Fair Woman

by Francis Duncan

  No time was lost between events. The tide was creeping in now, a line of silver, menacing the seaward part of the track.

  Following the motor-cycle race, in which South gained a narrow victory, a line of cars assembled quickly. Among them was Number 42, the high-built blue car. It rushed into the lead and held it determinedly, despite the forcing tactics of its nearest rivals.

  ‘Your friend Descamps means to win, Ivan,’ Ruth Latinam said.

  She was sitting at Holt’s side, but until now she had made no attempt to open a conversation.

  Holt smiled at her. It was a very betraying smile. Mordecai Tremaine thought that it was pleasant to see young people so obviously in love with each other.

  ‘I think he’ll do it,’ Holt returned. ‘There’s only the chap in the yellow car to touch him.’

  By the time the final lap was reached the race had resolved itself into a struggle between the blue car and its yellow rival; the points totals of the teams were almost level and excitement among the watching crowd steadily mounted.

  At the first bend the blue car held its lead, sand scattering from its wheels as it scraped around as though glued to the ropes. At the second, the last before the straight run to the finishing line, the yellow car edged forward in an attempt to overtake.

  The wheels of both cars seemed to touch. They skidded together across the sand.

  Nicola Paston cried out. Ivan Holt leaned forward, and Tremaine realized afterwards that he had been protecting Ruth Latinam with his own body.

  It was a bad moment. But both drivers managed to keep to the track. The flag went down with the blue car still a few yards ahead.

  There was a burst of applause, both for the victor and for the skill each driver had shown in averting what might have been a serious accident.

  The cars had run off the track beyond the finishing line and were slowing down. The blue car seemed to be in trouble. It was travelling erratically; when it finally came to a standstill after spinning round in an ungainly circle, the driver did not attempt to leave his seat.

  ‘Hullo,’ Holt said. ‘Looks as though something’s wrong.’

  Ambulance men from the cluster of officials gathered in the space inside the ropes were racing forward. They reached the driver and helped him clear of the car. He was clutching his right wrist and seemed to be in pain.

  ‘I’ll go across and see how things are,’ Holt remarked, climbing to his feet.

  Tremaine turned to Ruth Latinam as Holt moved away.

  ‘Mr. Holt knows some of the club members?’

  She seemed glad of the opportunity to talk to him.

  ‘Yes, he’s stayed in the island before. He was working over here at one time and I believe he used to be a member of one of the clubs himself.’

  ‘I noticed that he seemed to know a good deal about what was going on. He seems rather a reliable type of young man,’ he added, adopting the role of the elderly gentleman who was taking a fatherly interest in the coming generation. ‘I like the look of him.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘Ivan’s a very reliable person.’ She leaned forward to touch Nicola Paston on the shoulder. ‘Can you see what’s going on, Nicola?’

  ‘I don’t think the driver can have been badly hurt, but I dare say Ivan will bring us the news in a moment or two.’

  They did not have to wait for Holt’s return. It was announced over the loud-speaker system that the driver of the blue car had sustained a badly sprained wrist; he would be unable to compete in the final race which was now due to be run.

  ‘Too bad,’ Belmore said. ‘I make the scoring just about level. This last event would have been a real needle effort if Descamps had been driving.’

  Latinam shaded his eyes, peering towards the group of cars and officials.

  ‘What’s happening to Holt? Can you see him, Ruth?’

  ‘No,’ she returned. ‘I wasn’t watching him very closely and I didn’t see where he went.’

  In a few moments there was a further announcement. In view of the accident to Mr. Descamps and as the final race would decide the winning team, it had been agreed that Mr. Ivan Holt, a former member of North club, should take over car Number 42. The announcer asked the crowd to show their appreciation of Mr. Holt’s sporting gesture.

  Hedley Latinam beamed. He seemed to accept the rattle of applause almost as a personal ovation.

  ‘This should be worth watching! What about it, Ruth? Are you going to give the young man a favour to wear on his radiator?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Hedley,’ she said in a low tone.

  ‘It’s what the knights of old did, isn’t it? They wore their lady’s emblem when they went to the jousting. That’s the word, isn’t it, Bendall?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Bendall said. ‘I’m no knight.’

  By now the tide was encroaching upon the far side of the course. There was clearly no time to be lost if the final race was to be completed.

  The cars manoeuvred into position, the blue car in the centre of the line. They recognized Holt at the wheel; he was taller than Descamps and could easily be distinguished among the other competitors.

  ‘The fellow in the yellow car’s there again,’ Belmore remarked. ‘Looks as though it’s going to be another ding-dong tussle.’

  Janet spoke seriously.

  ‘I do hope there isn’t another collision. Mr. Holt hasn’t driven the car before—at least, I don’t suppose he has.’

  ‘He’s driven it once,’ Ruth Latinam told her. ‘A day or two ago. He went out with Mr. Descamps on a practice run. But of course he isn’t really familiar with it.’

  It was noticeable how the emergence of a joint personal interest in what was going on had broken down all restraint between them.

  Not that there had in any case been a great deal; it was true that Ruth Latinam had spoken very little, but on the other hand she had responded readily enough to any remark that had been made to her. But now she seemed just a little more ready to take the initiative, a shade more eager to join in what was being said.

  The far side of the track had now been considerably narrowed by the steadily approaching tide. The first few laps saw the blue car lying third; Holt was clearly holding back, making sure of the feel of the controls before attempting a bid for the lead.

  Ruth Latinam’s eyes were fixed upon the circuit; her hands were clenched and there was a look of strain upon her face. Once Tremaine saw her turn away to glance at her brother and then at Geoffrey Bendall, as if to see whether they had noticed any sign of agitation in her.

  What if they had! Tremaine wanted to get up and tell her what was in his mind.

  Look here, if you’re in love with that young man you ought to be feeling anxious about him. What does it matter about letting people see what you think!

  But, of course, it wouldn’t be any good doing anything of the kind. She would only look upon him as an interfering old busybody, and she’d be quite right.

  The blue car moved up into second place. Holt was driving confidently. Perhaps over-confidently. He took the next bend rather wide; the car swerved and went into a skid.

  Ruth Latinam’s hand flew to her mouth. She gasped. Her brother gave her a sudden, intent look.

  The blue car had skidded off the track into the advancing sea, sending up a spray of water. But the danger was not as great as it seemed, for Holt had managed to regain control. In another moment or two he had cut back to the track and was speeding over the sand towards the next bend.

  Ruth Latinam relaxed, and her brother chuckled.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear. You aren’t going to lose that young man of yours—not yet!’

  Brief though the incident had been, it had robbed Holt of any chance of winning. He made a desperate effort that brought him back into second place, but before he could close the twenty-yard gap still separating him from the yellow car the finishing flag had swept down.

  ‘Bad luck,’ Bendall commented. ‘Another lap and he might have do
ne it.’

  ‘He recovered from that skid very well,’ Belmore agreed. ‘Pity it happened so near the end of the race.’

  A few moments later Holt came towards the stretch of shingle upon which they were sitting. There was a smear of oil on his face and he was still wearing overalls.

  Latinam climbed to his feet and held out his hand.

  ‘Well done. You had us worried when you went into the water, though. Especially Ruth. I think she was afraid we’d seen the last of you!’

  ‘Sorry about the skid,’ Holt returned. ‘Descamps warned me that she needed holding on the bends, but I suppose I was a bit careless. Thought I knew all the answers.’

  ‘Are you all right, Ivan?’ Ruth Latinam asked.

  ‘Sound as a bell. Gave myself a fright, but that’s all.’ Holt indicated his overalls. ‘I’ll go and get out of these. Just thought I’d show you I was all in one piece!’

  He sounded casual, but the expression in his eyes as he looked at Ruth Latinam gave him away.

  Tremaine pushed up his pince-nez and gazed upon the two of them benevolently. They made an attractive pair.

  It was a pity about that hint of frigidity in Ruth Latinam’s manner, as though she was trying to repress her feelings all the time. It made her appear unresponsive and he did not think she was really like that underneath.

  But probably it wasn’t very important. Everything would come right in the end.

  It always did in Romantic Stories and he liked to think that the same kind of thing happened in real life.

  5

  UNEASY ENCOUNTER

  RALPH EXENLEY’S BUNGALOW was similar in design to that occupied by the Belmores.

  ‘Sorry about the mess everywhere,’ he remarked, moving a pile of periodicals to enable Tremaine to sit down on an easy chair in the lounge. ‘As long as I can find a chair and a pipe—and an occasional clean plate—I’m afraid I don’t bother about how things look.’

  ‘I’m a bachelor myself,’ Tremaine said, understandingly. ‘You look after yourself, then?’

  ‘Well, I’ve a woman who comes in now and again—just to straighten things out when they look as though they’re getting out of hand—but apart from that I’m my own housekeeper. I prefer it that way. I can please myself about meals, and if I want to go on working for an hour or two extra there’s nobody to consult but myself.’

  ‘Doesn’t it make life rather lonely for you?’

  ‘I find plenty to keep me going with a few hundred feet of glass to look after,’ Exenley rejoined cheerfully. ‘Anyway, I’m not much of a fellow for company. Give me my pipe and a book and I’m happy enough.’

  ‘Isn’t it sometimes rather dreary in the winter?’

  ‘I’m not sure I don’t prefer the winter months. Not so many visitors to clutter up St. Julian Harbour and the rest of the island. Saving your presence!’ Exenley added with a chuckle. ‘What with getting the place in order for the next growing season and spending an occasional evening with Janet and Mark I don’t give way to boredom. Anyway, I prefer my quiet retreat to your kind of excitement. I dare say you find things a shade too exciting sometimes!’

  ‘Exciting?’ Tremaine adjusted his pince-nez with an air of innocence. ‘Me?’

  ‘I mean this crime detecting of yours. Don’t you end up in an awkward situation now and again?’

  ‘Everybody seems to be taking me a great deal too seriously,’ Tremaine returned. ‘I can assure you that I go months at a time without any more contact with crime than I get from reading the newspapers.’

  ‘You disappoint me! I thought you’d be full of all kinds of tit-bits of information about criminals and their ways!’

  As they went out into the garden Tremaine compared Ralph Exenley’s particular brand of cheerfulness with Hedley Latinam’s. It was unforced and quite unselfconscious, whereas with the plump man he sometimes had the feeling that it wasn’t altogether sincere; that Latinam was trying to appear more jovial than he really was.

  He indicated the big greenhouses at the end of the garden towards which they were walking.

  ‘When you said you had several hundred feet of glass you meant these greenhouses?’

  ‘We talk in so many feet of glass,’ Exenley explained. ‘As you can see, I’ve four houses. Each of them is a hundred and fifty feet long. Some people have more, of course, but quite a few make do with a good deal less. On the other hand I don’t supplement my income by taking in visitors. Another disadvantage of being a bachelor!’

  In front of the greenhouses was a tall framework of timber, on the top of which was a large tank. A pipe rose over one side and a wooden ladder was fixed permanently against it.

  ‘Your water tank?’ Tremaine enquired.

  ‘Tomatoes are thirsty creatures,’ Exenley nodded, ‘and watering’s very important. If you don’t keep it up you soon see the results in the plants.’

  ‘I notice you don’t use a wind pump although there are a good many in the district.’

  ‘I’ve a motor in the shed over there. It’s cheap enough to run and it fills the tank quickly. I usually run the motor when I start watering and leave the tank full so that it’s ready for the next time. No danger of being caught with an empty tank, then.’

  They walked past the solid beams of the water tower and approached the greenhouses. Away to the left Tremaine saw a brick-lined pit with a boiler built into it. A stack of coal near at hand revealed its purpose.

  ‘There are warm pipes running into each greenhouse?’

  ‘That’s right. They aren’t needed when the weather’s really hot, of course, but early in the season you need to keep the fire going if you want to make sure of your crop.’

  They went through the open door into the nearest of the houses. The air was warm and heavy. Exenley led the way between the rows of tomato plants supported by cords.

  ‘Not very bracing, is it! After an hour or two of picking I’m glad to get into the open again.’

  Tremaine could imagine the discomfort of physical exertion beneath the glass roof with the sun beating down upon it. Already he was uncomfortably warm.

  ‘You pick from the bottom?’ he asked, looking about him.

  ‘Allows the fruit to come on, then,’ Exenley said. ‘Picking, stripping, and watering keep me on the go during the main cropping time. Fortunately I don’t do any packing. I’ve a contract with a local packing firm who handle that side of the business.’

  ‘The soil looks quite hard,’ Tremaine observed. ‘I would have expected it to be much looser.’

  ‘Hard? Not on your life.’ Stooping, Exenley plunged his fingers into the ground around one of the plants. ‘See?’ He allowed the fine grains to run back to the earth. ‘They’ve plenty of room to breathe.’

  Tremaine bent down to make his own test, feeling the soft, moist soil.

  ‘What made you decide to go in for growing tomatoes?’

  ‘The need to earn a living, I suppose! I lived on the island for a short while a good few years ago and thought I’d come back and settle down here. Besides, I like watching things grow. Does me good to watch them develop.’

  There was a passionate note of sincerity in his voice. His stocky figure seemed to have acquired a new virility.

  They retraced their steps slowly through the greenhouse.

  ‘I’m glad to be outside again,’ Tremaine remarked. ‘I don’t envy you having to work in that heat.’

  ‘You get used to it,’ Exenley told him. ‘You’re always in the dry, anyway. Better come up to the bungalow,’ he added, ‘and have a swill. Surprising how much dirt there is attached to tomatoes.’

  When, an hour or two later, Tremaine took his leave, it was with the feeling that he had known the grower a long time. Exenley was easy to get on with. He had replied good-humouredly to the host of questions with which he had been plied; he had no awkwardness of manner, despite the restricted life he was now leading.

  ‘Look in again,’ he said, as Tremaine went through the gateway to th
e road. ‘I’ll be glad of someone to talk to, and if you do happen to come when I’m busy there’s no reason why you shouldn’t watch me on the job. That’s if you don’t mind my disreputable appearance.’

  Tremaine felt very satisfied with life as he walked down the road. The weather was fine and warm and he had met a number of interesting people. What more could he ask of his holiday?

  The way back took him close to the ruined windmill. He would have liked to take the opportunity of examining it nearer at hand, but a glance at his watch showed him that he had barely enough time to reach Janet’s at the hour he was expected for tea.

  He studied the mill as he passed, however, and it was as a result of his interest that he caught sight of the figure of a man coming from behind the derelict building.

  He was a burly individual, dressed in a fisherman’s jersey and thigh boots. Although Tremaine was not close enough to see his expression clearly he had the impression of a heavy, lowering face that carried the marks of ruthlessness. He quickened his pace so that he would be well ahead before the other reached the road.

  It was then that he noticed that another man was striking across the rough ground towards the mill. He recognized the dumpy figure of Hedley Latinam.

  In almost the same instant Latinam heard his footsteps on the road and turned quickly. Tremaine thought that the other made a sudden urgent movement with his right hand.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ he called. ‘Going to have a look at the old mill?’

  Latinam did not reply immediately. He glanced over his shoulder in the mill’s direction. He seemed disconcerted, but when Tremaine drew nearer he saw that the normal jovial expression had settled upon the plump man’s features.

  ‘No,’ he returned. ‘Taking a short cut, that’s all. What about you?’ he added, reluctantly. ‘Are you making for the mill?’

  Tremaine shook his head.

  ‘I can’t spare the time just now. But it’s a place I mean to have a look at as soon as I can. There’s rather an intriguing story attached to it, isn’t there?’

  ‘Is there?’ Latinam said sharply, and then he relaxed. ‘Oh, you mean the miller? Can’t say I’ve much belief in ghosts myself but the islanders give the place a wide berth.’