The Moorstone Sickness

by Bernard Taylor

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Yes. He’s set on it now. He doesn’t like it here. He can’t settle.’

  ‘That’s a pity . . .’

  ‘Yes . . . it is.’ Sadly she shook her head. ‘And I was just beginning to feel I belonged here, too.’ Suddenly she got up. ‘Oh, God, just listen to me! I just come here and pour out all my troubles to you. It’s unforgivable.’ Turning, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass above the fireplace. She’d quite forgotten what a spectacle she made. ‘And look at me! It’s enough to frighten anyone to death.’ Making an effort to smile she said: ‘Would you mind if I washed my face and put a comb through my hair?’

  In the bathroom she washed her face and hands and used his comb to put her hair in order. Afterwards in his small hallway she brushed some of the marks from her dress. When she returned to the sitting room he held out her glass to her. She saw that it had been refilled. ‘You look a little different now,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Well, that’s something.’ She took a sip from the glass and sat down again. ‘When I’ve finished this I must go,’ she said. She was still feeling the effects of the sherry.

  They talked as they sat in the quiet, comfortable room, but the talk didn’t always come easily and it was interspersed with silences. She was so aware of being there with him, in his house, alone. At last she put down her empty glass and rose from her seat. ‘I really must go,’ she said. ‘Leave you in peace.’

  ‘Please—don’t go on my account. I don’t have anything special to do.’

  She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I . . .’ Her words tailed off. Then she said, ‘Could I—do you mind if I use your phone?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  She moved to the telephone, dialled, listened for a while and then replaced the receiver. So he hadn’t come back. He had gone on to London.

  ‘Nobody home?’ Lockyer said.

  ‘Nobody home.’

  ‘Was it important?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. Taking a couple of steps towards the door she added, ‘Anyway . . . I’d better go . . .’

  ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘No . . . no . . .’ She paused. ‘I’m not going home. Not yet.’

  ‘Isn’t he expecting you? Hal?’

  ‘He’s in London.’

  Lockyer had got up from the sofa and now stood just a couple of feet away from her. They faced one another.

  ‘Why don’t you stay a while longer?’ he said gently, smiling.

  She looked at him for another moment then lowered her eyes and turned away. She shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  It wasn’t right. No part of it was working out the way it was supposed to. Lockyer was moving within her and all she could do was ask herself the question What am I doing here? She had expected, hoped, to derive some kind of comfort from all this. But there was none. There was no warmth. There was no pleasure. There was nothing. There was just this man who was slamming into her body. This man who, in filling her, only added to her emptiness; his every stroke only serving to tear aside the flimsy curtain that had disguised the reality behind it, only driving deeper within her her growing despair.

  When it was all over and he lay panting at her side she lay stone-cold sober and unmoving, staring with dull eyes up at the ceiling.

  25

  It was almost ten o’clock. Hal had just dialled the number of The Swan and asked to speak to Mrs Lucas. After a short wait he heard a man’s voice on the line.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I speak to Mrs Lucas, please?’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Hal paused. ‘—Is that Mr Lucas?—Geoff?’

  ‘Yes, who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Hal Graham. I’m a friend of Alison’s.’

  ‘Ah, yes—she wrote to me about you and your wife.’ The voice sounded weary.

  ‘Do you expect Alison back soon?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Have you tried The Laurels?—Miss Carroll’s place?’

  ‘She’s still there?’

  ‘I would imagine so.’

  Hal thanked him and hung up. How strange, he thought, that Lucas should be at the hotel alone. After a moment he dialled The Laurels again. Still no ringing tone. He went outside, got onto his bicycle and rode away from the house.

  For the second time that day he found himself striding up the front path of The Laurels and ringing the bell. Once again the door was opened by Miss Allardice. She looked rather surprised to see him and gave a swift, pointed glance at her watch. Then, with a smile, she said, ‘Mr Graham—and what can we do for you this time?’

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again,’ he said, ‘—and at such a late hour, but I wonder—is it possible for me to see Mrs Lucas now? It’s most important.’ As she hesitated, frowning, he added insistently, ‘Please . . .’

  She gave a reluctant nod. ‘I’ll go and see if she’s about. Would you wait . . . ?’ Turning, she moved back through the hall. After a minute or two she had returned. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘she can see you now.’

  He stepped over the threshold and followed her towards the drawing room. Reaching the door, Miss Allardice gestured for him to go in, then turned and went away.

  As he entered he saw Alison get up from a chair. She came towards him, smiling rather ruefully.

  ‘Hal,’ she said, ‘how can you and Rowan ever want to talk to me again after letting you down so badly? I am sorry. Can you ever forgive me?’

  He waved a dismissing hand. ‘Well, we were disappointed, of course, but mostly, I think, rather puzzled. It just didn’t—seem like you.’

  ‘I’m sure it didn’t. I’m sorry. Truly. Here, come and sit down for a moment.’ She waved him towards the sofa. He shook his head.

  ‘No, I can’t stay. I only came here to ask whether you’ve seen anything of Rowan . . .’

  ‘She was here earlier. Though I didn’t see her. I was asleep. God, I was so tired. I was on my feet all night.’ She paused. ‘Why, what’s up? Has something happened? Don’t you know where she is?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid we had a bit of bust-up. She went out somewhere and hasn’t come back. I’m beginning to get rather—concerned.’ He shrugged. ‘I was hoping she was with you. When was it she called here, do you know?’

  ‘Oh, about seven, I believe.’

  Wearily he nodded. He felt at a loss. He took out his cigarettes, offered her one. She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’m giving it up.’ Frowning, she added: ‘You’d better not smoke in here, Hal.—Miss Carroll would be most—displeased.’

  ‘Oh, yes . . . sorry.’ He put the cigarettes back in his pocket. ‘I’m told that Miss Carroll’s not at all well,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Paul Cassen’s just been to see her again. But there’s nothing he can do for her, it seems.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  She hesitated for a second then said quietly: ‘She’s just . . . well, I’m afraid she’s just—gone quite mad.’

  ‘—She’s insane?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s terrible. We’ve had to restrain her.’ Here she pulled up the sleeve of her blouse to reveal several bruises and long, deep scratches. ‘Thank God Miss Allardice was here,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise. I couldn’t have held her on my own.’

  ‘It’s as bad as that!’ Hal looked aghast. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘No, why should you have? It came as a complete shock to me, too. But perhaps now you can understand why I seemed so—’ She shrugged. ‘Well, let’s just say I’ve had a few difficulties to cope with.’

  ‘And how is she now?’

  ‘No better. We’ve had to shut her in her room. I don’t know—she seems to be suffering from the strangest delusions or something. I don’t understand these things.’

  ‘So what’s going to happen?’

  ‘They’re sending an ambulance for her. Paul says it’s the only thing to do. They’ll take her to Primrose House.’ She shook her
head. ‘It’s awful, I know. But what else can we do? She can’t be cared for here.’ Touching her bruised arm she added wonderingly, ‘Who would have dreamed that such an old lady would have so much strength?’

  ‘When I saw her the other day she seemed so rational and so—well balanced.’

  ‘I know. It’s all so sad.’

  After a moment he said sympathetically, ‘And all this has come at the worst possible time for you, hasn’t it? What with Geoff returning and everything . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’ She paused. ‘But that’s another matter altogether.’ She turned away from him and crossed over to the window.

  ‘I talked to him on the phone not long ago,’ he said. ‘He told me he wasn’t expecting you at the hotel . . .’

  ‘No.’ She kept her back to him. ‘I’m afraid things have changed between Geoff and me. It’s all over between us.’

  He didn’t understand her. She couldn’t be serious. Was this the girl who’d been counting the hours to her husband’s return?

  After a moment she said sadly: ‘When a person’s been away for any length of time one tends to forget what they’re really like. You only remember the good things—and even those your memory makes seem better than they actually were.’ She turned back to face him. ‘It’s so sad how things work out sometimes, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you mean that? It really is finished between you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you won’t be going away with him now . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what will you do? Go back to Brighton?’

  ‘No. I think I shall stay on here for a while.’

  ‘In Moorstone?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘But—but the way you’ve talked about it before . . . You couldn’t wait to get away.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ She smiled and gave a shrug. ‘I probably said quite a few rather foolish things. Still, that’s in the past. They do say that a lady’s entitled to change her mind.’

  ‘Where will you stay in the village? What will you do?’

  ‘I’ll stay here—in this house. Where else? Believe me, there’s no shortage of work to be done. Besides—who knows?—Miss Carroll might recover. It’s extremely doubtful that she will, but if she does then she’ll need me. No, this is much the best place for me to be.’

  As she finished speaking the door opened and a man entered. Hal recognized the librarian, Ralph Collins.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Collins said, ‘I didn’t realize you had company.’

  ‘That’s all right. You know Mr Graham, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. How do you do?’

  Hal returned the greeting and then said, ‘Well, I’d better go.’ He moved away in the direction of the hall. Turning in the doorway he said, ‘Please—if Rowan should come back—well—ask her to come on home, will you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Alison had followed him. ‘But don’t worry about her. She’ll probably be there by the time you get back.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so . . .’

  ‘And Hal—just let me see an end to my present difficulties and we’ll get together for that dinner.’

  ‘Oh, right . . . fine . . .’ He gave a nod then added, ‘It’s all right, I’ll see myself out.’

  He wished her and Collins goodbye, went into the hall and towards the front door. As he opened it he saw a vehicle with bright headlights pull up at the gate. The ambulance, come to take Miss Carroll away. Turning, he stepped back to the drawing room where the door had been left partly open. About to say, ‘The ambulance is here,’ he reached out to open the door wider—and then came to an abrupt halt. Through the aperture he saw them. Collins and Alison. He had his arm around her, one hand upon her breast. She was smothering his face with kisses.

  Quickly, silently, Hal turned and moved away.

  Two white-coated young men were getting out of the ambulance as he approached the gate. They nodded to him as they went past him towards the house. As he got astride his bicycle he looked back and saw Miss Allardice opening the door to them. The next moment they’d gone inside.

  Suddenly his eyes were drawn to an upper window. A light there had blinked on and off. And as he looked the light came on again, and stayed. And then he saw there the figure of Miss Carroll. She was gesticulating—to him—her hands waving frantically, bidding him to go to her. Even from where he stood he could see the look of wildness about her, the dishevelment of her hair and clothing.

  He stayed there for a moment longer and then, shocked and saddened, turned from the sight and rode away.

  As he approached Crispin’s House his bicycle lamp shone on a large car drawn up in the drive. He stopped beside it and a tall man got out and came towards him. Hal tensed at the sight of the unknown, shadowy figure. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Are you Mr Graham . . . ?’

  The voice sounded vaguely familiar. ‘Yes, I am,’ Hal said, peering at him.

  ‘I’m Geoffrey Lucas.’

  ‘Ah . . . yes . . .’ Hal relaxed. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello . . .’ There was a brief pause, then Lucas added, ‘I know it’s late but—could I see you for a minute?’

  ‘Of course.’ Hal leant the bicycle against the garage wall. ‘Come on in.’

  There was no sign of life in the house. Obviously Rowan was still out. Hal turned on the lights and led the way into the sitting room. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Lucas sat on the sofa. He was slimly built; his hair was very fair, his fine, strong features suntanned. Hal placed his age at about forty.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you like this,’ Lucas said. ‘I just had to talk to someone.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘I arrive in this place and Alison is—God, I don’t know. I just don’t know what the hell is going on.’

  ‘I don’t think I can be of any help to you,’ Hal said. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just come back from The Laurels now.’

  ‘And you actually did see her?’

  ‘Yes, just briefly.’

  ‘Did she mention me?’

  ‘Well—yes . . .’

  A pause. ‘What did she say? Tell me—please . . .’

  Hal shrugged. Awkwardly he said, ‘She said something about—about things having changed between you . . .’

  Lucas nodded. Bitterly he said, ‘Christ, I’ll say they have. Though not on my side. She’s the one who’s changed. So much. I still can’t believe it. Her letters—right up to the time I left—they gave no indication whatsoever that I should be prepared for anything like this. On the phone, too. I talked to her on the phone just a couple of days ago, and she seemed so excited over the fact that I was coming back.’ He shook his head. ‘And then I get back and find her like this. I’d never have thought it possible. She won’t even talk to me—not now. We just had the one meeting—at The Laurels this afternoon. And that was it. It’s over, she told me. Just like that. It’s over.’

  Silence fell in the room. Hal could think of nothing to say. After a few moments Lucas went on: ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ll stay at the hotel for tonight and try to get to see her again tomorrow. If she won’t, well . . .’ he shrugged, sighed, ‘. . . I’ll just—pack up and go.’

  ‘Perhaps—perhaps things might work out—if you hang on for a while longer,’ Hal said, not believing his own words. He felt helpless. ‘I mean—what with her employer—Miss Carroll—being taken ill like that—perhaps Alison’s suddenly under too much of a strain.’

  ‘No . . . I’d like to think that might be it, but I know it’s not. Her whole attitude towards me is different. Her whole manner. She’s just not the same. She’s going to stay on here in the village, she told me. She’s quite determined. All our plans—our love for each other—it’s as if none of it ever existed.’ Briefly his eyes closed in anguish. ‘I just can’t get over how she was with me. So cold, s
o distant. She treated me as if I were a stranger.’ His voice broke on the last word and Hal watched uncomfortably as tears sprang into his eyes. After a little while, and with a visible effort to control himself, Lucas went on: ‘She told me she’s got work to do here. She said she’s going to finish writing Miss Carroll’s book.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s never had the slightest inclination to write anything in the past. But there’s more to it than that. There’s also that fellow there—Collins, I think his name is.’

  With Lucas’s words Hal relived the moment, not long before, when he had seen Alison wrapped in Collins’s arms. Then Lucas was speaking again.

  ‘He was there when I went to the house,’ he said. ‘And I could tell at once that there was something between them—even before she mentioned it. You could see the way they were with one another. It was so clear. And then she told me. She was in love with him, she said.’ He gazed keenly at Hal. ‘Were you aware of it—before? Did you know about them?—her and that fellow Collins?’

  ‘—No, I didn’t . . .’ All Hal knew of any feeling between Alison and Collins was that she had hated him . . .

  Lucas was getting to his feet. Hal also arose. They stood facing one another.

  ‘You’re a complete stranger,’ Lucas said, ‘and I’ve just come here and—burdened you with my problems. I’m sorry. I suppose I just hoped that you might be able to—give me some hope—or at least some explanation—tell me something that would make it easier to understand. Going by her letters you and your wife were the only people she felt anything for . . .’ He paused then asked, ‘I don’t suppose your wife would know anything that . . .’

  ‘She doesn’t know any more than I do,’ Hal said quickly. ‘And she’s not in right now.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I wish there was something I could do to help . . . There’s nothing. Alison—she’s—she’s quite different with us as well.’

  Lucas took his car keys from his pocket, stared unseeingly at them for a moment then said bitterly, ‘Oh, Christ! How I wish to God she’d never come to this place.’ Then he reached out, briefly grasped Hal’s hand and turned quickly for the door.

  When Lucas had gone Hal put his bicycle into the garage beside the car, turned off the downstairs lights and went up to his study. In his seat at his desk he sat smoking, waiting and watching for Rowan’s return. From here he could see the road to the village. His anxiety was increasing by the moment. It was almost midnight now. He would wait a little while longer and then contact the police.