They came up the path from the lake very slowly and it just happened that at the moment when Harold's attention was attracted to them, a cloud came over the sun. He shivered a little.
Then he stared. Surely there was something odd about these two women? They had long, curved noses, like birds, and their faces, which were curiously alike, were quite immobile. Over their shoulders they wore loose cloaks that flapped in the wind like the wings of two big birds.
Harold thought to himself. "They are like birds." He added almost without volition, "birds of ill omen."
The women came straight up on the terrace and passed close by him. They were not young – perhaps nearer fifty than forty, and the resemblance between them was so close that they were obviously sisters. Their expression was forbidding. As they passed Harold the eyes of both of them rested on him for a minute. It was a curious, appraising glance – almost inhuman.
Harold's impression of evil grew stronger. He noticed the hand of one of the two sisters, a long claw-like hand… Although the sun had come out, he shivered once again.
He thought: "Horrible creatures. Like birds of prey…"
He was distracted from these imaginings by the emergence of Mrs Rice from the hotel. He jumped up and drew forward a chair. With a word of thanks she sat down and, as usual, began to knit vigorously.
Harold asked: "Did you see those two women who just went into the hotel?"
"With cloaks on? Yes, I passed them."
"Extraordinary creatures, didn't you think?"
"Well – yes, perhaps they are rather odd. They only arrived yesterday, I think. Very alike – they must be twins."
Harold said: "I may be fanciful, but I distinctly felt there was something evil about them."
"How curious. I must look at them more closely and see if I agree with you."
She added: "We'll find out from the concierge who they are. Not English, I imagine?"
"Oh no."
Mrs Rice glanced at her watch.
She said: "Tea-time. I wonder if you'd mind going in and ringing the bell, Mr Waring?"
"Certainly, Mrs Rice."
He did so and then as he returned to his seat he asked: "Where's your daughter this afternoon?"
"Elsie? We went for a walk together. Part of the way round the lake and then back through the pinewoods. It really was lovely."
A waiter came out and received orders for tea. Mrs Rice went on, her needles flying vigorously: "Elsie had a letter from her husband. She mayn't come down to tea."
"Her husband?" Harold was surprised. "Do you know, I always thought she was a widow."
Mrs Rice shot him a sharp glance.
She said dryly: "Oh no, Elsie isn't a widow." She added with emphasis: "Unfortunately!"
Harold was startled.
Mrs Rice, nodding her head grimly, said: "Drink is responsible for a lot of unhappiness, Mr Waring."
"Does he drink?"
"Yes. And a good many other things as well. He's insanely jealous and has a singularly violent temper." She sighed. "It's a difficult world, Mr Waring. I'm devoted to Elsie, she's my only child – and to see her unhappy isn't an easy thing to bear."
Harold said with real emotion: "She's such a gentle creature."
"A little too gentle, perhaps."
"You mean -"
Mrs Rice said slowly: "A happy creature is more arrogant. Elsie's gentleness comes, I think, from a sense of defeat. Life has been too much for her."
Harold said with some slight hesitation: "How – did she come to marry this husband of hers?"
Mrs Rice answered: "Philip Clayton was a very attractive person. He had (still has) great charm, he had a certain amount of money – and there was no one to advise us of his real character. I had been a widow for many years. Two women, living alone, are not the best judges of a man's character."
Harold said thoughtfully: "No, that's true."
He felt a wave of indignation and pity sweep over him. Elsie Clayton could not be more than twenty-five at the most. He recalled the clear friendliness of her blue eyes, the soft droop of her mouth. He realised, suddenly, that his interest in her went a little beyond friendship.
And she was tied to a brute…
II
That evening, Harold joined mother and daughter after dinner. Elsie Clayton was wearing a soft dull pink dress. Her eyelids, he noticed, were red. She had been crying.
Mrs Rice said briskly: "I've found out who your two harpies are, Mr Waring. Polish ladies – of very good family, so the concierge says."
Harold looked across the room to where the Polish ladies were sitting.
Elsie said with interest: "Those two women over there? With the henna-dyed hair? They look rather horrible somehow – I don't know why."
Harold said triumphantly: "That's just what I thought."
Mrs Rice said with a laugh: "I think you are both being absurd. You can't possibly tell what people are like just by looking at them."
Elsie laughed.
She said: "I suppose one can't. All the same I think they're vultures!"
"Picking out dead men's eyes!" said Harold.
"Oh, don't," cried Elsie.
Harold said quickly: "Sorry."
Mrs Rice said with a smile: "Anyway they're not likely to cross our path."
Elsie said: "We haven't got any guilty secrets!"
"Perhaps Mr Waring has," said Mrs Rice with a twinkle.
Harold laughed, throwing his head back.
He said: "Not a secret in the world. My life's an open book." And it flashed across his mind: "What fools people are who leave the straight path. A clear conscience – that's all one needs in life. With that you can face the world and tell everyone who interferes with you to go to the devil!"
He felt suddenly very much alive – very strong – very much master of his fate!
III
Harold Waring, like many other Englishmen, was a bad linguist. His French was halting and decidedly British in intonation. Of German and Italian he knew nothing.
Up to now, these linguistic disabilities had not worried him. In most hotels on the Continent, he had always found, everyone spoke English, so why worry?
But in this out-of-the-way spot, where the native language was a form of Slovak and even the concierge only spoke German it was sometimes galling to Harold when one of his two women friends acted as interpreter for him. Mrs Rice, who was fond of languages, could even speak a little Slovak.
Harold determined that he would set about learning German. He decided to buy some text books and spend a couple of hours each morning in mastering the language.
The morning was fine and after writing some letters, Harold looked at his watch and saw there was still time for an hour's stroll before lunch. He went down towards the lake and then turned aside into the pine woods. He had walked there for perhaps five minutes when he heard an unmistakable sound. Somewhere not far away a woman was sobbing her heart out.
Harold paused a minute, then he went in the direction of the sound. The woman was Elsie Clayton and was she sitting on a fallen tree with her face buried in her hands and her shoulders quivering with the violence of her grief.
Harold hesitated a minute, then he came up to her.
He said gently: "Mrs Clayton – Elsie?"
She started violently and looked up at him. Harold sat down beside her.
He said with real sympathy: "Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"
She shook her head.
"No – no – you're very kind. But there's nothing any one can do for me."
Harold said rather diffidently: "Is it to do with – your husband?"
She nodded. Then she wiped her eyes and took out her powder compact, struggling to regain command of herself.
She said in a quavering voice: "I didn't want Mother to worry. She's so upset when she sees me unhappy. So I came out here to have a good cry. It's silly, I know. Crying doesn't help. But – sometimes – one just feels that life is quite unbearable
."
Harold said: "I'm terribly sorry."
She threw him a grateful glance. Then she said hurriedly: "It's my own fault, of course. I married Philip of my own free will. It – it's turned out badly, I've only myself to blame."
Harold said: "It's very plucky of you to put it like that."
Elsie shook her head. "No, I'm not plucky. I'm not brave at all. I'm an awful coward. That's partly the trouble with Philip. I'm terrified of him – absolutely terrified – when he gets in one of his rages."
Harold said with feeling: "You ought to leave him!"
"I daren't. He – he wouldn't let me."
"Nonsense! What about a divorce?"
She shook her head slowly. "I've no grounds." She straightened her shoulders. "No, I've got to carry on. I spend a fair amount of time with Mother, you know. Philip doesn't mind that. Especially when we go somewhere off the beaten track like this."
She added, the colour rising in her cheeks, "You see, part of the trouble is that he's insanely jealous. If – if I so much as speak to another man he makes the most frightful scenes."
Harold's indignation rose. He had heard many women complain of the jealousy of a husband, and whilst professing sympathy, had been secretly of the opinion that the husband was amply justified. But Elsie Clayton wasn't one of those women. She had never thrown him so much as a flirtatious glance.
Elsie drew away from him with a slight shiver. She glanced up at the sky.
"The sun's gone in. It's quite cold. We'd better get back to the hotel. It must be nearly lunch time."
They got up and turned in the direction of the hotel. They had walked for perhaps a minute when they overtook a figure going in the same direction. They recognised her by the flapping cloak she wore. It was one of the Polish sisters.
They passed her, Harold bowing slightly. She made no response but her eyes rested on them both for a minute and there was a certain appraising quality in the glance which made Harold feel suddenly hot. He wondered if the woman had seen him sitting by Elsie on the tree trunk. If so, she probably thought…
Well, she looked as though she thought… A wave of indignation overwhelmed him! What foul minds some women had!
Odd that the sun had gone in and that they should both have shivered – perhaps just at the moment that that woman was watching them…
Somehow, Harold felt a little uneasy.
IV
That evening, Harold went to his room a little after ten. The English mail had arrived and he had received a number of letters, some of which needed immediate answers.
He got into his pyjamas and a dressing-gown and sat down at the desk to deal with his correspondence. He had written three letters and was just starting on the fourth when the door was suddenly flung open and Elsie Clayton staggered into the room.
Harold jumped up, startled. Elsie had pushed the door to behind her and was standing clutching at the chest of drawers. Her breath was coming in great gasps, her face was the colour of chalk. She looked frightened to death.
She gasped out: "It's my husband! He arrived unexpectedly. I – I think he'll kill me. He's mad – quite mad. I came to you. Don't – don't let him find me."
She took a step or two forward, swaying so much that she almost fell. Harold put out an arm to support her.
As he did so, the door was flung open and a man stood in the doorway. He was of medium height with thick eyebrows and a sleek, dark head. In his hand he carried a heavy car spanner. His voice rose high and shook with rage. He almost screamed the words.
"So that Polish woman was right! You are carrying on with this fellow!"
Elsie cried: "No, no, Philip. It's not true. You're wrong."
Harold thrust the girl swiftly behind him, as Philip Clayton advanced on them both. The latter cried: "Wrong, am I? When I find you here in his room? You she-devil. I'll kill you for this."
With a swift, sideways movement he dodged Harold's arm. Elsie, with a cry, ran round the other side of Harold, who swung round to fend the other off.
But Philip Clayton had only one idea, to get at his wife. He swerved round again. Elsie, terrified, rushed out of the room. Philip Clayton dashed after her, and Harold, with not a moment's hesitation, followed him.
Elsie had darted back into her own bedroom at the end of the corridor. Harold could hear the sound of the key turning in the lock, but it did not turn in time. Before the lock could catch Philip Clayton wrenched the door open. He disappeared into the room and Harold heard Elsie's frightened cry. In another minute Harold burst in after them.
Elsie was standing at bay against the curtains of the window. As Harold entered Philip Clayton rushed at her brandishing the spanner. She gave a terrified cry, then snatching up a heavy paper-weight from the desk beside her, she flung it at him.
Clayton went down like a log. Elsie screamed. Harold stopped petrified in the doorway. The girl fell on her knees beside her husband. He lay quite still where he had fallen.
Outside in the passage, there was the sound of the bolt of one of the doors being drawn back. Elsie jumped up and ran to Harold.
"Please – please -" Her voice was low and breathless. "Go back to your room. They'll come – they'll find you here."
Harold nodded. He took in the situation like lightning. For the moment, Philip Clayton was hors de combat. But Elsie's scream might have been heard. If he were found in her room it could only cause embarrassment and misunderstanding. Both for her sake and his own there must be no scandal.
As noiselessly as possible, he sprinted down the passage and back into his room. Just as he reached it, he heard the sound of an opening door.
He sat in his room for nearly half an hour, waiting. He dared not go out. Sooner or later, he felt sure, Elsie would come.
There was a light tap on his door. Harold jumped up to open it.
It was not Elsie who came in but her mother and Harold was aghast at her appearance. She looked suddenly years older. Her grey hair was dishevelled and there were deep black circles under her eyes.
He sprang up and helped her to a chair. She sat down, her breath coming painfully.
Harold said quickly: "You look all in, Mrs Rice. Can I get you something?"
She shook her head. "No. Never mind me. I'm all right, really. It's only the shock. Mr Waring, a terrible thing has happened."
Harold asked: "Is Clayton seriously injured?"
She caught her breath. "Worse than that. He's dead…"
V
The room spun round.
A feeling as of icy water trickling down his spine rendered Harold incapable of speech for a moment or two.
He repeated dully: "Dead?"
Mrs Rice nodded.
She said, and her voice had the flat level tones of complete exhaustion: "The corner of that marble paperweight caught him right on the temple and he fell back with his head on the iron fender. I don't know which it was that killed him – but he is certainly dead. I have seen death often enough to know."
Disaster – that was the word that rang insistently in Harold's brain. Disaster, disaster, disaster…
He said vehemently: "It was an accident… I saw it happen."
Mrs Rice said sharply: "Of course it was an accident. I know that. But – but – is any one else going to think so? I'm – frankly, I'm frightened, Harold! This isn't England."
Harold said slowly: "I can confirm Elsie's story."
Mrs Rice said: "Yes, and she can confirm yours. That – that is just it!"
Harold's brain, naturally a keen and cautious one, saw her point. He reviewed the whole thing and appreciated the weakness of their position.
He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then there was the fact that they had been seen together in the pinewoods by one of the Polish women under rather compromising circumstances. The Polish ladies apparently spoke no English, but they might nevertheless understand it a little. The woman might have known the meaning of words like "jealously" and "husband" if she had chanced
to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was something she had said to Clayton that had aroused his jealousy. And now – his death. When Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie Clayton's room. There was nothing to show that he had not deliberately assaulted Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing to show that the jealous husband had not actually found them together. There was only his word and Elsie's. Would they be believed?
A cold fear gripped him.
He did not imagine – no, he really did not imagine – that either he or Elsie was in danger of being condemned to death for a murder they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could only be a charge of manslaughter brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter in these foreign countries?) But even if they were acquitted of blame there would have to be an enquiry – it would be reported in all the papers. An English man and woman accused – jealous husband – rising politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would never survive a scandal like that.
He said on an impulse: "Can't we get rid of the body somehow? Plant it somewhere?"
Mrs Rice's astonished and scornful look made him blush.
She said incisively: "My dear Harold, this isn't a detective story! To attempt a thing like that would be quite crazy."
"I suppose it would." He groaned. "What can we do? My God, what can we do?"
Mrs Rice shook her head despairingly. She was frowning, her mind working painfully.
Harold demanded: "Isn't there anything we can do? Anything to avoid this frightful disaster?"
There, it was out – disaster! Terrible – unforeseen – utterly damning.
They stared at each other.
Mrs Rice said hoarsely: "Elsie – my little girl. I'd do anything… It will kill her if she has to go through a thing like this." And she added: "You too, your career – everything."
Harold managed to say: "Never mind me."
But he did not really mean it.
Mrs Rice went on bitterly: "And all so unfair – so utterly untrue! It's not as though there had ever been anything between you. I know that well enough."
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