by John Lodwick
“That’s all very well,” said Fiona, “but I’ve already heard officially from the solicitors that the boy is dead. What am I supposed to do now?”
“You don’t do anything. You’re frightened, don’t you see? The man is in the house. He is terrorising all of us. No jury would convict you . . . I don’t even think you’d ever come to trial. Just leave things to Mr. Rumbold’s friends. They’ll fix him soon enough.”
“Do you hate Rumbold as much as all that?” Fiona said slowly.
“No, I don’t hate him at all, really, though I find him presumptuous . . . and he is a bit of a parvenu, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose I do,” agreed Fiona.
The car slowed down.
“Well, here we are at the grocers’. Let’s buy some delicious spam,” and drawing in to the kerb, Peggy halted, put on the brake, and opened the creaking door.
When their shopping bags were full, the two ladies repaired to the Kardomah, where they drank two cups of coffee each and ate several cakes.
“It’s funny to be sisterly again like this,” Fiona said.
“Yes, isn’t it? I was just thinking so.”
“It’s all the more funny, you know, because we were never very close when we were kids.”
“That was her fault,” Peggy said. “Lately, it’s been his. I always thought we might get on very well together, for my part.” She paused . . . a necessary pause brought about by the munching of a cream-stuffed bun. “Tell me,” she said at length. “Do you think he’s any good?”
“Good?” echoed Fiona, who did not understand.
“Yes, good,” said Peggy. “What I mean is that, having more experience than me, you’re better able to make a comparison. For me . . .” she paused again. The last of her cream bun went down the hatch. “For me,” she said, “he always seems to be rather like a bull charging at a five-barred gate. I have an idea that your fisherman may have been better.”
“Perhaps he was,” said Fiona.
But she seemed just a little bit uncomfortable, and on the way back she took two or three small nips of whisky from her flask.
When Rumbold came downstairs and found the dining-room deserted he experienced a feeling almost of relief. Upon Fiona’s plate lay a piece of half-eaten buttered toast, the teeth-marks clearly visible. Rumbold ate this toast, then strode across the room towards the chafing dish, beneath which the blue flame of the spirit lamp still burnt. He lifted the lid and removed fried eggs to the number of two, a sausage, two bacon rashers and a rhomboid of kidney. From the sideboard cupboard he took a bottle of brown beer, and filled a cut-glass tankard. “Nothing like a good old English breakfast,” he would sometimes say, with obvious sincerity. Indeed, a Jorrocksian opening to the day was one of the few things of which Rumbold approved in good old England. Had the era not been one of food restrictions, he would have liked to see the sideboard heavy with hams, game pie, pickled gherkins and cranberry tarts. Nevertheless, he was not a glutton, ate only a light lunch and very little dinner. His attitude was similar to that of the great Napoleon, who although he could not be said to have any particular affection for his native Corsica, yet never could resist a well-cooked Fritto Misto.
Some totems and taboos are ineradicable. They have a lush and verdant place in the hearts of even the most convinced expatriates.
His breakfast done with, Rumbold called the household dog, a shaggy beast of which mention has not hitherto been made because it was seldom present, having to be hurried out of every room in which it chose to squat by reason of the offensive smell which emanated from it.
“What do the ladies do in Scotland?” said Rumbold to the dog.
The dog lay down upon its back, extending its legs. Rumbold rewarded it with a piece of sausage.
Martha came in. “Ah,” she said. “Late again. It’s enough to drive a body mad, you are.”
“Martha,” said Rumbold, “what are you going to do with all your money?”
“What should I be doing with it? It’s decency you want, man dear, with the old lady not yet cold inside her grave.”
“Why don’t you go back to your little grey home in the west?”
“My place is here,” said Martha, “though I’m not saying that there won’t be many a little niece and nephew writing to me by and by.”
“Not to mention Father Farrell,” said Rumbold.
“Aye, and Father Farrell, too, the dear, kind fellow.”
Rumbold went out into the hall. He chose a walking stick, then entered the sitting-room, in which the curtains remained drawn from the previous evening. By parting these curtains gently it was possible to obtain a fair view of all but the northern approaches to the house. Rumbold parted the curtains and peered. At first the scene seemed peaceful enough. The grounds were deserted. From the chimney of the gardener’s cottage the smoke rose perpendicularly, for the day was windless. But Rumbold’s eyes were keen: presently he saw something which made him draw back. He whistled softly. He gripped his stick with vigour.
He did not now leave by the front door as he had previously intended, but instead went down into the kitchen and up the cellar steps. The dog attempted to follow, but Rumbold drove the animal back. Behind the house there lay an apple orchard, then a low wall, then open heath land patchy with gorse. Rumbold moved nimbly. Disinclined to dirty himself with scoutish crawling, he made a wide detour towards the north, where a valley enabled him first to cross the road in safety, then to approach the house from the opposite direction.
About three hundred yards away from the front of the house, in the direction of the sea, upon a small knoll well covered with undergrowth and a few stunted trees, a man lay, with a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes. It had been the glint of the sun upon these binoculars which had first aroused Rumbold’s attention.
He advanced cautiously. The man, intent upon his scrutiny, heard nothing. Rumbold tapped him smartly on the shoulder with his stick.
“Having a good time?” he asked pleasantly.
Considerably startled, the man turned round.
“I asked if you were having a good time,” repeated Rumbold.
The man sprang up.
“Now, now,” said Rumbold. “Take it easy. Tell me how you like Scotland, for example. You must find it a bit cold lying there the whole morning, don’t you? And we’ve met before, too, haven’t we? That means we should shake hands,” and he held out his own with the most charming frankness imaginable.
“You’re up a gum tree there, guvnor,” said the man. “I never seen you before . . . straight I haven’t.”
“Oh, come now,” said Rumbold jovially. “Surely you remember a little encounter in a telephone box. You ought to, in any case, because as far as I remember your foot was hurt, wasn’t it?” and with his stick he tapped the foot in question.
The man recoiled.
“Of course I don’t want to be personal,” continued Rumbold, “but I must say your employers showed very little perspicacity when they sent you up here . . . your accent I mean . . . Peckham, isn’t it? . . . anyway, not exactly the language of the Highlands. And then, too, the fact that we know each other already.” He paused, surveying with distaste the man’s crumpled townee suit, his grey buck teeth, his deplorable signet ring inset with a fake ruby. “Ah well,” he continued. “I suppose we all make mistakes. . . .”
“A chap can take a holiday, can’t he?” said the man. He had replaced his binoculars in their case and now confronted his tormentor with incipient truculence.
“Certainly he can,” replied Rumbold. “And, would you believe it, that’s exactly what I plan for you.”
He sprang forward without warning, seizing the man first by the neck, then by the left wrist which he twisted sideways and backwards while retaining his hold upon the frayed collar. The man was now powe
rless.
“Move,” said Rumbold.
“You leave me go or it’ll be the worse for you.”
“I’m afraid you must let me be the judge of that,” said Rumbold. “Just keep walking, there’s a good fellow. You’ll find it much less painful.”
The road was deserted. The pair crossed it about a hundred yards below the gardener’s cottage. At intervals the man attempted to break free. When this happened Rumbold reinforced his grip and was rewarded by grunts of pain.
A fence bordered the coppice here; an old fence, of which many of the palings had come loose. Rumbold pushed his victim through a gap. The summer-house was not far distant. Very soon they were inside it. From a corner, Rumbold selected rope from among the debris of an old marquee.
“Now,” he said, when the man was bound in such a fashion that any attempt to free his hands increased the pressure on his jugular and feet. “Now we can have a little talk, I feel. I’m sorry I can’t offer you a chair, but you’ll find the floor less uncomfortable if you roll over on one side from time to time. Incidentally, you’ll also be able to look at the pretty pictures, which I painted myself.”
“You’ll pay for this,” the man said.
“Now that’s a very interesting point,” said Rumbold. “Have you any evidence to support it?”
“Don’t worry,” the man said venomously. “They’ll get you. It’s only a matter of a few days now.”
“I notice,” said Rumbold, “that despite your alarming predicament you show few signs of despair. Perhaps you believe that it isn’t worth my while to hurt you . . . that I wouldn’t dare? A lot of representatives of law and order have been under the same childish misapprehension: it seems to be peculiar to them.”
“I warn you,” said the man, “that if you touch me things will go very badly for you.”
Rumbold did not this time reply. Inserting, with difficulty, a hand inside the other’s coat, he removed his wallet. The wallet contained money, some photographs of purely private interest, and an identity card.
“Higgins,” exclaimed Rumbold delightedly. “Ernest Higgins . . . I feel sure that can’t be an alias. And where is Mr. Ernest Higgins staying, if you please?”
“I’m at the Bristol, in Peterhead,” the man said surlily. “What’s more, if you’ll stop this nonsense, I could go and have my lunch.”
“No lunch to-day for Ernest,” replied Rumbold. He lit a cigarette. “You don’t believe me? Come now, Ernest . . . give . . . co-operate. I can see by your face that you’re no hero yet I shrink from unpleasantness.”
“Listen, Rumbold,” said the man. “You’re in a tough spot. Take my tip and cut out the play-acting. It won’t pay you.”
“You nasty little man,” said Rumbold. “Do you honestly imagine you can measure your nasty little willpower against mine?” He pulled long upon his cigarette then held it deliberately for five seconds against his victim’s knuckles. The man screamed with pain.
“More?” said Rumbold. “Do you want more? I’ll show you what play-acting means, you little bastard. Come on . . . give.”
“Watch,” said the man. “I had to watch . . . see you didn’t leave here.”
“And if I did?”
“Follow.” If the man spoke briefly this was because he had much difficulty in the swallowing of his saliva.
“Reporting, no doubt, from time to time, to Cassell . . . how?” said Rumbold.
“By telegram.”
“And has Cassell decorated me with one of his charming code names?”
“Sugar.”
“Well, well,” said Rumbold. “And that’s all you know, I take it. Come, come . . . don’t flinch. I shan’t repeat the process. When I’ve had my lunch I might even bring you a little ointment to put on your honourable scar. Meanwhile, Mr. Ernest Higgins, I’m afraid that you stay here . . . I’m even afraid that I shall be obliged to gag you because there’s a gardener within earshot.”
“For Christ’s sake,” said the man. “What good do you think this does you? I tell you, they’ve got you, Rumbold . . . you’re finished.”
“Oh, it gains me a precious day or so,” retorted Rumbold amiably. “Of course I quite admit that from your point of view it’s rather awkward, but don’t worry . . . it’s cold there on the floor but not cold enough for you to catch pneumonia. This afternoon I’ll bring you a rug . . . even perhaps a sandwich. Incidentally, I presume you’re quite alone here? It would be better to tell the truth now, because if I discover you’re lying we’ll have quite a session with a cigarette.”
“There’s no one else,” the man said.
“Splendid. I’ll send a telegram to Cassell on your behalf. I’m sure he’ll be most intrigued to know that you’re following me all the way to Glasgow.” And he laughed heartily.
The situation was far from brilliant, but he had still a card or two to play.
Seventeen
When, however, Rumbold, after having lunched, returned to the summer-house at three-thirty in the afternoon, he discovered that the man had gone.
The thongs or bonds, expertly tied, which had secured the man had been cut loose. Some strands of severed twine, some muddy footprints and a common kitchen knife, abandoned near the door, bore silent testimony of outside interference.
Rumbold made his way straight towards the gardener’s cottage. He found the gardener—who was a widower, with children long since flown to the big cities—hanging out four pairs of socks to dry in his backyard. In a potato bed a hungry cat made clamour.
“Where is he?” said Rumbold.
“Where is who, fine gentleman?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Rumbold, “adopt that tone with me. Je ne suis pas, tu sais, à un meurtre près, à present.”
Meanwhile, he advanced, hands outstretched, his objective undoubtedly the old man’s throat. The latter sprang backwards, seized a convenient spade, and held it high in menace.
“You’re not with young helpless lassies now,” he said. “Stand back, or by the Great Christ above I’ll crown ye.”
“Very well,” said Rumbold equably. “I see that I must bow to force.” He turned, as if to leave; perceiving which movement the gardener lowered his spade. This was an unfortunate gesture, for at that same moment Rumbold jumped, airborne in a rugby tackle. The gardener, a much more lightly built man, fell instantly. Rising, Rumbold began to kick him in the ribs.
“Obscene old man,” he said. “Do you dare to watch me? I’d fix your account now if there were only time.”
And he strode off towards the house, slamming the garden gate behind him.
In the sitting-room the two sisters sat, one in tweeds, one in a house-coat. A recently unloaded log sent sparks up the wide chimney.
“Ladies,” said Rumbold without preliminaries. “I’m off.”
From Virginia Woolf’s Orlando Peggy raised her eyes. “So soon?” she said. “We’d have been happy to accommodate you till Easter.”
Rumbold gazed at her with hatred. “La Grande Dame Sans Merci, and the Dick or bounder; that’s the party line now, isn’t it?” he said. “I’ve noticed for several days that you’ve been working on your drunken sister.”
“Well,” said Peggy. “Since you raise the question, you are a little common, aren’t you?”
Advancing, Rumbold slapped her face heavily. She did not move. She did not even raise a hand.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “You’re very good at that of course, but you have one mortal weakness, haven’t you: you can’t bear to feel yourself despised. Although you’re so mean, it wouldn’t surprise me at all to hear that you pay rounds of drinks to total strangers . . . ‘Rumbold’s such a good fellow,’ they say afterwards, don’t they?”
“You little frigid bitch,” said Rumbold. “I wish to God I’d never taken you. At lea
st she . . .” here he indicated Fiona . . . “has some warmth, some signs of human feeling. You have none. I recommend that you go into the hall and remove the antlers. They’ll fit your husband when he comes.”
Fiona, until this moment quiescent, passive, now leant forward. “All this serves nothing,” she said with heavy voice. “Come upstairs. I’ll help you with your packing.”
She rose, and Rumbold followed. A last glance confirmed Peggy in her place, the small blue eyes triumphant.
“Socks . . . shirts,” he said, as soon as they were in their bedroom. “Well, at least it can’t be said that I’m a dandy.” He stuffed his three old suits into the suitcase, but she removed and straightened them; not well, but with good will.
“No,” she said. “You’re not a dandy.”
“Nor very consistent either.”
“No,” she said. “Not at all consistent.”
“Nor even perhaps,” he said, pausing, a pair of shoes in hand, “quite such a s—t as you imagine.”
“No,” she said, and there were tears in her eyes . . . her so big eyes; normally so blank. “No . . . you’re not at all a s—t.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly, “that since this is the end, it would be a pity to drag you down with me. I’ve been thinking, for example, that we might fix things very easily.”
“How?” she said, the sound of this single word almost inaudible.
“Well,” he said. “We’ve only known each other seven weeks. It would be quite easy to pretend that I did the job because of an incautious word of yours in Madrid . . . in the false hope of a reward, can’t you see? Then I came up here,” he smiled wryly. “And of course it was very difficult for you to get rid of me in the circumstances.”