Outrageous Fortune

by Patricia Wentworth

Tom Williams felt as if someone had hit him in the face with a wet towel. His jaw dropped, and his eyes bolted.

  “What?” he stammered.

  Nesta’s colour became the normal colour of an angry woman.

  “Be quiet, you fool!”

  “The Van Berg—”

  “Will you be quiet!”

  “But why?” said Tom Williams. “I mean why—I mean—”

  Nesta jumped into the car, sat down, and held him by the arm.

  “Because he’s out of his head. Now shut your mouth and listen to me, because I’m not going to say it twice! I went in, and I’d hardly got in when the sister was called to the telephone about this charabanc affair! She left me alone with him, and there he was, muttering to himself like she said he’d been doing all along. All they’d been able to make out was ‘Jimmy Riddell’—and we may thank the Lord for that. He kept on saying it, but whilst I was there he said a pack of other things too—and my Lord, what things!”

  Tom shifted away from her, moving round so that he could see her face. A chill of foreboding ran up his spine.

  “What sort of things?” he said uneasily.

  “Damned dangerous things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  Nesta slipped her arm through his and brought her mouth close to his ear.

  “He was talking about the emeralds.”

  Tom turned the colour of a tallow candle.

  “The—the emeralds?”

  “He kept right on about them—how he’d hidden them, and no one else knew where they were. I tell you he kept right on. I’ve got to get him away before anyone tumbles to what he’s talking about.”

  Tom leaned back against the side of the car and fixed an alarmed gaze upon his sister’s face. His eyes were of the same shape and colour as Nesta’s; he had the same straight nose and short dark brows, the same line of cheek and chin. But the driving force was lacking. He felt the steel teeth of the trap, and struggled ineffectually.

  “Look here, Nesta—”

  She mimicked him.

  “Look here, Tommy—”

  “’Tisn’t fair to go bringing me and Min into this. You go off on your own and marry a man we’ve never so much as set eyes on, and then all in a hurry you come along and tell me he’s a crook, and before I know where I am you’ve dragged me into this Van Berg affair, and there’s a man shot and emeralds worth no one knows what missing—and why should I be dragged into it when all I ever get was to lend him my motor-bike? Why, all I saw of him was to hand it over in the dark.”

  “Hold your tongue!” said Nesta sharply. “You won’t come to any harm if you do what you’re told. Now look here, Tommy, you’re not to get rattled. It’s not the first little job we’ve done together—is it?”

  “I’m going straight now I’m married—I told you I was.”

  She patted his arm.

  “So you shall. But we’ve got to get Jimmy away from here. Listen! He came to himself yesterday, and he didn’t know a thing—not his name, nor who he is, nor anything. When he’s awake that’s how he is; but when he’s asleep he talks all the time, and the sort of thing he talks about is the sort of thing that’ll land you and me in quod. Now you’ve got it straight—and now you know why I’m not leaving him here to talk. I want my share of those emeralds, and I bet you want yours. You can got straight afterwards as much as you like, but you’ve got to help me now.”

  “Nesta.”

  She gave his arm a squeeze.

  “Buck up, boy! We’ll pull it off. I’ll get you safely back to Min—don’t you worry. Now drive right in—and remember we come from Marley, and all you’ve got to do is to hold that wheel and keep your tongue between your teeth.”

  III

  “Miss Leigh?” said the day sister.

  “Oh yes,” said Caroline Leigh in that warm, dark voice of hers.

  Someone once said that Caroline’s voice was like damask roses. He was an infatuated young man who wrote poetry. Caroline laughed at him kindly but firmly, and all her friends chaffed her about her crimson voice. All the same there was something in it.

  “We’re up to our eyes,” said the day sister. But she did not say it as firmly as she might have done if Caroline had not been gazing at her with the sort of melting intensity which very few people had been known to resist.

  “I know,” said Caroline. “And I’m too sorry to bother you, but I’ve come about the message that was broadcast last night, because I think the man who was picked up may be my cousin, Jim Randal. And oh, please may I see him?”

  The day sister took the time to look at Miss Caroline Leigh. They were busy in the ward, but perhaps not quite so busy as she had said. The six charabanc cases were none of them desperately serious, and they had all been got to bed and had their injuries dealt with. She could spare a moment to look at Miss Leigh, who was a very easy person to look at—shining eyes and pretty hair, and a way with her. She was sorry to have to disappoint the eager creature. She didn’t look as if she was used to disappointment; she was more like a child that puts out its hands and expects to have them filled with flowers or sweets. “Life isn’t like that—well, she’ll soon find out,” said the day sister to herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she said aloud, “but I’m afraid it wasn’t your cousin who was here.”

  “Was?” Caroline was the picture of dismay. “Has he gone?”

  “The name was Riddell,” said the sister. “And his wife came and took him away.”

  “Oh, his wife?”

  “We let him go because she seemed so keen on it, and there was a charabanc smash we had to take in. Mrs Riddell’s one of those people who will have it their own way—at least that’s how she struck me. I’m sorry it wasn’t your cousin.”

  “Oh,” said Caroline—“so am I.”

  “He was on the Alice Arden?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, I hope he wasn’t!”

  “If you don’t know, I should go on hoping,” said the day sister.

  Caroline looked at her with shining eyes.

  “Yes, I can—can’t I? You see, I haven’t seen him for a long time—oh, not since I was about fifteen—and he’s been all over the world—he’s an engineer—and he came home in July, and I was in Scotland. Then he wrote from London, and I wrote back and said why not come and join us. And he said he would. And he was going to come by coastal steamer because he liked the sea.”

  “Then you don’t know that he was on the Alice Arden?”

  “No. But I’m afraid—because he hasn’t written—and when I didn’t hear, I came home—and then last night there was that S.O.S., and I thought—” She stopped and fixed pleading eyes on the sister. “You’re sure it wasn’t Jim?”

  The sister nodded.

  “I’m afraid so. Riddell was the name, though we couldn’t be sure about it at first—Jimmy Riddell—and his wife has taken him away.”

  “Oh—” said Caroline. “And he hadn’t any papers or anything of that sort?”

  “Not a thing—nothing at all, except the torn-off end of a letter.”

  “Oh, that’s something!” Caroline’s voice thrilled. “A bit of a letter? Oh please what was on it?”

  “Nothing but the signature,” said the day sister.

  “What? Your affectionate Uncle Alfred, or Aunt Maria, or Cousin Jemima?”

  The day sister felt a little disturbed; she did not know why.

  “No—it was only the name.”

  “What name?”

  “Just Caroline.”

  Caroline put both hands to her head as if she were afraid that her hat would blow off in some violent, intangible wind. She felt giddy with the rush of it. It slapped her face and sang in her ears. She held on to her bright brown curls and opened her eyes as far as they would go.

  “Caroline?” she said in her very deepest voice.

  “That’s all.”

  “It’s quite enough. My dear thing, it’s more than enough—because I am Caroline.”

  “Oh!�
�� said the sister. Then she said, “Caroline—” in an experimental sort of way. Then she stopped dead.

  “Caroline Leigh,” said Caroline with a warm rush of words. “I told the girl who let me in, but I expect she forgot—or perhaps she just didn’t like the name—lots of people don’t. But I am Caroline Leigh, and I wrote to him and signed it just like that—just Caroline. And what do you think of that?”

  The sister did not seem able to think at all. She took refuge behind Nesta Riddell.

  “Mrs Riddell said he was her husband.”

  “Is her name Caroline?”

  “I don’t know. I did ask her if she knew anyone by that name?”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said she might.”

  Caroline stopped holding her curls. The wind had blown past her and away. Her right hand took her left hand and pinched it hard.

  “She said he was her husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “She ought to know. What was he like? I ought to have asked that straight away—oughtn’t I? What was he like?”

  The day sister looked vague. Her mind didn’t work as quickly as that; it did not in fact work quickly at all, except on the accustomed lines of routine.

  Caroline’s eyes sparkled and implored. They were bright, as deep spring water is bright—bright, and brown, and eager.

  “Oh, what was he like? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “Well—” said the sister slowly, “it’s not so very easy to say, you know.”

  “His age, height, weight, colour, hair, eyes?” Caroline flung the words at her like a handful of pebbles.

  The day sister caught at the easiest question, “Well, his hair was what you’d call betwixt and between—nothing very special, you know.”

  “And his eyes?”

  “I never noticed them—he’d mostly got them shut.”

  Caroline picked up the rest of the pebbles and threw them one by one. She wanted to shake the sister, but she restrained herself.

  “Age?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t old.”

  “About thirty?”

  “He might have been.”

  “Height?”

  “Oh, just ordinary.”

  “Colouring?”

  “Well, he was sunburnt—we all noticed that.”

  “Where has she taken him?”

  “Marley,” said the sister. “It’s only eight miles from here, and if it will set your mind at rest—”

  “Yes—I must see him. I’ll go there. Thank you very much—I’ll go.” She turned, and turned back again. “You haven’t got that bit of my letter, I suppose?”

  This was going too far for the day sister.

  “I don’t see how it could be your letter,” she protested. “No—we left it in his pocket just where it was.”

  Caroline turned again. The signature would have told her everything at once. Now she’d got to wait and wait and wait. Eight miles, or eight hundred, were all the same when you wanted to know something at once—at once.

  “Miss Leigh—”

  Of course she hadn’t said good-bye. How frightfully, unforgivably rude. She flung round with an impulsive hand out.

  “Oh, please forgive me—you’ve been so kind!”

  But the sister was taking something out of her apron pocket.

  “That’s nothing. But if you’re seeing Mrs Riddell, perhaps you’ll give her this.” She held out a flimsy folded paper. “The nurse who let her in thinks she must have dropped it when she opened her bag. She’s just given it to me, and though I don’t suppose it’s important, still if you are seeing her—”

  “Yes, of course. What’s the address?”

  “She didn’t say—but Marley’s quite a small place.”

  “Good-bye, and thank you,” said Caroline.

  IV

  Tides rising and falling—waves rocking—and a long dream that rocked with them—rocking—rocking. He was swinging like a pendulum between the dream and some vague waking state—swing, swing—out and back again—out and back again. When he swung out, there was a sense of light and women’s voices; but when he swung back, there was the rise and fall of water, and black fog, and only one voice, that never stopped. He thought the voice was his own, and when he was in the dream he knew very well what it was saying; but when he swung towards the light the meaning drained away and was gone even before he lost the sound.

  Presently the swing of the pendulum became uneven. There was a long swing out into the light, and a short swing back into the fog. The voice dwindled, and its meaning went from him. The light beat strong and warm against his eyelids. They opened, and up went an arm in an instinctive movement to shield his eyes. There was sunlight in the room, slanting across the bed in which he lay. As he moved, someone else moved too. There was a soft hurry of footsteps. A blind came down with a click and the sun was shut out. His arm dropped.

  He rose on his elbow, and saw a girl turning back from the window, a very pretty girl with silver flaxen hair and big pale blue eyes. She wore a blue overall, and she was looking at him rather as a small child looks at a tiger in a cage.

  She said “Oh!” in a soft, breathless way and edged towards the door.

  He sat up, closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. The girl had almost reached the door.

  “I say—don’t go,” he said in an alarmed voice.

  The girl stood where she was.

  “I’ll tell Nesta,” she said.

  He repeated the name.

  “Who’s Nesta?”

  She looked really terrified when he said that.

  “Oh please—” she began.

  “I say, don’t look so frightened—I only want to know where I am.”

  This was apparently something that could be answered. A little modest pride displaced her timidity.

  “You’re at our place—Tom’s and mine. I’m Min.”

  “Oh—” He was expected to know who Tom was..… Tom and Min. He certainly didn’t, but it was obvious that he ought to.

  The girl said again, “I’ll tell Nesta,” and got as far as turning the handle of the door, when he stopped her.

  “No—do wait a moment. Can’t you tell me what’s happened? I don’t know—I—” His voice stopped dead. He didn’t know. What didn’t he know?

  He shut his eyes and tried to pierce the fog that filled his mind. He had had a dream about fog, and a dream about a voice. He had left the voice behind in the dream, but the fog had come with him. It filled his brain. He groped in it and found nothing.

  At the sound of the closing door he opened his eyes again. Min was gone, and where she had been standing there was now someone else—an older woman with dark hair and a high colour. She came across the room, sat down on the edge of his bed, and smiled a ready-made smile.

  “Well, Jimmy—so you’re awake?” she said.

  He felt an immediate prickle of irritation. Her eyes were too close together. Who was she? And what was she doing calling him Jimmy? He loathed being called Jimmy.

  “Well?” said Nesta Riddell in her hard bright voice. “You look pounds better. You’ve slept round the clock, you know. Are you hungry? You ought to be. Min’s getting you something.”

  He said, speaking slowly and with a sort of frowning intensity.

  “Why did you call me Jimmy?”

  Nesta Riddell stared.

  “Isn’t it your name?”

  The frown became a sheer straining effort to find an answer to that. And it beat him. He didn’t know—he didn’t know what his name was. He knew that he hated being called Jimmy. That stuck out like a corner in his mind, but he couldn’t get round it.

  “Look here,” said Nesta Riddell, “You wait till you’ve had something to eat. Here’s another pillow for you. And if I were you I shouldn’t go bothering my head about things at present.”

  The pillow was comfortable. He relaxed against it, conscious of a swimming head. Then Min came in with a tray, and he found tha
t he was faint with hunger.

  Nesta watched him eat and drink. When he had finished, she took away the tray and came back to her seat on the bed.

  “Well?” she said, “feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Want to talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right—go ahead—”

  That was easier said than done. Where were you to begin when you had no landmarks? He went back to the question he had asked before.

  “Do you mind telling me where I am?”

  “You’re at Tom’s place—in Ledlington.”

  He opened his eyes upon her very directly.

  “And who is Tom?”

  “My brother,” said Nesta Riddell. Then she laughed a little. “Come, Jimmy—you’re not going to say you’ve forgotten Tom?”

  He put his hand up to his head.

  “I can’t remember. Have I had a crack on the head?”

  She nodded, watching him.

  “Do you mind telling me how I got here?”

  “You really don’t remember? Well, I’ll go back to a week ago. You know what had happened. You said you’d got to get off the map for a bit. I was to come here, and you were going to work up the coast to Glasgow. I don’t know what name you went under, but you were on the Alice Arden when she got driven ashore on the Elston sands. There was a gale first, and then an awful fog, and she broke up against the cliffs. Very few people were saved. They took you into the Elston cottage hospital, and Tom and I fetched you away yesterday. Can’t you really remember anything about it?”

  His hand went up to his eyes and pressed on them. He said,

  “Tom—” His voice choked on the word. Then, in a dull whisper, “I remember—the fog.”

  For a moment it was the fog which was pressing against his eyes—the fog; not his own hand. And behind the fog things moved—vague, horrible things. He jerked himself out of the fog and flung out his hand.

  “No—I can’t remember.”

  “What—nothing?”

  “No—no—”

  “Not your own name?”

  “I don’t—know—”

  “Your name’s Jim Riddell,” said Nesta sharply.

  The name came back to him like a faint echo from somewhere in his mind. It was as if someone had spoken it from behind that deadening fog. She said, “Your name is Jim Riddell,” and something in his own mind answered her.