House That Berry Built

by Dornford Yates

  “You’re very sweet to me, Boy.”

  “Rot,” said I. “I’ve always looked after you.”

  “I know. All my life. You all have.”

  “We happen to love you,” I said. “There’s only one Jill.”

  She caught my hand and brushed it against her face.

  As we came to the next stone wall, she gripped my wrist.

  “…Sh. There’s a lizard. A great, big fellow, Boy. He’s lying there, watching us with his big, bright eyes.”

  “Where?” I breathed. “I can’t see him.”

  “You see that brown stone…? Well, two o’clock from there – about seven feet off.”

  At last I saw the monster – a full ten inches in length, of a lovely, apple-green colour, brooching a boulder of granite, six feet away.

  Lizards are timid things, though the larger are bolder than the small. Had I not seen what followed, I would not have thought it could be done.

  Very slowly my cousin approached, to put a small hand on the stone in front of the lizard’s nose. And he never moved. Then she talked to him as an equal. She said that we were his friends, that we liked the sunshine, as he did, and wished him well. And, after a little, he looked very hard at me, and set a foot on her wrist. One minute later, he was lying along her bare arm.

  Jill never moved or touched him: but in her sweet way she spoke to him very kindly and talked to him exactly as she might have talked to me. And I will swear that that lizard understood. With a sense which we have not got, he read the heart that prompted the pretty words. But that is Jill’s way. She is completely natural with man and beast: natural as the dawn and the sunshine and the shadows which great trees throw: natural as falling water and the lisp of the wind in the forest and the silence which sundown brings. And nature calls to nature, as deep to deep. So when she said we must be going, the lizard ran up to her shoulder: and there he turned, to run back, down her arm and on to his wall.

  Jill looked at me, over her shoulder – and the light in her great, grey eyes was not of this world.

  “Now wasn’t that sweet of him? He knew I wanted him to do it: and so he did it – to give me pleasure, Boy.”

  “I know how he felt,” said I.

  “Oh, you’re full of pretty sayings this morning. But wasn’t it fine?”

  “My sweet,” said I, “I could give it another name.”

  Jill blew me a kiss – and climbed the wall on her own.

  By eight o’clock we had gained the little road which we had set out to reach.

  I must make this clear.

  We were upon the side of the mountain which men call Evergreen. It bears this name, for snow will never lie there for more than a very few hours. For roughly half its height, Evergreen Mountain is served by a mountain road. This rises from the Columbine Torrent which washes the mountain’s base and it strikes the first stroke of a zigzag from Lally to Besse. That first stroke of the zigzag is roughly one mile long; and it is pretty steep, for Lally lies five hundred feet below the hamlet of Besse. At Besse the road turns right in a hairpin bend, to strike the second stroke of the zigzag from Besse to Loup. Our little villa, Bel Air, stood upon the first stroke of the zigzag and close to its base. By moving straight up through the meadows we had met the second stroke of the zigzag, halfway between Besse and Loup.

  We were now six hundred feet higher than we had been at Bel Air and were commanding a prospect which will not go into words.

  I know fine promenades. The famous boulevard of Pau commands a magnificent view – one of the finest in Europe, the guidebooks say. But much of the two-stroke zigzag that climbs from Lally to Besse and from Besse to Loup commands the fairest prospects I ever saw. They are not ethereal. They do not induce reflection upon the world to come. But Nature, in all her glory, is there arrayed as she was in the golden age, when the gods came down from heaven, because they found earth so fair.

  The sun was lighting Lally and the length of the valley below. The mountain-tops stood up, clean-cut and glowing against the deep-blue sky. Beneath them, the mantle of forest was glancing green and gay – a magic cloak of foliage, shot all with light. Beneath this, again, the tilted, emerald meadows glittered like watered lawns. And an exquisite reef of cloud was floating on the breast of a mountain, midway between base and summit, a crow’s mile from where we stood – a foolish virgin, caught in her gentle duty of shedding her being upon the grateful earth.

  I pointed to the Niobe cloud.

  “The last of the water-ladies. Now we know why the meadows are always green.”

  My cousin nodded.

  “I like to be up against Nature and see the way she works. And we can do that up here. Oh, Boy, I’m so glad we came.”

  “So ’m I,” said I, and meant it.

  We turned west, down the road, and headed for Besse.

  Until we came to the hamlet, we had the world to ourselves, for the herdsmen had already gone by and the shepherds were up on the hills: but the hamlet was busy enough, and everyone smiled upon Jill and gave us good day. Then we passed out of Besse and round to the left, to enter the stroke of the zigzag, close to whose foot stood Bel Air.

  We were halfway down this limb – ten minutes’ walk from Lally and ten minutes’ walk from Besse – when I glanced away from the valley and up to my left.

  “My word,” I said, thinking aloud. “But what a site for a house!”

  Though I say it, it was a good place. Though the ground rose more sharply later, the first two lynchet-meadows were none too steep. To the left, a lively rill fell down in leaps and scurries, to brawl through a culvert hidden beneath the road. To the right, some sixty yards up, a bluff rose out of the meadows – a cornice of rock and bracken, neighboured by stripling oaks. This seemed to swell out of the mountain in the most graceful way – a gentle reminder that the hills were older than the meadows and were not the work of men’s hands. At the foot of the bluff, the rock seemed to overhang, almost as if there was a grotto…

  There was a grotto.

  We left the road and slanted across the meadows, to find a dripping well that was sunk in the base of the cliff: tiny ferns made it an arras, and trees hung down their branches to give it shade, and cushions of little, wild blossoms that I had never seen were overlaying its ledges and turning such water as fed them into a delicate fringe.

  Jill was entranced – and had gone in over her ankles before I could draw her back: for the elegant meadow, below the foot of the bluff – it was as pretty a field as I ever saw – was watered day and night by the dripping well. Indeed, where it came to the road, an old stone trough had been let into its wall, to receive the surplus water and hold it for thirsty beasts. An ass was drinking there, as I helped my fair cousin down.

  Regardless of her condition, she led the way back up the road and surveyed the site.

  “Boy, it’s ideal.”

  I sighed.

  “I think it is,” I said. “And if anyone is mug enough to build there, he’ll have to cart all his water for nearly a mile.”

  “But the rill?”

  “Will be half its size in August: and though Berry was putting it high, it isn’t drinking water. You can’t get away from that.”

  “And the dripping well? I’m sure that’s pure, and I don’t believe it dries up.”

  “I agree. If you piped its burden across and then pumped it up, you might get enough to wash your face twice a day. There’s nothing doing, sweetheart. It’s one of those pretty dreams that one has to put up on the shelf; for a house without water to waste is a desolate place. It is the one thing that matters – water, I mean. Life is not worth living, if you’ve got to think before you turn on a tap.”

  With her eyes on the lovely site—

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Jill. “But it does seem meant.”

  Breakfast beneath the limes was most agreeable.

  My walk had made me hungry, and I was the only one eating when Berry appeared.

  His resigned expression
insisted that something was wrong.

  “Darling,” said Daphne, “I’m sure you had a good night.”

  “Superb,” said her husband. “I was lulled to sleep by the waters over the earth. I wish I could go back to bed and have it again.” He glanced at the flawless heaven before he took his seat. “But all that good is undone. I suppose they haven’t connected the bath to the refrigerator by mistake. I mean, that would explain it.”

  “Five baths off the heater,” said Jonah, “is asking rather a lot.”

  “I only want one bath,” said Berry, selecting a piece of toast. “Just a little dash of warm water, in which to immerse my trunk. This morning there was nothing to choose between the taps. And this blasted rill is snow-broth. It goes clean through you. My large intestine’s quite numb.”

  “Are you suggesting,” said his wife, “that we should give up our baths?”

  “Certainly not,” said Berry. “I will have my women clean.”

  When order had been restored—

  “They’ll have to boil me water,” said Berry. “Boil it in a large vessel and carry it up when I call. Therèse can see about it.”

  “I won’t have Therèse lugging buckets of boiling water about the place.”

  “I don’t care who does it,” said Berry, “so long as it’s done. After all, what does it mean? Four or five buckets of water, twice a day.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Daphne. “Eugène has his work cut out to cook our food on that stove. He can’t boil bathing-pools.”

  “I see,” said her husband, coldly, “no need for blasphemy.”

  “I think it’s clear,” said Jonah, “that we should have a supplementary supply. I suggest a power-plug in the bathroom, and, plugged into that, a hot plate. On this, a vast receptacle, such as a lessiveuse, can constantly stand. In the morning, as in the evening, the water will be boiling – or very near. Electricity’s dirt cheap here, so why not install the thing? Carson can do it this evening. We can get the stuff in Pau. I’ve got to go into Pau, to pick Carson up. I can get a plate and a plug and the rest of the stuff. And Carson can install the contraption this afternoon.”

  “‘The Gordian knot of it,’” said Berry, “‘he will unloose.’ And how does the b-bather transfer the b-boiling water from the receptacle to the b-bath?”

  “By means of a saucepan,” said Jonah. “Don’t spill it upon your feet.”

  “I think,” said Berry, “Therèse should prepare my bath. I mean, I’m not used to ladling molten lead. And, if any did miscarry – well, think of the waste. And what are we doing today? A stroll towards Besse would suit me down to the socks.”

  Jill cupped her chin in her palms.

  “You’re coming down to the torrent – the Columbine. Boy’s going in with Jonah, and Daphne’s got letters to write. So you must come.”

  “My sweet,” said Berry, “we can see the swine from the bridge. From that convenient—”

  “It’s much bigger, lower down, because of the falls. Besides, a bridge is like tourists. I want to stand by its side. I’ve always wanted to, but we’ve never had time.”

  My brother-in-law swallowed.

  “Don’t you think,” he said, “the first day we’d better stick to the roads?”

  “No,” said Jill. “Besides, we must get into training. Tomorrow we’re going up Evergreen. Right to the top. Therèse says there’s quite a good path, if you don’t look down.”

  As soon as he could speak—

  “What, up this mountain?” cried Berry. He laughed wildly. “You must be mad. Besides, my doctors wouldn’t hear of it. And I wish you wouldn’t say these things. I was going to have a third egg, but I don’t seem to fancy it now.”

  I put in my oar.

  “Up and down Evergreen is considered an afternoon’s stroll. But I’ve heard that, once you’re up there, you can walk to the Col de Fer. All the way…on the mountain-tops. I don’t know how true it is. Of course, that’s a day’s excursion.”

  “What’s the matter with you,” said Berry. “This isn’t The Psalms. You can’t go prancing about a lot of mountain-tops. They’re not meant to be pranced on. They’re meant to be surveyed.”

  “I shan’t rest till we’ve done it,” said Jill. “D’you really mean that we don’t have to come down?”

  “So I’m told,” said I. “Beautiful going, they say – like an English heath.”

  “But how gorgeous!” said Berry. “Well, you go on and do it: and I’ll come up to the Col and meet you by road. I can pilot the ambulance – for those who finish the stretch. The vultures’ll look after the others. Remember that day we saw them helping a sheep?”

  “You filthy brute,” said Daphne.

  “As a punishment,” said I, “he shall bear the beer. I’ll get a rucksack today. Once it’s adjusted, they say you don’t feel the weight. Besides, it leaves the hands free for carrying other things.”

  Berry appeared to be communing with himself.

  Ten minutes later, I was by Jonah’s side, and the Rolls was whipping through Lally and heading for Pau.

  We had picked up Carson and had done our odd jobs in the town before midday: so we drove to the Place Royale and berthed the car. Then we sat down beneath the chestnuts and ordered some beer.

  As I lighted a cigarette—

  “Hullo,” said Jonah, “there’s Shapely. He looks as though he has heard.”

  I looked up, to see the fellow whom I had seen in Lally by the side of his caravan. But now he was well turned out. His suit was grey, and I saw that his tie was black. He was standing still on the other side of the Place, as though he had just come out of the Hôtel de France. His underlip caught in his teeth, he gave the impression of a man confronted with duties he does not like, who is seeking to make up his mind how best to begin.

  “D’you think we should speak to him?”

  “Not unless he sees us,” said Jonah. “We hardly know the man – and we like him less.”

  Here Shapely looked up and saw us.

  As he crossed the Place, we stood up.

  “Hullo,” he said. “Thank God for a face I know. Can I sit down with you?”

  “Of course,” said Jonah. “Is beer all right for you?”

  “Please,” said Shapely. And then, “I assume you know.”

  “Saw it in The Times,” said Jonah. “We’re all most awfully sorry. I take it you’ve only just heard.”

  “Last night,” said Shapely. “At Argéles. I’m roving, you know, with a van. I was going on up the Tourmalet. But I happened to pick up a paper, and there it was.”

  “You were called on the wireless,” I said.

  “I know. I never heard it. I drove into Pau this morning, shoved the van in a garage and went to the Bank. A sheaf of wires there, of course, and a letter from Joan, my sister, telling me all she knows. Funeral’s today, at Woking.”

  “Yes, I saw that,” said Jonah. “Not your fault you’re not there.”

  Shapely shrugged his shoulders.

  “I can’t get away even now. There isn’t a train till six.”

  “You’ve missed,” said I, “a lot of unpleasantness.”

  “That’s very true,” said Shapely. “All the same, I ought to be there – as a matter of form.” He drank and set down his glass. “I’m not knocked out, you know. Old R was – well, nothing to me. In fact, we didn’t get on, or I shouldn’t be here. But he had no relatives, and so it’s up to me to do what I can.”

  “What can you do?” said Jonah.

  Shapely crossed and uncrossed his legs.

  “I really don’t know,” he said. “But the murder was done in my home, and Old R was my stepfather.”

  “And you were in France. You can do nothing, Shapely. Even if you had been there, you couldn’t have done very much. The matter’s out of your hands. You may, of course, have some suggestion to make.”

  “Regarding the identity of the murderer?”

  “Yes.”

  Shapely shook his head. />
  “You may know more than I do. I haven’t seen a paper, except the one last night. But as soon as I read the news, I assumed it was a crime of revenge. Old R was ‘a hanging judge’, and he fairly weighed out time. There must have been plenty of felons who wanted to do him in.”

  “He was always just,” said my cousin. “It is the unjust judge that gets under the criminal’s skin. But we know nothing at all. The police are holding their tongues.”

  Shapely pulled out a letter and found a place in its text.

  “This is what Joan says,” he said, and began to read.

  “…Old R was found by Still – that’s the butler – at seven a.m. Still had come in, as usual, to open the room. The French windows were still wide open, and the reading-lamp was burning beside his chair. Poor Old R was in the chair, dead and cold – with a length of flexible cord tied round his neck. The cord had been cut from the other standard lamp. The doctor says he knew nothing, because he had been chloroformed first. The pad of gauze and wool had been burned on the hearth. As far as I know, they found no finger-prints. When the brute had done it, he went to the coach-house and took the family car. You know, the Humber Snipe. Nobody heard him. The car was found at Hampstead that morning at eight o’clock. Abandoned, of course. We can place the time of the murder, more or less, for I said good night to Old R at half-past ten, and you know he always goes up at a quarter to twelve. Always. So it must have been between those times. One Chief Inspector Falcon has taken charge of the case. He is a gentleman and extremely nice. I should say he was very efficient, but he gives nothing away. The crime was clearly studied. I mean the man must have watched and have got to know his ways – how he sat with the windows open and all alone. And he knew how to pick a lock, for the coach-house door wasn’t forced. D’you think it could have been, say, a burglar, whom he had sent down? I mean, he had no enemies, and nothing at all was touched.

  “Not very logical, that; but you see what she means.”

  Shapely folded the letter and put it away.

  “Thanks very much,” said Jonah. “And Falcon’s a very good man. Quite the best at the Yard, at the moment.” He wrinkled his nose. “There doesn’t seem much to go on, except the theft of the car.”