Dead Water ra-23

by Ngaio Marsh

  “I must say,” Mr. Nankivell interrupted, “and say it I do and will — I did not anticipate, when called upon at a busy and inconvenient time, to be axed to clear myself of participation in a damn fool childish prank. Further, I take leave to put on record that I look upon the demand made upon me as one unbecoming to the office I have the honour to hold. Having said which, I’ll thank you to make a note of it, Alf Coombe. I state further that during the first part of the period in question I was in the Mayoral Chambers at the execution of my duties, from which I moved to the back office of my butchery, attending to my own business, which is more than can be said of persons who shall, for purposes of this discussion, remain nameless.”

  Mr. Coombe made a short note: “In his butchery,” and turned to the Rector.

  “I’ve been trying to think,” said Mr. Carstairs. “I’m not at all good at times and places, I fear, and it’s been a busy day. Let me see. Oh, yes! I visited the cottages this morning. Actually, the main object was to call on that wretched Mrs. Trehern — things have been very much amiss, there, it’s a sad case — and one or two other folk on the Island. I don’t know when I walked back, but I believe I was late for lunch. My wife, I daresay, could tell you.”

  “Did you come up to the Boy-and-Lobster, sir?”

  “Did I? Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, Miss Pride, I intended to call on you, to see if you were quite recovered, but the main entrance was crowded and I saw that luncheon had begun so — I didn’t, you see.”

  “You went home, sir?” asked the Superintendent.

  “Yes. Late.”

  Mr. Coombe shut his notebook. “All right,” he said, “so far as it goes. Now, in the normal course of procedure these statements would be followed up; and follow them up I shall, which takes time. So unless anyone has anything further to add — Yes, Miss Pride?”

  “I merely observe, Superintendent, that I shall be glad to support you in your investigations. And to that end,” she added, in the absence of any sign of enthusiasm, “I shall announce at once that I have arrived at my own conclusion. There is, I consider, only one individual to whom these outrages may be attributed, and that person, I firmly believe, is—”

  The telephone rang.

  It was at Miss Emily’s elbow. She said, “T’ch!” and picked it up. “Yes? Are you there?” she asked.

  A treble voice, audible to everybody in the room, asked:

  “Be that Miss Emily Pride?”

  “Speaking.”

  “You leave us be, Miss Emily Pride, or the Lady will get you. You’ll be dead as a stone, Miss Emily Pride.”

  “Who is that?”

  The telephone clicked and began to give the dial tone.

  Patrick said: “That was a child’s voice. It must have been—”

  “No,” said Miss Emily. “I think not. I have an acute ear for phonetics. It was an assumed accent. And it was not a child. It was the voice of Miss Elspeth Cost.”

  IV

  Fiasco

  The persons taking part in the Festival celebrations assembled at four o’clock on Saturday at the foot of the hill in Fisherman’s Bay. There were a company of little girls wearing green cheesecloth dresses and stars in their hair, about a dozen larger girls, similarly attired, and a few small boys in green cotton smocks. In the rear of this collection came Wally Trehern, also smocked, with his hair sleeked down and a bewildered expression on his face. His hands were noticeably clean. The Mayor and City Councillors and other local dignitaries were yet to come.

  Miss Cost marshalled and re-marshalled her troupe. She wore a mobcap and handwoven cloak of the prevailing green, over a full skirt, and an emerald velveteen bodice. The afternoon was sultry and her nose and eyebrows glittered. She carried a camera and a sheaf of papers clipped to a board and exhibited signs of emotional stress.

  Thunderclouds were massed in the northwest and everybody eyed them with distrust. Not a breath of air stirred. An ominous hot stillness prevailed.

  The enclosure was packed. An overflow of spectators had climbed the hill above the spring, and sat or lay in the blinding heat. The route, from the foreshore to the spring—“Wally’s Way,” in the programme — was lined with spectators. Seats in the enclosure were provided for the ailing and for the official party and other persons of importance. These included the Barrimores, Jenny, Dr. Mayne, and Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs. The Rector, preserving his detachment, had declined any official part in the ceremony. “Though I must say,” he confided to his wife, “it sounds innocuous enough, in a way, from what I’ve heard. I’m afraid Miss Cost’s verse is really pretty dreadful, poor dear.”

  “Tell me the moment you see Miss Pride.”

  “I can’t help hoping that in the event we shan’t see her at all.”

  “I suppose that chair by Mrs. Barrimore is reserved for her.”

  “Let us hope she occupies it and doesn’t return to her original plan. She would look too out of place on the ledge.”

  “It would put Wally off his poetry, I have no doubt,” Mrs. Carstairs agreeed.

  “Not only that, but I understand they use it in their pageant or whatever it is.”

  “Then it would be very inconsiderate if she insisted.”

  “Mind you, Dulcie, I maintain that in principle she is right.”

  “Yes, dear, I’m sure you do,” said Mrs. Carstairs. She gave a little sigh and may have been thinking that things had been a good deal easier over the last two years.

  Patrick said to Jenny: “Did you see her before we left?”

  “Yes. She’s agreed not to sit on the ledge.”

  “How did you do it, you clever girl?”

  “I told her I thought it would be unbecoming, and that the children would giggle and the gentlemen look at her legs.”

  “Do you suppose she’ll cut up rough at any stage?”

  “I’ve no idea.…Listen.…”

  “What?”

  “Wasn’t that thunder?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Look, there’s Coombe coming in now. Who’s that with him, I wonder — the tall chap?”

  “Jolly good-looking,” said Jenny.

  “Jolly good tailor, anyway.”

  “P’raps it’s one of Miss Pride’s smart chums. She’s got masses, it appears, nearly all diplomats of the first water, she told me.”

  “There’s the band. It must have been the big drum you heard, not thunder.”

  “It was thunder,” said Jenny.

  The band debouched from the village towards the jetty. It was a small combination, entirely dominated by the drum. Behind it walked Mr. Nankivell in full regalia, supported by his Council. They embarked in the large motor launch, manned by Trehern, who was got up as a sort of wherryman. The band filled a small fleet of attendant dinghies and continued to play with determination, if a trifle wildly, throughout the short passage. Miss Cost could be seen darting up and down the length of her procession, taking photographs.

  A union of the two elements was achieved, and soon they ascended the hill. The children sang. The band attempted a diminuendo.

  Through the night of doubt and sorrow…

  “Now why that!” the Rector exclaimed. “You see? No, Dulcie, it’s too much!”

  “Look, dear. Do look. There she is.”

  Miss Emily had approached by the path from the hotel. She inserted her disk, entered the enclosure, and advanced to her seat just before the procession arrived. Major Barrimore stood up to welcome her, looking furious.

  A double gate, normally locked and used to admit only stretcher cases, was now opened. The procession marched in and disposed itself in a predestined order.

  It is doubtful if any of the official party paid much attention to the Mayor’s inaugural address. They were all too busy furtively keeping an eye on Miss Emily. She sat bolt upright with her hands clasped over the handle of her furled umbrella, and she stared at Mr. Nankivell.

  “…And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, I have great pleasure in declaring the First — th
e First Festival of Portcarrow Island Springs, O-PEN.”

  He sat down to a patter of applause, through which Miss Cost advanced to a position near the little waterfall. Wally stood behind her. A microphone had been set up, but she neglected to use it consistently. When she did speak into it, it seized upon her words, and loud-speakers savagely flung them upon the heavy air. When she turned aside she changed into a voiceless puppet that opened and shut its mouth, cast up its eyes and waved its arms. The Mayor, nodding and smiling, pointed repeatedly to the microphone, but Miss Cost did not observe him.

  “One wonderful afternoon… little boy…so sorrowful… who can tell?… ancient wisdom… running water…”

  Evidently she was approaching her climax, but all was lost until she turned sharply, and the loud-speakers bellowed: “All gone.”

  The words reverberated about the hillside in a very desolate fashion: All gone…All gone.… Miss Cost was bowing and ineffably smiling. She added something that was completely inaudible and, with an arch look at her audience, turned to Wally — and found he had vanished. He was extricated from the rear of the choir, where he had retired to sit down on some seepage from the spring.

  Miss Cost led him forward. The back of his smock was slimy and green. Unfortunately, she did not place him before the microphone, but, for the first time, herself directly confronted it.

  “Now, Wally, now,” roared the loud-speakers. “ ‘Once upon a Summer’s day…Go on, dear.”

  At first, little of Wally’s recitation was lost, since he required constant prompting which Miss Cost, unwittingly, fed into the microphone. At the second stanza, however, the Mayor advanced upon her and in his turn was broadcast. “Shift over,” the loud-speakers advised. “Come ’ere, you silly lad.” The Mayor, quick to perceive his error, backed away.

  “Oh, dear!” cried Miss Cost, publicly, and effected the change.

  “Got it right this time!” said Major Barrimore loudly, and gave a snort of laughter. Miss Cost evidently heard him. She threw him a furious glance. Wally’s recitation continued.

  Be not froightened sayed the Loidy…

  “This is killing me,” Jenny whispered.

  “Shut up, for pity’s sake. Oh, God!” Patrick muttered. “What now? What’s he saying now?”

  “Shut up.”

  Mrs. Carstairs turned and shook her head at them. They moaned together in agony.

  Wally came to an unexpected stop, and walked away.

  The audience, relieved, burst into sustained applause.

  Miss Emily remained immovable.

  The choir, accompanied by tentative grunts from the band, began to sing. Wally, recaptured, squatted beside the waterfall, looking cheerfully about him, and pushed his hands under the stream.

  “This will be the inexplicable dumb show,” Patrick said.

  “Look! Oh, look!”

  From behind a boulder above the spring emerged a large girl dressed in green cheesecloth. She was a blonde, and the most had been made of her hair, which was crowned by a tinsel star. From her left hand depended a long string of glittering beads, symbolic, clearly, of Water. Her right hand was raised. The gesture, inappropriately, was accompanied by a really formidable roll of thunder. The sun was now overcast, and the heavens were black.

  Wally looked up at the newcomer, gave one of his strange cries, pointed to her and laughed uproariously. The choir sang:

  Thus, the Magic Spell was wroughten

  Thus the little lad was healed…

  The Green Lady executed some weaving movements with her left hand. A sudden clap of thunder startled her. The string of beads fell on the ledge below. She looked helplessly after it and continued her pantomime. The choir sang on and began a concerted movement. They flanked the spring and formed up in set groups, kneeling and pointing out the green girl to the audience. Miss Cost propelled Wally towards the ledge. It was the denouement.

  The applause had scarcely died away when Miss Emily rose and approached the microphone.

  “Mr. Mayor,” she began, “ladies and gentlemen: I wish to protest…”

  Major Baltimore had risen to his feet with an oath. At the same moment there was a blinding flash of lightning, followed immediately by a stentorian thunderclap, a deluge of rain and a shout of uncontrollable laughter from Dr. Mayne.

  The stampede was immediate. Crowds poured out of the enclosure and down to the foreshore. The launch filled. There were clamorous shouts for dinghies. The younger element ran round the point of the bay, making for the hotel causeway. Most of the Boy-and-Lobster contingent took the path that led directly to the hotel. It was a holocaust. Miss Cost, wildly at large among her drenched and disorganized troupe, was heard to scream: “It’s a judgment!” Unmindful, they swept past her. She was deserted. Her velvet bodice leaked green dye into her blouse. Green rivulets ran down her arms. Her hair was plastered like seaweed against her face. The text of the play fell from her hand, and lay, disregarded, in the mud.

  Mrs. Barrimore now held a brief exchange with Miss Emily, who had opened her umbrella and, from beneath it, was steadily regarding Superintendent Coombe’s late companion. She waved her hostess aside. Mrs. Barrimore took to her heels, followed by her husband and Dr. Mayne. She outdistanced them, fled the enclosure, ran like a gazelle along the path to the Boy-and-Lobster, and disappeared.

  Major Barrimore and Dr. Mayne, who was still laughing, made after her. Before they could reach the enclosure gates they were confronted by Miss Cost.

  It was an ugly and grotesque encounter. She pushed her wet face towards them and her jaw trembled as if she had a rigour. She looked from one to the other. “You,” she stuttered. “You! Both of you. Animals. Now wait! Now, wait and see!”

  Major Barrimore said: “Look here, Elspeth,” and Dr. Mayne said: “My dear Miss Cost!”

  She broke into uncertain laughter and mouthed at them.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Barrimore said. She whispered something, and he turned on his heel and left her. He was scarlet in the face.

  “Miss Cost,” Mayne said, “you’d better go home. You’re overwrought, and I’m sorry if I—”

  “You will be sorry,” she said. “All of you. Mark my words.”

  He hesitated for a moment. She made an uncouth and ridiculous gesture, and he, too, left her.

  Miss Emily was motionless under her umbrella. Miss Cost made for her, stumbling on the muddy slope.

  “Wicked, wicked woman,” Miss Cost said. “You will be punished.”

  “My poor creature—” Miss Emily began, but Miss Cost screamed at her, turned aside and floundered toward the gates. She passed through them into Wally’s Way, and after a precipitous descent was lost among those of her adherents who were clustered around the jetty.

  Jenny and Patrick had set off after the others, but now, on looking back, saw Miss Emily alone in the downpour. At Jenny’s suggestion they returned, and she approached Miss Emily.

  “Miss Pride,” she said, “let’s go back. Come with us. You’ll be drenched.”

  “Thank you, dear child, I have my umbrella,” said Miss Emily. She was still staring across the spring at Superintendent Coombe’s late companion, who now advanced towards her. “Please don’t wait for me,” she said. “I have an escort.”

  Jenny hesitated. “I insist,” said Miss Emily impatiently. Patrick took Jenny’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “We’re not needed.” They hunched their shoulders and ran like hares.

  Alleyn crossed the enclosure. “Good evening, Miss Emily,” he said. “Shall we go?”

  On the way to the Boy-and-Lobster he held her umbrella over her. “I am sufficiently protected by my waterproof and overshoes,” she said. “The forecast was for rain. Pray, let us share the umbrella.” She took his arm. The footpath was now deserted.

  They hardly spoke. Rain drummed down on the umbrella in a pentateuchal deluge. Earth and sea were loud with its onslaught and the hillside smelled of devouring grass and soil. Miss Emily, in her galoshes, was insecure. Al
leyn closed his hand round her thin old arm and was filled with a sort of infuriated pity.

  The entrance to the hotel was deserted except for the man on duty, who stared curiously at them. Miss Emily drew her key from her reticule. “I prefer,” she said loudly, “to retain possession. Will you come up? I have a so-called suite.”

  She left Alleyn in her sitting-room with injunctions to turn on the heater and dry himself while she retired to change.

  He looked about him. The plastic Green Lady, still wearing its infamous legend round its neck, had been placed defiantly in a glass-fronted wall cupboard. He looked closely at it without touching it. A stack of London telephone directories stood near the instrument on the writing desk.

  Miss Emily called from her bedroom: “You will find cognac and soda-water in the small cupboard. Help yourself, I beg you. And me: cognac, simplement.” She sounded quite gay. Alleyn poured two double brandies.

  “Don’t wait for me,” Miss Emily shouted. “Drink at once. Remove and dry your shoes. Have you engaged the heater?”

  He did everything she commanded and felt that he was putting himself at a disadvantage.

  When Miss Emily reappeared, having changed her skirt, shoes and stockings, she looked both complacent and stimulated. It occurred to Alleyn that she got a sort of respectable kick out of entertaining him so dashingly in her suite. She sat in an armchair and juantily accepted her brandy.

  “First of all, you must understand that I am extremely angry with you,” she said. She was almost coquettish. “Ah-ah-ah! And now you have the self-conscious air?” She shook her finger at him.

  “I may look sheepish,” he rejoined, “but I assure you I’m in a devil of a temper. You are outrageous, Miss Emily.”

  “When did you leave and how is your dear Troy?”

  “At seven o’clock this morning and my dear Troy is furious.”