House That Berry Built

by Dornford Yates

  “How does that help?” said Shapely.

  “It goes to suggest that the murderer knew his way round. I don’t believe it’s a felon. You see, if it was, the police would have got him by now. The very first thing they would do would be to check up on all men whom poor Old Rowley had sentenced, who had been lately released. And that would be too easy. Every one would be placed in twenty-four hours. It looks much more like some servant who’d been dismissed, or—”

  “Good God!” said Shapely.

  Both of us looked at him.

  “Got a line?” said Jonah.

  Shapley frowned.

  “Yes and no,” he said. “If you’ll forgive me, I’d like to leave it there.”

  “Of course,” said Jonah, rising. “And we must be getting along. We’re staying up in the mountains, and we’ve got to get back to lunch.”

  “Where’s that?” said Shapely.

  “Just outside Lally,” said I. “A lovely spot.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Shapely. “I passed through Lally on Tuesday, en route for the Col de Fer.” He glanced at the Pyrénées. “My God, I hate leaving it all.”

  “You’ll have to come back,” said I, “to collect your van.”

  “One day, I suppose.”

  “Well, au revoir,” said I. “Sorry we can’t do more than say how sorry we are.”

  “You have done more. Being able to talk like this has done me a lot of good. See you again some day.”

  We took our leave.

  As we ran out of Pau—

  “He’s got his eye on someone,” said Jonah.

  “A dismissed servant,” said I. “You rang that bell.”

  “Looks like it,” said Jonah. “And I’m going to write to Falcon. I’m not so sure that Shapely will spill the beans. He didn’t like Old Rowley – he says as much: and he may have liked some servant Old Rowley fired.”

  “In which case, he may decide to hold his tongue?”

  “Exactly. And that’s all wrong. Likes and dislikes shouldn’t enter a show like this. It was a barbarous crime. Old Rowley was a great public servant and, begging Shapely’s pardon, a very nice man.”

  There was a little silence, which I presently broke.

  “I didn’t know you knew Falcon.”

  “You know him, too,” said Jonah. “Ascot two years ago. We brought him back to Cock Feathers.”

  “My God, was that Falcon?” said I. “You said he was at the Bar.”

  “I know,” said my cousin. “But that was Falcon all right. And he was a barrister, before he went to the police.” He addressed the back of the car. “He’s a good man, isn’t he, Carson?”

  “A very good man, sir,” said Carson.

  “You remember Sir Steuart Rowley?”

  “Perfectly, sir. At White Ladies, more than once.”

  “That was his stepson, Mr Shapely. He’s only just heard the news.”

  “Was it indeed, sir? The one they were asking for?”

  “That’s right. Remember this road?”

  “Indeed I do, sir. A bend a mile ahead and under a bridge.”

  “Good for you,” said Jonah, and lifted his foot. “Eighty-six. There’s not much wrong with this car.”

  As we took our seats for lunch—

  “Did Jill show you the site?” I said.

  My brother-in-law nodded.

  “Very delectable,” he said. “You’d want five thousand slaves to prepare the ground and another five thousand to haul the materials there. It’s the sort of venture that would have appealed to Cheops. Now the field on the left—”

  “Commands the graveyard,” said I.

  “What if it does?” said Berry. “I rather believe in the contemplation of death. You’re – well, more prepared then.”

  Jill began to shake with laughter, and Daphne covered her mouth.

  Returning to Berry, I noticed that he had changed his coat – and tie.

  When I looked at Jonah, I saw him close his left eye.

  “And how,” said I, “is the Columbine?”

  Berry accepted a piece of toast.

  “You will oblige me,” he said, “by not naming that open sewer.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I always thought—”

  “I can think of nothing,” said Berry, violently, “of less value or interest than any of your rooted beliefs. I have described that treacherous torrent as an open sewer. It’s one of those things that should be heard, but not seen, and never, never approached. As a matter of fact, it ought to be filled up.” He sat back and looked round malevolently. “This morning I declared my intuition that we should stick to the roads. Was my faithful instinct honoured? No. Instead I was persuaded to take what was called a path… Of course I was brought up on the Bible. When they say ‘a path’ there, they mean a path – a small, but decent way for the sole of the foot. Just because half a dozen drunks have staggered the same way down a mountainside, that doesn’t make a path. It was in the course of my efforts to remain upright that I found the souvenir. One moment, it wasn’t there: the next, the toe-cap of one of the finest shoes I have ever put on was enshrined in a sardine tin, which appeared to have been opened less in sorrow than in anger, by means of a cross-cut saw… Of course, the shoe is finished. Damned well done in. Years of boning and polishing just chucked away – because we didn’t keep to the road. I might have been playing soccer with a ball of barbed wire. By the time I’d got the tin off, the toe-cap was fringed.” He covered his eyes. “Well, it was no good going back: the damage was done. I screamed whenever I saw it. So we came to the brink of the water which was our goal. Having attained our end, I proposed to rest a little, as well to fortify myself for the return journey as to recover from the shock which the devastation of a museum-piece is apt to provoke. Had I had a harp with me, I should have hung it up in a tree. But that grey-eyed siren said ‘No.’ Possessed of some evil spirit, she determined to cross the flood.”

  “Be fair,” said Jill. “The path led down to a row of stepping-stones. And another path ran up from the other side. I naturally—”

  “It all depends,” said Berry, “on the definition of a stepping-stone. Personally, I should define it as a stone so stablished, either by nature or art, that whoso sets foot upon it may do so in the confidence that it will not only receive and maintain his weight, but will neither rock, sway, shudder or otherwise betray him. Today such confidence would have been – was misplaced. From some filthy and misshapen conception of gallantry, I insisted on proving the uninviting series of boulders before she crossed. I can’t say that I relished the prospect. The water was clearly excited – not to say, vexed. The stepping-stones (sic) were, of course, opposing its will, and the fury with which it squeezed between them argued an intolerance which would have made a lumber-jack think. On the right-hand side was a pool of which an offensive-looking trout and the remains of what appeared to be a blood-pudding were the only occupants.

  “Apparently you shouldn’t use the third stepping-stone… I mean, the habitués don’t. At least, that was what the peasant who helped me out said. Out of the pool, I mean. He said that the third stepping-stone was not too good. ‘Not too good.’ If he’d said that it was so poised that the slightest pressure upon it would cause it to tilt like a balance, he’d have been nearer the mark. And there you have this country. The approach of a soi-disant path from either side issues a direct invitation to step upon those stones. That invitation is a vile and treacherous snare, for anyone who sets foot upon the third stone must inevitably be cast into the draught. There’s hospitality for you! There’s Cretian charity!”

  “What happened to the trout?” said Jonah.

  With starting eyes—

  “That,” said Berry, “is what worries me. I brought up quite a lot of the blood-pudding, which, of course, was all to the good, but I couldn’t find the trout anywhere. I do so hope he’s all right. I mean, I don’t mind my suit being ruined, I didn’t mind tripping two and a half miles
uphill, carrying top weight and soaked to the skin, or having to explain my condition to every peasant I met – they’re a dull lot about here. If I meet a man who has obviously been submerged, I don’t ask him if he’s wet.” He turned upon Jill. “Yes, you’ll never get over that, will you? Every time they asked me, you screamed and yelled with laughter until the sheep looked round.”

  Jill was clinging to my shoulder.

  “Boy, I nearly died. We met eight altogether, and everyone asked the same. They asked if he was wet. And he said no, it was sweat – that all his life he’d perspired very freely indeed and that walking uphill was apt to open his pores. And all the t-time the water was dripping out of his coat. If you could have seen their faces!”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Berry, “the exercise saved my life. The chill of that snow-broth has to be felt to be believed. By the time I got back I was sweating. But that’s by the way. I’m through with these country strolls. They’re too exacting. And expensive. That coat I had on—”

  “Therèse will save it,” said Daphne. “So long as you haven’t caught cold… But you must be more careful next time.”

  “‘Careful’?” screamed Berry. “I tell you, I was betrayed. And I never wanted to do it. I was badgered into approaching the – The Leper’s Delight. Badgered, betrayed and b-bitched – that’s the poisonous order of my undoing. That’s how I spend my first morning in the lap of the Pyrénées. Any suggestions for this afternoon?”

  “Sleep for you,” said his wife. “I want to see this site.”

  “So you shall,” said I. “It’s window-shopping, of course. But I’d like to hear what you think.”

  Jonah came, too. They surveyed it from every angle and found it extremely good. But its lack of water confined it to the realm of dreams. About that, no one could argue.

  “It’s a pity,” said Jonah, setting a match to his pipe. “A house built there would be incomparable. Facing full south, with this air and outlook and surroundings, it would diminish most homesteads that I have seen. And talk about landscape – gardening – you’d never be through.”

  “It’s tantalizing,” said Daphne. “I’m ripe for an ivory tower.”

  “I know,” said my cousin. “Never mind. Plenty of fish in the sea. I’m told that château by Brace has a first-class spring.”

  My sister wrinkled her nose.

  “I’m not mad about Brace,” she said. “Anyway we’re all of us fools. Who wants to buy or build?”

  “We’ve never lived in hired houses.”

  “I know. It can’t be helped.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Jonah, “to build a house just now would do us a lot of good. It’s a primitive instinct, of course: but it’s none the worse for that.”

  3

  In Which We Cast Our Bread Upon the Waters,

  and Find It in Two Days’ Time

  The summer days went by, and the country about us tightened the spell it had cast. If ever we drove down to Pau, we were actually relieved to get back. Twice the clouds came down, to swathe Bel Air in their delicate folds of moisture for twenty-four hours. On the second occasion, the five of us walked in cloud halfway to the Col de Fer. By road, of course. The exercise acted like a cure. I never remember feeling fitter in all my life. And the music of the orchestra of waters we could not see was unforgettable.

  Old Rowley’s death was forgotten – or so it seemed. Jonah had written to Falcon, but the latter’s courteous acknowledgment had given no news.

  It was, I shall always remember, upon the first day of July that we took the two cars and drove to Paradise. This was one of the loveliest places we had found, and it lay perhaps thirty minutes from our front door.

  To reach it, we ran through Lally, turned to the right and on to the road to Pau: before we came to Nareth, we switched to the left, threading a thunderous gorge and taking the curling road which climbed by Cluny and Jules up to the Spanish frontier some twenty-five miles off. Some of the handsomest country lay this way, and he who left the road could have it all to himself. Once in a while, a tent would argue the presence of some enthusiast: sometimes a lonely angler fished some stream: but ninety per cent of the visitors stuck to the road, content to survey the prospects which we went up to and proved. But we were not visitors. Living among them, we had the freedom of the hills.

  We slowed through the village of Cluny, hanging on our heel at the Customs, to give our assurance that we were not bound for Spain: then we swept on up the gorge, for a short two miles. And there we left the road for a ramp on the left.

  Few would have marked this track, for the beeches grew thick about it, interlacing their boughs above it, as though to keep it hidden from curious eyes. Fewer still would have taken this track, for who could say that you could turn, when once you were down? And it was not a place up which to drive a car backwards… But turn you could, at the foot of the shadowed ramp; or you could berth your car there and, getting out, take your choice of the pleasances there displayed. Each was five minutes’ walk, and it always seemed strange to me that two so different havens should have lain side by side.

  Turn to the left, and you came to a blowing meadow of fine, sweet grass. It was very small, very retired, with oaks and chestnuts about it, to offer a grateful shade. It was a true mountain lawn; but it might have been plucked from the English countryside. Lying there, supine, by merely moving his eyes, a man could command on all sides the peaks of the Pyrénées, could mark their bulwarks and tell their glorious towers, observe their hanging forests and glancing falls, could doze and dream of beauty – and wake to find the truth more lovely still.

  Turn to the right, and you came to a little path which led some sixty feet down to the torrent’s bed. To more than its bed – to a natural bathing-pool. Fringed by a strip of sand, this actually shelved to a depth of eleven feet. In fact, for a third of the year, the torrent passed it by, detailing a waterfall to feed it and keep its burden running and ever fresh. Because it lay full in the sun, except in its depths, it was never cold as the torrent, while the burly rocks about it grew hot and gave off heat.

  Little wonder we gave such perfection the name of Paradise.

  This particular morning we spent at the pool, and I have a photograph still which Carson took. Watched by Jill and Therèse, Daphne and Berry are playing a game of backgammon upon the strand; Jonah is waist-deep in the water; and I am poised on a rock, about to dive.

  At one we adjourned to the meadow, and there, despite Berry’s misgivings, we ate our lunch.

  It was then that we spoke of the virtue of Lally’s water…

  Berry emptied his glass and called to Carson for another bottle of beer.

  “I do take it,” he said. “I take it in my coffee and quite a lot of it goes to the preparation of my food. I probably swallow some when cleaning my teeth.”

  “Not that water,” said my sister. “The other. The – the thermal spring. The stuff that invalids drink. It’s warm and sulphurous.”

  “All right. You take it,” said her husband. “I’ve more respect for my stomach. I’m not going to insult it with a beverage reminiscent of rotten eggs.”

  “Roger says it’s not bad,” said Daphne, “and terribly good for the chest. He says, if you drink it, you never have a cold the next winter. And here it is, at our door.”

  “Have you entered the establishment?” said Berry. “And seen the vomitories?”

  My sister repressed a shoulder – which meant that she had.

  “You don’t have to use them,” she said. “They just give you your dose, and then you go out and sip it.”

  “If I’m going to be sick,” said Berry, “I’d rather—”

  “Be quiet,” said Daphne. “Nobody’s going to be sick. And they’re not vomi – vomidaries. They’re for gargling.”

  “The one day I was there,” said Berry, “there was a very large woman—”

  Shrieks of protest cut short the memory.

  “I know,” said Daphne. “It’
s filthy. It oughtn’t to be allowed. But that doesn’t alter the fact that the water is beneficial. I think it’s absurd not to take it.”

  “My sweet,” said her husband, “for all I care, you can drink a gallon a day. I decline to be interested in an evil-smelling liquor which wells from the bowels of the earth. When you spoke of ‘the Lally water’, I thought you meant that exquisite crystal fount which serves the taps of Lally, the surplus of which runs in the gutters of Lally by day and night, while we, who live five hundred yards off, must have it dragged to our door in a donkey-cart. Now if we had that on tap – well, I shouldn’t drink it all the time, but if we ran out of beer, you never know.”

  It was about half-past two that Jill and Jonah and I strolled out of the meadow towards the forest-clad heights which were opposed to those upon which the road had been cut.

  Our way led past a toy barn: that this belonged to the meadow was very clear, for it was built against it, just under the lea of a rise.

  Where there is grass in the mountains, there is always a barn, substantially built, as a rule, with dry stone walls and a carefully slated roof. In the upper part, under the slates, the hay is stacked, while the lower part, unfloored, is used as a byre.

  Jonah spoke over his shoulder.

  “If I believed in camping, I think I should make an endeavour to buy this place. The barn and the meadow, I mean. Half an hour’s walk from Cluny…good shelter against rough weather, which you could elaborate…a bathing-pool at hand…and utter privacy.”

  I nodded.

  “You could spend five months of the year here. No doubt about that.”

  “Why don’t we do it?” said Jill.

  “Because, my sweet, I am too old for camping – unless I must. If I’ve got to do it, I will: but I like to get home to dinner, and a well-found bathroom suits me down to the socks. The lusts of the flesh get a grip, when you’re over a certain age. As you are ageless, you can’t appreciate that.”

  “Comfort first,” said Jonah, and left it there.