“The suit-case, sir. Initials V. R.—brushes with same initials inside.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In Halsey Mere, sir, sticking in the mud at the edge. It gets very deep further in.”
Timothy became quite rigid. He heard his own voice like the voice of a stranger. It sounded loud and angry.
“How could it have got there?”
The inspector coughed again.
“We’ll drag the lake to-morrow, sir. We can’t do anything more to-night, but I thought I’d just let you know. Good-night, sir.”
Timothy hung up the receiver. The telephone was a fixture on the wall beside the door which led into the hall. He had his back to the long open window. He hung up the receiver, and stood there unable to move, unable to lift himself under the crushing horror of his fear for Valentine. The deep, lonely lake with its shelving edges—a grey lake—very deep. Valentine—all alone—frightened—running away—nowhere to go—he had let her go.
He just stood there, thoughts all round him like wolves, ready to rush in and tear—frightful thoughts coming nearer, closing in. He couldn’t keep them back—any longer. A horrible cold fear was paralysing him.
The sound came then—a very little sound. You wouldn’t hear a sound like that unless everything was as still as death. Timothy shuddered violently away from the word.
The sound came again—the sound of something moving—softly. It came from behind him. Someone had moved on the flagged path. Someone had sighed—if a breath that barely stirs the outer edge of silence can be called a sigh.
Timothy turned round with a very great effort. He did not know what he was going to see. If there should be nothing except the dark, and the pale roses falling against the doorpost—If there should be—something—unknown—
He saw Valentine standing on the threshold. Her hair was tossed and damp, her face all white, her eyes wide and darkly blue, her lips parted to draw that sighing breath. Her coat hung open over the dark red dress. She held her hat in one hand, the other touched the jamb. She looked at Timothy, and said his name almost inaudibly.
“Timothy—”
And in an instant Timothy came awake. The nightmare was gone—the agony of fear, the horrible desolation. He came awake, and was himself; and he remembered that he mustn’t frighten her.
He came to her, and she let her hat drop on the floor and caught at his arm.
“Timothy—I’ve come back.”
Timothy picked her up and put her into his big shabby chair, a comfortable man’s chair. She lay back in it and sighed deeply.
“Oh, Timothy—my feet!”
Timothy went down on his knees and took her shoes off. She curled her toes up like a baby and sighed again.
“I do—hate—shoes!”
“Val, I’m going to get you some milk. You won’t run away again?”
Her eyes were closed, but her lips parted in an enchanting smile. It was very nearly too much for him. He went quickly, found his housekeeper with coffee just made, and came back with a breakfast-cupful that was nearly all milk.
When Valentine had drunk it she sat up.
“Lovely!”
“When did you have anything to eat?”
“A most dreadfully long time ago.”
“What will you have?”
“Lots,” said Valentine.
Timothy burst from the room to tell Mrs. Sanders that Miss Valentine was starving, and what about it?
“Lor’ now!” said Mrs. Sanders. “What a come off of it! You don’t say!”
Timothy didn’t wait to say anything. When Valentine was under his eyes, he could believe she was safe. But the minute she was out of sight, he remembered the bad dream. It simply didn’t bear remembering.
She looked anxiously at him as he came in.
“You won’t send me back?”
“No. Val, where have you been?”
“I don’t know.” She pushed back her hair. “A long way. A man took me in a car. I didn’t like him—he tried to kiss me. Aunt Helena says men always try to kiss you. But you don’t, Timothy.”
Timothy was hard put to it.
“I wouldn’t ever kiss you if you didn’t want me to, Val.”
Valentine looked up at him with an air of interest.
“I couldn’t tell you if I wanted you to.”
“Perhaps I should know.”
“How?”
“Val, what happened to you? You haven’t told me.”
“He tried to kiss me, so I got out of the car—it wasn’t going very fast. He stopped and tried to find me, but I hid in a wood.”
“Was it by a lake?”
“Yes, it was.”
“They found your suit-case—in the water.”
“Why do you say it like that? Did you think I was in the water too?”
Timothy shook his head.
Mrs. Sanders began to come and go. She looked curiously at Miss Valentine, “with her hair that rumpled, and no shoes, and two great ’oles in her stockings fit to put your ’and through.”
Valentine made a very good supper. She had a most happy feeling that everything was all right.
When Mrs. Sanders had gone, Timothy said,
“Val, are you very tired?”
“Not now.”
“Because I want to take you to Ida.”
“I want to stay here with you.”
“You can’t, my dear. I’ll come with you.”
“And stay?”
“If you want me to. I must go and get the car. Mrs. Sanders can ring everybody up when we’ve gone.”
When he came back, she had two questions to ask:
“They won’t want to make me marry Eustace now?”
“No, Val.”
“Oh—Need I put on my shoes? I don’t want to.”
Timothy laughed unsteadily.
“You’d better take them with you. But you needn’t wear them—I’ve got a rug to roll you up in.”
As the car began to move, Valentine said,
“I did want to stay here.”
There was a long silence before Timothy answered,
“You can always come back, you know.”
They turned out of the gate and began to slide along, dream-fashion, just Timothy and Valentine in a darkness that shut them in and shut everyone else out. It wasn’t a frightening darkness any more. It was like a soft wall all round them, keeping them safe.
Valentine said “Lovely!” under her breath. It was like flowing along on a river of light. It was like her dream. She remembered that she hadn’t told Timothy about her dream. She said,
“Timothy—”
“What is it?”
“I didn’t tell you why I came back.”
“No.”
“It was because I heard you calling me.”
Timothy was silent. She was close against his shoulder. She had come back because she had heard him calling her.
“It was in a dream,” said Valentine in a soft little voice. “It was my dream about the island. And someone kept on calling, only I didn’t know who it was—I always woke up. But last night, in the wood, I knew that it was you, so I came back—only it was such a long way.”
There was another silence.
Timothy’s hand left the wheel; his arm went round Valentine. These things happened without his meaning them to happen. They just happened.
Valentine thought how nice and strong his arm was, and how safe. It made her feel quite, quite sure that she wasn’t going to be made to marry Eustace. She waited a little, and then she said,
“Did you call me?”
“Yes, Val.”
“Why did you call me?”
“Do you want me to tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I’d better.”
“But I want you to.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Did you want me? Was that why you called?”
Timothy said, “I wanted you.”
<
br /> “Why?”
Timothy said, “For always, Val.”
They went on sliding along the golden beam. The darkness was very kind and safe. Timothy’s arm was very safe. After a while Valentine came closer. She said,
“I’m frightened about being married, Timothy.”
Timothy said, “I won’t frighten you, Val. You’re not frightened of me, are you?”
“No.”
Timothy was very safe and kind. He was her best friend. She loved him very much. That was why she had come back. She loved him very much indeed. She wouldn’t ever be frightened of him, because she loved him.
She said in a very little voice,
“Timothy—”
“Val?”
“Timothy—would you like—to kiss me?”
Timothy stopped the car.
About the Author
Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1931 by Patricia Wentworth
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3354-1
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Kingdom Lost Page 24