As on previous occasions during the past few days, I went down past Shepherd’s Rest House, and plunged in at a point far from that low, squat rock shaped like a leaning monster with its belly eaten away, and which seems to be reaching out at something in the dark-green roaring waves—a something visible only to its time-clouded, inscrutable eyes.
I must have been ten minutes in the water, which kept buffeting me about and threatening to smash my ribs against the hard, pebbly beach, when on emerging and about to get ready for the next powerful roller, I happened to glance towards the rock-monster and see someone standing beside it staring out to sea. It was a woman, but before I could focus my gaze properly I was lifted off my feet and smothered in a green welter of foam and water.
Emerged again, I looked and saw that it was Mrs. Scaife. She had Walter and Patrick with her on leash. Before the next wave attacked me I saw her bend and release the animals. They went bounding and barking up and down the beach in a gay burst of energy.
Her presence here did not surprise me, for she had mentioned that she sometimes took walks down to the beach with the dogs in the morning; the habit was an old one, she had said. Standing by the edge of the sea always reminded her of her girlhood days in Martin’s Bay.
She did not show any surprise when I came out and approached her. She smiled and said: ‘Taking an early dip, I see, my boy!’
I nodded. ‘And you, I note, have taken an early walk.’
‘Yes, I felt in the mood to come down and watch the sea at close quarters. This is my favourite rock. My dear, grotesque old rock.’
‘Like a monster with its belly eaten away.’
‘An excellent analogy. Yes, a monster—but, a friendly monster. At least, to me.’ She uttered reminiscent, old-lady sounds, and for a long interval we stood there watching the huge, curling waves crash down upon the brown, pebble-strewn sand. The colour of blue-green glass bottles, they came one after the other with a deep, savage monotony, intricately convuluted and foaming and thunderous, splaying out a multitude of frothy fingers towards our feet so that now and then we had to back away from their soft, swift, hissing persistence.
Unobtrusively I kept watching her. She took deep breaths of the salt sea wind, and once I saw her turn her head and look at the rock, a smile coming to her lips as though this rock might have been a human friend with whom she shared intimacies that only she and it could appreciate.
Suddenly she began to speak—and she might have been unaware of my presence. She had a trance-like expression.
‘One night I followed them here—my father and my brother Ian. They were hunting cuttle-fishes in the pools amid the hidden rocks and reefs just under the water. It was a moonlight night, and the wind was warmish. Large black clouds moved in the sky towards the south and darkened the landscape at intervals when they passed across the moon. I had to dodge carefully from embankment to rock—and stealthily, too, so that Father and Ian might not see me, for Father had forbidden me to come out. The clouds were my friends that night. They kept blotting out the moon at the most convenient moments, and gave me the chance to dash across an unsheltered space from one rock or embankment to another. Once, I remember, a few treacherous pebbles came under my feet and I slipped down a shaly incline for several yards. But even a bruised knee didn’t prevent me from going on. That didn’t lessen the flaming eagerness in me.’ She smiled and nodded slowly. ‘Yes, the urge that night was terribly strong—so strong that I simply had to disobey and come after them. The urge to follow them and watch them in the moonlight wading amid the pools and pausing to probe in the holes in the reef. And the breakers kept foaming round them so threateningly, as if at minute . . . at any delicious minute. . . .’
She broke off and sighed softly—sighed as though in a deep ecstasy.
‘How I did watch them that night—watch them and hope. The hunger in me was really desperate. But nothing happened. When I got to this rock I was so fatigued and nervously exhausted I had to give up and turn back. Frustrated and angry, I had to retrace my steps all the rough two miles back to Martin’s Bay. It was a bitter night.’
She smiled again, following with her gaze the two dogs as they raced up and down the beach, Patrick barking furiously and with a futility that sprang from sheer exuberance of spirits, and Walter pausing now and then to sniff at the sand then rear up his head suddenly and dash off after Patrick.
Two black boys—one a freak with auburn frizzy hair—approached us shyly and asked for a cent, and Mrs. Scaife smiled and took two pennies from her handbag and held them out. After they had thanked her and run off, she grunted and commented on the utter poverty of the peasants in this district. ‘Poor Michael used to give many of them free attention,’ she went on, the trance-like look returning to her face. ‘But he was too generous, and, of course, they imposed on him shamefully. They called him out for every trivial or imaginary complaint.’
Silence again—then she wagged her head and said: ‘I can remember the first occasion he came to our cottage. My mother had fallen ill with her kidney trouble. He drove up in a little shaky trap, and I was in the tiny cabin we called a kitchen, watching the trap come up the pathway. I saw him get out with his Gladstone bag and come towards the front door. That was the first time I set eyes on him. It wasn’t until six or seven weeks later that he saw me and met me for the first time. It was at a bazaar meeting at the Rectory of St. Joseph’s. He came in a few minutes late—the meeting had already started, and the Rector was referring to the last bazaar and what a success it had been. Michael entered and seated himself as quietly as he could on the chair nearest the door—fortunately that chair happened to be vacant. But the Rector saw him and paused and gave him a smile and a nod. The Rector was very fond of him.’
Abruptly her expression became cold, grim.
‘There were two or three ladies who didn’t like him because of his colour. One sitting next to me had coloured blood in her, besides—she was olive-complexioned, but, of course, belonged to the upper middle-class. Snobs, all of them. When Michael came in they tittered behind their handkerchiefs and fans. One of them whispered: ‘Good gracious! But isn’t he an ugly nigger! Look at that huge, flat nose! And the mouth!’ And another—it was the mother of one of the planters who own the private cemetery—whispered: ‘But he hasn’t a nose at all!’
For a longish while she stood there, her body stiff, her lips set tight. Then the mood vanished. She grunted and smiled. ‘They were right, of course, in a way. Michael was certainly no beauty—to look at. But, then, they were not able to see what I could see. He had it clearly defined on the left cheek-bone. Rich and deep-seated.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
But as though I had not spoken, she continued: ‘Like Gregory’s. He might have been fond of Gregory had he lived to see the little chap. But he would have been shocked and horrified if I had mentioned to him that I had seen the Mark on Gregory, too. As he was shocked and horrified on our wedding-night when I told him what I had seen on him—deep and dark and rich on the left cheek-bone.’ She sighed as if moved at some satisfying memory.
After another pause, she glanced at me and smiled. ‘I can see from your expression, my boy, what’s going through your thoughts. You think me a lunatic, eh? Yes, I know. Michael was certain I must be insane. It took him more than two years to realise that it wasn’t insanity. At first, I nearly despaired, but eventually I did succeed in convincing him—’
‘But convincing him of what?’ I broke in, my curiosity overcoming my prudence and politeness. ‘You tell me you aren’t insane, Mrs. Scaife—and the way you say it I almost want to believe you. But how could you be sane and still indulge in this talk about death and Marks on your husband’s cheek-bone and all the rest of it? Last night you said something about my having a Mark, too. What mark is this?’
‘The mark of death. About three people out of every ten have it, my boy—and you are one of them. Like Michael and Gregory. Like Tappin and all the other servants in Eltonsbrody
. Like myself—though in my case I have it to an abnormal degree. The mark of the destructive lust, Mr. Woodsley. Many of us have it without knowing it. Many of us, deep within, have the urge to kill and glory in the death-agony of our victims. We may be unconscious of this urge, but it exists. In some of us it manifests itself in various harmless ways. For instance, Michael was a splendid surgeon—that was how it came out in him. In you it’s strong, too—that is why I took you in as a guest. I loathe and want to destroy all who do not bear this mark, my boy. I adore those in whom the urge is obviously strong. That is how I fell in love with Michael. That is why I took so instant a liking to Gregory. That is why I greeted you so ardently when you came to Eltonsbrody that evening last week and asked for lodging. That is why I treat my servants so well and have such a deep fondness for them. Because they have the Mark. And that is why I detest Mitchell and his wife. Neither of them has it. Oh, I suppose you may call it a form of madness—but I can’t help it. Nature fashioned me that way, my boy. I warned you I was a strange person, didn’t I? Death fascinates me as nothing else does. As a girl, I used to follow my father and brother at night because I hoped to see them accidentally drowned or trapped in the reef. My throat would go dry with a desperate hunger to watch things die—even beasts. I can sense death from afar. When I was a girl I couldn’t—but as I got older I developed the power more and more. At nineteen it was strong.’
‘You mean you’re psychic, then? Clairvoyant?’
‘Yes—but in a peculiar way. Only in relation to death. I can’t foresee events. Only death.’ She was silent a moment, then added: ‘I can tell you for a certainty that Malverne won’t live.’
‘Won’t live? But—oh, that’s nonsense! I’m afraid I have no patience with that kind of thing. It simply won’t wash with me.’
‘You’ll see, my boy. You’ll see. No need for us to argue the point. I foresaw her death yesterday, even before the accident occurred.’
She gave a slight start as though rousing herself from a coma. ‘But there! How I’ve talked! I must be going back to the old house. After breakfast I have to go to the cemetery to take some flowers for Michael’s tomb. I love that tomb, Mr. Woodsley. It’s like a monument to my love for Michael. But you must have guessed that already, eh? It’s among my dearest treasures. I’d defend it with my life against vandals. I’m so attached to it—so fanatically enamoured of it—that I believe one day I’ll commit murder if I surprise some youngster pelting stones at it or defacing it in any way. One day a year or so ago I nearly did—oh! But how do I talk! Let me be off!’ She called to the two dogs, and obediently they came bounding up.
At the breakfast table, about three-quarters of an hour later, I asked Nurse Linton what sort of night she had spent, and she replied that she had nothing to complain of. ‘Except that smell, of course,’ she said. ‘I found it very annoying at first, but after a while I got used to it and hardly noticed it.’
I told her what Mrs. Scaife had said down on the beach, and she agreed with me that it sounded like insanity. She tried to speak lightly, but I could tell that under her outward cheerfulness she was disturbed.
‘How’s Malverne?’ I asked. ‘Any improvement?’
‘None, I’m afraid. She’s still pretty bad. The doctor is coming. He phoned a little while ago.’
At that moment Mrs. Scaife came downstairs—she had had breakfast about half an hour before—and went into the pantry. We heard her talking to Tappin—to-day was Tappin’s day for going to Bridgetown to shop—and then a few minutes later she was asking Bayley about flowers. The flowers for the doctor’s tomb, no doubt.
A little later, from my bedroom window I saw her moving along the driveway, a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She went out into the roadway.
Doctor Dayton arrived while she was out, and after he had left, Miss Linton came down outside to the goat-pen where I was smoking and chatting with McTurk. ‘You asked me to tell you what the doctor said,’ she began, smiling as though to allay my surprise at her taking the trouble to come all the way to the goat-pen to tell me (I could sense that the real reason for her coming out to me lay in her nervousness and fear of being alone in the house, and later she admitted this). I accompanied her back to the house, and she said that the doctor thought Malverne’s condition showed a slight change for the worse.
‘He doesn’t think she’ll last out the rest of the week.’
We were in the sitting-room. The sunlight was playing on the sideboard, and the glassware flashed and glinted as the foliage of the casuarinas shifted in the wind. The brain-coral smiled up slyly at me, the shadow of a tall flagon lying across its grey hump.
We both turned as Mrs. Scaife entered. She moved past us as though we did not exist, and went upstairs—though there was nothing strained in her expression. She had a quiet, mild air of satisfaction. I am certain she would have given me a cordial reply if I had spoken to her. She was carrying a small hand-basket. It had a cover, and the cover was tightly in place.
‘I wonder what she’s got in that,’ Miss Linton smiled.
‘Some graveyard relic, perhaps, who knows!’
A few minutes later, Miss Linton went upstairs, and I went into the sitting-room to finish my cigarette and watch the rugged landscape. It looked cool and slightly misty in the dazzling sunshine. On the horizon I could make out the sails of several fishing-boats. The wind was fresh and filled with the invigorating smell of the sea—and of fish. Fish from yesterday’s catch, perhaps, which had left their rank odour indelibly on the landscape.
I went upstairs, intending to get my painting things in order to continue work on my study of Eltonsbrody. But as I was about to pass the patient’s room, the door opened and Miss Linton appeared.
‘I was waiting for you to come up,’ she said. She looked a bit pale and frightened, I thought. ‘Would you mind coming in here a moment?’
Wondering, I entered the room with her.
She took up from the table beside the bed a sheet of paper. ‘Have a look at this,’ she said, and handed it to me.
It was yellowish with age, and there was writing on it—a slanting, beautiful copperplate. It seemed like a leaf torn from some diary, for at the top left-hand corner there was a date—26th March, 1918.
This is what I found myself reading in the beautiful copperplate:
This time I was disappointed, but it soon fell out that disappointment was to change into ecstasy. As soon as Miss Fletcher arrived I saw she did not have the Mark, and I was furious, but the following morning imagine my excitement and delight when I saw upon her the Shadow! I knew she was going to die; in what manner I had no idea, but I simply knew she was doomed, and it would happen very shortly. I followed her about every moment of the day, hoping, hoping, almost hungry to see her lying dead before me, perhaps writhing and with her bowels gushing out on the floor, foaming blood at her mouth and nose, her eyes bulging out of her head, wallowing in her own faeces. Yes, this is the fate I wish everyone who does not bear the mark of death. Let them suffer, let them groan, let them writhe, let them shriek, let them gnash their teeth.
13
She asked me what I made of it, and I shrugged. ‘Nasty. And without any doubt the product of an insane mind.’
I turned the sheet over, but there was nothing written on the other side. I heard her murmur: ‘It’s Mrs. Scaife’s handwriting.’
I glanced up. ‘How do you know? Have you ever seen her handwriting?’
‘Yes.’
‘I assumed it was, of course.’
‘What’s written there seems to fit in exactly with what you’ve told me about her—I mean her queerness. I’m certain it was intended for me to read.’
‘I suppose so. Look, by the way, where have you seen her handwriting before that you’re so certain this is hers?’
‘Look on the dressing-table there. That’s her cheque book. I didn’t want to be officious, but after reading this thing I thought I was justified in looking through her cheque-book to compare the
writing on the counterfoils with the writing on this paper.’
I glanced at the dressing-table and saw the cheque-book. I moved over and took it up. It was one issued by Barclay’s Bank, and examining the counterfoils, I saw that she was right. The handwriting was unmistakably the same. The years had not changed it. Same neat, sloping copperplate.
‘But what on earth could have possessed her to leave this single sheet lying around? Wasn’t it on the table before you came down to the goat-pen to me? Can you remember?’
‘No, it wasn’t. I’m certain about that. I’d have noticed it. I’ve been taking up and putting down things on this table from the moment I got up this morning. And just where I found it here near the phone the doctor placed his stethoscope. I would have noticed it at once if it had been there during the doctor’s visit.’
‘Which means that she must have left it here when she came upstairs a few minutes ago—when she passed us in the dining-room after coming in from her visit to the cemetery.’
‘It looks like that,’ she nodded.
Suddenly we both glanced towards the bed. Malverne had made groaning sounds. She was shifting about restlessly, her hands clawing feverishly at the bedclothes. She began to mumble deliriously, but her eyes were still shut.
‘I don’t like her condition at all,’ said Miss Linton.
‘Sssh! Wait! Listen! She said something. . . .’
We fell silent.
Malverne, sighing and groaning, kept clawing at the bedsheet. Then her lips moved, and we heard her say: ‘ ’E admire me.’ A few mumbling sounds. A few more groans, then: ‘But Oi froighten when Oi see him.’
Her moans became animated of a sudden, and she pulled down the front of her night-gown to reveal a breast. Miss Linton hurried to the bed, saying: ‘Perhaps you’d better go outside, Mr. Woodsley. She’s been doing this rather often.’
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ I told her, with a chuckle. ‘I’m accustomed to it. It happened when she was conscious, too.’
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