Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Charles, you’re frightening me!”

  “If there’s any truth in your theory of the robbery I shall go to London and tackle Shane about it. I shall give him a good fright and make sure he doesn’t see Freddie again.”

  “Blackmail,” I said.

  “Yes, blackmail,” agreed Charles. “I’ll twist his tail and make him squirm . . . but I must see the Admiral first.”

  Charles went up Dunlaggan Hill that afternoon and paid a visit to the Brig. It was a day of heavy showers and the road was worse than ever. Sir Rupert looked older, and rather forlorn, but he was pleased to see Charles and they had tea together in the stateroom.

  It had been Charles’s intention to listen, and say as little as possible, but Sir Rupert wasn’t as talkative as usual so at last Charles was obliged to broach the subject himself.

  “I had to do it,” explained Charles, when he was telling me his story. “I had to tell him that, once before, Shane had got into the Brig by the hatch in the upper deck. I thought it was dangerous for him not to know . . . but he did know. My information didn’t surprise him. When he realised that I knew a good deal about the matter, and suspected more, he swore me to secrecy and told me everything. It was a relief to get it off his chest. Your guess was right, Sarah.”

  “It wasn’t a guess,” I said. “It was the only possible solution to the mystery; but, go on, tell me what happened when Sir Rupert saw Cèsar Vidal at the Police Station.”

  “Vidal was in a very bad state, nearly off his head with the craving for drink and furious with his son for escaping and leaving him to be arrested by the police. (In fact he was in such a frightful condition that at first Sir Rupert didn’t recognise him.) Vidal declared that he hadn’t taken part in the robbery; he had waited outside while Shane climbed on to the roof and had continued to wait until Shane came out of the door with the suitcase in his hand. He was so angry with Shane he didn’t care what he said. Vidal explained that his son was broke and had to have money, so he—Vidal—had agreed to help him by taking the collection to South America and selling it to a friend. Apparently he lived for years in Rio de Janeiro. That was where he met Mary Nash.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well, that was Vidal’s story. Sir Rupert doesn’t believe it.”

  “Doesn’t believe it?”

  “Oh, he admits Shane must have climbed into the Brig and stolen the coins. Vidal couldn’t have done it. But Sir Rupert says Shane is soft and was Vidal’s dupe. Shane couldn’t have helped in the first raid—he was in China when it occurred—which proves that Vidal was the prime mover in the affair: Vidal and some of his disreputable friends. It was Vidal who wanted to steal the collection, not only because he hoped to get money for it but also because he had a grudge against the Admiral. When the first attempt failed Vidal got hold of Shane and persuaded him to help in the second attempt.”

  “It could have been like that,” I said thoughtfully.

  Charles nodded. “More than likely! But whichever way it happened, there’s no doubt about who climbed in through the hatch and stole the coins.”

  “Poor Sir Rupert!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, he’s very upset. He has done a lot for Shane so it’s a bitter blow to discover that he’s a blackguard. I’m terribly sorry for Sir Rupert but he has plenty of courage; he’s independent and self-sufficient so he’ll get over it in time and bob up serenely. Don’t you agree, Sarah?”

  I did agree. Sir Rupert was as buoyant as a cork; I couldn’t believe anything could down him and keep him down for long.

  “I shall have to go to London,” continued Charles. “I want to meet my co-trustees and have a chat with them; I shall get hold of Shane and frighten him into fits and I shall ask Willy to dinner at the Savoy. Would you like to come with me?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m a country cousin: London is too big and noisy for me; but I’d like a letter, please.”

  “Yes, I’ll write to you,” said Charles smiling. “I haven’t written to you for years.”

  Brown’s Hotel

  My dearest One

  You were right about London: it is too big and noisy for a country cousin! I have been very busy since I arrived and I have done all I intended to do, but Willy says Vivian Quince wants to see me so I shall have to stay in town a few days longer than I expected.

  The first thing I did was to arrange a meeting with my cotrustees. They are a curious pair. Mr Hope is tall and thin; he is a bachelor, silent and lugubrious, but by all accounts a financial genius. Mr Crossman is rosy and tubby and agreeable. He is a widower with two daughters, of whom he is very fond, so I opened my heart to him and told him all about “Frederica.” He agrees that it is most unsuitable for her to be alone at Brailsford during her holidays; he agrees it is dangerous. He said he would go and see her and he will arrange for her to meet his daughters. They are older than Freddie but perhaps that is all to the good. When I mentioned that I intended to see Shane Vidal and give him beans Mr Crossman was alarmed (as a lawyer he deprecates blackmail). He assured me that nothing was to be gained by threats; all that was necessary to discourage a fortune-hunter was to explain that if Miss Hudson were to marry without the consent of her trustees her money would remain in trust until her children were of age. Mr Hope was present at the interview—present in body—but his mind was elsewhere, probably engaged in matters of high finance.

  When I rang up Shane Vidal I was informed by his secretary that he was “out of town,” but being of a distrustful nature I did not believe the yarn. I hung about outside his dingy little office and caught him coming out—he was properly had! He was alarmed when he saw me (why was he alarmed?), but I spoke him fair and stood him a drink at a nearby pub. In the course of conversation I mentioned that I was in town on business connected with the Hudson trust. He was so interested that it was not difficult to drop a hint anent the provisions of the trust . . . and I added that Mr Crossman and his daughters were keeping an eye on the child. There was no need to say more; the cat is a clever rogue.

  Willy and I had an exceedingly good dinner together; he had not much news except that your father is well and busy and that Vivian Quince is exceedingly anxious to see me. He wants to speak to me about The Black Swan. What can he have to say? I had given up all hope about it.

  I have arranged to go to St Elizabeth’s on Sunday and take Freddie out to lunch and I shall come north on Monday, starting early, so you can expect me about tea-time.

  Dearest Sarah, I am longing to see you! I feel as if I had been away for weeks. With much love——

  Ever your very own

  Charles.

  PS. I kept this letter open to tell you about my meeting with V.Q. I felt sure he would say he had changed his mind about publishing The Black Swan . . . but not so! The book is nearly ready and is to be published in time for the Christmas Sales. We shall be getting our copies in October! What do you think of that? He apologised for the delay—which he says was the fault of the wood-cut man. V.Q. says the book is very attractive and a few good reviews should set it going.

  C.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It was lovely to have Charles home and, in spite of the fact that he had written so fully about all his doings in London, we talked far into the night.

  We were both tremendously excited about The Black Swan and from the beginning of October we looked eagerly every morning for the arrival of the postman but it was not until the end of the month that the parcel arrived. It was a large heavy brown-paper parcel, done up with sticky paper and covered with red seals. When we had opened it—not without difficulty—we discovered six copies of The Black Swan, by John and Margaret Fisher . . . with the compliments of Vivian Quince. It was a thrilling moment, for Mr Quince had kept his word: the book was beautifully produced and the wood-cuts were enchanting.

  “Goodness, how marvellous!” Charles exclaimed, taking a copy in his hands and turning over the pages. “Is this really my book? I can’t believe
it!”

  I, too, had a copy in my hands and was charmed with the feel of it and its appearance: the print was so good that the story seemed to read much better. “Oh Charles, it’s lovely! Listen to this!” I exclaimed . . . and I read aloud the passage describing Eigor’s dream.

  “You must have altered that,” declared Charles.

  “I didn’t alter a word of it,” I assured him.

  We both laughed: we were so pleased and excited that it was easy to laugh. We kept on reading bits of it to each other, gloating over the delicious wood-cuts and quite forgetting to eat our breakfast.

  *

  Grandmama was the only person who had been told about The Black Swan—we had no secrets from her! So we signed a copy of the book and gave it to her. She was delighted with its appearance and even more delighted when she had read it.

  “It’s very clever of you, dear Charles,” she declared. “You’ve made it so real that I can see all the places as if I had been there myself—and the people are alive. The Black Swan is the most delightful story I have ever read.”

  Unfortunately the literary critics did not share grandmama’s enthusiasm: most of them ignored the book completely, others reviewed it in a few lines saying that although it was supposed to be for children it was not really suitable for the young. One of them called it “a whimsical little love story, dressed up in fine feathers.”

  “Look at that!” exclaimed Charles in disgust. “I wouldn’t mind adverse criticism if it were true. I know the book is by no means perfect but it isn’t ‘whimsical’ and it isn’t ‘supposed to be for children’.”

  “Perhaps people will buy it in spite of the reviews,” I suggested. “It’s such an attractive-looking book.”

  “They won’t,” replied Charles. “Quince said it was important that the press notices should be favourable because the authors are unknown . . . and he’s right. Who would buy ‘a whimsical little love story’ by someone they had never heard of? Not I! The Black Swan is as dead as a door-nail!”

  The Black Swan nearly died—only a few hundred copies were sold—and we were obliged to accept the disappointment and turn our minds to other things. Charles continued to work at the translations and I managed to get a contract to translate a book of children’s stories into English. I did this by myself and enjoyed the work . . . and it brought in a little extra money, which we needed.

  Months passed: we had ceased to worry about our book; we had ceased to think about it. Then, quite suddenly, The Black Swan came to life. People began to buy the book; they liked it and recommended it to their friends. Willy wrote to say that people were talking about The Black Swan at cocktail parties and he was gaining kudos by telling them that he knew the authors.

  The first edition of the book disappeared from the bookstalls; a second was printed and was sold out in a few weeks. Mr Quince wrote in great excitement to tell us that a third, much larger edition, was in production. Willy rang up to tell us that he had sold the rights to an American publisher.

  “There! What did I say?” demanded grandmama. “It’s a lovely story. It only wanted a little push to start it going.”

  “But what pushed it?” asked Charles.

  Nobody, not even Mr Quince, could answer the question.

  It took some time before The Black Swan found its way to Ryddelton, but one evening when Charles and I went to dinner at Dunnian House a copy of the book was lying on a table in the drawing-room.

  “Look, Sarah!” said Celia. “You ought to read this. It’s fascinating . . . quite different from anything I’ve ever read before. It’s a sort of fairy-tale but the people are absolutely real; I feel as if I knew them.”

  “I’ve read it,” I said.

  “Didn’t you think it was marvellous?”

  “Yes,” I replied truthfully.

  “Goodness!” Celia exclaimed. “I don’t know why you’re so half-hearted about it. I should have thought it was just the sort of book that would appeal to you. I’m going to buy another copy and send it to my sister, Joyce; her birthday is next week. Courtney is reading it now; I had the greatest difficulty in tearing him away from the book in time to change for dinner.” She turned to Bob and Elspeth Loudon, who had just arrived, and repeated her eulogy.

  “We ought to get it,” said Bob.

  “Oh, I read a review about it,” said Elspeth. “It sounded frightfully dim.”

  “It must have been some other book,” declared Celia. “Nobody who had an ounce of imagination could call it ‘dim’.”

  “I haven’t read it,” said Elspeth hastily. “I just read the review. You might lend it to me, Celia.”

  “I can’t,” Celia replied. “Courtney is reading it—and I want Father to read it—and I shall give it to the girls when they come home from school. Celia isn’t a reader but Mary will enjoy it.”

  “Oh well, I can get it from the library, I suppose,” said Elspeth crossly.

  The conversation was interesting to me for several reasons but principally because it was indicative of the way in which our magic bird was gaining ground. Afterwards, when I told Charles what had been said, he agreed.

  “Courtney was talking about it after dinner,” said Charles, smiling. “He’s going to buy half a dozen copies and send them to his relations in America—that’s the right idea, isn’t it? I just sat and listened—and felt like Sir Walter Scott! It was fun.”

  The Black Swan never reached the ranks of a “best seller” but it went on selling steadily and brought its authors a satisfactory little pile of pounds and dollars. We used some of the money for Craignethan House, modernising the kitchen premises and putting in another bathroom. The stable buildings were pulled down and were being replaced by a garage for three cars and a cottage for a man. Charles had made his own plans for the work and was watching over the erection of the new buildings with care. He was pleased about the project for its own sake, and because it would add considerably to the value of the property, but his greatest satisfaction was in the knowledge, that, at long last, he was able to carry out a project which had been entrusted to him by grandpapa.

  Part Six

  It Never Rains but it Pours

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  After all these excitements the inhabitants of Craignethan House settled down comfortably and pursued their avocations in peace.

  Now that we had a third bathroom it was easier to have an occasional visitor. We had Lewis, now and then; he enjoyed shooting and, as he was amusing and attractive, he made friends easily and was asked by various people in the neighbourhood to make up shooting parties or to go to some of the Edinburgh balls. Fishing was Willy’s passion—it always had been—so he came for a fortnight’s salmon fishing. He was now a director in Romford’s Works, rather an important person, but success had not spoilt him and he was still the same old Willy, rather annoying at times but sound at heart.

  On one occasion we had Mr Crossman and his elder daughter to stay with us. Their visit was a great success. He enjoyed walking over the hills with Charles and I found Eleanor Crossman a congenial companion. She wasn’t good-looking but her expression was charming, and she was interesting and well read. We were sorry when their visit was over. Freddie came to stay with us several times, usually for a week or ten days during the summer holidays—there was more for her to do in the summer. Lottie seemed to have withdrawn her embargo on her daughter’s visits to Craignethan and made no objection. Charles and I, talking it over, decided Lottie was finding a teenage daughter cramped her style and interfered with her pursuit of pleasure.

  Thus the River of Time flowed on smoothly and we had nearly three years of peace and happiness before anything happened to interrupt the even tenor of our lives.

  The first bombshell arrived one summer morning; I saw it lying on the breakfast table when I came downstairs: an airmail letter with an Austrian postmark.

  I took it up and looked at it (it was for Charles, of course); then I put it down and opened my own letters. There was on
e from Lottie; it was a pleasant friendly letter telling me that Frederica was leaving St Elizabeth’s at the end of term and was going to Girton to read modern languages, and it had been arranged that she should have six weeks with a family in Paris “to polish up her French.” This being so it was quite impossible for Frederica to spend any part of her summer holidays at Craignethan. Lottie felt sure I would understand and would write to Frederica, pointing out the advantages of the Paris plan. (I realised now why Lottie had taken the trouble to write). The letter went on to say that Lottie, herself, was “quite worn out.” The doctor had advised a complete rest in peaceful surroundings so she was going to the Riviera with some friends.

  Charles and I had been hoping to have Freddie to stay with us so it was disappointing; but, to tell the truth, I was so worried about the letter from Vienna—which was still lying on the breakfast table like an unexploded bomb—that the news about Freddie seemed unimportant.

  Charles came in with a bright morning smile. “It’s a lovely day,” he said. “What about an expedition, Sarah? We haven’t had one of our expeditions for ages.” Then he saw the letter and his smile went out like a blown candle. “Oh, heavens! You’ve seen this, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I throw it in the fire, Sarah?”

  I shook my head sadly.

  “Oh well,” said Charles with a sigh. “We had better know the worst,” and he tore it open.

  The letter was from Rudi; it contained the news that his father was seriously ill, without hope of recovery, and wanted to see “Ludovic” before he died. Enclosed was a letter from the priest saying that the Baron was not expected to live more than a few weeks and was anxious to be at peace with his son and with God.

  There was more in the letters, but that was the gist of them, and I realised at once that there was no possibility of a refusal. Charles knew this as well as I did and accepted the inevitable with composure.