“I don’t know. I can see if his cheque book has gone.”
She ran down again, and Dinny waited. Diana came back into the hall.
“No; it’s on the bureau in the dining-room. Quick, Dinny, dress!”
That meant… What did it mean? A strange conflict of hopes and fears raged within Dinny. She flew upstairs.
CHAPTER 26
Over a hasty breakfast they consulted. To whom should they go?
“Not to the police,” said Dinny.
“No, indeed.”
“I think we should go to Uncle Adrian first.”
They sent the maid for a taxi, and set out for Adrian’s rooms. It was not quite nine o’clock. They found him over tea and one of those fishes which cover the more ground when eaten, and explain the miracle of the seven baskets full.
Seeming to have grown greyer in these few days he listened to them, filling his pipe, and at last said:
“You must leave it to me now. Dinny, can you take Diana down to Condaford?”
“Of course.”
“Before you go, could you get young Alan Tasburgh to go down to that Home and ask if Ferse is there, without letting them know that he’s gone off on his own? Here’s the address.”
Dinny nodded.
Adrian raised Diana’s hand to his lips.
“My dear, you look worn out. Don’t worry; just rest down there with the children. We’ll keep in touch with you.”
“Will there be publicity, Adrian?”
“Not if we can prevent it. I shall consult Hilary; we’ll try everything first. Do you know how much money he had?”
“The last cheque cashed was for five pounds two days ago, but all yesterday he was out.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Blue overcoat, blue suit, bowler hat.”
“And you don’t know where he went yesterday?”
“No. Until yesterday he was never out at all.”
“Does he still belong to any Club?”
“No.”
“Has any old friend been told of his return?”
“No.”
“And he took no cheque book? How soon can you get hold of that young man, Dinny?”
“Now, if I could telephone, Uncle; he’s sleeping at his Club.”
“Try, then.”
Dinny went out to the telephone. She soon reported that Alan would go down at once, and let Adrian know. He would ask as an old friend, with no knowledge that Ferse had ever left. He would beg them to let him know if Ferse came back, so that he might come and see him.
“Good,” said Adrian; “you have a head, my child. And now go off and look after Diana. Give me your number at Condaford.”
Having jotted it down, he saw them back into their cab.
“Uncle Adrian is the best man in the world,” said Dinny.
“No one should know that better than I, Dinny.”
Back in Oakley Street, they went upstairs to pack. Dinny was afraid that at the last minute Diana might refuse to go. But she had given her word to Adrian, and they were soon on the way to the station. They spent a very silent hour and a half on the journey, leaning back in their corners, tired out. Dinny, indeed, was only now realising the strain she had been through. And yet, what had it amounted to? No violence, no attack, not even a great scene. How uncannily disturbing was insanity! What fear it inspired; what nerve-racking emotions! Now that she was free from chance of contact with Ferse he again seemed to her just pitiful. She pictured him wandering and distraught, with nowhere to lay his head and no one to take him by the hand; on the edge, perhaps already over that edge! The worst tragedies were always connected with fear. Criminality, leprosy, insanity, anything that inspired fear in other people—the victims of such were hopelessly alone in a frightened world. Since last night she understood far better Ferse’s outburst about the vicious circle in which insanity moved. She knew now that her own nerves were not strong enough, her own skin not thick enough, to bear contact with the insane; she understood the terrible treatment of the insane in old days. It was like the way dogs had, of setting on an hysterical dog, their own nerves jolted beyond bearing. The contempt lavished on the imbecile, the cruelty and contempt had been defensive—defensive revenge on something which outraged the nerves. All the more pitiable, all the more horrible to think about. And, while the train bore her nearer to her peaceful home, she was more and more torn between the wish to shut away all thought of the unhappy outcast and feelings of pity for him. She looked across at Diana lying back in the corner opposite with closed eyes. What must she be feeling, bound to Ferse by memory, by law, by children of whom he was the father? The face under the close casque hat had the chiselling of prolonged trial—fine-lined and rather hard. By the faint movement of the lips she was not asleep. ‘What keeps her going?’ thought Dinny. ‘She’s not religious; she doesn’t believe much in anything. If I were she I should throw everything up and rush to the ends of the earth—or should I?’ Was there perhaps something inside one, some sense of what was due to oneself, that kept one unyielding and unbroken?
There was nothing to meet them at the station, so, leaving their things, they set forth for the Grange on foot, taking a path across the fields.
“I wonder,” said Dinny, suddenly, “how little excitement one could do with in these days? Should I be happy if I lived down here all my time, like the old cottage folk? Clare is never happy here. She has to be on the go all the time. There IS a kind of jack-inthe-box inside one.”
“I’ve never seen it popping out of you, Dinny.”
“I wish I’d been older during the war. I was only fourteen when it stopped.”
“You were lucky.”
“I don’t know. You must have had a terribly exciting time, Diana.”
“I was your present age when the war began.”
“Married?”
“Just.”
“I suppose he was right through it?”
“Yes.”
“Was that the cause?”
“An aggravation, perhaps.”
“Uncle Adrian spoke of heredity.”
“Yes.”
Dinny pointed to a thatched cottage.
“In that cottage an old pet couple of mine have lived fifty years. Could you do that, Diana?”
“I could now; I want peace, Dinny.”
They reached the house in silence. A message had come through from Adrian: Ferse was not back at the Home: but he and Hilary believed they were on the right track.
After seeing the children Diana went to her bedroom to lie down, and Dinny to her Mother’s sitting-room.
“Mother, I must say it to someone—I am praying for his death.”
“Dinny!”
“For his own sake, for Diana’s, for the children’s, for everybody’s; even my own.”
“Of course, if it’s hopeless—”
“Hopeless or not, I don’t care. It’s too dreadful. Providence is a wash-out, Mother.”
“My dear!”
“It’s too remote. I suppose there is an eternal Plan—but we’re like gnats for all the care it has for us as individuals.”
“You want a good sleep, darling.”
“Yes. But that won’t make any difference.”
“Don’t encourage such feelings, Dinny; they affect one’s character.”
“I don’t see the connection between beliefs and character. I’m not going to behave any worse because I cease to believe in Providence or an after life.”
“Surely, Dinny—”
“No; I’m going to behave BETTER; if I’m decent it’s because decency’s the decent thing; and not because I’m going to get anything by it.”
“But why is decency the decent thing, Dinny, if there’s no God?”
“O subtle and dear mother, I didn’t say there wasn’t God. I only said his Plan was too remote. Can’t you hear God saying: ‘By the way, is that ball the Earth still rolling?’ And an angel answering: ‘Oh! Yes, Sir, quite nicely.’ ‘Let’s see, i
t must be fungused over by now. Wasn’t there some particularly busy little parasite—’”
“Dinny!”
“‘Oh! Yes, Sir, you mean man!’ ‘Quite! I remember we called it that.’”
“Dinny, how dreadful!”
“No, mother, if I’m decent, it will be because decency is devised by humans for the benefit of humans; just as beauty is devised by humans for the delight of humans. Am I looking awful, darling? I feel as if I had no eyes. I think I’ll go and lie down. I don’t know why I’ve got so worked up about this, Mother. I think it must be looking at his face.” And with suspicious swiftness Dinny turned and went away.
CHAPTER 27
Ferse’s disappearance was a holiday to the feelings of one who had suffered greatly since his return. That he had engaged to end that holiday by finding him was not enough to spoil Adrian’s relief. Almost with zest he set out for Hilary’s in a taxi, applying his wits to the problem. Fear of publicity cut him off from those normal and direct resorts—Police, Radio, and Press. Such agencies would bring on Ferse too fierce a light. And in considering what means were left he felt as when confronted with a cross-word puzzle, many of which he had solved in his time, like other men of noted intellect. From Dinny’s account he could not tell within several hours at what time Ferse had gone out, and the longer he left enquiry in the neighbourhood of the house, the less chance one would have of stumbling on anyone who had seen him. Should he, then, stop the cab and go back to Chelsea? In holding on towards the Meads, he yielded to instinct rather than to reason. To turn to Hilary was second nature with him—and, surely, in such a task two heads were better than one! He reached the Vicarage without forming any plan save that of enquiring vaguely along the Embankment and the King’s Road. It was not yet half past nine, and Hilary was still at his correspondence. On hearing the news, he called his wife into the study.
“Let’s think for three minutes,” he said, “and pool the result.”
The three stood in a triangle before the fire, the two men smoking, and the woman sniffing at an October rose.
“Well?” said Hilary at last: “Any light, May?”
“Only,” said Mrs. Hilary, wrinkling her forehead, “if the poor man was as Dinny describes, you can’t leave out the hospitals. I could telephone to the three or four where there was most chance of his having been taken in, if he’s made an accident for himself. It’s so early still, they can hardly have had anybody in.”
“Very sweet of you, my dear; and we can trust your wits to keep his name out of it.”
Mrs. Hilary went out.
“Adrian?”
“I’ve got a hunch, but I’d rather hear you first.”
“Well,” said Hilary, “two things occur to me: It’s obvious we must find out from the Police if anyone’s been taken from the river. The other contingency, and I think it’s the more likely, is drink.”
“But he couldn’t get drink so early.”
“Hotels. He had money.”
“I agree, we must try them, unless you think my idea any good.”
“Well?”
“I’ve been trying to put myself in poor Ferse’s shoes. I think, Hilary, if I had a doom over me, I might run for Condaford; not the place itself, perhaps, but round about, where we haunted as boys; where I’d been, in fact, before Fate got hold of me at all. A wounded animal goes home.”
Hilary nodded.
“Where WAS his home?”
“West Sussex—just under the Downs to the north. Petworth was the station.”
“Oh! I know that country. Before the war May and I used to stay a lot at Bignor and walk. We could have a shot at Victoria station, and see if anyone like him has taken train. But I think I’ll try the Police about the river first. I can say a parishioner is missing. What height is Ferse?”
“About five feet ten, square, broad head and cheek-bones, strong jaw, darkish hair, steel-blue eyes, a blue suit and overcoat.”
“Right!” said Hilary: “I’ll get on to them as soon as May is through.”
Left to himself before the fire, Adrian brooded. A reader of detective novels, he knew that he was following the French, inductive method of a psychological shot in the blue, Hilary and May following the English model of narrowing the issue by elimination—excellent, but was there time for excellence? One vanished in London as a needle vanishes in hay; and they were so handicapped by the need for avoiding publicity. He waited in anxiety for Hilary’s report. Curiously ironical that he—HE—should dread to hear of poor Ferse being found drowned or run over, and Diana free!
From Hilary’s table he took up an A.B.C. There had been a train to Petworth at 8.50, another went at 9.56. A near thing! And he waited again, his eyes on the door. Useless to hurry Hilary, a past-master in saving time.
“Well?” he said when the door was opened.
Hilary shook his head.
“No go! Neither hospitals nor Police. No one received or heard of anywhere.”
“Then,” said Adrian, “let’s try Victoria—there’s a train in twenty minutes. Can you come rightaway?”
Hilary glanced at his table. “I oughtn’t to, but I will. There’s something unholy in the way a search gets hold of you. Hold on, old man, I’ll tell May and nick my hat. You might look for a taxi. Go St. Pancras way and wait for me.”
Adrian strode along looking for a taxi. He found one issuing from the Euston Road, turned it round, and stood waiting. Soon Hilary’s thin dark figure came hurrying into view.
“Not in the training I was,” he said, and got in.
Adrian leaned through the window.
“Victoria, quick as you can!”
Hilary’s hand slipped through his arm.
“I haven’t had a jaunt with you, old man, since we went up the Carmarthen Van in that fog the year after the war. Remember?”
Adrain had taken out his watch.
“We just shan’t do it, I’m afraid. The traffic’s awful.” And they sat, silent, jerked back and forth by the spasmodic efforts of the taxi.
“I’ll never forget,” said Adrian, suddenly, “in France once, passing a ‘maison d’aliйnйs,’ as they call it—a great place back from the railway with a long iron grille in front. There was a poor devil standing upright with his arms raised and his legs apart, clutching at the grille, like an orang-outang. What’s death compared with that? Good clean earth, and the sky over you. I wish now they’d found him in the river.”
“They may still; this is a bit of a wild-goose chase.”
“Three minutes more,” muttered Adrian; “we shan’t do it.”
But as if animated by its national character the taxi gathered unnatural speed, and the traffic seemed to melt before it. They pulled up at the station with a jerk.
“You ask at the first class, I’ll go for the third,” said Hilary as they ran. “A parson gets more show.”
“No,” said Adrian; “if he’s gone, he’ll have gone first class; YOU ask there. If there’s any doubt—HIS EYES.”
He watched Hilary’s lean face thrust into the opening and quickly drawn back.
“He HAS!” he said; “this train. Petworth! Rush!”
The brothers ran, but as they reached the barrier the train began to move. Adrian would have run on, but Hilary grabbed his arm.
“Steady, old man, we shall never get in; he’ll only see us, and that’ll spill it.”
They walked back to the entrance with their heads down.
“That was an amazing shot of yours, old boy,” said Hilary: “What time does that train get down?”
“Twelve twenty-three.”
“Then we can do it in a car. Have you any money?”
Adrian felt in his pockets. “Only eight and six,” he said ruefully.
“I’ve got just eleven bob. Awkward! I know! We’ll take a cab to young Fleur’s: if her car’s not out, she’d let us have it, and she or Michael would drive us. We must both be free of the car at the other end.”
Adrian nodded, rather
dazed at the success of his induction.
At South Square Michael was out, but Fleur in. Adrian, who did not know her so well as Hilary, was surprised by the quickness with which she grasped the situation and produced the car. Within ten minutes, indeed, they were on the road with Fleur at the wheel.
“I shall go through Dorking and Pulborough,” she said, leaning back. “I can speed all the way after Dorking on that road. But, Uncle Hilary, what are you going to do if you get him?”
At that simple but necessary question the brothers looked at each other. Fleur seemed to feel their indecision through the back of her head, for she stopped with a jerk in front of an imperilled dog, and, turning, said:
“Would you like to think it over before we start?”
Gazing from her short clear-cut face, the very spit of hard, calm, confident youth, to his brother’s long, shrewd face, wrinkled, and worn by the experiences of others and yet not hard, Adrian left it to Hilary to answer.
“Let’s get on,” said Hilary; “it’s a case of making the best of what turns up.”
“When we pass a post-office,” added Adrian, “please stop. I want to send a wire to Dinny.”
Fleur nodded. “There’s one in the King’s Road, I must fill up, too, somewhere.”
And the car slid on among the traffic.
“What shall I say in the wire?” asked Adrian. “Anything about Petworth?”
Hilary shook his head.
“Just that we think we’re on the right track.”
When they had sent the wire there were only two hours left before the train arrived.
“It’s fifty miles to Pulborough,” said Fleur, “and I suppose about five on. I wonder if I can risk my petrol. I’ll see at Dorking.” From that moment on she was lost to them, though the car was a closed saloon, giving all her attention to her driving.
The two brothers sat silent with their eyes on the clock and speedometer.
“I don’t often go joy-riding,” said Hilary, softly: “What are you thinking of, old man?”
“Of what on earth we’re going to do.”
“If I were to think of that beforehand, in my job, I should be dead in a month. In a slum parish one lives, as in a jungle, surrounded by wild cats; one grows a sort of instinct and has to trust to it.”
Maid In Waiting eotc-1 Page 21