‘Some did. But the rest are still alive.’
‘Then where are they? One never hears of them. How do they live? They can’t go back because their relations can’t send any remittances to them. Where do they live now?’
‘With Polly mostly,’ said Anna. ‘She has money.’
‘Still?’
‘She had an awful lot of it to begin with, you remember? And she still has some left, I believe. You never hear of any of them because in this benighted country they can only hope to survive by keeping quiet.’
‘Poor Poll. I suppose she now supports the whole damned crew. I must say for her, she was always generous. And a very lovely girl … once. What’s she like now? Pretty delabrée, I suppose.’
‘What you’d expect.’
‘But why St. Merricks?’
‘She must live somewhere.’
‘Very little drink there, I should have thought, and no golliwogs.’
‘She’s finished with men, and she doesn’t drink much. I don’t know what she takes, but it has limited her interests.’
‘Poor Polly. At the best she was a sad little mess. I thought you’d dropped her ages ago.’
‘I’m rather sorry for her.’
‘You’re what? D’you mean to offer her the reversion of Antinous?’
‘I’ve told you. She doesn’t want any more men. When she talks at all she talks about St. John of the Cross.’
‘But why take him there?’
‘One usually takes one’s chauffeur.’
‘Not to Polly’s, one doesn’t, unless one wants to lose him. Somebody’s sure to make a pass at him.’
Anna laughed.
‘We dropped in for an afternoon on the way down,’ she confided, ‘and somebody did. He was furious.’
‘I should think so. He’s very middle class, that young man. Never been to a public school. You’d better take care or he’ll be joining the resistance movement.’
‘The what? What do you mean?’
‘An underground resistance movement has been started in this hotel,’ explained Mr. Siddal, sitting down on Anna’s bed. ‘I think Mrs. Paley and Miss Wraxton started it, and then they nobbled my son Gerry. They’re hand-in-glove with Nancibel, and she might rope in your boy friend. The thing is spreading.’
‘But what resistance? What against?’
‘That I don’t know. But I do know that a great deal is going on. All sorts of people are getting together. They meet on the cliff at night. Canon Wraxton forbade his daughter to attend these agapemones, but she defies him. Gerry talks of going to Kenya and leaving us to support ourselves. And I think there is a junior branch which writes messages in code. Nancibel means to provide a feast for the little Coves, and my wife has promised jelly. Mrs. Paley laughs in the lounge. All these are straws in the wind.’
‘But what’s it all for? What is it all about?’
‘When I know that I shall be a wiser man….’
At this moment Fred rushed in with his eyes starting from his head. He told them that a policeman was coming across the sand.
3. The Law
He was coming across the sand because his bicycle had punctured just as he left Porthmerryn and, being obliged to walk, he came the quickest way, by the cliffs, instead of going all the way round by the road. But he felt himself that the Law should have arrived in state along the drive, not scrambling up the rocks like a tripper. So he did his best to march across the cove in an official and menacing manner. And his advance, observed by the inmates of Pendizack, caused widespread alarm, before ever he reached the front door. Bruce thought he must have come about that stolen car and slipped away to hide in the creek. Miss Ellis thought that the Siddals had sent him to turn her out, for she had had a scene with Mrs. Siddal that morning when she had explained her intention to remain a full month at Pendizack although she refused to do any more work. Canon Wraxton thought that his own eviction was impending and prepared for battle. Fred thought Nancibel was going to be arrested for stealing the carved stone. He rushed to warn her. But Nancibel only said:
‘Rats! He wouldn’t dare. He’s my cousin.’
She had been persuaded to abandon her threat of going home. She was a reasonable, kind-hearted girl, and she very quickly saw that the only person to suffer would be poor Mrs. Siddal, who had not been to blame. Moreover the story, gleefully brought to the kitchen by Robin, of Mrs. Cove and the soapstone, had restored her spirits. She was now inclined to regard the whole thing as a joke, and when the policeman rang the bell she went gaily to the front door.
‘’Morning, Sam,’ she said.
Sam Peters was a very young policeman and he had never served a summons before. He ignored her genial greeting and asked solemnly:
‘Is this the Pendizack Hotel?’
‘No, it’s St. Paul’s Cathedral,’ said Nancibel. ‘Have you lost your memory or what?’
‘We have to begin by asking that,’ explained Sam. ‘It’s merely a matter of form.’
‘I should hope so, considering you were born in Pendizack village I’d be sorry if you hadn’t found out where this is by now. How’s Auntie?’
‘Off the record,’ said Sam, ‘Ma’s got kidney trouble again. Is there a party residing here name of Gifford?’
‘That’s right. Sir Henry Gifford.’
‘It’s not him I want. It’s a lady. Lady Gifford.’
‘Well, that’s his wife. Whatever do you …?’
‘I got to see her.’
‘What about?’
‘Don’t you be so nosey, young Nancibel.’
‘Well, you can’t see her. She’s in bed still.’
‘When does she get up?’
‘Never.’
‘I got to see her if I wait here for ever.’
‘Won’t the gentleman do?’
‘No, he won’t. I got to hand her this personally.’
He indicated an envelope which he held.
‘Come in,’ said Nancibel. ‘I’ll find Mrs. Siddal. I think she’s back.’
Sam came in and sat on a chair in the hall. Nancibel went in search of Mrs. Siddal, who was counting the laundry with Gerry. She explained Sam’s errand.
‘A summons,’ said Gerry.
‘But she doesn’t drive a car,’ said Mrs. Siddal, who could imagine but one reason for a summons. ‘Are you sure it’s not Sir Henry?’
She went out to the hall to confer with Sam, and then she went up to Lady Gifford’s room.
‘I can’t possibly see him,’ declared Lady Gifford.
‘He won’t go till you do,’ said Mrs. Siddal. ‘Shall I bring him up or will you come down?’
‘Mrs. Siddal, I can’t possibly. I’m much too ill.’
‘He’ll simply sit in the hall till you get up.’
‘I shan’t be getting up to-day.’
‘I can’t have a policeman sitting in my hall indefinitely,’ declared Mrs. Siddal.
‘Then tell him to go away. I absolutely refuse to see him.’
‘One can’t treat the police like that.’
‘I don’t see why not. Who pays their wages? We do.’
Mrs. Siddal went downstairs and reported all this to Sam. But he was obdurate. His instructions were to put the document in the lady’s own hands, and he would not quit the house till he had done so. He remained on the chair in the hall and Nancibel brought him a cup of tea.
The news spread gradually over Pendizack that he had come for Lady Gifford. Bruce came back from the creek and Miss Ellis unlocked her door. But nobody told the Canon, who grew tired of waiting for the assault and came down to confront the enemy.
‘I believe,’ he said to Sam in the hall, ‘that I am the person you wish to see. Very well. Here I am.’
Sam gaped and asked if he was Sir Henry Gifford.
‘Certainly not. I am Canon Wraxton. And I warn you that if you attempt to molest me in any way I shall make a great deal of trouble for you. What’s that you’re holding? A summons?’
�
�It’s not for you,’ said Sam. ‘It’s for a lady.’
‘A lady? My daughter, I suppose. That’s the game, is it? They’re going to put it all on to her? Let me see it.’
‘It’s got to be put into her own hands,’ said Sam, withholding it.
‘Not before I’ve seen it. I’m acting for her.’
‘Then you’d better bring her here, sir. I’m waiting here till I see her.’
‘She’s out. She’s gone to Porthmerryn.’
‘They said she was in bed.’
‘Oh, they did, did they? Then they were lying. I ask you once again to let me see that document.’
‘Not till I see Lady Gifford,’ declared Sam.
‘Lady Gifford? What in heaven has she to do with it?’
‘She’s the lady it’s for.’
‘That’s impossible. Lady Gifford is not my daughter. What do you mean by all this nonsense?’
‘I never said she was,’ cried the badgered Sam. ‘It was you said she was.’
‘I said nothing of the kind.’
They were interrupted by Sir Henry, who had just come in from his walk and had been told by Mrs. Siddal of Sam’s presence in the hall.
‘I understand,’ he said to Sam, ‘that you have been instructed to see my wife. I am Sir Henry Gifford.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Sam.
‘The man’s a fool‚’ interrupted the Canon. ‘This has nothing to do with your wife, Sir Henry. It’s my daughter he’s come to see. It’s part of a trick to get us out of here.’
A momentary relief flashed across Sir Henry’s harassed face. When he heard of a policeman in the hall he had been so sure that the blow had fallen. Subconsciously he had been waiting for it ever since they arrived. But Sam soon dashed his hopes. The document was for Lady Gifford and for nobody else.
‘She’s upstairs in bed,’ said Sir Henry heavily. ‘I’d better take you up. You can hand it to her in bed, can’t you?’
‘That’ll be all right, sir,’ said Sam gratefully.
‘Then this,’ exclaimed the Canon, ‘has nothing whatever to do with me? … Why was I brought down?’
Nobody could determine why he had been brought down, and he was left to decide the matter for himself while Sir Henry took Sam upstairs.
‘I can’t,’ cried Lady Gifford, as they trooped into her room.
Sam clattered across to the bed and asked if she was Lady Gifford.
‘I refuse,’ she said. ‘I utterly refuse … my doctor ordered me …’
‘This‚’ said Sir Henry, ‘is Lady Gifford.’
Sam offered the envelope but she would not take it. So he laid it upon the counterpane and withdrew.
‘I shall never forgive you for this,’ said Lady Gifford to her husband. ‘Bringing that brute here! You! Who have sworn to love and protect me.’
‘Let me look at that summons.’
‘How do you know it is a summons?’
‘Of course it is. What else could it be?’
She seized upon the paper and tore it up before he could stop her.
‘Eirene! You fool! If you behave like that you’ll be sent to prison.’
‘No. No, I shan’t. Sir Giles will give me a certificate. He knows how ill I am, even if you won’t believe it.’
‘That summons means you have to appear before a certain court on a certain date. You’ll have to be there.’
‘Not if I’m ill.’
‘What is it about? Why are you summonsed?’
‘How should I know? It’s ridiculous.’
‘If you won’t answer me I shall take steps to learn the particulars elsewhere. I’ll go to the police station. I shall undertake to see that you appear.’
‘Is this loving me? Is this protecting me?’
‘I can’t protect you unless I know how matters stand.’
‘I tell you, I don’t know what it’s all about.’
‘A policeman called to see you in London, after we’d left. They told us on the telephone. Do you remember?’
‘No. I don’t remember anything.’
‘They must have got your address and sent the summons to be delivered here.’
‘Instead of guarding our house from being burgled. No wonder there is this crime wave if that is how they waste their time.’
‘Have you ever had a letter from the Treasury?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why should I?’
He turned away in exasperation.
‘It’s a waste of time talking to you,’ he declared. ‘I’ll go to the police station.’
‘No, no … Harry! Don’t do that. I remember now … I did get a letter. Perhaps it was from the Treasury.’
‘And what did it say?’
‘I’ve forgotten … no … no…. Don’t go. It was to ask me to explain something or other.’
‘Explain what?’
‘I couldn’t understand.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I tore it up.’
‘You didn’t answer it?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Why did you not show it to me?’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘What … roughly … was it about?’
‘About Mr. Perkins.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know. He was a man I met at the Hotel.’
‘What hotel?’
‘A hotel at Cannes.’
‘But you weren’t staying in a hotel. You were with the Varens.’
‘Y-yes. Most of the time.’
‘Did you, by any chance, give a cheque to this man Perkins?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he give you? Francs?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was the cheque for?’
‘I forget. I think … four hundred pounds.’
‘But don’t you know that’s a breach of the currency regulations? You promised me you wouldn’t …’
‘I didn’t. I promised I wouldn’t take more than £75 out and I didn’t. But one can’t stay at Cannes indefinitely for £75. Of course I needed more money….’
‘You told me, when you got back, that you’d managed it on £75.’
‘I suppose I forgot. Mr. Perkins was an Englishman.’
‘I told you … I explained to you …’
‘Everybody was doing it. Everybody gave him cheques.’
‘If you read the newspapers you’ll find that people who have done this sort of thing are heavily fined.’
‘Well, if I am fined, I can afford it. I don’t see why you are making all this fuss.’
‘I’ve told you. It’ll be more than a fine if you go on like this. It will be prison.’
‘No, Harry. People in our class don’t get sent to prison. I have several friends who have been fined. Nobody sent them to prison.’
‘And another thing. This is the end of my career. If this comes out and there is a public scandal, I shall have to resign. I’ve too much respect for the law to stay on the Bench when my wife has so flagrantly broken it.’
‘Oh? So it’s your career you’re really fussing about?’
‘I know you have always wanted me to resign, so that we might live in Guernsey.’
‘Yes, I have. And now we can. I must say, Harry, I can’t see that there’s anything so very terrible about all this. If we could get off income tax, living in Guernsey, the fine would be nothing.’
For a few minutes he could not reply. At last he said:
‘I shall never live with you again. There’s nothing in life you value more than your saucer of cream.’
‘Why shouldn’t I? I can afford cream. Why shouldn’t I go to live where the cream is?’
‘I won’t live with you any more. You’re not human.’
Lady Gifford closed her eyes and lay back upon her pillows. Hard words break no bones, as both of them knew very well. He left her and went downstairs.
4. The Scapegoat
The little Coves, though much resto
red, were still shattered by yesterday’s experiences. They sat about on the terrace in deck chairs, with an invalidish air, and there was a tendency to make much of them. Public opinion had fastened all blame for the incident upon Hebe, who met black looks wherever she went and snubs whenever she opened her mouth.
The only smiles she had had were from the Coves, who had waved to her wistfully when their mother’s back was turned. She knew that they were loyal and friendly, but she was not grateful and she resented the fuss which everyone made over them. Nor would she accept the timid apologies of Caroline, who had betrayed the Spartan secrets.
To efface herself until the storm of disapproval should have blown over was a precaution which never occurred to Hebe. With each snub she grew more aggressive and more determined to fight the entire hotel. She played selections from ‘Sunny Hours’ on the lounge piano until Mrs. Siddal came and locked it. She took her cat into the dining-room for lunch. She drew a picture of Mr. Chad on the terrace wall saying: ‘Wot? No black amber?’ And finally, finding Mrs. Lechene’s french window open and the room empty, she strolled in. An uncovered typewriter stood on the table, with a clean sheet of paper in it. She began to experiment.
th3 HorRIBL3E HOTeL
Onceupon a time ther was ahotel inhabited by devils dressed up to look like ladys and Gentlemen….
Anna came in and caught her. But for once there was no lecture. All that Anna did was to smile in a queer sort of way and say:
‘Well! You’re a one, aren’t you?’
Hebe nodded.
‘Do you realize you’ve set the whole place by the ears?’
Hebe nodded again, with some pride.
‘Suppose you sit down and tell me all about it?’
Anna took the cigarette box from the mantelpiece and proffered it.
‘Smoke?’
‘Oh, thanks!’ said the ravished Hebe.
They lighted their cigarettes and Anna dropped into a chair.
‘You’ll go far,’ she prophesied. ‘At your age I was meekly hemming handkerchiefs.’
Hebe cautiously ate the end of her cigarette and tried to think of Anna hemming handkerchiefs. In her ignorance she supposed that Anna must have worn a crinoline.
‘You’ll always be in hot water, you know. Always!’ Anna continued. ‘But don’t worry. It’s worth it. Live your own life, and you’ll never regret it.’
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