“I am afraid so. It is a great pity; I asked her if there was any likelihood of her being able to return to-day or to-morrow. But apparently Lady Stone’s business will take a few days to transact… some last-minute changes in some of her charity affairs, I understand. It’s most unfortunate. A charming woman, Lady Stone. Most unfortunate…”
And Jim Henderson, as he drank his coffee, thought only of the white circle of light which had shone on the keyhole of Lady Stone’s door not twelve hours previously. Of the hand which had slowly turned the key and opened the door so carefully. Of the visitor whom this “charming woman” had entertained at such an early hour of the morning.
“Most unfortunate, as you say, Mr. Carson,” he said. “Now who’s going to make money for me at bridge?”
XII
“This way,” said Mary Carson. Looking at her, Jim decided that she was even more attractive at midday than at midnight. Though, of course, the light in the landing had been none too good at midnight. She wore a simply cut costume of tweed which had (if one had the good fortune to be close enough to notice it) that faint, pleasant tang of peat which pronounces the material as genuine Harris. The collar and tie which made so many other women grimly efficient and businesslike, merely made Mary Carson a shade more attractive. The little hat suited her, too, though it was one of those slanting, coquettish affairs which look definitely ridiculous clinging for dear life to the side of most women’s heads. Jim Henderson noticed all this as he followed her through the house and out into the back gardens of Thrackley. And found himself rather surprised at noticing such things; for to him usually women’s dress was either “not bad” or “ghastly”. More often the latter.
The garden at the back of the house was only a narrow strip of neatly planted vegetables and fruit bushes. Behind this the pine-trees reared themselves again all round the house, and there was only a narrow footpath winding itself through the trees to the gate which led to the fields outside. Jim noticed again how extraordinarily self-contained and aloof this house called Thrackley was: ringed in by these tall trees, and then again by this massive stone wall—quite fifteen feet high and with only two possible exits and entrances—the iron gates at the front and this tiny wooden door at the back. A very difficult house to enter and a much more difficult one to leave. He helped Mary Carson to lift back the heavy bolt on the door, and pulled the door open with an effort. And as they stepped out into the field which stretched itself away from the back of the house, a complete change seemed to take place in the atmosphere. A change for the better: decidedly so. Back once more to the ordinary bright shades of greens and blues, with the darkness of the house and its surrounds left for a while behind them. Mary Carson must have felt this way about it, too; she pulled the gate back into position and said: “Thank heavens!”
“Why do you say that?” Jim asked.
“Don’t you feel the difference? Don’t you feel how splendid it is to get out here into the open after being shut up?”
“It’s certainly a bit brighter.”
“Brighter? Do you know there are times when I’m so frightened in that house that I want to scream and rush away from it?”
“There’s no law against screaming and rushing.”
“And then I’m so frightened that I daren’t do either.”
“But—”
“Come on, Captain Henderson. Feel like climbing that hill over there? If we cross that field and the next one there’s a short cut that’ll bring us to the foot of the hill in half an hour.”
“Splendid.”
The long grass was still wet from its morning share of dew, and brushed damply against their legs as they walked through it. It was, Jim noticed for the first time, a glorious morning. Not a cloud in the sky (except for a little white fellow bumping contentedly about, low down on the horizon), and a keen breeze thrusting itself through each tree that it met.
“I hope you don’t think that this walk is just an excuse to get an explanation out of you,” said Jim.
“An explanation?”
“About last night, I mean.”
“Oh, last night…” Mary Carson walked on for some minutes before she answered. “If it were just an excuse, I’m afraid you’d be disappointed. I don’t think I’m going to do any explaining, Captain Henderson.”
“Really? Then this is walking for walking’s sake? Genuine hikery, in fact?”
“Don’t look so peeved about it. I’d like to explain a whole lot of things, but I can’t.”
“May I ask why not?”
“Because I can’t explain them to myself.”
“A very excellent reason.”
He helped her to negotiate a tumbledown stile which led into the next field.
“Suppose, then,” he said, “that instead of explaining things you just tell me all about yourself and your life here. I can see that you’re wanting to tell someone very much. And if you don’t, what on earth are we going to talk about?”
“There’s the weather and the government and the scenery and the wireless programmes and the latest murder.”
“Thanks. I hear all about them from my landlady.”
“Very well, Captain Henderson.”
“And—I hate to stop you so early in your story—but the war is over and I am no longer a captain. And the name is Jim.”
“Jim?”
“Short, if you really must know, for James. Just call me Jim, though, and possibly, when we get to the top of that hill, I’ll be so short of breath that I’ll have to call you Mary. Righto… Fire ahead.”
“Where d’you want me to start? I’d much rather you asked questions and I answered them. Like an interview with a famous stage star, you know.”
“Right. I came across Miss Carson in a corner of her beautiful old-world garden, nestling a dozen of her favourite Pomeranians in her attractive arms. And now, Miss Carson, how long have you been at Thrackley?”
“Just over a year. Before that I was abroad for nearly four years… ‘finishing’ is the polite name given to it, I think.”
“I know. Living in dirty little pensions with people who insist on talking English when you want to learn French.”
“Exactly. Then my father came to see me—he’s always travelling about, you know—and said that he had bought this place in England and I was to go home and assist in the unveiling ceremony.”
“Did you choose those etchings?”
“Yes. Do you like them?”
“They show great skill on the part of the etcher and greater taste on the part of the buyer. That sounds like a book-reviewer’s sentence, but for all that it’s the truth.”
“Thanks. They cost four guineas for the lot.”
“Business ability as well as taste. Quite remarkable.”
“Mind where you’re putting your feet.”
“Thank you. Extraordinary how careless the cattle are round about here, isn’t it. You’re not getting on with the life story very fast. You paid your bill and madame of the pensions said ‘Ta-ta, love,’ or words to that effect, and you came back to England… and then?”
“Then I opened up Thrackley. I don’t think I realized then how foul and lonely the place was; I suppose I was too busy. My father came down occasionally to see how I was getting on, but I was left very much with a free hand. Any amount of money to spend on the place, and my own ideas about furniture and wallpapers and so on… it was all very good fun.”
“Any amount of money is always very good fun. Must we go right to the top of this damned hill?”
“You can see five counties from the top on a clear day.”
“My favourite ambition. Come on, Mary.”
“Short of breath already?”
“A little.”
“Well, after I’d finished and the last of the plumbers had packed up, I was left alone here. At least, alone with Jacobson
and another servant.”
“I shouldn’t imagine Jacobson would be the brightest of companions.”
“He certainly wasn’t. After a week or so the house got on my nerves, those wretched pine-trees got on my nerves, Jacobson got on my nerves—I felt I should go mad if I stayed at Thrackley a day longer.”
“But why—damn this bracken!—why on earth did you stay?”
“My father had told me that I was to remain at Thrackley until he returned from abroad. And I hadn’t any wish to have him return and find me away from the house. You don’t know him as well as I do.”
“Mr. Carson seems to have very well-developed ideas on the is-woman’s-place-in-the-home question.”
“He’s… a little queer. Most people hate him, I know. And I don’t blame them, I’m afraid. He trusts very few people and I think he wants to bring me up in the same way… meeting just the people he thinks fit for me to meet, and not coming into contact with anyone outside the selected few.”
“I’m very glad I was selected.”
“So am I, Capt—”
“Jim. Short, if you remember, for James.”
“Sorry. That’s why he gets so furious when he learns that I’ve sneaked out down to the village. I suppose he thinks I’ll start telling the proprietrix of the village stores where his precious emeralds and things are hidden.”
“Don’t you think if we left this path and went over that way it wouldn’t be quite so steep?”
“Perhaps you’re right. Well, he came back to Thrackley about two months ago and told me he was going to live here for the next few years.”
“And were you at home when he turned up?”
“Sitting in the lounge ready to welcome him. He’d had the decency to send a wire saying that he had arrived in England.”
“And then?…”
“He pottered about for a week or so, and took down a picture or two that he didn’t approve of, and altered the hanging of the lounge window curtains, and…”
“So far as I could see, the only mistake in an otherwise perfect house. I like my curtains straight up and down; not looped up with cords like the painted ones you see on a theatre proscenium.”
“That’s the way I had them… straight up and down. We’re getting near the top now, Jim.”
“Praise be to Allah for it. Go on, Mary.”
“My father had some workmen in to do some alterations to his study and to the cellars under the house. That’s where his collection of jewels is kept… in the cellars.”
“Queer idea. Have you seen them?”
“Only once. When they were being arranged before being taken down to the cellars. They’re absolutely marvellous—must be worth millions, I suppose. I’ve never been down to the cellars to see them shown off in their cases; as a matter of fact I wouldn’t know how to get down if I tried. Only one person ever goes down there… that’s Father.”
“Rather a shame that such a wonderful collection should be kept for the enjoyment of one man.”
“I don’t think he enjoys them. Perhaps in a way he does… I think he’s obsessed by them. He can’t think of anything but jewels… his conversation is nothing but jewels… he must dream of jewels every night, I should think. Jewels, jewels, jewels… nothing else from morning till night! Do you wonder I gave my one and only string of Ciro pearls to the housekeeper of the pension before I left France?”
They had reached the summit of the hill. The downs stretched themselves out on all sides, and far below the house called Thrackley showed itself as a tiny island of dark green and grey. Its compactness and aloofness seemed even more evident when you gazed on it from this point. A secure little stronghold, closed in by that tall stone wall… and in that stronghold in the dip of these hills lay millions of pounds’ worth of precious stones. Sparkling things for which the world’s dealers and collectors would fight each other and squander their fortunes, which lovely women would covet and rich men wish they could afford to give them… and all in this quiet country house in Surrey, for one man alone to gloat over.
“We’ll have a rest before we go down, shall we?” said Mary Carson.
“A very sensible suggestion.”
They lay back on the soft grass and allowed the sun to beat down on their faces.
“Cigarette?” said Jim.
“Thanks. Another of the things to which my father has a rooted objection.”
“Don’t you ever think of clearing out? Running away from it all, I mean? Life down there isn’t all raspberries and cream from all accounts. I should have knotted the sheets and scaled the wall of the north wing long before now.”
“You don’t know how near I’ve been to doing it… many a time before now.”
“Then why?…”
“I don’t think you’d understand. For one thing, even if I did wish to get out of it all… it would be a mighty difficult thing to arrange. Look at that house down there…”
Jim looked down at Thrackley and thought of Freddie Usher’s plan of vanishing in the early hours of the morning back to London. Yes, he thought: a mighty difficult thing to arrange. Just as well Raoul had been standing at the front door when their car rolled up the drive.
“And I should hate to back out on Father. I know he’s got his faults—more than his share, probably—but he’s been marvellously good to me. It wouldn’t seem right.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hadn’t meant to tell you this, Jim, but as you’ve made me tell you so much I might as well finish the story.”
“If I’ve made you tell anything you didn’t want to… I’m sorry, Mary.”
“You haven’t. I’ve been wanting to talk to someone for months. Do you know I looked over each of my father’s guests as soon as they arrived at Thrackley—-just in the hope that there would be one with whom I could have a chat like this?”
“What a thrill you must have had when you saw me.”
“Sorry—I was still massaging my bike when you arrived.”
“Fate all over. Well…”
“Edwin Carson isn’t my real father.”
Jim Henderson stopped his blowing of small smoke-rings through large smoke-rings. It was one of his most accomplished parlour tricks, but rather more successful in the bar at Graham’s than on the top of a hill like this. He turned and stared at Mary.
“Both my parents died when I was young. Edwin Carson was a great friend of my mother… rather too great a friend, I think… he took care of me and got a nurse and clothed me and sent me to school and then to the Continent. He hasn’t always been a rich man… it must have meant a good deal of sacrifice for him to do all that he has done for me. Somehow I couldn’t just leave him after that.”
“I see.”
They threw their cigarette-stumps away and started the walk down the hill again.
“I’m terribly glad that Edwin Carson isn’t your real father,” said Jim.
“Why?”
“I don’t really know. But up to now it’s been puzzling me to understand how such a lovely daughter could have such a… well, he’s not exactly copperplate, is he?”
“Far from it.”
“And why did he invite all this delightful collection of London’s Bright, if Scarcely Young, Things down to Thrackley this weekend?”
“I think perhaps I’m responsible. He’d realized that I hated Thrackley, and that the loneliness of it was getting on my nerves… naturally he thought of you people to cheer me up.”
“Good Lord! Imagine anyone being cheered by Lady Stone and the Bramptons!”
“The choice of the guests was his, not mine.”
“And why d’you think he hit on us specimens? Did he prod the telephone directory with a pin and send out invitations to wherever it landed?”<
br />
“Not exactly. He’s known all of you slightly at one time or another. And have you noticed one thing that you all have in common?”
“Appetites?”
“And jewellery. The same old obsession. Lady Stone with her rubies, the Brampton girl with that rope of pearls, Raoul with her everything. Even Mr. Usher was asked to bring the Usher diamonds with him.”
“You mean?…”
“He wants to examine them all. Don’t you see that his whole life is devoted to jewels and the study of jewels… he could see no point in asking people down to Thrackley unless they were going to give him some new specimens to stare at and to compare with his own.”
Jim smiled. She did not mean what he had meant.
“And would you mind telling me,” he asked, “why I was included in this glittering array? Taking care, of course, not to put your foot in what I nearly put my foot in on the outward journey.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea why you were invited.”
“Thanks very much. Could it have been my charm, do you think? Or my looks? Or my little impressions of Clara Butt and the Four Marx Brothers, without which no house-party can truly be called a complete success?”
“Perhaps he thought Mr. Usher wouldn’t come without you.”
“An unkind thought. But probably quite true. Careful over this stile.”
They reached the high wall surrounding Thrackley and opened the little gate, and were swallowed once more in the atmosphere of the place. They threaded their way along the little footpath through the trees, and out into the strip of garden. Instead of going into the house at the back, they walked round the side to enter by the front door. The swing doors of the garage were standing open, and a man in dark blue overalls was leaning over the bonnet of the Lagonda inside. Jim stopped and stared at the man… somewhere, at some time or other, he had seen that face before… now where the devil?… The man in the overalls bent back and unscrewed the two catches which held the bonnet of the car down. As he lifted the bonnet up and turned to examine the engine, Jim got a fuller view of his face. No doubt about it… but where?…
Weekend at Thrackley Page 9