“I’m twenty-two years of age, Mrs Anson and I am responsible for my safety. Now please leave me, as I wish to go to sleep.”
Again, Mrs Anson’s tone changed. “How do I know you’re not deceiving me?”
“Look around, Mrs Anson!” Miss Fitzgibbon came to the bath-room door, and threw it open. It banged against my shoulder, but served to conceal me behind it. “Look everywhere! Would you care to inspect my wardrobe? Or would you prefer to peer under my bed?”
“There is no need for unpleasantness, Miss Fitzgibbon. I am quite prepared to take your word.”
“Then kindly leave me in peace, as I have had a long day at work, and I wish to go to sleep.”
There was a short silence. Then Mrs Anson said: “Very well, Amelia. Good night to you.”
“Good night, Mrs Anson.”
I heard the woman walk from the room, and down the stairs outside. There was a much longer silence, and then I heard the outer door close.
Miss Fitzgibbon came to the bath-room, and leaned weakly against the door-post.
“She’s gone,” she said.
iv
Miss Fitzgibbon took one of the glasses from me, and swallowed the brandy.
“Would you like some more?” she said softly.
“Yes, please.”
The flask was now nearly empty, but we shared what remained.
I looked at Miss Fitzgibbon’s face, pale in the gaslight, and wondered if I looked as ashen.
“I must leave at once, of course,” I said.
She shook her head. “You would be seen. Mrs Anson wouldn’t dare come to the room again, but she will not go straight to bed.”
“Then what can I do?”
“We’ll have to wait. I should think if you leave in about an hour’s time she will no longer be around.”
“We are behaving as if we are guilty,” I said. “Why can I not go now, and tell Mrs Anson the truth of the matter?”
“Because we have already resorted to deception, and she has seen me in my nightwear.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I shall have to turn off the gaslights, as if I have gone to bed. There is a small oil-lamp, and we can sit by that.” She indicated, a folding dressing-screen. “If you would move that in front of the door, Mr Turnbull, it will mask the light and help subdue our voices.”
“I’ll move it at once,” I said.
Miss Fitzgibbon put another lump of coal on the fire, lit the oil-lamp, and turned off the gas-mantles.
I helped her move the two easy chairs towards the fireplace, then placed the lamp on the mantelpiece.
“Do you mind waiting a while?” she asked me.
“I should prefer to leave,” I said uncomfortably, “but I think you are right. I should not care to face Mrs Anson at this moment.”
“Then please try to be less agitated.”
I said: “Miss Fitzgibbon, I should feel much more relaxed if you would put on your clothes again.”
“But beneath this gown I am wearing my underclothing.”
“Even so.”
I went into the bath-room for a few minutes, and when I returned she had replaced her dress. Her hair was still loose, though, which I found pleasing, for I felt her face was better suited when framed in this way.
As I sat down, she said to me: “Can I ask one more favour of you, without further shocking you?”
“What is that?”
“I will be more at ease during the next hour if you would stop addressing me by my surname. My name is Amelia.”
“I know,” I said. “I heard Mrs Anson. I am Edward.”
“You are so formal, Edward.”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “It is what I am used to.”
The tension had left me, and I felt very tired. Judging by the way Miss Fitzgibbon—or Amelia—was sitting, she felt the same. The abandonment of formal address was a similar relaxation, as if Mrs Anson’s abrupt intrusion had swept aside the normal courtesies. We had suffered, and survived, a potential catastrophe and it had drawn us together.
“Do you think that Mrs Anson suspected I was here, Amelia?” I said.
She glanced shrewdly at me. “No, she knew you were here.”
“Then I have compromised you!”
“It is I who have compromised you. The deception was of my own invention.”
I said: “You’re very candid. I don’t think I have ever met anyone like you.”
“Well, in spite of your stuffiness, Edward, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you before.”
v
Now that the worst was over, and the rest could be dealt with in good time, I found that I was able to enjoy the intimacy of the situation. Our two chairs were close together in warmth and semi-darkness, the brandy was glowing within, and the light from the oil-lamp laid subtle and pleasing highlights on Amelia’s features. All this made me reflective in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with the circumstances that had brought us together. She seemed to me to be a person of wonderful beauty and presence of mind, and the thought of leaving her when my hour’s wait was over was too unwelcome to contemplate.
At first it was I who led the conversation, talking a little of myself. I explained how my parents had emigrated to America soon after I had left school, and that since then I had lived alone while working for Mr Westerman.
“You never felt any desire to go with your parents to America?” Amelia said.
“I was very tempted. They write to me frequently, and America seems to be an exciting country. But I felt that I scarcely knew England, and that I should like to live my own life here for a while, before joining them.”
“And do you know England any better now?”
“Hardly,” I said. “Although I spend my weeks outside London, I spend most of my time in hotels like this.”
With this, I enquired politely of her own background.
She told me that her parents were dead—there had been a sinking at sea while she was still a child—and that since then she had been under the legal guardianship of Sir William. He and her father had been friends since their own schooldays, and in her father’s will this wish had been expressed.
“So you also live at Reynolds House?” I said. “It is not merely employment?”
“I am paid a small wage for my work, but Sir William has made a suite of rooms in one of the wings available to me.”
“I should greatly like to meet Sir William,” I said, fervently.
“So that he may try your goggles in your presence?” Amelia said.
“I am regretting that I brought them to you.”
“And I am glad you did. You have inadvertently enlivened my evening. I was beginning to suspect that Mrs Anson was the only person in this hotel, so tight was her hold on me. Anyway, I’m sure Sir William will consider purchasing your goggles, even though he does not drive his horseless carriage these days.”
I looked at her in surprise. “But I understood Sir William was a keen motorist. Why has he lost interest?”
“He is a scientist, Edward. His invention is prolific, and he is constantly turning to new devices.”
In this way we conversed for a long time, and the longer we spoke the more relaxed I became. Our subjects were inconsequential for the most part, dwelling on our past lives and experiences. I soon learnt that Amelia was much better travelled than me, having accompanied Sir William on some of his overseas journeys. She told me of her visit to New York, and to Dresden and Leipzig, and I was greatly interested.
At last the fire burned down, and we had drunk the last of the brandy.
I said, regretfully: “Amelia, do you think I should now return to my room?”
For a moment her expression did not change, but then she smiled briefly and to my surprise laid her hand gently on my arm.
“Only if you wish to,” she said.
“Then I think I shall stay a few minutes longer.”
Immediately I said this I regretted it. In spite of
her friendly gesture I felt that we had spoken enough of the matters that interested us, and that further delay was only an admission of the considerable degree of distraction her nearness to me was causing. I had no idea how long it was since Mrs Anson had left us—and to take out my watch would have been unpardonable—but I felt sure that it must be much more than the hour we had agreed. Further delay was improper.
Amelia had not removed her hand from my arm.
“We must speak again, Edward,” she said. “Let us meet in London one evening; perhaps you would invite me to join you for dinner. Then, without having to hush our voices, we can talk to our hearts’ content.”
I said: “When are you returning to Surrey?”
“I think it will be tomorrow afternoon.”
“I shall be in town during the day. Will you join me for luncheon? There is a small inn on the Ilkley road…”
“Yes, Edward. I shall enjoy that.”
“Now I had better return.” I took my watch from my pocket, and saw that an hour and a half had elapsed since Mrs Anson’s intrusion. “I’m very sorry to have talked for so long.”
Amelia said nothing, but simply shook her head slowly.
I took my samples-case, and walked quietly to the door. Amelia stood up too, and blew out the oil-lamp.
“I’ll help you with the screen,” she said.
The only illumination in the room was from the dying embers of the fire. I saw Amelia silhouetted against the glow as she came towards me. Together we shifted the folding screen to one side, then I turned the handle of the door. All was still and silent beyond. Suddenly, in that great quietness I wondered how well the screen had muffled our voices, and whether in fact our innocent liaison had been overheard by more than one other person.
I turned back to her.
“Good night, Miss Fitzgibbon,” I said.
Her hand touched my arm again, and I felt a warmth of breath on my cheek. Her lips touched me for a fraction of a second.
“Good night, Mr Turnbull.” Her fingers tightened on my arm, then she moved back and her door closed silently.
vi
My room and bed were cold, and I could not sleep. I lay awake all night, my thoughts circling endlessly around subjects that could not be further removed from my immediate surroundings. In the morning, surprisingly alert in spite of my sleeplessness, I was first down to the breakfast-room, and as I sat at my usual table the head waiter approached me.
“Mrs Anson’s compliments, sir,” he said. “Would you kindly attend to this directly after you have finished breakfast?”
I opened the slim brown envelope and found that it contained my account. When I left the breakfast-room I discovered that my luggage had been packed, and was ready for me in the entrance hall. The head waiter took my money, and conducted me to the door. None of the other guests had seen me leave; there had been no sign of Mrs Anson. I stood in the sharp cool of the morning air, still stunned by the abruptness of my enforced departure.
After a while I carried my bags to the station and deposited them at the luggage office. I stayed in the vicinity of the hotel all day, but saw no sign of Amelia. At midday I went to the inn on the Ilkley road, but she did not appear. As evening drew on I went back to the station, and caught the last train of the day to London.
Chapter Three
THE HOUSE ON RICHMOND HILL
i
During the week following my premature return from Skipton, I was away on business in Nottingham. Here I applied myself to my work to such a degree that I adequately made up for the poor sales I had achieved in Skipton. By the Saturday evening, when I returned to my lodgings near Regent’s Park, the incident had receded to a regrettable memory. To say this is not wholly accurate, however, for in spite of the consequences, meeting Amelia had been an uplifting experience. I felt I should not hope to see her again, but I did feel the need to apologize.
As I should have known it would, though, the next move came from Amelia, for waiting for me on that Saturday evening was a letter postmarked in Richmond.
The main part of the letter was type-written, and simply stated that Sir William had been told of the motoring aid I had demonstrated, and that he had expressed a desire to meet me. Accordingly, I was invited to the house on Sunday, 21st May, when Sir William would be glad to speak to me over afternoon tea. It was signed: “A. Fitzgibbon”.
Underneath this main message, Amelia had added a handwritten postscript:
Sir William is usually busy in his laboratory during most of the daylight hours, so would you care to arrive at about 2.00 p.m.? As the weather is now so much finer I thought you and I might enjoy bicycling through Richmond Park.
Amelia
I did not take long to make up my mind. Indeed, within minutes I had written my acceptance, and posted it within the hour. I was very glad to be invited to tea.
ii
On the appointed day I left Richmond Station, and walked slowly through the town. Most of the shops were closed, but there was much traffic—mostly phaetons and broughams, carrying families on Sunday outings—and the pavements were crowded with pedestrians. I strolled along with everyone else, feeling smart and fashionable in the new clothes I had bought the day before. To celebrate the occasion I had even indulged myself in the extravagance of a new straw boater, and this I wore at a jaunty angle, reflecting the carefree mood I was in. The only reminder of my normal way of life was the samples-case I carried. This I had emptied of everything except the three pairs of goggles. Even the unwonted lightness of the case, though, emphasized the special nature of this visit.
I was far too early, of course, having left my lodgings soon after breakfast. I was determined not to be late, and so had over-estimated the amount of time it would take me to reach here. I had enjoyed a leisurely walk through London to Waterloo Station, the train journey had taken only twenty minutes or so, and here I was, enjoying the mild air and warm sunshine of a May morning.
In the centre of the little town, I passed the church as the congregation was leaving, walking out into the sunlight, the gentlemen calm and formal in their suits, the ladies gay in bright clothes and carrying sunshades. I walked on until I reached Richmond Bridge, and here I stepped out over the Thames, looking down at the boats plying between the wooded banks.
It was all such a contrast from the bustle and smells of London; much as I liked to live in the metropolis, the ever present press of people, the racket of the traffic and the dampening grey of the industrial pall that drifted over the rooftops all made for an unconscionable pressure on one’s mind. It was reassuring to find a place like this, such a short journey from the centre of London, that enjoyed an elegance that too often I found easy to forget still existed.
I continued my stroll along one of the riverside walks, then turned round and headed back into the town. Here I found a restaurant open, and ordered myself a substantial lunch. With this finished, I returned to the station, having previously forgotten to find out the times of the trains returning to London in the evening.
At last it was time to set out for Richmond Hill, and I walked back through the town, following The Quadrant until I came to the junction with the road which led down to Richmond Bridge. Here I followed a smaller road which forked to the left, climbing the Hill. All along my left-hand side there were buildings; at first, near the bottom of the Hill, the houses were terraced, with one or two shops. At the end of the terrace there was a public house—The Queen Victoria, as I recall—and beyond this the style and class of house changed noticeably.
Several were set a long way back from the road, almost invisible behind the thickly growing trees. To my right there was parkland and more trees, and as I climbed higher I saw the sweeping curve of the Thames through the meadows by Twickenham. It was a most beautiful and peaceful place.
At the top of the Hill the road became a pitted cart-track, leading through Richmond Gate into the Park itself, and the pavement ceased to exist altogether. At this point there was a narrowe
r track, leading more directly up the slope of the Hill, and I walked this way. Shortly along this track I saw a gateway with Reynolds House carved into the sandstone posts, and I knew I had come to the right place.
The driveway was short, but described a sharp S, so that the house was not visible from the gate. I followed the drive, remarking to myself on the way in which the trees and shrubbery had been allowed to grow unhindered. In several places the growths were so wild that the drive was barely wide enough to allow passage of a carriage.
In a moment the house came into sight, and I was at once impressed by its size. The main part of the house seemed, to my untrained eye, to be about one hundred years old, but two large and more modern wings had been added at each end, and a part of the courtyard so produced had been roofed over with a wooden-framed glass structure, rather like a greenhouse.
In the immediate vicinity of the house the shrubbery had been cut back, and a well-kept lawn lay to one side of the house, stretching round to the far side.
I saw that the main entrance was partially concealed behind a part of the glasshouse—at first glance I had not noticed it—and walked in that direction. There seemed to be no one about; the house and grounds were silent, and there was no movement at any of the windows.
As I walked past the windows of the conservatory-like extension, there was a sudden scream of metal upon metal, accompanied by a blaze of yellow light. For an instant I saw the shape of a man, hunched forward, and silhouetted by a blaze of sparks. Then the grinding ceased, and again all became dim within.
I pressed the electrical bell-push by the door, and after a few moments the door was opened by a plump, middle-aged woman in a black dress and white apron. I removed my hat.
“I should like to see Miss Fitzgibbon,” I said, as I stepped into the hall. “I believe I am expected.”
“Do you have a card, sir?”
I was about to produce my regular business-card, supplied by Mr Westerman, but then recalled that this was more of a personal visit. “No, but if you would say it is Mr Edward Turnbull.”
The Space Machine Page 3