Behold a Fair Woman

by Francis Duncan

  During his absence the ballroom seemed to have filled; the floor was almost uncomfortably crowded. Idly Tremaine watched the dancing couples, and suddenly his eyes widened; moving in his direction to the rhythm of the slow fox-trot which was being played were Alan and Valerie Creed.

  It needed only one glance at Valerie Creed’s face to see that she was a woman very much in love; it had added grace to her clumsy figure. She looked, Tremaine reflected approvingly, almost beautiful.

  They were level with him when the music stopped. They came over to the vacant chairs nearby, Creed’s arm still possessively about his wife’s waist.

  ‘Good evening,’ Tremaine said. ‘I was watching you dance just now and feeling very envious.’

  Alan Creed’s gaunt features softened into a friendly smile.

  ‘It isn’t often Valerie and I attend an affair of this sort. We thought we’d make the most of it.’

  ‘I was surprised to see so many people here. It’s quite an occasion for Moulin d’Or, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Creed said. ‘I fancy that quite a few invitations were unexpected.’ It was clear that he had recalled the incident on the beach when he had said that he knew little of Hedley Latinam and felt that some explanation was needed. ‘I didn’t know, for instance, that Latinam knew of our existence,’ he added.

  As usual Valerie Creed said little. Some of the light that had invested her with such charm had gone out of her face, and Tremaine was regretfully aware that he was the cause of it. He was relieved when the band struck up again and they got up to dance. He did not enjoy the role of the skeleton at the feast.

  Ivan Holt had put in an appearance now and was dancing with Ruth Latinam. Holt seemed pale and there was a discolouration at the side of his head. It was not, however, particularly noticeable; Tremaine thought if he had not been looking for it he might not have been aware that it was there.

  He wondered whether other people had seen it. Hedley Latinam had come back; he was watching his sister and her partner as they danced. His expression was thoughtful. Possibly it was the lighting, but to Tremaine it seemed also a little sinister.

  He sat out a number of dances and then found himself beginning to nod; it was difficult to combat the soporific warmth of the crowded room. He compelled himself to get to his feet and walk out on to the terrace.

  The cool night air playing on his face quickly revived him. He descended the few steps leading from the terrace and strolled over the turf towards the cliff edge.

  The blaze of light and the sound of the dance-band coming from the hotel behind him offered a sharp contrast to the darkness in which he stood; he felt translated, suspended between two worlds. He closed his eyes, the light sea breeze drifting over him.

  The voices seemed at first to come whispering out of space, and then, as the speakers moved closer to him, he was able to distinguish the words.

  He did not listen consciously; in his state of disembodied exaltation it did not occur to him that he was eavesdropping.

  ‘But why not? Surely there’s a reason, Ruth?’

  It was Ivan Holt’s voice, urgent, passionate, and pleading. He sounded like a man who had decided to settle an issue one way or another.

  ‘Yes, Ivan,’ came Ruth Latinam’s low tones, ‘there is a reason.’

  ‘Then tell me what it is. Tell me what’s troubling you. At least let me try to help. That’s all I ask. You know—you know that I love you.’

  ‘Don’t, Ivan—please.’

  ‘You do know it, don’t you? It must have been plain enough. I’m not very good at hiding my feelings and I don’t think your brother at least has any doubts.’

  ‘Yes, I know it, Ivan. It makes me very—proud.’

  Although Tremaine could not see them, for they were standing on the far side of a cluster of bushes, he knew that Ivan Holt had taken the girl into his arms.

  ‘Tell me what it is, darling. Let me do something to get rid of this thing that’s hanging over you.’

  ‘You mustn’t ask me, Ivan. You mustn’t. It’s better that you shouldn’t know. Believe me, my dear, you don’t know what it is you’re asking.’

  ‘I know that I love you. And you love me, Ruth. That’s true, isn’t it? You do love me?’

  Her reply was so low as to be almost inaudible.

  ‘God forgive me,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do love you.’

  9

  UP IN THE MORNING EARLY

  TREMAINE PERFORMED HIS routine exercises in front of the open bedroom window at his usual time, and then dressed and went quietly out of the bungalow. Mark and Janet would doubtless want to lie on this morning; there was no point in disturbing them.

  He walked through the garden to the road, deliberating whether he should make his way down to the beach or stroll in the other less familiar direction. He chose to go inland but it was not until he found himself staring at the old mill that he realized what thought had been in his mind.

  He fancied that he detected a movement at the side of the building; in the next moment a figure left the shelter of the mill and began to walk across the rough ground on which it was situated.

  The figure made no effort at concealment but kept on towards the roadway. He recognized Ivan Holt.

  He hesitated, uncomfortable at the thought of the conversation he had overheard on the previous night, although he did not think that either Holt or Ruth Latinam had been aware of his presence. Holt came straight on.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ the younger man said, as he drew nearer. ‘I was wondering who it might be taking a stroll so early.’

  ‘Good morning,’ Tremaine returned. ‘I was wondering the same thing.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. Went to bed too late, I dare say. After tossing and turning for a few hours I thought I might as well get dressed and try and walk it off.’

  ‘Anything of interest at the mill?’

  Holt gave him a steady look.

  ‘What should there be?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know. But I thought you seemed to be having a look around.’

  ‘I happened to come this way,’ Holt said. ‘That’s all.’

  Now that he could study the other more closely Tremaine could see that his face was white and drawn and that there were dark patches under his eyes. He looked haggard and ill; the mark on the side of his head showed now as an ugly bruise.

  The fact that he had had little sleep would, of course, have explained his appearance in some degree; but there was, Tremaine thought, more to it than that. In some subtle way Holt’s attitude had changed; he seemed older, and on his guard.

  ‘I was at the mill myself the other day,’ he volunteered.

  He waited, leaving the opening. But beyond a brief tightening of his lips Holt gave no sign that he understood.

  Tremaine tried again.

  ‘You gave me the impression last night that there was something you wished to discuss with me.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘I think you were doubtful about the best way to begin. I’d like you to know that if there is any way in which I can help you I shall be only too pleased to do it.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you mean,’ Holt said. ‘There’s nothing I want to discuss.’ He glanced pointedly at his wrist-watch. ‘I must be getting back otherwise I shall be missing breakfast. Dare say I’ll be seeing you later on.’

  He nodded and turned away, his stride making it obvious that he did not wish to be troubled with anyone else’s company.

  Tremaine stared after his tall, retreating figure. Then he took off his pince-nez and polished them thoughtfully, gazing into space.

  If Holt didn’t wish to talk there wasn’t very much to be done about it. Which was a pity, for if there was a way in which the course of love could be made to run smooth he would have been delighted to lend a hand.

  But where did the mill come into it? He stared at the gaunt building with its tattered arms raised supplicatingly to the morning sky. It no longer seemed evil; there was
merely a tragic helplessness about its splintered framework.

  When he eventually reached the bungalow Janet was up and the smell of frying bacon filled the kitchen.

  ‘You certainly believe in getting up early, Mordecai!’ she called, as she saw him approaching.

  ‘It’s a bad habit,’ he returned deprecatingly. ‘I’ve reached the stage where I just can’t help myself!’

  Mark, shaving in the bathroom, pushed open the window as he heard the voice of his guest.

  ‘See anybody about?’

  ‘Ivan Holt,’ Tremaine returned. ‘I met him over by the mill.’

  ‘I noticed last night that he’d had a knock on the head,’ Janet remarked. ‘Did he say how it happened?’

  ‘He told me he’d slipped coming up the cliff path.’

  ‘He seems to have been another early bird.’ Janet gave him a quizzical look. ‘Ruth wasn’t with him?’

  ‘No.’ Tremaine shook his head. ‘No, she wasn’t with him.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for an interesting announcement concerning those two,’ Mark said, emerging from the bathroom. ‘There isn’t much doubt over which way the wind’s blowing.’

  In this, Tremaine reflected, as he took his seat at the breakfast table, Mark was mistaken; but to embark upon explanations would be a little too complicated.

  He spent a quiet morning on the beach with his newspapers, seeing nothing of anyone from the Rohane hotel.

  There was a small wooden kiosk on the edge of the sand dunes where it was sometimes possible to buy cigarettes, ice-cream, and soft drinks. Mark had mentioned casually at breakfast that he was running short of cigarettes and Tremaine made a detour towards the kiosk in order to obtain a packet to take back with him.

  Two people were sitting on the rocks on the other side of the kiosk, which had hitherto been out of his sight, and he recognized Major Ayres and Mrs. Burres.

  The major saw him and nodded in a friendly fashion, and when he had bought his cigarettes he strolled over to them.

  ‘I didn’t see you at the dance last night, Major.’

  ‘Hrrm. No.’ The major prodded his stick into the pebbles at his feet. ‘Not a dancing man, y’know. Never was. Getting too old for it, anyway.’

  Seated on the other side of the major’s spare figure Mrs. Burres was still knitting indefatigably. Her lips came together at her companion’s comment and her knitting needles seemed to move a little more quickly.

  ‘It doesn’t look as though your nephew will have long to wait,’ Tremaine commented.

  ‘I want to get it finished,’ she said. ‘Before—’

  She broke off with a sudden exclamation. It might have been because her needle had slipped, but Tremaine suspected that the needle had been an excuse to cover the fact that she had changed her mind about what she had been going to say.

  ‘Mr. Latinam seems to have invited quite a number of people in the district to last night’s dance,’ he observed. ‘Perhaps he intends to bring the hotel more into the limelight.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that he has a good reason for whatever he’s doing,’ Mrs. Burres said tartly.

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘How is Mr. Holt?’ Tremaine asked, after a moment or two.

  ‘Holt?’ Major Ayres looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t know there was anything wrong with him? Has he been taken ill or something?’

  ‘Not exactly that. He had an accident last night—slipped and hit his head against a rock. He said it wasn’t anything to worry about but I fancy it was worse than he admitted.’

  ‘Accident, eh? Hrrm. Haven’t seen anything of him this morning,’ the major said.

  ‘I happened to run across him quite early,’ Tremaine said. ‘I didn’t think he looked at all well then. That’s why I enquired.’

  Mrs. Burres had still not brought her needles back into play. Her eyes were thoughtful.

  ‘You saw him early this morning. I would have thought—’

  ‘That he would have been lying on for a while?’ Tremaine smiled. ‘I met him over by the ruined mill—just before seven.’

  He caught the sudden glance the major gave his companion; it was a speculative, shrewd glance.

  ‘Hrrm. Up with the lark, eh?’ The major cleared his throat. ‘Did he—did he say what he was doing?’

  ‘Only that he couldn’t sleep and was taking a stroll.’

  Tremaine left them with the feeling that he had put a question into their minds. He had an idea that it was a question which was going to receive a good deal of discussion when he was no longer within earshot.

  In the afternoon Mark suggested a run to the rocky promontory in the south-east of the island upon which Mortelet lighthouse was built. They left the car parked on the spongy turf bordering the narrow road and climbed the cliffs to an open stretch of ground from which they could overlook the treacherous coast, fringed by jagged outcrops of rock, against which the lighthouse served as a warning.

  Three men lay sprawled upon the grass.

  ‘Hullo,’ Mark exclaimed. ‘Isn’t that Latinam over there?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Tremaine said. ‘Bendall and Holt are with him. I don’t see the ladies, though.’

  The sound of their voices had carried, although their words could not have been distinguished at such a distance. They saw Latinam turn, stare, and then wave an arm.

  ‘Come and join us!’

  The plump man was all smiles, and Bendall, too, seemed friendly enough. Ivan Holt, however, did not look pleased at their appearance; he merely nodded briefly.

  ‘It looks like a stag party,’ Tremaine said.

  ‘Oh, Nicola and Ruth are somewhere about.’ Latinum made a vague gesture. ‘They’re feeling energetic. We mere males couldn’t keep up with them. Worn out with our efforts last night, eh, Holt?’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Holt returned shortly. ‘I thought the girls wanted a stroll on their own. Besides, I thought we might have had a few moments to ourselves.’

  He glanced at Bendall, a little sourly, as if he resented the other’s presence. Mark and Janet sat down near him.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Janet asked. ‘I noticed last night that you’d given yourself rather a nasty knock.’

  Holt made a visible effort to be civil.

  ‘It’s no more than a bruise. It looks a bit fierce but it’s nothing really.’

  ‘Enjoy yourselves last night?’ Latinam enquired.

  ‘Very much,’ Janet smiled. ‘The Rohane hotel’s likely to become the centre of Moulin d’Or’s night life!’

  ‘I’m thinking of going in for that sort of thing more often. I don’t think I’ve been progressive enough in the past.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Bendall commented. ‘I think you’ve been highly progressive. It’s just that your talents have lain in different directions.’

  Latinam’s jovial expression became fixed. He turned away, looking along the cliffs.

  ‘Here come Ruth and Nicola.’

  The two girls were about two hundred yards away, coming slowly towards them. They were about the same height, and Tremaine thought they made a charming picture with their striking contrast of colouring and with their light summer dresses blowing gracefully about them in the breeze. Nicola Paston was slightly in advance of her companion. Her fair hair tumbling about her head, its tresses stirred into gleaming life, possessed a golden radiance.

  ‘Behold a fair woman,’ Geoffrey Bendall said softly.

  He was not looking along the cliffs; he was looking at Latinam.

  Tremaine saw a tautness come into the plump man’s face. He did not cease to smile, but there was murder in his eyes.

  10

  THE NIGHT IS FATAL

  STUMBLING BACK DOWN over the uneven surface of the cliff to the roadway Tremaine was close to Ruth Latinam and her brother. He heard Latinam’s voice, rough with anger despite his guarded undertone.

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the girl said. ‘Noth
ing. I swear it.’

  ‘If you’ve been talking—’

  Latinam broke off. Although he could not see it Tremaine sensed the suspicious glance the plump man cast in his direction.

  It was an uncomfortable journey; the tension in the atmosphere was palpable. Once Tremaine caught Holt’s eyes on Latinam. They were close to the edge of the cliff, with the jagged, ugly reef lying more than a hundred feet below them, and the expression on the younger man’s face made it plain what he would have liked to do.

  They parted company with Latinam and the others when they reached the roadway. The plump man had parked his car further round the headland.

  ‘What was wrong with Ruth?’ Janet asked, as they drove off.

  ‘I didn’t notice anything,’ Tremaine returned uneasily.

  ‘Either you’re losing your powers of observation or you’re being diplomatic,’ Janet said quietly. ‘She looked upset. I’m pretty sure she’d been crying. And Ivan wasn’t in a very friendly mood. What’s gone wrong between them? They haven’t quarrelled?’

  ‘I dare say it was the effect of the late night,’ Tremaine said evasively. ‘People aren’t at their best on the morning after.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Janet said, unconvinced.

  Mark had obtained tickets for the repertory theatre in St. Julian Harbour that evening, and Tremaine enjoyed the fast-moving farce which was being performed. By the time the final curtain fell he had forgotten Ruth Latinam’s unhappy, haunted face and the look in Ivan Holt’s eyes.

  The town itself was a blaze of light but once they had left it behind and were travelling through the narrow, twisting roads that led to Moulin d’Or, they were in almost complete darkness.

  Mark used his headlights most of the way, otherwise there would have been a danger of scraping the big car against the overhanging walls.

  As they turned into the lane leading to the bungalow the car sent a flare of light along the hedge, picking up the figure of a man. They saw his face briefly outlined.

  Tremaine gave an exclamation.

  ‘That’s the fellow!’

  ‘What fellow?’ Mark said.

  ‘The one I told you I’d seen coming from the old mill.’