I sat in my chair and looked round, while she talked. It certainly was a pretty room, especially if one compared it with the other rooms in the house. The walls, which would have been improved if they had been stripped of a late-Victorian panelling, were painted a buff-stone colour. The curtains, the valances of the two kidney-shaped dressing-tables, the eiderdown and the upholstery of the chairs, were a semi-glazed chintz with minute clusters of snowdrops on a yellow ground. The furniture itself was a bright satin-wood, such as was sold very expensively just before and just after the war. Fortunately there was not very much of it, as the wardrobe had been replaced by a built-in cupboard, and the washstand was behind a Chinese screen. The room, as I think I have mentioned, faced north-east over the glass roof of the aviary. My chair had its back to a big bay window, and by turning my head to the right I could see right down the garden, although the corner of the house cut off most of the view.
My thoughts were wandering, I am afraid, while Mrs Quisberg talked on, and I kept looking towards the small patch of garden wall that was visible to me, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dixon doing battle with the louts. I thought it better to say nothing to Mrs Quisberg about the invasion, for fear it should distress her. However, except for three or four yards of the wall and a very thin slice of Paragon House beyond, there was nothing to be seen. Either Dixon had been successful, or the fray was further to the left. As I gazed out of the window, and replied mechanically to my hostess’s many questions as to my welfare, I felt a great distaste growing within me for Paragon House, its garden and its structure. The few feet that were visible to me looked mouldy and repellent. It was a most unpleasant house, I thought, an evil and a cruel house, even more horrible in its solidity than it would have been in ruins. I could imagine snakes writhing in the basement, vampires fluttering in the attics, while its walls exuded through strips of damp wallpaper all the diseases and disasters of its previous owners. It would, indeed, be a mercy, I thought (looking, by way of contrast, round the bright bedroom in which I was sitting), if Mr Quisberg could buy it and pull it down. Standing where it did, it was a monstrous neighbour, almost purposeful in its offensiveness. I could not help feeling, either, when I recalled the gesticulating figures on the wall, that somehow the hated building had still an ominous function to perform – as if, moved to vindictive envy by the peace and prosperity of Beresford Lodge, it were only waiting to visit us with calamity.
Despite my absorption in this fantastic reverie, I luckily remembered that, as a visitor in a sick room, I had almost overstayed my welcome. My hostess, who had been telling me about the shop where she bought her carpet, was clearly tired and made little effort to keep me when I rose to go.
‘Are you sure,’ I asked, ‘that you wouldn’t feel relieved if I went back to my flat?’
‘On the contrary, Malcolm, I should be most grieved. I love to think of you here, even though I can do so little to amuse you. Besides, I hope to be down again to-morrow, if not for dinner to-day. Dr McKenzie’s coming again at half past five and I’m sure he’ll find me ever so much better than I was this morning. Now what are you going to do?’
‘I really think I shall have a nap, and perhaps go for a walk afterwards. I’m afraid I’ve had too many cocktails again to-day. I feel so sleepy. Aren’t you ashamed of me?’
‘Not at all, Malcolm. Get all the rest you can. You looked so tired when you came here on Christmas Eve. Perhaps you’ll look in again if I’m not down this evening?’
‘Of course I will. Au revoir.’
*
It was now nearly a quarter to three. It’ll have to be a very short nap, I thought, as I reached my bedroom, if I am to get a walk by daylight. No doubt a walk would do me good, but the prospect of dozing in a chair by my fire, which must have been lit during luncheon, was irresistible. It was a shame to waste the daylight, but still greater shame to waste the fire.
Giving way to my sloth, I was going to the armchair when I saw through the window two figures walking down the drive. They were Dr Green, in a thick overcoat, and Dixon, swinging his heavy stick in his right hand. I could not see their faces, but a jerky and petulant movement of Dixon’s shoulders gave me the impression that he was not likely to enjoy the walk. What can they have to say to one another, I wondered, as they turned to the left in Lyon Avenue and went towards the Heath? Then I remembered that Dr Green had telephoned to Dixon when the watchers on the wall were engaging our attention. Well, it was another little problem to think out . . . During my walk, perhaps, I would give my mind to it. And that very evening Dr Green had promised to have a talk with me. He was one in whose presence I could think aloud. Meanwhile, I could think of nothing but my sleepiness, the warmth of the fire and the softness of the armchair. Deliciously I abandoned myself to their charms.
XI. Serenade
Boxing Day – 3.30 p.m.
I awoke at half past three and roused myself with a great effort. The sun, I knew from my diary, would set at 3.55. (I always take great interest in the times of sunset in winter, and gloat over every minute gained by the afternoon sun.) If I did not set out at once I should barely have time to see the Heath by daylight. I was resolved to have my walk, even if it meant my being late for tea. After all, the other members of the party had put in the most irregular attendances at meals. Surely I was entitled to miss one.
It was indeed a lovely evening, a real foretaste of spring. As I walked up Lyon Avenue I smelt in imagination the lilac and may trees that some day would flower again by the road, the wallflowers, as yet only six inches high in the trim borders. There were may trees on the Heath, too, I noticed, when I had turned to the right up West Heath Road – may trees, silver birches and patches of gorse. Five minutes left of daylight. I had to hurry if I was to see the sunset from the top of the hill.
For a while I stood on the highest ground, watching the sky. The sun, which in summer would bury itself in the glittering waters of the Welsh Harp, was already on that winter day hidden behind the buildings on the slopes of the Finchley Road. The sky above the roofs and trees was mistily pink and gold, turning to yellowish-green as the horizon ran further from the central point of the sunset. Here and there, in the vague landscape spread out before me, a pond or sheet of metal or window caught the glow, while one by one the innumerable lamps – white, orange, green and red – of the outer suburbs filled the valley and the more distant hills with points of light. Behind me – and as I thought of it I turned round and walked across the ridge to the other and more precipitous slope of the Heath – lay the City. Somewhere in that growing darkness were my office, the Stock Exchange, the place where I had my midday meal – the tedious yet romantic streets which I crossed and re-crossed, and should cross and re-cross many times a day, spending my life – to what essential purpose?
It was strange how this bird’s-eye view of the dark town – for already the dying light and a rising mist had obliterated all landmarks – made me feel as if I were seeing not only a map of London but also a map of my own life, with its course leading obscurely and crazily from one event to another. I had set out on my stroll partly to get some fresh air and partly to think over all the little episodes of the last forty-eight hours which had made me uneasy or curious. But now, as I walked up and down the steep slope of the hill, I was unable to give my mind to them. Instead it was the larger issues of life (and death) at Beresford Lodge which claimed an emotional attention from me – as if I were contemplating them blurred by a lapse of years. ‘I used to know the Quisbergs,’ I could imagine myself saying a little wistfully to a friend. ‘They lived in a big house near Hampstead Heath – an ill-assorted family. The husband was a nervy little man, a mixture of shrewdness and gross ignorance. His wife was, even then, a very pretty woman. Now, of course . . . And there was a daughter Amabel, egotistical and strong-minded, obviously heading for some sort of a crash. I was staying with them when the mother of the resident secretary was killed. Let me see, I think it was I who actually found the body . . .’
I had now completed a circular zigzag walk on the south-east side of the Heath, and climbed up to the top of the ridge again. The evening was still very mild, and I sat down on one of the seats on the West Heath a little way below the crown of the hill. The whole place was deserted except for a man and a woman who were walking away from me to the left towards West Heath Road. All at once the man stopped, while the woman walked on with self-conscious steps. Then the man ran after her and seemed to catch her by the wrist, and for the second time that day I heard the laugh, faint, silvery and provocative, which had echoed from the top floor of Beresford Lodge when I was going to Mrs Quisberg’s room. Was it the nurse? And who was her companion? Both the figures had seemed not unfamiliar when first I saw them, though it was not till the little scene began that I gave them any conscious attention. While I was wondering about them, they paused again and then moved off the road on to the grass, where they became vague shapes in the darkness. Then, as if in ironical accompaniment to the lovers’ quarrel (if such it was), there suddenly came out of the depths of the black distance the sound of a flute or a reed-pipe. The notes were exquisite in tone, though very soft, and I was enraptured by the surprising melody. The two figures in which I was interested apparently heard it, too; for they walked back to the road and stood together for a while, as if listening. Then, with another laugh, the woman ran straight forward down the grassy side of the hill, while the man, irresolute as before, took a few slow steps down the road and then suddenly gave chase. In a moment they were both out of sight.
Was it the nurse, and who was her companion? I still could not be sure. The woman was not in nurse’s uniform, but no doubt a nurse off duty would not wear one. The man was lithe and active, and reminded me of Edwins, the footman at Beresford Lodge, whose services to me would shortly demand a huge reward. It was quite possible that Edwins had become infatuated with the nurse, and that she had given him a perverse encouragement. Yet, surely it could not have been the prospect of meeting him which, when I saw her on the afternoon of Christmas Day, had seemed to fill her with so mysterious a joy.
Meanwhile, the flute or reed-pipe still played and (as always when I hear music outside a concert hall) my emotions responded at once. It was indeed delightful to sit on that winter’s night by the hilltop and watch the many coloured lights twinkling across the great valley, while such sweet music played. For once, the feeling of suppressed apprehension, that was hardly ever very far from my thoughts, left me and gave place to a mood of rare and perfect calm. No matter if such calm were but the prelude to a storm. For once I would accept the present and enjoy it, neither hoping nor fearing, looking neither forwards nor backwards. If only, I thought, I could give but a little twist to my nature how happy I might be. If only I could take what life offered me instead of desiring precisely that which it withheld! If only instead of looking to yesterday or to-morrow I could grasp the joys lying hidden in to-day!
Ah! Moon of my delight, that knowst no wane!
I even recalled Clarence’s borrowed line with a certain pleasure, and from his sonnet my mind strayed luxuriantly over fragments of verse by more celebrated poets, and lingered with peculiar satisfaction on the first quatrain of Donne’s famous sonnet:
At the round earth’s imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go . . .
How enchanting poetry could be, I thought! Why did I spend so little of my time reading it and laying in a store of mental treasure?
Then the music stopped in the middle of a phrase, as suddenly as it had begun, and with contrasting sound a clock far on my left struck the first quarter of the hour. I had missed tea. The thought of my truancy from Beresford Lodge and all its vexations gave me satisfaction. It was my own life that I was living now. Why should I hurry back to those padded rooms and stifling radiators, the drawling Amabel, the swaggering Dixon, and all the petty difficulties which, when I was amongst them, seemed to claim all my forces? For another half-hour at least I would hold myself free to wander over the West Heath and find, perhaps, the musician who had given me so much pleasure.
*
For some distance the ground ran steeply downhill, and the worn patches of grass, where the crowds sat on summer afternoons, gleamed white in the darkness. Then, when I had passed the line of gardens that filled the narrow area between the Heath and North End Road, the slope became more gradual, and the bare expanse gave place to clumps of trees and bushes, which grew thicker and thicker till it seemed as if I were lost in a little forest. I was walking slowly, for there were many pitfalls – rabbit holes, curved roots projecting from the earth, and low branches stretching across the winding path. Here, somewhere in the thicket, the flute player must be – unless I was deceived and the sound had come from one of the heath-side gardens I had left behind on my right. What kind of man, I wondered, had made the evening lovely with his serenade? Somehow, I felt sure it was a man. Perhaps I had in the back of my mind a classical legend of some goddess who destroyed a flute and its inventor, declaring, when she saw her puffed-out cheeks reflected in a mirror, that the instrument was quite unsuited to her sex.
I was still wandering among the trees and bushes when I heard swift footfalls approaching me. The sound startled me, and I felt none too happy at the thought of meeting a stranger in that dark labyrinth. But even while I was wondering whether I had not better retrace my steps, if I could, to the more open ground, the stranger’s steps came nearer and nearer, till suddenly I saw the figure of Clarence James emerging from a little clearing. When he recognised me he stood quite still, panting, and with an expression of horror on his face. Then, stretching out a shaky hand and pointing to the bushes behind him, he gasped: ‘There’s a friend of yours down there – Dr Green. Dead!’ And before I could answer, or even absorb the full force of what he had said, he swept past me like a ghost and disappeared in the darkness.
‘James! James!’ I shouted, and made as if to pursue him. But the sound of his running feet grew fainter, and I felt that it was my first duty to go where he had pointed, and see if there were any truth in what he had said. Besides, if, as it seemed, he was intent to escape from me, I could never catch him on that treacherous ground.
My first act, which I still think most creditable in a person so unpractical as myself, was to tie my white silk muffler to the branch of a hawthorn bush near which I had been standing when Clarence first came upon me. This, I thought, would give me a starting point for my search in case I went too far and had to begin it again. Then I moved slowly forward, peering into the undergrowth on either side of the narrow path. It was so dark beneath the bushes that I was almost despairing of finding anything without an electric torch, when my eyes caught a silvery glint behind some brambles. Forcing my way through them, I found myself in a small clearing almost completely shut in on every side. A tree was growing in the middle, and by the tree, in sprawling attitude, was the body of Dr Green.
No doubt the fact that Clarence had warned me of the dead man’s identity helped me to recognise the body, but a gap in the close branches overhead let in sufficient light from the clear sky to remove all my doubts. This, I thought as the horrifying implications of the event began to dawn on me, this cannot be accident. This is either suicide or murder – that is to say, if the man is really dead.
<
br /> I had no torch, no matches, and my cigarette lighter would not work. Perhaps there was some illuminant in the doctor’s clothing. I searched him with my trembling left hand, and found in a trouser pocket a box of matches, which luckily was nearly full. With some difficulty, because I had to do the striking with my left hand, I struck a light. The cause of injury seemed obvious – a wound on the right temple, which was covered with blood. I next unbuttoned the doctor’s coat and shirt and felt the heart, but could detect no beat. The flesh, however, was quite warm. In my search for the matches I came across two objects which I thought I ought to take into my charge – one, a leather notecase with some loose papers inside it, and the other a heavy gold cigarette-case. These I put into the pocket of my overcoat. I then struck a few more matches and looked round. A weighted cane, which reminded me exactly of that with which Dixon had threatened the young spies on the wall, was lying a few feet from the body. The silvery glint, which I had seen first, came from the metal studs of a small flute-like instrument. I left the stick and the flute where they were, and was walking round the clearing once more before going for help, when I tripped and fell among the bushes. Luckily the ground was soft – indeed, I seemed to have alighted on a kind of mud-heap – and I picked myself up, dazed but uninjured except for a few scratches on my face and left hand. Then I lit another match and saw that I had stumbled over a piece of board, apparently fixed in the earth and projecting a few inches at one end. I was already so shocked by what I had found, that this last discovery of mine did not strike me as being anything very unusual. My one desire was now to get back to Beresford Lodge and entrust whatever had to be done to other hands.
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