by Lynn Brock
He supposed he’d never get rid of Mawjery now. Thirty—and plainer every time he looked at her. None of the young chaps at the hotel took the slightest notice of her. As long as he lived he would be saddled with her sulks and her scraping. Christ—what a prospect for a chap …
However—one good job—he had a bedroom to himself again now. When Emma got up at six o’clock in the morning, now, he didn’t hear her banging and thumping about the room like a hippopotamus. She had started that business up here, now, found out some oily-voiced canoodler or other, he supposed, like that beggar in Rockwood she used to go to confession to. Damn keen about him, too, evidently. No joke riding a bicycle on these dark, cold mornings.
He thought a good deal about Emma’s bicycle. She had bought it without saying anything to him about it—solely, it seemed, for the purpose of her early church-goings—the church to which she went being some distance outside the town, along the Leatherhead Road. He had made no reference to it—though perhaps he should have said something about its being unwise for her to ride a bicycle with her heart. But, anyhow, it would have been quite useless to have said anything—only have led to a row. It was her own look-out.
There was no doubt that riding a bicycle on a cold morning might very easily bring on one of those attacks of hers. It was all very well to say to yourself that you oughtn’t to think of such a thing—but one morning Emma might fall off her bicycle and die on the London road. Funny to think about that—Emma being dead. What would one do—?
Sometimes Mr Prossip’s meditations upon his wife’s bicycle caused him regret, and one day he surprised her by entering her room—she had spent most of her time in her bedroom since her arrival at the Deepford—and embracing her with tears in his eyes. She concluded, however, that he had had too much whisky and, disengaging herself from his hold frigidly, went on burnishing her nails. After that he thought about her bicycle as entirely her own look-out.
One day towards the end of October he received a disagreeable reminder of a matter which had begun to fade into the somewhat musty twilight in which he kept the things that were a damn nuisance to remember. A threatening scrawl arrived from Agatha Judd.
Ivanhoe,
Abbey Road
Rockwood, Dunpool.
MR PROSSIP—As you havint kept your promise im writing to say that if you dont let me have a hundered pounds by return ill go to Guilford and inform your wife of your conduc to me mind i mean what I say dont think im a fool or because im a poor servant girl you can put it across me and throw me to one side after runing me for life i have friens who will see that im treated fair and square and unless you want to see me landing into your hotel and exposing you to your wife and everyone you better come down here and bring the money with you in cash mind as I want no cheques or any more trouble about it having trouble enough god knows which you are the cause of so youd better come to Rockwood and meet me somewhere if not ill go up to Guilford this day week as certain as im writing these words so now no more for the present but behave like a gentleman and there will be no more about it you can rely on it.—Agatha.
Mr Prossip drank a great many whiskies and sodas and found courage to do nothing until, two days later, he received a telegram:
NOT HAVING HEARD FROM
YOU GOING GUILFORD SATURDAY.
His nerve went and he wired a reply arranging a meeting at half-past seven on the evening of that day—a Thursday—at the junction of Abbey and Durston Roads. He reached Dunpool a little before seven and arrived at the place of rendezvous in a taxi a minute before the arranged time.
The interview which followed was brief and, for Mr Prossip, extremely unpleasant. He had gulped down two large whiskies in the restaurant at the terminus and when Agatha, having greeted him with an amicable ‘Hullo,’ turned and went back along Abbey Road, he followed her unsuspectingly, trying to recall the little oration which he had composed in the train. But he could only think of bits of it, here and there.
‘Now, my girl,’ he began, when she had slackened pace a little and he was level with her again, ‘this is a very serious business, you know. Very serious.’
What came after that?
‘Very serious. I don’t know whether you are aware that when you wrote me that letter you were committing a very serious criminal offence. In fact, a crime. Perhaps you are not aware that the punishment for—’
‘Oh, come off it,’ snapped Agatha contemptuously. ‘Have you brought the money? That’s what I want to know.’
‘Now, my good girl, don’t speak to me like that. And I may as well tell you that the first thing you’ve got to do is to get it out of your head that because, for your own sake, I’ve come all the way down here from Guildford to have a talk with you—’
Agatha turned towards the road and called, ‘Jim. I want you.’ A figure emerged from the gates of a house at the opposite side and, moving obliquely and very rapidly, cut off Mr Prossip’s retreat to Durston Road. The newcomer, a husky young man in a tight-fitting jacket which he buttoned with leisurely menace, spat preparatorily.
‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what about it, cocky? Brought that stuff along all right, eh?’
Mr Prossip decided to make a bolt for it and received a blow on his jaw which sent him reeling against the low railing which separated the footpath from the bordering shrubbery. He was jerked into erectness again and held by one of Jim’s hands while the other punched his face and his body several times. While a car passed his throat was imprisoned in a grip of steel. He was whimpering a little when he produced a little wad of notes from his breast-pocket and handed them over to Agatha in dizzy silence. She counted them, puffing with anger.
‘Ten quid? What’s this for, you dirty dog?’
She slapped his face. He was punched again and kicked excruciatingly as he tried to rise to his feet. When they were satisfied that nothing more was to be got from him, they left him with the warning that they had only begun with him, and went off laughing, towards Durston Road. Mr Prossip, leaning against the railings, saw them turn the corner, two bobbing, derisive silhouettes, and then, while he endeavoured to climb the railings in search of his hat, was violently sick.
He found his hat at length and tried to decide what he would do. In the expectation that he would catch the 8.40 back to Reading, he had brought nothing with him for the night; but he couldn’t face the train and the Deepford and Emma with his face in the state which he felt it was in. It felt like a huge, bursting bruise; his nose was still bleeding, and at least one of his eyes, he was sure, was already black. Of course, he could go to the flat in Downview Road; but he had left the key with old Knayle’s man, and he didn’t want old Knayle to see him in that state. There was still some loose silver in his trousers pockets. He would find some small hotel.
In a public-house in Rockwood he had two more large whiskies and then remembered a girl who had had a room over a small shop in Gorrall Road. A quiet girl with a cough. Perhaps she would be able to do something for his face.
CHAPTER VIII
1
AT first Whalley kept watch from the road, crossing from side to side whenever he heard anyone approaching and avoiding the light of the lamp near the gates. At the hour upon which he had decided—from half-past six to half-past seven—Abbey Road was almost completely deserted. But, since his movements were necessarily limited and retraced always the same short stretches of footpath, they began very quickly to seem to him conspicuous, even when there was no one to observe them. The figures which emerged from the gates (he had been right, he found, in surmising that the servants went out about seven o’clock on their evenings of liberty) emerged at a smart pace and went off towards Durston Road rapidly, looking neither to right nor left. The interests of an evening off lay ahead of them, down in the city. Which of them, as it came down the drive, had turned towards the laurels? It would be much easier and simpler to wait in there—wait where he would wait.
On the third evening of his vigil—a Thursday evening—as he sat o
n a little heap of twigs in the pungent darkness of the shrubbery, Agatha Judd came down the drive with one of the men-servants. He recognised her voice; she was talking about a dog which had been run over. He looked at his watch. Twenty-five past seven.
He waited in his hiding-place until her shrill chatter died away, tempted to follow. The important thing was to discover at what hour she returned to the house. If, as was probable, she was bound for one of the cinemas, the intervening time could be spent there, near her, keeping her in sight. But, on the other hand, perhaps she was going to her home or to some other house—or going to meet someone. It would be necessary to keep watch on the house or loiter behind her along brightly-lighted roads—perhaps only to see her carried off by a ’bus. It was far simpler and far easier to wait there, at the point to which she must return.
He waited for nearly four hours, lighting one cigarette from another to avoid the striking of a match. Few people passed along the road; sometimes for half an hour no one passed. He listened to the footsteps as they approached and receded, picturing their owners vaguely. Every pair of feet made a different noise. It was chill and damp under the laurels. In collecting the twigs for his seat his hands had become smeared with cold, clammy earth, and their palms and fingers stiffened after a little while. Occasionally he sat up a little and drew his overcoat closer to his body, then bent forward again, his elbows resting on his knees.
At eight o’clock a car came down the drive and, as it turned the curve, the beam of its lamps found its way into his hiding-place and, for an instant, flooded it with daylight. From his ankles upward he remained in darkness, but the ends of his trousers and his boots were brightly illuminated. For an instant he saw the boots with satisfaction. They looked immense—utterly unlike any other boots he had ever worn. He had bought them some days before in a little second-hand shop in east Dunpool, kept by an old Jew with a large wen on his neck over which a few straggling grey hairs crawled. Immense—gigantic. He had had to put on a second pair of socks to prevent them from slopping as he walked. The heel of one of them rested, he had time to see, on a large stone half buried in the clay and twigs. Then was back in a darkness darker and chillier than before. The car passed on, sounding its deep Klaxon warningly as it passed out through the gates. The Grevilles going to dine somewhere.
A long time after, someone came down the drive, smoking a cigar. Its fragrance came in under the laurels after he had passed, soured a little by their pungency, but still a fragrance. A good cigar. The smoker walked slowly—stood awhile at the gate, cleared his throat, and then went back slowly.
A dog came up the drive, questing—growled, went out through the gates again growling. It was high tide down in the river; the sirens and whistles blew continuously.
A quarter-past nine—
A little after ten someone came up the drive, hiccoughed, threw a cigarette end in among the bushes and went on towards the house, muttering to himself. The man-servant who had gone out with her, probably.
A quarter past—twenty past—not half-past yet.
He laughed savagely. If Elsa who had known him as he had always been for her, saw him now—sitting there on a heap of twigs, hiding under the shrubs.
Her feet had passed up and down the drive many times. Many times she had passed the place where he sat now, hiding under the bushes. The annihilation of everything that he had seemed to her filled him with a murderous fury, and his clenched hands rose above his head as it dropped to his raised knees. He sat motionless, his heart beat thundering in his ears, a mere desire to kill.
Why wait?
In a few minutes, now, she must come. Why not now, in a few minutes, and finish with her?
Was it certain that she would go out always on Thursday evenings just because she had gone out this Thursday evening? If she came back at eleven tonight, she might come back at ten next Thursday night. There would be more long hours of waiting there—never any greater certainty than that of now.
Why not now?
But he sat up again and tightened his overcoat about him once more. He wasn’t ready—he hadn’t come prepared. His plan must be carried out exactly as he had conceived it. The first blow must silence that shrill voice of hers for ever.
Why hadn’t he brought it? He had thought of bringing it, so as to grow accustomed to the feel of it in the sleeve of his overcoat—
That stone—where had he seen it? Under the heel of one boot.
As he bent forward, groping over the wet clay with numb fingers, he heard her coming—hard, hurrying little heels that were already at the gates—through the gates—in the drive. She was whistling, the little evil devil, with those mocking lips of hers …
2
He turned into Durston Road and stopped to light a cigarette. It was a quiet suburban road, whose lamps were separated by a distance of over fifty yards, but by comparison with Abbey Road it was brilliantly lighted. He was in the open now. He must accustom himself again to being seen.
Along Abbey Road all his faculties had been occupied in watchful scrutiny of the darkness ahead of him and behind him, and in struggling with the impulse to run. But now thought began to emerge through thoughtless instinct. As he lighted his cigarette he noted that the hand which held the match was perfectly steady and that, though it was vaguely painful, it had not been cut in any way. As he had come along Abbey Road he had brushed his overcoat with his gloves and scraped the clay from his boots against the kerb of the footpath. There must be no trace of that clay left. The coat must be thoroughly brushed and the boots thoroughly cleaned when he got back to the flat. The day after tomorrow, as he had decided, he would take the boots out to Camphill and burn them in the incinerator. His hat must be brushed, too, and the ends of his trousers, as he had decided. He must get back to his plan again, and do things exactly as he had arranged to do them—not get hurried and carried away. He had waited too long in there, listening to her whistling, and had had to hurry as he moved towards her whistling through the laurels. She had heard him and begun to run towards the house … There must be no more hurrying.
But it was done—very simply, and, in the end, very nearly as he had imagined it. He went on, concealing his soiled hands in the pockets of his overcoat and trying to subdue the clumping of his feet. When he had cleaned the boots and brushed his clothes, he would go into the sitting-room and sit down before the fire. The fire would probably be out, but he would relight it. He would get back to his plan—begin to think of Marjory Prossip’s ugly, sullen, white face.
In fear and pain …
CHAPTER IX
1
MR KNAYLE returned to his flat on the afternoon of the first Friday in November. The Mediterranean cruise had not been a great success so far as he had been concerned; his new plate had been exceedingly troublesome and there had been a number of noisy young people on board who had talked an exasperating jargon of their own, danced every night until four o’clock in the morning, and nicknamed him K’tack. He had left the ship at Marseilles—heard in Paris that a revolution had broken out in the north of England—experienced some rather humiliating difficulty in settling his hotel bill—found London in the throes of the General Election—and sighed with relief when, at last, he found himself driving in his own car through the drab streets of Dunpool. It was pleasant to be back.
Hopgood had left London two days before him; everything at the flat was prepared for his reception. While he sipped his tea before a blazing fire his eyes strayed round his sitting-room resuming possession of it. It was deucedly pleasant to be back in one’s own place, amongst one’s own things and one’s own memories. The past month had been all noise and fidgety restlessness. For four weeks he hadn’t had a moment to himself. And his bed was in there next door—the bed of good, long sleeps. No saxophones tonight.
The morning papers lay neatly folded in their accustomed place on a small table within reach of his accustomed armchair. He had already seen the London papers; he stretched an arm and picked up the Dunpool Dai
ly Times. There would be nothing of interest in it which he had not already read in the Post. But it would be pleasant to see the familiar old-fashioned type and run an eye over the obituary notices. Some Rockwood landmarks, he had heard in London, had been removed during his absence—old Sir James Filsham and his low-crowned hat—old Miss Bruce— What would become of those three black pugs of hers?
While he was adjusting his glasses, Hopgood came in to remove the tea-tray. Observing the newspaper in Mr Knayle’s lap, he lingered to put some coal on the fire.
‘You haven’t looked at the Daily Times yet, sir, have you?’
Mr Knayle looked at him over his glasses. ‘No.’
‘You remember that girl of the Prossips’, sir—their maid, I mean?’
The Prossips and their maid were a long time ago for Mr Knayle. He had begun to wonder whether he wouldn’t dine at the Club that evening.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, she’s been murdered, sir. She was murdered last night, over in Abbey Road—in Mr Greville’s drive.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Knayle. ‘Murdered? By the way, Hopgood, I think I’ll dine at the Club tonight. Ask Chidgey to bring the car round at half-past seven, will you?’
Hopgood retired with the tray, disappointed, and Mr Knayle settled himself again in his chair and opened the Daily Times. Murdered, eh? Very unpleasant for the Grevilles. Oh yes—of course she had gone to the Grevilles from the Prossips. Very unpleasant for the Grevilles.
ROCKWOOD TRAGEDY
HOUSEMAID BATTERED TO DEATH
IN
ABBEY ROAD
Battered to death—h’m.
When had he seen that girl (what was her name?—Agatha something) last? He had seen a lot of things since but after a moment or two he remembered. It was that day the gramophone had begun to play—the day the Prossips had gone away. He had left Ridgeway with Whalley in the bedroom and come into the sitting-room for another book and seen her talking to Chidgey outside the gates, beside the car. Yes. That was the last time he had seen her—talking to Chidgey beside the car. She had looked very smart in a long coat and one of those abominable bowler hats.