Outrageous Fortune

by Patricia Wentworth

  She began to go slowly towards the door. She was wearing a loose brown tweed coat. She hugged it round her as if she were cold.

  Nesta stood aside to let her pass, but just on the threshold Caroline turned, her colour changing brightly.

  “Have you got a photograph of your husband?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Not even a snapshot?”

  “I’ve said no, haven’t I?”

  Caroline rested her hand upon the jamb of the door. Something in her would not take Nesta’s no; she couldn’t tell why. Eager words came hurrying to her lips.

  “Mrs Riddell—I don’t feel as if I could go away without seeing him. Won’t you try and understand how I feel about it? It’s such a strong feeling—I can’t shake it off. If I go away like this, I shall keep on thinking about him, and about my letter—the one I wrote and signed Caroline. And I shall keep on thinking, ‘Suppose it was Jim.’ But if I were to see him, I should know.”

  The hard colour rose in Nesta’s cheeks.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” she said. “Because if you are, I’ve had about enough. Jim Riddell’s my husband, and I’ve got my marriage lines to prove it. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. Calling yourself a chap’s cousin’s as good a way of getting off as any other—and you may be one of Jim’s fancy girls, or you may be touched in the head. But this is my brother’s house and I can do with your room instead of your company—coming here after another woman’s husband and giving me the lie about him to my face! Let me tell you that you’ll not see him, not if you were to stay here all day. He’s got something better to do than sit about at home waiting for his lady friends to drop in. He’s got our keep to earn and a job to go to. And I’ll thank you to be off out of this.”

  Caroline’s hand dropped from the door. She looked taller. She was pale.

  She said, “Good morning, Mrs Riddell,” and walked out of the house and down the gravel path to the car.

  IX

  Nesta Riddell had time to wonder what had happened to Jim during the hours that followed. When at last an uncertain step sounded on the gravel path, she ran to the door anxiety flaring into anger.

  “Where have you been?” she began, and then stopped as he lurched past her into the parlour.

  She thought at first that he was drunk, but it was fatigue that sent him reeling to the nearest chair.

  “Where have you been?” she repeated. “You look all in. What d’you want to go walking about till you’re fit to drop? Six hours you’ve been gone, and you couldn’t have had a bite or a drop, because you hadn’t a copper on you. Hold on and I’ll get you something—Min’s got a kettle on.”

  She brought him cold meat and vegetables and a cup of strong tea, and followed up the meat with bread and cheese. When he had eaten and she had taken the things away, she came back and looked at him sharply.

  “Been a bit of a fool, haven’t you? What d’you want to go flinging off like that? You’ve been ill, you know—and you get up out of bed and go walking about for the best part of seven hours on an empty stomach! Batty, I call it!”

  He was lying back in one of the red and blue chairs, his face sharpened, his eyes fixed and heavy. He had the look of an exhaustion which was something more than physical. His body had moved mechanically whilst thoughts which he could not out-distance pursued and threatened him. They drove him, and he was driven without hope of escape. He did not know where he had been; only as he lifted the latch and felt his feet upon the new gravel which Tom Williams had laid down fatigue came upon him like an insupportable weight. The food had done him good. Now there was a dullness on him. It was like the fog. He frowned at the recollection of the fog.

  “You’d better get to bed,” said Nesta briskly.

  And presently he was in bed and sinking, sinking down, into the depths of sleep.

  Happicot kept early hours. Min tired easily, and on the days when Nesta was in one of her moods she would count the minutes till she and Tom could go off to their own room and be alone together. To-night Nesta was most certainly in a mood, not answering when you spoke to her, or if she did answer, fairly snapping your nose off.

  Min couldn’t help wondering how much longer she was going to stay. Of course, she paid towards the housekeeping and gave a hand with things, and she’d given them a lovely copper coalscuttle; but still, when you’ve only been married six weeks you do want your place to yourself.

  Min sighed over the pale blue silk which she was making into a blouse, then coughed to hide the sigh, and said,

  “Blue’s my favourite colour. What’s yours?”

  This time Nesta bit her nose right off, and a couple of tears splashed down on the pale blue silk.

  Tom got up and switched on the radio.

  When the rest of the house had settled into darkness and silence, Nesta Riddell still sat on in the parlour. She sat leaning forward with her cheek propped on her hand and her eyes fixed. It was being difficult—he was being difficult. Would he be any easier if she waited? Or was her best chance now, before he had got back his strength?..… Everything in her said now. She hadn’t risked so much and come so far to lose everything for the want of a little pluck. The emeralds were half hers. If Van Berg died, they’d bring her in accessory after the fact. She’d risked that, and she wasn’t going to be done out of her price, not much she wasn’t. She’d have her share of those emeralds whatever she had to do to get it.

  It was a long time now since the footsteps overhead had ceased. For a little while there had been the faint whisper of voices, but it was a long time since they too had died away.

  She wondered if there was anything in that stunt of old Caroline Bussell’s. It was whispered in the village that Caroline knew a good many things that she hadn’t any right to know. People in Packham said she had a hold over Mr Entwhistle and could do what she liked with him. Suppose she had tried this stunt of hers on him. Suppose she had gone into his room at the dead hour of the night, the hour between midnight and the first hour of the day, slipping in on her stocking feet with a bowl of water in her hand..… You’d have to tread like a cat and keep yourself almost from breathing so as to know by the breathing of the sleeping man whether he were deep enough asleep. Old Caroline always walked quietly. She gave you the creeps in broad daylight the way she’d come on you without the least sound, with her neat upright figure and her prim starched collar, her face that always put Nesta in mind of a plump floured scone, and her brown front that never had a hair out of place. There—it was all nonsense, and creepy nonsense at that. Only, if a man could be got to talk like that in the dead of night with no power to hold anything back..…

  She sprang up suddenly and looked at the clock between the china cherubs. The hands stood at half past twelve. Nesta kept her eyes fixed on them for a moment. Then with a jerk of the shoulders she stooped, undid her shoes, and stepping out of them, went to the door and opened it. There was no light in the passage or on the upper landing. The linoleum was cold under her feet as she went through into the kitchen and switched on the bulb in the ceiling.

  Min’s big mixing-bowl would be about the right size. She reached it down off the china shelf and filled it half way at the tap. The water had to be cold—that was what old Caroline said. But how cold would it have to be? You could call anything cold water so long as it came out of the cold water tap. This wasn’t very cold—no bite in it so to speak. Perhaps a drain out of the hot water tap wouldn’t do it any harm. She let in a little and dipped her hand into the bowl. Would that wake you up if you were asleep? Not if you were really fast. Was it near enough cold to do the trick? You couldn’t tell that till you tried; and it was long odds that it was nothing but a pack of rubbish anyhow.

  In her heart of hearts Nesta did not believe that it was rubbish.

  At the kitchen door she hesitated, and then put out the light. Now the house was all dark and silent with the warm, breathing silence of sleep. Even the newest and rawest of houses is a haunted house in
the dead of night. The bodies of those who live there are unaware, but their thoughts fill the silence.

  Nesta was not thinking of this, but as she stood with her hand on the door of the room opposite the kitchen, a little chill just touched her and her heart beat audibly. She had the bowl in her left hand, and she had to keep it steady. The door swung in and she followed it, taking three or four steps forward and then standing still to listen. The bedroom was on the left—the fireplace straight in front of her, the chest of drawers across the corner, and the window on the right.

  She listened, and at first she could hear nothing at all because of the drumming in her ears. Then, after she had stood there for a while, it passed and she could distinguish his slow, deep breathing. The window was open and a light, cool air came in.

  Nesta turned and closed the door with a steady hand.

  There should be a chair at the foot of the bed. She frowned to find it heaped with his discarded clothes. When she had slid them off on to the floor, she brought the chair to the bedside and set the bowl of water down upon it. By this time she could see the outline of the window and the black jutting corner of the chest of drawers. The bed was just visible, and when she had looked a little longer she could see that he lay facing the window with his right arm clear of the bed-clothes.

  She kneeled down by the bed and reached for the bowl. The chair was too high. It hampered her, and she pushed it away. She could hold the bowl in one hand and have the other free. Yes, that was better. She put out her hand and felt for his, bringing her fingers down upon his wrist by the slowest of degrees. It seemed as if an interminable time passed before her hand lay on his, and he had not moved. There was something almost terrifying about this contact. His hand was heavy, inert, and warm. It was warmer than her own. She began to guide it very slowly towards the edge of the bed, and all the time she listened for a change in his deep, slow breathing.

  The change came with an extraordinary suddenness. He cried out and flung over towards her, startling her so much that she jerked sharply back, letting go of his wrist and slopping some of the water over on to the floor. Her heart thumped hard, and through its thumping she heard him say in a rapid mutter, “Eight of them—the finest in the world—no one knows—”

  After the first recoil she stayed quite still. The mutter died. The bowl of water became heavier and heavier in her hand. He lay now almost on his face, his left arm under him and his right hanging over the edge of the bed. His breathing became slow and deep again. She let the time go by.

  At last she put her hand on his and slowly, slowly brought the bowl of water up to it. This time her fingers covered his. Hers touched the water first. And then almost imperceptibly their two hands sank into the bowl. He did not move. He breathed in the same deep, slow way. His hand was heavy and still.

  She said, in a voice that was just not a whisper,

  “Where are the emeralds?”

  And at once he stirred in his sleep. His head moved on the pillow; his hand moved in hers. He said, as if repeating her words,

  “The emeralds?”

  “Where are the emeralds?”

  There was the same movement again. He said, “No one knows.”

  “You know.”

  This time there was no movement and no answer.

  “You know where the emeralds are.”

  He lay still and said, muttering,

  “I know.”

  “Where are they?” She felt a fierce excitement, a fierce demand.

  His hand pulled on hers. She forced her will, and felt that he resisted it.

  “Where are they?”

  He said, “No one knows but me.” The resistance hardened.

  “Tell me where they are.”

  He wrenched his hand from hers. The water ran over the lip of the bowl into her lap. Then, before she could recover herself, he reached out and caught her by the throat.

  X

  Nesta was a brave woman, but she was taken most utterly by surprise. She tried to call out, to push him away, but her voice choked under his grip. The blood sang in her ears, and the darkness was full of fiery sparks. Then quite suddenly she was free. She sat back on her heels, gasping for breath. The sparks died out, and she heard him say in a sharp, bewildered voice,

  “Who’s there?”

  He repeated the question again at once.

  “Who’s there? Speak, can’t you! What’s happened?”

  Nesta stumbled to her feet.

  “You’ve done your best to strangle me.”

  She heard him say, “I’m drenched”; and then, “What are you doing here?” And with that, he was out of bed and switching on the light.

  All Nesta’s nerve had not kept her from a sharp recoil which took her back to the mantelpiece.

  He stood against the door and looked first at her and then at the bed. He might well say that he was drenched. When Nesta threw up her hand to try and push him away she had still held the bowl of water. It struck his shoulder, overturned, and sent a cold cascade down his back. The shock of it brought him broad awake. His hands let go their hold. He’d been strangling someone. Who? Good Lord—where was he? What a nightmare! He’d been dreaming. But this wasn’t a dream, for there was Nesta with her hand at her throat; and there, tipped up on the bed, was a yellow china bowl. The bed itself showed a large wet patch where the clothes were flung back.

  He swung round on Nesta.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  She had been frightened, and now she was angry. She could not bridle her tongue.

  “You dangerous brute! You might have killed me!” Her voice broke on a sob of pure rage.

  “I’m sorry—but what were you doing in my room?”

  “I’m your wife!”

  “I don’t think you were here as my wife.”

  Nesta flung up her head.

  “What d’you mean by that? You half kill me one minute and insult me the next!”

  “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that. You can talk all right—” He stopped and ducked sharply. There was a rough lump of pink and grey quartz in the middle of the mantelpiece. Nesta had swept it off and pitched it at his head. It missed, crashed against the door, and fell heavily.

  Next moment he had her by the wrists.

  “Look here, that’s enough of that! Pull yourself together. If you don’t, I’ll empty the water jug over you—and you can explain to your sister-in-law why I did it. Take a few deep breaths and count a hundred! I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I’ve been knocking about in some fairly rough places, and if anyone creeps into my room in the dark and puts a hand on me, it’s their look out—I don’t stop to think—I shouldn’t be here now if I did.”

  Nesta had ceased to struggle. Now she suddenly leaned towards him.

  “Where have you been?”

  He dropped her wrist, stepped back, and looked at her, frowning.

  “I—don’t—know.”

  “You must know. You said—”

  He passed his hand across his brow.

  “What did I say?”

  She laughed, half angrily.

  “You said you’d lived in some pretty rough parts the last few years. I believe you too, the way you tried to strangle me. My lord, Jimmy—you’ve got a grip!” She broke off suddenly. “D’you mean to say you don’t remember what you said?”

  He shook his head.

  “No—it’s gone.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “You don’t know where you lived or what you did before I met you? Honest Injun?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Well, I’m blessed!” She began to laugh. “It’s a rum start, isn’t it? The man without a past! And I can’t help you; because you were always most uncommon close and never told me a thing, and as far as I’m concerned you start in where you stepped out from behind the bush in the drive going up to The Hall at Packham. And if I’ve got to guess, I’m going to guess that getting away with the Van Berg emeralds wasn’t your
first job by a long chalk. Rough places? Yes, I believe you—places where you shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Lucky for me you hadn’t got a gun to-night—wasn’t it? And it’d have been lucky for you if you hadn’t taken one to Packham. Couldn’t you have got the emeralds without shooting? You know what sort of sentence you’ll get if you’re caught. I tell you you’d better get out of the country as quick as you can. But you must tell me where the emeralds are before you go. I won’t touch them—it won’t be safe to touch them yet awhile—but I must know where they are, so that I can bring them over to you when the coast’s clear and it’s all safe.” She came up close and slipped an arm about his shoulders. “Come, boy—it’s nothing but common sense, and you owe me something.”

  Whilst she had been speaking, he had stood there looking past her, straining to recapture the flash of memory which had made him speak with certainty, of the past years. Years spent how—spent where? This was the under-current of his thought, but he heard what Nesta said as well. When she stopped, he put a hand on her arm.

  “You haven’t told me what you were doing here.”

  She looked at him coolly.

  “You called out in your sleep—I came in to see what was the matter.”

  “What were you doing with the bowl?”

  “I had it in my hand.” She laughed. “Lucky for me I had! If it hadn’t been for the water waking you, you’d have done me in.” She pulled away from him, and picked up the lump of quartz. “Scratched the door a bit. Lucky it didn’t break—Min sets a heap of store by it. It’d have spoilt your beauty a bit if it had caught you where I meant it to! You’re a good dodger—I’ll say that.”

  She put the quartz back on the mantelpiece, stretched her arms over her head, and yawned.

  “Well, I want some sleep. You’ve had yours. Oh lord—my throat’s sore!” She came up to him, tilting her chin. “Like to kiss the place to make it well? You can if you like.”

  His hand fell on her shoulder.

  “There’s nothing the matter with your throat. I want to talk business.”