Behold a Fair Woman

by Francis Duncan

  The plump man laughed and stretched lazily.

  ‘No need to go plunging about in the water like a porpoise. That’s the hard way. I’m willing to back my intelligence service against all competitors.’

  ‘You don’t leave many stones unturned,’ Bendall agreed, his voice muffled in his towel.

  ‘Isn’t that the mail boat out there?’ Ruth Latinam said suddenly.

  She pointed to the drifting smoke rising beyond the headland where a ship was just coming into view. Her voice sounded so eager that there was a faint shrillness in it.

  Bendall shielded his eyes.

  ‘It’s about the right time for the mail boat,’ he confirmed. He glanced around the beach as he finished towelling the wet from his body. ‘Hullo, isn’t that Mrs. Burres?’

  ‘I thought she was going into St. Julian Harbour this morning,’ Nicola said. ‘That was why she came downstairs early. She must have changed her mind. The major’s with her.’

  ‘Let’s get them over,’ Bendall said. ‘No objections are there?’

  His eyes went to Latinam. The plump man met his gaze with a wide smile.

  ‘Carried unanimously. No point in having an odd man out. Or would it be two odd men out?’

  Bendall came across the beach with the two people he had indicated. The woman, heavily built and in late middle-age, walked with difficulty, leaning on the arm of Major Ayres. As they drew nearer Tremaine saw that the major was carrying her knitting bag.

  ‘Always the gallant soldier, Major!’ It was Latinam, boomingly cheerful, his voice carrying down the beach. ‘I like to see the man of action who also knows how to be the squire of dames!’

  ‘Hrrm,’ the major said. ‘Like to see the ladies are all right, eh, what?’

  ‘Nothing like it, Major,’ Bendall agreed. ‘Personally, I think that any man who calls himself a woman-hater must be more than slightly deranged. I’ve heard of people carrying it to the most amazing lengths. Wouldn’t hear of anybody getting married, for instance.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Latinam said, unwillingly, but obviously the person from whom Bendall expected a reply.

  ‘Chap I heard of in Yorkshire was quite fixed on the idea. Wouldn’t budge from it. Made all kinds of difficulties for his relatives.’

  ‘What sort of difficulties, Mr. Bendall?’

  It was the middle-aged woman who had just joined them who put the question. She had a round, broad-featured face which would have been pleasant, although not attractive, but for the shadowed, almost sullen expression it now bore. It was both defensive and aggressive; a strange mixture that Tremaine found hard to analyse. She looked vaguely unhappy; when she smiled her eyes did not share in it.

  Bendall’s reply was evasive.

  ‘Family troubles,’ he told her. ‘Over money and so on.’

  ‘Couldn’t the law do anything about it?’

  Bendall turned back to Latinam, from whom this last question had come.

  ‘Apparently not. There was a will. This other fellow had worked it all out very cunningly.’

  ‘Which other fellow?’

  Bendall looked surprised.

  ‘Didn’t I mention him? He’s the key figure in the whole thing. He managed to get hold of the old fellow I was telling you about—the one who was a woman-hater—and got him to make a new will. There wasn’t anything to be done about it.’

  ‘Too bad,’ Latinam said. ‘But wasn’t it possible to prove something against this villain of the piece? Couldn’t he have been shown to have murdered the old man in order to benefit under the will or something?’

  Bendall shook his head regretfully.

  ‘No, I’m afraid it was quite a natural death. But I think the family still have hopes. They’re after the villain of the piece—thanks for the apt description, by the way—and I imagine they’ll catch up with him sooner or later.’

  ‘I hope it’s sooner,’ Latinam said. ‘For the family’s sake. I don’t doubt that they’re feeling sore about it.’

  ‘Oh, they are.’ Bendall was very definite. ‘You can’t imagine the things they’ve said.’

  Tremaine had the feeling that he had come in half-way through the second act of a play and was still trying to sort out who was responsible for saying what and why they were saying it. He was on the point of asking to be enlightened when he caught sight of Ruth Latinam’s face, and the misery in her eyes stilled his resolve.

  He turned instead to Mrs. Burres, who had now taken her bag from the major and extracted her knitting. Her needles were working busily.

  ‘A new jumper, Mrs. Burres?’

  ‘A pullover for my nephew,’ she told him.

  This time her eyes were included in her smile; it transformed her face and gave him an entirely different impression of her.

  ‘I hear you’ve been staying on the island for some time,’ he went on. ‘You find it suits you?’

  ‘It suits me very well,’ she returned. ‘I’ve been here just over a year. Before that I was on the south coast—Eastbourne.’

  Geoffrey Bendall, who had sprawled on his towel on the sand, raised himself on one elbow to glance back at them.

  ‘They tell me you’re leaving us, Mrs. Burres. I hope it isn’t true. We shall miss you about the place.’

  There was a momentary hesitation in the busily clicking needles and then they went on as steadily as before.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said practically. ‘In any case, I don’t suppose you’ll be staying here very much longer yourself, Mr. Bendall. Holidays don’t last for ever, you know.’

  ‘Sometimes mine have a good try. I’m a lazy individual and I like it here. The place interests me.’

  ‘That’s dangerous,’ Latinam said. ‘It’s unwise to take things too deeply on a holiday. Keep a blank mind, that’s the best policy.’

  ‘The policy of stagnation!’ Bendall countered, with mock horror. ‘But you won’t let Mrs. Burres desert us, will you? Tell her she can’t leave us in the lurch!’

  ‘My dear chap, it isn’t up to me to tell any of my guests what to do—least of all a lady. If Mrs. Burres has decided that she wants to leave us then I must accept her decision philosophically.’

  ‘I see your point,’ Bendall said. ‘But I still think you ought to get to work on her. It’ll be a pity to break up the party.’

  ‘Isn’t it broken up already?’ Mrs. Burres interposed, without taking her eyes from her needles. ‘I thought Mr. Holt left this morning.’

  ‘It’s only a temporary departure,’ Latinam explained. ‘He’s coming back as soon as he’s dealt with some business matter or other. You could hardly expect him to stay away for long in view of local conditions.’

  Major Ayres looked up suddenly.

  ‘Local conditions?’

  Latinam made a significant gesture in his sister’s direction and the major cleared his throat noisily.

  ‘Hrrm. Quite so, quite so.’

  Tremaine fancied that there was a faint shadow in his face, a hint of disappointment. He looked as though he had rather hoped that Ivan Holt would not be coming back.

  Surely the major wasn’t jealous of Holt? That couldn’t be the reason?

  He dismissed the thought as absurd, but it still troubled him. Although the rest of the conversation dealt with trivialities and Latinam was his usual hearty self towards each of them in turn, when the party broke up at lunch-time Tremaine left the beach with a queer feeling of doubt in his mind.

  There was something that wasn’t quite right; something that didn’t seem to be as it should be.

  It wasn’t just that Ruth Latinam had been very quiet, hardly saying a word. That was understandable. It was, in fact, really very satisfactory. She was missing Ivan Holt.

  He was still trying to find some explanation for his sense of uneasiness when Mrs. Burres came into his mind. He saw her as she had been for most of the morning, a heavy, brooding figure sitting on the fringe of the group on the beach, her needles moving indefatigably.

  There ha
d been something forbidding about her. She made him think of the knitting women who had sat at the foot of the guillotine when the streets of Paris had been red with blood.

  7

  INTERLUDE IN AN OLD MILL

  CLOUDS HUNG LOW over Moulin d’Or, moving sullenly before a wind which had suddenly swung to the north-east.

  ‘I think it’ll be all right later on,’ Mark Belmore commented. ‘The glass is going up again. But it won’t be too good on the beach for a while. The wind’s blowing straight into the bay.’

  ‘In that case I think I’ll take a look at the old mill,’ Tremaine said. ‘Is there any prospect of your coming, Mark?’

  ‘Sorry. One or two chores to do yet. Sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Quite sure. Dare say I’ll call at Exenley’s place on the way back.’

  ‘You seem to have made a hit there. Old Ralph isn’t too eager to talk to people as a rule. In fact, in the ordinary way he’s something of an oyster. Watch your step at the mill, by the way. It must be half-rotten by now.’

  When he went out to the roadway and was no longer sheltered by the boundary walls of the bungalow Tremaine encountered the full force of the wind, and was glad that he had made up his mind to keep away from the beach. He began to walk briskly.

  To get to the mill he had to go through a gateway leading to a small field in which cattle were grazing, and then across a stretch of rough and slightly rising ground beyond. It was situated about a mile beyond the limits of the scattered dwellings forming the main part of Moulin d’Or.

  When he reached the wooden framework, which was creaking eerily in the wind, he experienced a sense of isolation. Although the houses were not a great distance away he felt that he was in a remote and lonely place, far from any human presence.

  It was, no doubt, the mill’s evil reputation which was responsible. It had given the place an atmosphere, and of all people, Mordecai Tremaine regarded himself as susceptible to atmosphere.

  The split and broken sails, splinters of wood hanging drunkenly downwards, stirred uneasily in the breeze. Their movement was stiff and slow, as if resentment at being thus roughly disturbed was finding expression; it added to the sullen menace of the place.

  Tremaine glanced around. There was no one else in sight. He almost repented of his visit and then he took himself to task and climbed the narrow flight of worn stone steps that led up to the battered door.

  It gave to his touch and he was aware of a shameful sense of disappointment. Now there would be no excuse for not exploring further.

  The interior of the mill was gloomy but not as dark as he had expected, for the daylight invaded it through a dozen gaps in the main structure. He stepped cautiously through the doorway, feeling his way before entrusting his weight to the boards. They felt loose but they seemed sound enough.

  When his eyes had become more accustomed to the gloom he looked about him. In one corner lay a pile of rotting sacks, but otherwise the place was empty apart from a flight of wooden steps leading to the upper portion of the mill.

  He moved towards the steps and put his hand on the guard rail. He tested the neighbouring boards, glancing down as he did so. There were a number of light-coloured particles scattered near the foot of the steps and he stooped for a closer examination.

  Surprise at what they appeared to be made him collect several of them in the palm of his hand and carry them across to the door. As he had thought, they were food particles—crumbs of bread and cake.

  Puzzled, he went back towards the steps. What would crumbs of food be doing in this deserted, dilapidated ruin?

  Stray picnickers? Children playing? Neither alternative convinced him. The gloomy mill, thick with dust and grime, seemed hardly likely to be chosen by picnickers, and he did not think that the local children would number it among their playgrounds in view of its sinister reputation.

  A tramp? On this small island tramps were non-existent.

  Who then? He stood with his hand on the rail, hesitating. And at that moment there was a loud creak from somewhere above him that echoed through the gloomy building.

  His heart thumped violently. He waited, taut, for what would happen next.

  The answer was anti-climax. He heard the slight jar of the sails as they reacted to the wind; heard the sigh of it through the broken walls above his head. But there was nothing else; nothing that spoke of terror or alarm.

  He loosened his grasp of the rail and pushed back his pince-nez. His forehead felt moist and he was trembling. He was glad that he had come to the mill alone; he would not have liked Mark to see him giving such a display of nerves.

  In an old structure such as this it was inevitable that there should be all kinds of queer sounds. They didn’t mean anything abnormal. He had been allowing the story of the miller and his fate to disturb him unnecessarily.

  He set his foot on the second step. The rickety structure that led into the darkness above trembled dangerously. He ascended to the third step and felt it sway even more.

  It would be foolish to go any further. If the steps gave way and he was thrown to the ground he might suffer an injury which would detain him in the mill until either chance help arrived or until Mark came to look for him.

  Janet would be worrying about him if he did not get back to the bungalow when he was expected. It would be unfair to place such a burden upon her.

  He was grateful for the opportunity of retreating without admitting that he had shrunk from pressing his exploration to its end. Trying to avoid any appearance of haste he went carefully back to the entrance to the mill.

  The daylight seemed bright and inviting after the gloom within. He descended the steps and set off across the field. A hundred yards away he stopped and glanced behind him. There was no sign of life about the mill; gaunt against the sky it bore its accustomed air of desertion.

  As he walked towards Ralph Exenley’s bungalow he saw that the clouds were breaking; the wind had driven wedges between the dark threatening banks and the blue sky was showing through.

  Exenley was picking in his greenhouses, but he saw his visitor come down the gravel path and waved a greeting.

  ‘You won’t mind if I don’t stop?’ he called. ‘I just want to get these baskets finished before I knock off.’

  He indicated a pile of empty baskets stacked by the door of the greenhouse in which he was working. Tremaine seated himself on a nearby wooden crate from which he could face the entrance.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he returned. ‘I know that you’re one of the labourers of society. I’m just a parasite.’

  Exenley had been giving him an intent scrutiny.

  ‘You don’t look on form this morning. Anything wrong?’

  Instinctively Tremaine’s hand went up to his pince-nez. It was a revealing gesture.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, nothing wrong. Why?’

  ‘When I saw you coming down the path I thought you looked as though you’d had a shock of some kind.’

  ‘I’ve just been to the old mill,’ Tremaine said carefully.

  ‘Prowling among the ruins, eh? Nothing much to see bar dirt and cobwebs, is there?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Tremaine tried to sound casual. ‘Do people use it at all?’

  ‘As a rule they give it a pretty wide berth. Don’t want to meet up with the ghost of the miller!’ Exenley said with a chuckle. ‘What’s on your mind? You don’t think anybody is using the mill now?’

  ‘Well, not exactly using it in that sense. But I did notice crumbs on the floor inside—as though somebody might have had a picnic meal there recently.’

  ‘Oh.’ Exenley’s tone reflected the deflating of his excitement. ‘I suppose that’s possible enough.’

  ‘I’m wondering whether it is,’ Tremaine said, trying not to give the appearance of struggling to preserve a subject which was already dead. ‘I don’t suppose any of the local people would choose it for a picnic and it’s hardly likely to attract visitors who are over here on holiday.’


  ‘Why not? It might have been some young and romantic couple looking for a little colour.’ Exenley shrugged the matter aside carelessly. ‘Excuse me a moment. I want to see how my water tank’s getting along.’

  He walked over to the wooden framework on the top of which the water tank was perched and began to climb the ladder. Tremaine, recalling his experience in the mill, regarded him anxiously.

  ‘It looks rather unsafe. Shall I steady the bottom of the ladder for you?’

  Three steps up the ladder Exenley turned to grin at him.

  ‘Unsafe? Don’t you believe it! Years of life in it yet!’

  He shook the sides of the ladder vigorously to prove his point and then climbed up to the tank. He peered over the edge of it before coming back to the ground.

  ‘Enough water there to be going on with. I’ll switch off the pump.’

  Tremaine stayed for half an hour, watching Exenley as he went on with his tasks, putting questions to which the other replied with a cheerful tolerance. When eventually he got back to the bungalow he found Mark Belmore busy in his garden.

  ‘We’ve had a visitor,’ Mark said, as he approached. ‘We’ve been invited to a dance.’

  ‘A dance?’

  ‘Up at the Rohane. Latinam’s throwing something of a party. Nothing elaborate, so he said. Just the people at the hotel and a few others from round about. He’s hired a small dance band from St. Julian Harbour. Wants to know if the three of us will go tomorrow night.’

  They went into the bungalow where Janet was busy with preparations for lunch.

  ‘Mark’s told you?’ she said. ‘About the dance?’

  ‘You’d like to go, my dear?’ Mark said.

  ‘We don’t get much in the way of excitement, Mark. And I’d like to look inside the Rohane hotel.’

  ‘But I thought you weren’t at all keen on Latinam,’ her husband said doubtfully.

  ‘Perhaps I was prejudiced. Besides—’

  Janet broke off. Fleetingly her eyes went to Tremaine. He resisted the impulse to question her but her glance puzzled him. It belonged to the strangeness he had noted before in her attitude. He wondered what mystery lay behind it. If, indeed, there was a mystery and he was not imagining things.