The Catherine Wheel

by Patricia Wentworth

  “I thought I’d ask John about the Challoner place. He says the entrance is about a hundred yards farther on.”

  Her little quick frown of surprise came and went unnoticed in the dusk.

  “You’re very interested in the Challoners, aren’t you?”

  Jeremy said nothing. He was watching for a pair of tall stone pillars. When they loomed up he slowed the car right down. They hardly broke the encroaching darkness. Iron gates held the space between. Something like an eagle topped the right-hand pillar. The left-hand capital was broken and the bird gone. A few stunted trees and huddled shrubs made a black background. Jeremy whistled and said,

  “Poor old Jack!” And then, with a laugh, “Better him than me.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The old Catherine-Wheel loomed up on the edge of the cliff, like a bank of cloud. Someone had set a lantern on the wide flagstones in front of the door. There was something dazzling about that circle of light in what was now a dusk so deep as to be more bewildering than actual darkness. There was moss between the flagstones. One of them was cracked in a black jagged line running cornerways. The crack glistened under the light as if a snail had crawled there. The house stood up, an irregular bulk.

  Now that they were out of the car, the sound of the sea came to them. They stood on the cracked flagstone. Jeremy pulled the bell. Almost at once the door was opened. The man who stood back from it appeared in silhouette against the light of an oil lamp which hung from the ceiling. Jeremy looked, frowned, and said,

  “Miller, isn’t it-Al Miller?”

  And then, as the man turned and the yellow glow struck across the right side of his face, he wasn’t so sure. There was a very strong likeness, but this man had a different manner- hardier, bolder, more assured. He was wearing a waiter’s grey linen jacket. There was the least trace of a laugh in his voice as he said,

  “No, I’m not Al. The name is White-Luke White.”

  Jeremy remembered that Luke Taverner had left assorted offspring unrecognized by the law. This was probably some irregular descendant come home to roost. The whole thing took on an added shade of fishiness as he grasped Jane by the arm and followed Luke White along an extremely narrow passage. Jeremy had the idea that it might have been convenient in the smuggling past. It was noticeable that the narrowness had, as it were, been ministered to and increased by such things as a very large stand for coats and hats and a great awkward chest. Where a flight of rather steep stairs ran up the passage widened into a small hall with doors opening to left and right. The right-hand door was ajar, and from the room beyond there came the sound of voices. Luke pushed the door and stood aside to let them pass.

  They came into a fair-sized, fusty room with curtains drawn, oil-lamps adding their flavour to a smell compounded of old drinks, old smoke, old heavy furnishings. There was an immense stuffed fish in a glass case over the mantelshelf flanked by two very large blue china vases. There were framed oleographs of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort. There was a long table with drinks.

  Jacob Taverner sat on the arm of a chair by the fire with a glass of whisky and water in his hand. The entire cousinhood were assembled, and in the midst of them stood Mr. Fogarty Castell, diffusing an aroma of cigars and extreme gratification at this happy reunion of his wife’s relations.

  Jane and Jeremy were barely allowed to greet Jacob before Fogarty had them each by a hand.

  “Captain Taverner-Miss Heron-I cannot at all express how delighted I am! My wife’s relations are my relations. Ah-not to intrude, you understand. No, no, no, no, no-a thousand times-but to welcome, to serve, to entertain, to offer the hospitality of the house. What will you drink-Miss Heron-Captain Jeremy-on this auspicious occasion? You are the guests of our friend Mr. Taverner-everything is on the house. A whisky-soda-a pink gin-a cocktail? I make the very good cocktail.” He gave a deep-throated chuckle. “There is one I call the Smugglair’s Dream. You will try it-yes-please? Very appropriate, do you not think, since this was a great haunt of smugglairs a hundred years ago. It is a joke-not? I will tell you something, my friends. If you have a shady past, do not cover it up-make a feature of it. Here are your Smugglair’s Dreams. As for my wife, your Cousin Annie, accept for the moment my excuses. We are very short-handed-she is in the kitchen. Oh, but what a cook! What a fortune to marry a woman who cooks like Annie Castell! Is it any wonder that I adore her?” He spoke over his shoulder to Luke White. “Where is that Eily? Send her to me quick! The ladies will wish to go to their rooms. Where is she?”

  “Not in, guvnor.”

  “Not in? Why is she not in?”

  “Mrs. Castell sent her out for somethin’ she wanted.”

  Jane and Jeremy stood back and watched. The round beaming face with its dark skin and small bright eyes had changed like a landscape overtaken by storm-darkness suffused by anger. The fat, paunchy body balancing jauntily upon small carefully shod feet had become taut. He looked as if he might do some barbaric thing-scream, spring, shout, dash down a glass and stamp his heel upon it. And then all at once the effect was gone. The large face beamed again, the voice was rich with good humour and with its own peculiar blend of accents.

  “Ah, my wife Annie-no one can have every virtue. She is an artist, and the artist does not think beforehand-he does not plan, he does not say, ‘I shall do this or that.’ He waits for his inspiration, and when it comes he must have what he needs for the masterpiece. Annie will without doubt have had an inspiration.” He bounded from the room.

  Jane felt a little sorry for Annie. She hadn’t cared very much for that moment of threatened storm. She saw Jeremy go and speak to Florence Duke, and was herself caught hold of by Marian Thorpe-Ennington.

  “Jane-you are Jane, aren’t you? I’m so dreadfully bad at names.”

  “Yes-Jane Heron.”

  Lady Marian gazed at her soulfully.

  “And the man you came in with?”

  “Jeremy Taverner.”

  “You’re not married to him-or divorced, or anything? I mean, it’s so much better to know straight away, isn’t it, instead of suddenly saying something one shouldn’t, and always at the worst possible moment. I’m always doing it, and Freddy hates it, poor sweet. Oh, you haven’t met him yet, have you? Freddy, this is my cousin Jane Heron.”

  Freddy Thorpe-Ennington had been leaning mournfully against the mantelpiece sipping the last of a series of Smuggler’s Dreams. He had a vague impression-he had reached the stage when all his impressions were vague-that the world was full of creditors and relations, and that it might be a good plan to put his head down on somebody’s shoulder and burst into tears. He was a small fair man, and, when sober, very kindly and confiding. At the moment he was so obviously beyond the reach of conversation that Jane went and sat down beside Jacob Taverner.

  “So you’ve come,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Jeremy didn’t want you to.”

  “No.”

  “What brought you?”

  Jane said, “That.”

  “And the hundred pounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do anything for a hundred pounds?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “Not anything-reasonable things.”

  “As what?”

  “Coming down here.”

  He gave a small dry chuckle.

  “Thus far and no farther-is that it?”

  She looked at him. It was a look that was at once smiling and cool. He was reminded of a child bathing, a bare foot exploring cold water to see just how cold it was. He thought she would go a little farther if she were tempted. He said,

  “Well, well, let’s talk about something else.”

  “What shall we talk about?”

  “Your grandfather, Acts Taverner. How much did you really know of him?”

  Jane said soberly, “I lived with him.” Something in her voice said, “I loved him,” though she didn’t use the words.

  Jacob was quick in the uptake. He nodded.


  “Ever tell you stories about the old place?”

  “Yes-lots of them.”

  “As what? Suppose you tell me some of them.”

  He was aware that she withdrew.

  “Why do you want to know, Cousin Jacob?”

  He chuckled again.

  “Well, I’ve given up business-I must have something to do. I might have a fancy to write down all I can get hold of about the old family place. It would make quite good reading. What did Acts tell you?”

  She answered without any hesitation.

  “He said there was a lot of smuggling in the old days, and it went on right down to his father’s time. He used to tell me stories of how they outwitted the customs officers.”

  Jacob nodded.

  “Quite a lot of that sort of thing in the eighteenth century, and well on into Victoria’s reign. There was a lot of lace, and silk, and French brandy landed all along this coast.”

  “How did they do it?”

  All this time she was in the lap of the chair, and he on the arm looking down at her. He cocked his head sideways and said,

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  Jane looked about her. Everyone was talking hard except Freddy Thorpe-Ennington, who propped the mantelpiece and gazed at his now empty glass after the manner of a medium consulting the crystal. Whatever he saw, it had no reassuring effect. He appeared drowned in gloom, and at intervals shook his head in a despondent manner.

  Jane dropped her voice.

  “He said something about a passage from the shore-”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said nobody would find it unless they were shown. He said that it had beaten the Preventive men time out of mind. That’s what they called the customs officers in the eighteenth century.”

  “And a good bit after. Well, this is getting interesting. Go on.”

  Jane’s eyes widened.

  “There isn’t any more.”

  “Didn’t he tell you where the passage came out?”

  “On the shore.”

  “But this end-didn’t he tell you that?”

  “I don’t suppose he knew. They wouldn’t tell the children.”

  Jacob cackled.

  “Surprising what children’ll know without being told. Sure that’s all he told you?”

  Jane smiled sweetly.

  “I expect he was making most of it up anyhow. He used to tell me a bit of a story every night after I was in bed. Sometimes it was dragons, and sometimes it was pirates, and sometimes it was smugglers. And of course it made it much more exciting to hang the stories on to a real place like the Catherine-Wheel-”

  The door opened and Fogarty Castell came into the room with a bounce. He had a girl by the shoulder.

  It was the girl who had been walking with John Higgins on the cliff road. Without the frieze coat and the handkerchief over her head she could be seen to have a slim figure and a lot of black hair drawn up into a knot at the back of her head. She wore a dark blue indoor dress, and her eyes were exactly the same colour. She was extremely pretty but at the moment rather pale. Behind the black lashes the eyes had a startled look.

  Fogarty Castell took her up to Lady Marian, to Florence Duke, to Mildred Taverner. He kept his hand on her shoulder.

  Jacob finished his drink and said drily,

  “Fills the room, doesn’t he? A bit of a mountebank, our Cousin Annie’s husband. But why not? It pleases him so much more than it hurts us. Half Irish, half Portuguese-and under all that nonsense quite an efficient manager. And here he comes.”

  He came up with a flourish.

  “This is Eily Fogarty-me grandmother Fogarty’s second cousin twice removed, but she calls me uncle, and she calls your Cousin Annie aunt, seeing it’s all the uncles and aunts she’s got, and all the fathers and mothers too. And if there’s anything you or the other ladies are wanting, you’ll ring your bells and Eily will see to it. Or if you’d like to go to your rooms-”

  Jane felt quite suddenly that she had had enough of Jacob Taverner. She said, “Yes, I would,” and saw the look in Eily’s eyes change to relief. She thought, “She was afraid I was going to say I had seen her before.” And then she was out of her chair and crossing the room.

  The door closed behind them, and they went up the stair. Eily said in a quick whisper,

  “You didn’t say you’d seen me?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “Aren’t you supposed to go out with John Higgins?”

  “No-no-I’m not.”

  “Why?”

  They had come out on a square landing. There was a side passage with four irregular steps going up to it-doors on either side of it, and a passage going off to the left-two steps up, and two steps down again farther along. All very bewildering.

  Eily turned into the right-hand passage. At the top of the steps she opened a door, disclosing a large gloomy bathroom with worn brown linoleum on the floor and a painted Victorian bath profusely stained with rust and furnished with a broad mahogany surround.

  “It’s the little room next door I’ve given you. Lady Marian and her husband are beyond, and Captain Jeremy and Mrs. Duke and Miss Taverner opposite.”

  She stood aside to let Jane enter a small room almost entirely taken up with a very large double bed. It was lighted, like the bathroom, by a wall-lamp which diffused a warm oily smell. It was a forbidding little room. A battered chest of drawers painted mustard yellow, a tarnished looking-glass standing on it, two chairs, and a shabby washstand, were all the furniture. There was a huge flowered ewer in a small plain basin. Half a dozen rickety hooks behind a yard or two of limp chintz supplied the only hanging accommodation. The window curtains of the same material swayed in an unseen draught. The pattern of the carpet had long ago been obliterated by dirt and age.

  Eily shut the door and said,

  “It’s no place for you at all. John said to tell you that.”

  Jane had so much of the same feeling herself that she found this rather undermining. She put out a quick thought in the direction of the hundred pounds, and said with spirit,

  “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? What’s the difference?”

  Eily said in her pretty, mournful voice,

  “He doesn’t like my being here.”

  “Then why do you stay?”

  “I can’t be leaving Aunt Annie.” A pause, and then after a dreadful sigh, “I’d not dare. He’d have me back.”

  Then, before Jane could say anything at all, she was gone, opening the door and slipping out without any sound.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jane was drying her hands, when there was a knock on the door. As soon as she said, “Come in!” Jeremy was in the room. He shut the door, came up close, and said,

  “We’re just staying as we are. I suppose you’re getting into a dress.”

  “I thought I’d better.”

  “All right-hurry! There’s a little room half way down the stairs-I’ll meet you there. Don’t take too long over the face- it’s quite good as it is.” And then he was gone again.

  Jane hung up her suit on two of the hooks behind the limp curtain, improved the face, slipped on a grey dress with an amusing rose-coloured curlicue coming down off the left shoulder, and went down to the little room on the half-way landing.

  She found Jeremy walking up and down like a hyena in a cage.

  “Why do women take hours to do the simplest things?”

  “Darling, they don’t. What is it?”

  “What is what?”

  “Why the assignation?”

  “I had to see you.”

  “You are seeing me.”

  “Jane-what were you talking about to Jacob Taverner?”

  “Gramp’s bedside stories.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said there was one about a passage from the shore.”

  “Was there?”

  She nodded.

  “What did Jacob say?”

  “Wanted to know where
it came out this end. So I said I didn’t suppose Gramp knew and sheered off. And then Eily came in with Castell.”

  Jeremy said, “Look here, he asked me the same sort of thing. Did my grandfather tell me stories about the old place-if he did, what stories?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I spread a fairly thick fog.”

  She dropped her voice to a whisper.

  “What did your grandfather say?”

  “Lots of things. What did yours?”

  “That’s telling.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell?”

  “Not unless you do-and not here-not now.”

  “Why not?”

  They had been standing quite close together, his arm half round her. Now he drew away frowning.

  “Because I don’t like this place. You’ve no business to be here.”

  “Jeremy-really!”

  “Jane, we’ve got to clear out tomorrow. We ought never to have come.”

  “Yes, darling-you’ve said all that before. Do you know, I’ve got a sort of feeling that I might get bored if you don’t stop soon.”

  He gloomed.

  “There are worse things than being bored. If ever I saw a bad lot in my life, it’s that fellow Luke White. The man Castell is an offensive bounder, and that girl Eily looks scared to death. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it’s something shady, and we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Jane opened the door and walked out. Jeremy had all the makings of a trampling bully, and she had no intention of being his door-mat.

  She said, “Good-bye, darling,” and waited for Florence Duke who was coming down the stairs. She had caught only a glimpse of her when they arrived, and she had thought there was something odd about her colour. She couldn’t very well turn pale, but the heavy red in her cheeks had a curious undershade of purple. She now wore a remarkable garment of very bright red silk profusely patterned with pink and green. It was rather tight and rather short, and it had seen fresher days.

  As they went down the stairs together, a cloud of strong pungent scent accompanied them. Jane was just thinking that she really preferred paraffin, when Florence said under her breath,