Dead Water ra-23

by Ngaio Marsh

  She was a beautiful woman, very fine drawn, with an exquisite head of which the bone structure was so delicate and the eyes so quiet in expression that the mouth seemed like a vivid accident. It was as if an artist, having started out to paint an ascetic, had changed his mind and laid down the lips of a voluptuary.

  With a sort of awkward grace that suggested shyness, she moved into the bar, smiling tentatively at nobody in particular. Dr. Mayne looked quickly at her and stood up. The Rector gave her “Good evening,” and the restless young man offered her a drink. Her husband, without consulting her, poured a glass of lager.

  “Hullo, Mum. We’ve all been talking about Wally’s warts,” Patrick said.

  Mrs. Barrimore sat down by Miss Cost. “Have you?” she said. “Isn’t it strange? I can’t get over it.” Her voice was charming: light and very clear. She had the faintest hesitation in her speech, and a trick of winding her fingers together. Her son brought her drink to her and she thanked the restless young man rather awkwardly for it. Jenny, who liked her very much, wondered, not for the first time, if her position at the Boy-and-Lobster was distasteful to her and exactly why she seemed so alien to it.

  Her entrance brought a little silence in its wake. Dr. Mayne turned his glass round and round and stared at the contents. Presently Miss Cost broke out in a fresh spate of enthusiasm.

  “Now, you may all laugh as loud as you please,” she cried with a reckless air. “I shan’t mind. I daresay there’s some clever answer explaining it all away, or you can, if you choose, call it coincidence. But I don’t care. I’m going to say my little say.” She held up her glass of port in a dashing manner, and gained their reluctant attention. “I’m an asthmatic!” she declared vaingloriously. “Since I came here, I’ve had my usual go, regular as clockwork, every evening at half past eight. I daresay some of you have heard me sneezing and wheezing away in my corner. Very well…Now! This evenings when I’d heard about Wally, I walked up to the spring, and while I sat there, it came into my mind — quite suddenly: ‘I wonder …’ And I dipped my fingers in the waterfall—” She shut her eyes, raised her brows and smiled. The port slopped over on her hand. She replaced the glass. “I wished my wee wish,” she continued. “And I sat up there, feeling ever so light and unburdened, and then I came down.” She pointed dramatically to the bar clock. “Look at the time!” she exulted. “Five past ten!” She slapped her chest. “Clear as a bell! And I know, I just know, it’s happened. To me.”

  There was a dead silence during which, Jenny thought, everyone listened nervously for asthmatic manifestations from Miss Cost’s chest. There were none.

  “Miss Cost,” said Patrick Ferrier at last, “how perfectly splendid!” There were general ambiguous murmurs of congratulation. Major Barrimore, looking as if he would like to exchange a wink with somebody, added: “Long may it last!”

  They were all rather taken aback by the fervency with which she ejaculated: “Amen! Yes, indeed. Amen!”

  The Rector looked extremely uncomfortable. Dr. Mayne asked Miss Cost if she’d seen any Green Ladies while she was about it.

  “N-no,” she said, and darted a very unfriendly glance at him.

  “You sound as if you’re not sure of that, Miss Cost.”

  “My eyes were closed,” she said quickly.

  “I see,” said Dr. Mayne.

  The restless young man, who had been biting at his nails, said loudly, “Look!” and, having engaged their general attention, declared himself. “Look!” he repeated. “I’d better come clean and explain at once that I take a — well, a professional interest in all this. On holiday: but a news-hound’s job’s never done, is it? It seems to me there’s quite a story here. I’m sure my paper would want our readers to hear about it. London Sun, and I’m Kenneth Joyce. K.J.’s column, you know: ‘What’s the Answer?’ Now, what do you all say? Just a news item. Nothing spectacular.”

  “Oh, no!” Mrs. Barrimore ejaculated and then added: “I’m sorry. It’s simply that I really do so dislike that sort of thing.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Dr. Mayne. For a second they looked at each other.

  “I really think,” the Rector said, “not. I’m afraid I dislike it too, Mr. Joyce.”

  “So do I,” Jenny said.

  “Do you?” asked Mr. Joyce. “I’m sorry about that. I was going to ask if you’d lend me this picture. It’d blow up quite nicely. My paper would pay—”

  “No,” Jenny said.

  “Golly, how fierce!” said Mr. Joyce, pretending to shrink. He looked about him. “Now, why not?” he asked.

  Major Barrimore said: “I don’t know why not. I can’t say I see anything wrong with it. The thing’s happened, hasn’t it, and it’s damned interesting. Why shouldn’t people hear about it?”

  “Oh, I do agree,” cried Miss Cost. “I’m sorry, but I do so agree with the Major. When the papers are full of such dreadful things, shouldn’t we welcome a lovely, lovely true story like Wally’s? Oh, yes!”

  Patrick said to Mr. Joyce: “Well, at least you declared yourself,” and grinned at him.

  “He wanted Jenny’s photograph,” said Mrs. Barrimore quietly. “So he had to.”

  They looked at her with astonishment. “Well, honestly, Mama!” Patrick ejaculated. “What a very crisp remark!”

  “An extremely cogent remark,” said Dr. Mayne.

  “I don’t think so,” Major Barrimore said loudly, and Jenny was aware of an antagonism that had nothing to do with the matter under discussion.

  “But of course I had to,” Mr. Joyce conceded, with a wide gesture and an air of candour. “You’re dead right. I did want the photograph. All the same, it’s a matter of professional etiquette, you know. My paper doesn’t believe in pulling fast ones. That’s not the Sun’s policy at all. In proof of which, I shall retire gracefully upon a divided house.”

  He carried his drink over to Miss Cost and sat beside her. Mrs. Barrimore got up and moved away. Dr. Mayne took her empty glass and put it on the bar.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, induced perhaps by the general recollection that they had all drunk at Mr. Joyce’s expense and a suspicion that his hospitality had not been offered entirely without motive.

  Mrs. Barrimore said: “Good night, everybody,” and went out.

  Patrick moved over to Jenny. “I’m going fishing in the morning if it’s fine,” he said. “Seeing it’s a Saturday, would it amuse you to come? It’s a small, filthy boat and I don’t expect to catch anything.”

  “What time?”

  “Dawn. Or soon after. Say half past four.”

  “Crikey! Well, yes, I’d love to if I can wake myself up.”

  “I’ll scratch on your door like one of the Sun King’s courtiers. Which door is it? Frightening, if I scratched on Miss Cost’s!”

  Jenny told him. “Look at Miss Cost, now,” she said. “She’s having a whale of a time with Mr. Joyce.”

  “He’s getting a story from her.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes! And tomorrow, betimes, he’ll be hunting up Wally and his unspeakable parents. With a camera.”

  “He won’t!”

  “Of course he will. If they’re sober they’ll be enchanted. Watch out for K.J.’s ‘What’s the Answer’ column in the Sun.”

  “I do think the gutter press in this country’s the rockbottom.”

  “Don’t you have a gutter press in New Zealand?”

  “Not as low.”

  “Well done, you. All the same, I don’t see why K.J.’s idea strikes you as being so very low. No sex. No drugs. No crime. It’s as clean as a whistle, like Watty’s hands.” He was looking rather intently into Jenny’s face. “Sorry,” he said. “You didn’t like that, either, did you?”

  “It’s just — I don’t know — or yes, I think I do. Wally’s so vulnerable. I mean, he’s been jeered at and cowed by the other children. He’s been puzzled and lonely, and now he’s a comparatively happy little creature. Quite a hero, in a way.
He’s — not attractive, his sort aren’t, as a rule, but I’ve got an affection for him. Whatever’s happened ought to be private for him.”

  “But he won’t take it in, will he? All the ballyhoo, if there is any ballyhoo? He may even vaguely enjoy it.”

  “I don’t want him to. All right,” Jenny said crossly. “I’m being bloody-minded. Forget it. P’raps it won’t happen.”

  “I think you may depend upon it,” Patrick rejoined. “It will.”

  And, in the event, he turned out to be right.

  WHAT’S THE ANSWER?

  Do You Believe in Fairies?

  Wally Trehern does. Small boy of Portcarrow Island had crop of warts that made life a misery.

  Other Kids Shunned Him Because of His Disfigurement

  So Wally washed his hands in the Pixie Falls, and — you’ve guessed it.

  This is what they looked like before…

  And here they are now …

  Wally, seen above with parents, by Pixie Falls, says mysterious Green Lady “told me to wash them off.”

  Parents say no other treatment given.

  Miss Elspeth Cost (inset) cured of chronic asthma?

  Local doctor declines comment.

  (Full story on Page 9)

  Dr. Mayne read the full story, gave an ambiguous ejaculation and started on his morning round.

  The Convalescent Home was a very small one: six single rooms for patients, and living quarters for two nurses and for Dr. Mayne, who was a widower. A verandah at the back of the house looked across a large garden and an adjacent field towards the sea and the Island.

  At present he had four patients, all convalescent. One of them, an elderly lady, was already up and taking the air on the verandah. He noticed that she, like the others, had been reading the Sun.

  “Well, Mrs. Thorpe,” he said, bending over her, “this is a step forward isn’t it? If you go on behaving nicely we’ll soon have you taking that little drive.”

  Mrs. Thorpe wanly smiled and nodded. “So unspoiled,” she said, waving a hand at the prospect. “Not many places left like it. No horrid trippers.”

  He sat down beside her, laid his fingers on her pulse and looked at his watch. “This is becoming pure routine,” he said cheerfully.

  It was obvious that Mrs. Thorpe had a great deal more to say. She scarcely waited for him to snap his watch shut before she began,

  “Dr. Mayne, have you seen the Sun?”

  “Very clearly. We’re in for a lovely day.”

  She made a little dab at him. “Don’t be provoking! You know what I mean. The paper. Our news! The Island?

  “Oh, that. Yes, I saw that.”

  “Now, what do you think? Candidly. Do tell me.”

  He answered her as he had answered Patrick Ferrier. One heard of such cases. Medically there could be no comment.

  “But you don’t pooh-pooh?”

  No, no. He didn’t altogether do that. And now he really must…

  As he moved away she said thoughtfully: “My little nephew is dreadfully afflicted. They are such an eyesore, aren’t they? And infectious, it’s thought. One can’t help wondering…”

  His other patients were full of the news. One of them had a first cousin who suffered abominably from chronic asthma.

  Miss Cost read it over and over again: especially the bit on Page 9 where it said what a martyr she’d been and how she had perfect faith in the waters. She didn’t remember calling them “Pixie Falls,” but, now she came to think of it, the name was pretty. She wished she’d had time to do her hair before Mr. Joyce’s friend had taken the snapshot, and it would have been nicer if her mouth had been quite shut. But still…At low tide she strolled over to the news agents’ shop in the village. All their copies of yesterday’s Sun, unfortunately, had been sold. There had been quite a demand. Miss Cost looked with a professional and disparaging eye at the shop. Nothing really, at all, in the way of souvenirs, and the postcards were very limited. She bought three of the Island and covered the available space with fine writing. Her friends with arithritic hands would be interested.

  Major Barrimore finished his coffee and replaced the cup with a sightly unsteady hand. His immaculately shaven jaws wore their morning purple tinge and his eyes were dull.

  “Hasn’t been long about it,” he said, referring to his copy of the Sun. “Don’t waste much time, these paper wallahs. Only happened last Thursday.”

  He looked at his wife. “Well. Haven’t you read it?” he asked.

  “I looked at it.”

  “I don’t know what’s got into you. Why’ve you got your knife into this reporter chap? Decent enough fellah of his type.”

  “Yes, I expect he is.”

  “It’ll create a lot of interest. Enormous circulation. Bring people in, I wouldn’t wonder. Quite a bit about the Boy-and-Lobster.” She didn’t answer and he suddenly shouted at her. “Damn it, Margaret, you’re about as cheerful as a dead fish. You’d think there’d been a death on the Island instead of a cure! God knows we could do with some extra custom.”

  “I’m sorry, Keith. I know.”

  He turned his paper to the racing page. “Where’s that son of yours?” he said presently.

  “He and Jenny Williams were going to row round as usual to South Bay.”

  “Getting very thick, aren’t they?”

  “Not alarmingly so. She’s a dear girl.”

  “If you can stomach the accent.”

  “Hers is not so very strong, do you think?”

  “P’raps not. She’s a fine strapping filly, I will say. Damn’ good legs. Oughtn’t he to be swotting?”

  “He’s working quite hard, really.”

  “Of course you’d say so.” He lit a cigarette and returned to the racing notes. The telephone rang.

  “I will,” said Mrs. Barrimore.

  She picked up the receiver. “Boy-and-Lobster. Yes. Yes.” There was a loud crackle and she said to her husband, “It’s from London.”

  “If it’s Mrs. Winterbottom,” said her husband, referring to his suzeraine, “I’m out.”

  After a moment or two the call came through. “Yes,” she said. “Certainly. Yes, we can. A single room? May I have your name?”

  There were two other long-distance calls during the day. By the end of the week, the five rooms at the Boy-and-Lobster were all engaged.

  A correspondence had got under way in the Sun on the subject of faith healing and unexplained cures.

  By Friday, there were inquiries from a regular television programme. The school holidays had started by then, and Jenny Williams had come to the end of her job at Portcarrow.

  While the Barrimores were engaged in their breakfast discussion, the Rector and Mrs. Carstairs were occupied with the same topic. The tone of their conversation was, however, dissimilar.

  “There!” Mr. Carstairs said, smacking the Sun as it lay by his plate. “There! Wretched creature! He’s gone and done it!”

  “Yes, so he has: I saw. Now for the butcher,” said Mrs. Carstairs, who was worrying through the monthly bills.

  “No, Dulcie, but it’s too much. I’m furious,” said the Rector uncertainly. “I’m livid.”

  “Are you? Why? Because of the vulgarity or what? And what,” Mrs. Carstairs continued, “does Nankivell mean by saying two lbs bst fil when we never order fillet, let alone best? Stewing steak at the utmost. He must be mad.”

  “It’s not only the vulgarity, Dulcie. It’s the effect on the village.”

  “What effect?… And threepence ha’penny is twelve, two, four. It doesn’t even begin to make sense.”

  “It’s not that I don’t rejoice for the boy. I do, I rejoice like anything and remember it in my prayers.”

  “Of course you do,” said his wife.

  “That’s my whole point. One should be grateful and not jump to conclusions.”

  “I shall speak to Nankivell. What conclusions?”

  “Some ass,” said the Rector, “has put it into the Treherns’
heads that — oh, dear! — that there’s been a — a—”

  “Miracle?”

  “Don’t! One shouldn’t! It’s not a word to be bandied about. And they are bandying it about, those two.”

  “So much for Nankivell and his rawhide,” she said turning to the next bill. “No, dear, I’m sure it’s not. All the same it is rather wonderful.”

  “So are all recoveries. Witnesses to God’s mercy, my love.”

  “Were the Treherns drunk?”

  “Yes,” he said shortly. “As owls. The Romans know how to deal with these things. Much more talk and we’ll be in need of a devil’s advocate.”

  “Don’t fuss,” said Mrs. Carstairs, “I expect it’ll all simmer down.”

  “I hae me doots,” her husband darkly rejoined. “Yes, Dulcie. I hae me doots.”

  “How big is the Island?” Jenny asked, turning on her face to brown her back.

  “Teeny. Now more than fourteen acres, I should think.”

  “Who does it belong to?”

  “To an elderly lady called Mrs. Fanny Winterbottom, who is the widow of a hairpin king. He changed over to bobby pins at the right moment and became a millionaire. The Island might be called his Folly.”

  “Pub and all?”

  “Pub and all. My mother,” Patrick said, “has shares in the pub. She took it on when my stepfather was axed out of the army.”

  “If s heaven, the Island. Not too pretty. This bay might almost be at home. I’ll be sorry to go.”

  “Do you get homesick, Jenny?”

  “A bit. Sometimes. I miss the mountains and the way people think. All the same, it’s fun trying to get tuned in. At first, I was all prickles and antipodean prejudice, bellyaching away about living conditions like the Treherns’ cottage and hidebound attitudes and so on. But now…” She squinted up at Patrick. “It’s funny,” she said, “but I resent that rotten thing in the paper much more than you do, and it’s not only because of Wally. It’s a kind of insult to the Island.”

  “It made me quite cross, too, you know.”