It was distinctly odd. But the behaviour of the placid Mrs Nurse was odder. ‘Queer?’ she said faintly, and fell back in her chair with closed eyes. A moment later they had opened again, but the pupils were upturned and only the whites were showing. ‘Queer?’ she said very faintly, and her body jerked itself upright. ‘Near,’ she said in a new voice. ‘It is very near.’ Her voice deepened again and took on a foreign intonation. ‘The Emperor says it is near. He says Beware. No, he says Prepare. The Emperor wants you all to know that it is clear. He understands it all. The Emperor understands everything. We understand everything here. The Emperor advises prayer. It is very near now.’ There was a long sigh. ‘I feel all hollow,’ Mrs Nurse said in her ordinary voice. ‘I feel all hollow,’ she said piteously.
Appleby, who had started on his last rasher, turned again to Wine. ‘I expect you know the jargon of this too, Mr Wine?’
‘No doubt she will come to herself presently.’ Wine uttered the words non-committally and then took refuge behind a coffee cup.
‘Would you call it a trance?’ asked Hudspith. ‘Uncle Len once knew a woman–’
Like an erupting geyser Miss Mood went off into high-pitched laughter. Peal after peal of it rang horridly through the saloon. And then it ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Breathing rapidly, Miss Mood sat rigid and with a dilated eye.
‘Now there’s another strange thing,’ Appleby was almost owlishly placid. ‘Talking of your Uncle Len, Ron, my Uncle Sid had a cowgirl just like that.’ And Appleby nodded towards Miss Mood.
‘A cowgirl?’ said Wine. He spoke, Appleby thought, a trifle wildly, as if the situation were becoming too much for him. There would come a point at which you could bowl over Wine.
‘A cowgirl. And when she went like that’ – and again Appleby nodded at Miss Mood – ‘you could do this.’ And Appleby’s hand went to the lapel of his coat and produced a pin. ‘This,’ he repeated – and leaning across the table he pushed the pin firmly into Miss Mood’s arm. ‘Ron, have you got another?’ He felt in his pocket. ‘Or if one has a penknife–’
‘Really,’ said Wine, ‘I don’t know that you ought. Clearly Miss Mood is in a condition of hysterical anaesthesia. But you must consider–’
‘There!’ interrupted Appleby admiringly. ‘There’s the right jargon again. But does it occur to you, Mr Wine, that for a small boat like this–’
‘Just look at her hand, now,’ said Hudspith, pointing at Miss Mood. ‘What would she be doing that for?’ Miss Mood’s right hand was moving oddly on the tablecloth.
‘I think if I had a pencil’ – Appleby felt in his pockets – ‘and a piece of paper she would produce automatic writing – something like that. Mr Wine, you agree?’
‘No doubt,’ said Wine.
‘Well, as I was saying, isn’t it odd that on a small boat like this there should be–’
‘Where is the girl with the golden hair?’ said Mrs Nurse, beginning again. ‘Where is the girl with the golden hair? Where is the girl with the golden hair?’
Miss Mood, still rigid and still making scribbling movements, began to sob. There was a crackle of electricity from the fans and the atmosphere was permeated with a faint singeing smell.
‘Here is Mentor to speak to the girl with the golden hair. Hurry. Mentor says hurry. There are thwarting influences. Where is the girl–’
There was a tumble of steps on the staircase and Beaglehole, who must have slipped out some minutes before, blundered in. ‘That Italian!’ He addressed Wine in a despairing flurry. ‘She’s behaving just like this in the third-class saloon. Something to do with tambourines. And a table. Turning a table…’
A long reverberating crash drowned his words – a crash as if some Titan had banged a tambourine, as if the very table of the gods had been upset. Again and again the thunder rolled, and daylight flickered feebly between great flashes of lightning. Then there was a hiss of falling water. The curious atmospheric conditions that had led to so much eccentric behaviour on the part of the protégées of Mr Emery Wine were resolving themselves in a straightforward tropical storm.
‘I was saying,’ said Appleby, ‘that in a small ship like this one would hardly expect–’
‘Quite so,’ said Wine.
‘One would hardly expect to find so many birds of a feather. Unless, of course, they were travelling together to a conference or a clinic or something of that sort. But we don’t know that Mrs Nurse and Miss Mood–’
‘Exactly,’ said Wine. ‘It is curious, no doubt.’
‘We don’t know that Mrs Nurse and Miss Mood believe they have anything to do with each other. And now it seems there’s a similar sort of woman in the third class. It makes one think–’
Wine took him by the arm. ‘My dear Mr Appleby,’ he said, ‘you and I must go on deck and get a breath of air…’
7
Rain gurgled in the scuppers and drummed on the sun-deck overhead; beyond, it fell in torrents from a sky watery and still lit by a faint lightning; the South Atlantic Ocean looked terribly wet.
‘It must frankly appear,’ said Mr Wine, ‘that we are not what we seem.’
‘You mean Beaglehold and yourself?’
‘I mean Beaglehole and myself on the one part and Hudspith and yourself on the other part. The phrase is a trifle legal, but expresses the state of affairs very nicely. By the way, I must introduce you to Eusapia. She is quite charming. Dishonest, of course. But in pretty girls moral qualities are not so awfully relevant, are they?’ Wine smiled urbanely at Appleby. ‘But perhaps it is your friend whom I should introduce to Eusapia. I believe she would obliterate even Gladys from his mind.’
Appleby looked at Wine squarely. ‘I don’t know that our conversation can usefully take on this tone.’
Framed against a sheet of rain-streaked plate glass, Wine gave a faint and mocking bow. ‘I stand corrected. But scarcely in an idiom familiar to Uncle Sid and Uncle Len.’
‘Uncle Sid and Uncle Len are all nonsense.’ Appleby, thrown initially on the defensive, determined to make robust work of it.
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Wine was courteous. ‘They seemed to me very credible – and creditable – approximations. Perhaps Uncle Len’s bones were a bit steep – but then odd things no doubt do happen in those parts. May I offer you a cigarette?’
Appleby took a cigarette. ‘Has it occurred to you, Mr Wine, that it is a serious matter to hold yourself out as being upon a government mission in time of war when in fact your business is quite different?’
‘But we can’t all of us really go on war missions. And unless doing so ostensibly, you know, it’s now extraordinarily difficult to get about at all.’ Wine struck a match. ‘“Some to the wars, to try their fortune there, Some to discover islands far away.” The words are Shakespeare’s. Perhaps they will elevate what you call the tone of our discussion. And incidentally – isn’t it a discussion between the pot and the kettle? Do you and Hudspith really know much about wool?’
‘Possibly not. But at least we are travelling on fairly significant business. Otherwise, and at the present time, I would rather be at home.’
Wine shook his head. ‘Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. I am inclined to recommend the islands far away. Indeed, I hope to persuade you to accompany me there. Why not? It may be we shall find the Happy Isles.’
‘And meet the great Achilles whom we knew?’ The words were idle, but Appleby’s brain was working quickly. Some unknown factor, some odd misunderstanding, must surely lurk in Wine’s proposal.
‘Conceivably even that. Achilles and Hector too.’
‘And other shades – like Mrs Nurse’s Mentor and the Emperor?’
‘Ah.’ Wine frowned considerably, so that Appleby wondered if he was thinking up a little more Shakespeare. ‘Now we come to business, don’t we? That the storm should affect all these queerly organized people was not, I suppose, so very odd. I confess to having felt unsettled myself. But both Mrs Nurse and Miss Mood in trances simultan
eously, and then word of Eusapia misbehaving too, really was a bit overpowering. As I say, it may be admitted that we are not altogether what we seem.’
‘Nor are our relations what they appear to be. Neither Mrs Nurse nor Miss Mood shows any consciousness of standing in a special relationship either to each other or to yourself. And yet there can now be no doubt that, together with the Italian girl, they form a sort of convoy under the escort of you and your secretary. Perhaps they don’t know about you.’
Wine nodded. ‘Well, as a matter of fact they don’t.’
‘Such concealment is rather strange, to say the least. You have employed agents or decoys to send them travelling where you want them.’
‘Just that, Mr Appleby. And of course there was Lucy Rideout too. I must admit that I was very disturbed by your friend’s ostensible experience last night– very perturbed indeed. In fact it is only in the last few minutes that I have seen the thing as being an ingenious hoax. And I am disposed to think that you know about the calculating horse from Harrogate. Of what else, I wonder? Have you heard of Hannah Metcalfe? She’s a witch. Indeed she is.’ And Wine smiled his unruffled smile.
The thing had the speed of mechanized encounter. And the man was not confessing at random; he had an object in view; perhaps it was that of rushing one off one’s feet. And – telling all this – what did he know or think he knew? Appleby put out a feeler. ‘You think Hudspith never really met that Lucy Rideout?’
‘I don’t say that at all. I do say that last night he was very skilfully fooling us.’
Appleby threw away his cigarette and took a quick glance at his companion. There was something in the man’s tone as he made this last statement – some quality of combined hesitation and emphasis – which was obscurely significant. ‘In fact, Mr Wine, you think my friend Hudspith one big hoax? He isn’t subject to abnormal experiences at all?’
‘I think nothing of the sort. Otherwise–’ Wine broke off and hauled a couple of wicker chairs across the little shelter deck. ‘Shall we sit down? And perhaps go back to your own part in the affair? After all, turn about is only reasonable. And I think it is admitted that your concerns are not really with sheep – except perhaps in a metaphorical sense.’ Wine smiled again at Appleby – and for the first time Appleby thought it an ugly smile. It was ugly and also puzzling – puzzling because based on some misapprehension as yet unrevealed. Or was there misapprehension? Was Wine rather feigning a misapprehension? To arrive at a right answer to this might be vital. And perhaps the best thing would be to take a bold step.
‘Perhaps, Mr Wine, you take Hudspith and myself for plain-clothes policemen?’
‘Ah,’ said Wine.
‘In which case you wouldn’t be far wrong.’
‘Ah,’ said Wine again. And then suddenly he sat back in his chair and laughed. His laugh was genuine and of the kind that attends the discovery of intellectual absurdity. ‘My dear fellow, may we not be a little more frank with each other than that?’ Suddenly he sat forward again and touched Appleby lightly on the arm.
‘Listen,’ he said.
Part Three
Happy Islands
1
PLOP … PLOP … The waters bubbled evilly and the heavy sound was indefinably sinister – but each time it was followed by a delighted clapping of hands. ‘Another one!’ the girl cried out. ‘And another one! Oh, look at its nose – and its eyes! Mr Wine says they have little birds that pick their teeth for them. Oh, look at its great tail!’
The waters were dark and oily round the steamer, and unmoving except where the great creatures dropped and splashed. ‘Another one!’ cried the girl. And the man at the wheel – who stood all day at the wheel, aloof and dreaming – the man at the wheel laughed at her suddenly and richly. ‘Lagarto,’ he said; ‘lagarto, señorita.’ He swung the wheel, and the whole crazy little vessel creaked; swung it again so that one of the paddles insanely clattered; gave a final tug and they were round another bend with the interminable river stretching before them. For some reason they hugged the south bank, low, steamy and densely wooded. On the north the horizon was nearly always water. They were now two thousand miles upstream, but the mind revolted at the knowledge. PLOP… ‘And another one!’ cried Lucy in ecstasy. Her clapping raised a flock of pink and yellow parrots from the tree-ferns.
Reclined under an awning in the stern, Mr Emery Wine benevolently smiled. Then a thought seemed to strike him. ‘Lucy,’ he called out, ‘have you written to your mama?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Wine.’
‘That’s right, my dear.’ Wine’s glance turned meditatively on Hudspith, who was gloomily scratching his jaw. ‘She writes to her mother every week – one of her writes to her mother – and I try to see that the letter catches the Clipper. Mrs Rideout is a very good sort of woman. Perhaps you know her?’
Hudspith frowned. One who had romanced so freely about the virginal young person in the prow might well find this question embarrassing. It was true that since coming on board Mr Wine’s steamer sundry mendacious explanations had been given. Nevertheless Lucy remained somebody whom Hudspith could not quite look in the eye.
‘Of course,’ said Wine, ‘I had to act a little high-handedly in getting her away. After all your lot might very well have got in first if I had at all stood upon forms. Competition does make one a little unscrupulous at times. But now I believe that Mrs Rideout and I understand each other very well. It was one of the things which amused me when Appleby made his little joke about being a plain-clothes policeman. I reflected that there was really very little the police could get me on.’
‘There’s the horse,’ said Appleby.
Wine laughed gaily. ‘I stole the horse. But whoever heard of a man being convicted of absconding to South America with a broken-down cab-horse? The thing would fall to pieces as an evident absurdity. No; if you were a policeman – and if Hudspith here were another – I think you would find it difficult to nail me.’ He pulled at a soft drink. ‘Do you know, Hudspith, I sometimes think that you’re rather like a policeman? But then at one time I thought you looked quite the Cobdogla type. It’s never wise to let appearances count. Take Radbone, now. What would you make of him? I mean judging by the outward man?’
‘We’ve never met him,’ Appleby said.
Wine sighed. ‘Really, my dear fellows, how absurd you sometimes are. Radbone employs you to keep an eye on me – and I must say I think it’s carrying a healthy scientific rivalry rather far – and then when you’re detected you turn uncommonly coy… Lucy, would you care for a glass of lemonade?’
‘Oh, yes, please, Mr Wine.’
‘But my point is that Radbone is a dull-looking man who is really uncommonly able. I don’t mind confessing that at one time I feared he would get hold of the majority of the material. It’s scarce, you know.’ Wine lowered his voice. ‘Take Lucy there. I doubt if there are a couple of others like that living. Or take Mrs Nurse. One can find any number of Eusapias. But a first-class non-physical medium crops up only once in a generation.’ Wine rubbed his hands together softly. ‘First-class laboratory and clinical material, gentlemen – first-class material. And I think I have your lot beaten now. I don’t think Radbone can reply. Which is why I’m asking you to come and have a look. You can go back and tell him about it.’ Wine laughed with high good humour. ‘I’m really most obliged to you for coming. It’s a devilish long way there – and back.’
‘We think it will be very interesting,’ Appleby said.
‘I really think you will find it so. Jorge’ – and Wine turned to a servant – ‘you had better fetch Miss Rideout a rug; the air is becoming a little chill… I think you will find it interesting. The Encyclopaedia Britannica will tell you that nowhere in the world does there exist a properly equipped laboratory solely for the purposes of psychical research. You will soon know better.’
‘And Lucy,’ Appleby said.
Wine frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She will soon know too. But why? I me
an that it’s difficult to see just how Lucy is orthodox psychical-research material. She represents a rare but fairly well-understood morbid condition – that of one individual split up into several personalities. Once upon a time it was thought of as possession by demons, no doubt. But I should have imagined it to be pretty well off the slate of serious psychical inquiry. Lucy is psychopathology, not psychics.’
‘Ah,’ said Wine – and his glance travelled over the side of the steamer, rather as if he were seeking inspiration among the alligators. ‘But there is the historical point of view, you know. One must consider that.’ He nodded largely and vaguely in support of this obscure statement. ‘And then there are affiliations.’ His voice gained confidence. ‘When these strange voices speak through Mrs Nurse are we really in contact with an unseen world – or is Mrs Nurse momentarily in Lucy’s case? You see?’
Appleby saw. And he saw that the man knew his stuff. Whatever was Wine’s game – and it was surely not quite what he claimed – the fellow had the science of the thing adequately enough. Was he what he held himself out to be – and something more? Or was he not what he held himself out to be at all? It was conceivable that a man might devote himself to the organization of large-scale psychical research: many first-rate intelligences had become absorbed in it. It was conceivable that such a man might have a rival called Radbone, and might go to strange and even bizarre lengths to secure a sort of corner in the necessary human material. But was it conceivable that such a man should concentrate his activities thousands of miles up an appalling South American river? Was it conceivable that he should carry off to such a fastness a Harrogate cab-horse and a Bloomsbury mansion – to say nothing of two men whom he declared were spies of his rival, but as to whom there was a recurrent little joke about plain-clothes police? It was a long way up the river – and a long way back. Wine had taken them straight from the liner to his own craft. And now here they were… Appleby, who did not greatly mind tough spots if only they were odd enough, sat back and sipped comfortably at his Maté tea. To all these questions – and others – answers would appear.
The Daffodil Affair Page 11