Nothing Venture (25 page)

Nan put her hand to her cheek.

“She talked too much.”

“When?”

“On the telephone—I suppose it was yesterday.”

“How do you mean, she talked too much?” Ferdinand's eyes darted questions.

Nan pushed back her hair.

“She doesn't talk—much—to me—as a rule. She wouldn't say three words to me if she could make two do. She wouldn't speak to me at all unless she simply had to. But when I telephoned to ask her if she had seen Jervis, she talked a lot.”

“What did she say?”

“I think she was trying to make me angry. I can't remember what she said—it wasn't worth remembering.” Her chin lifted a little. “I just wondered why she said so much.”

Ferdinand frowned, looked as if he was going to speak, checked himself on an indeterminate vowel sound, and then said,

“Do you want me to drive you up there?”

Nan nodded.

They had a silent drive. When they came to the place where the wheel had come off Jervis' car two days before, Nan, on the seaward side, looked down over the cliff with a steady, thoughtful gaze. The sea came up against the cliff. It was deep enough to have hidden the car if it had gone over. The water would have stood above it—green water shading to blue. The car would have been drawn by ebb into the race that sets round Croyde Head, and there, amongst the rocks, they would have been battered to pulp or sucked down into the soft bubbling quicksands beyond the head.

She turned her eyes from the sea to the square ugliness of Robert Leonard's house.

“He's been away,” said Ferdinand, as if she had named the man.

Instantly Nan flashed round on him.

“When did he go? Where has he been?”

“He went away on Thursday.”

“This is Thursday,” said Nan. She paused. “Isn't it?”

The sense of strain that loses count of time made it difficult to be sure of where they were in the week. It was between the Tuesday night and Wednesday morning that Jervis had gone out and not come back.

“Yes, it's Thursday all right. It was Tuesday we lunched with the Tetterleys. Leonard had crocked his car, you remember. Well, he got it going enough to take him into Croyston that evening. He ran it into Brown's garage for repairs, and he dined and slept at the George. He had breakfast there Wednesday morning very sharp at eight, and he hired a motor-bicycle to take him out here in time to save his incubators from going cold. He's got a perfectly watertight alibi, you see.”

“No, I don't,” said Nan. “If he was planning anything wicked, isn't that just what he'd do—go away and pretend he wasn't here?”

Ferdinand looked at her quickly sideways.

“I went to the George. He was playing billiards until half-past eleven. The chambermaid called him at seven. His car was in Brown's garage out of action—I went there and made sure of that.”

Nan's lips made an unwontedly hard line. She held them close over something which she didn't want to say, because if she said it, the spoken words might break her self-control, and she would want it all if she was going to see Rosamund.

Ferdinand did not press her. He did not in fact speak until they reached the Tetterleys. Then he looked quickly at her again, thought how pale she was, and said,

“Well, I'm not on in this scene, I guess. I'll put her in the shade and wait.”

Nan was shown into the drawing-room, a big formal room which Mabel Tetterley used as little as possible. It was still furnished after her mother-in-law's taste, Basher having proved extraordinarily obstinate when pressed to get rid of an ebony grand piano, two ormolu cabinets, an immense pale carpet with bunches of pink and yellow roses festooned with blue ribbon, and a quantity of water-colour paintings executed by the late Lady Tetterley in a frigid classical style.

Rosamund was standing at the far end of this room. She held a cigarette in her right hand. She was dressed in pale yellow linen. As Nan came towards her, she turned away to pick up a match-box.

Nan stood still a couple of yards away, and watched the tip of the cigarette redden to the flame of the match. Rosamund's strong white hands were perfectly steady. She blew out her first mouthful of smoke before she spoke.

“Wanderer returned?” she said.

“No,” said Nan.

Rosamund drew at her cigarette.

“He's not here. Did you think he was?”

Nan said, “No,” again in the same quiet voice.

Rosamund laughed.

“I haven't seen him, and I haven't got him here. And if you'll take my advice, you'll stop hunting round after him. Good Lord, my dear! This is the twentieth century, and a man does occasionally go away for twenty-four hours without taking his whole family with him!” She tilted back her head and blew a passable smoke-ring. “Jervis has always been an erratic creature—if he thinks of a thing he likes to do it at once.”

“Yes,” said Nan—“Ferdinand said that too.”

“It's bound to be true if Ferdinand said it!” Her voice was insolent. Then suddenly she curbed it. “I know Jervis pretty well, and if you want my advice—which I don't suppose you do—I should say let sleeping dogs lie.” She paused, blew another and a better smoke-ring, and added with drawling emphasis. “
Every time.
”

She had remained standing. A long window let in a brilliant panel of sunshine which slanted to her feet. Nan was standing too. She came a little nearer and said,

“Do you know where Jervis is?”

Rosamund's beautiful eyebrows rose.

“That's a little crude, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Nan. “I'm not worrying about being crude—I'm worrying about Jervis. If he's all right, he may be anywhere he likes, and he may be with anyone he likes. If you know where he is, will you tell me?”

“I've told you that I don't know.”

“Yes,” said Nan. “But you keep hinting that you do. I should be very glad if you would stop hinting and say what you mean.”

Rosamund gave a short laugh.

“I don't mean anything. If I'm to be quite candid, I think you're making a damned fuss. Men
will
go off on their own—and, knowing Jervis, I should say there'll be the devil to pay when he finds out that you've been sending the town-crier round after him.”

“Yes,” said Nan. She fixed her steady eyes on Rosamund. “You say men go off—but do they generally go in the middle of the night without any luggage?”

Something odd happened; but it happened so quickly that it would have been difficult to swear to. Nan had only an impression that Rosamund had begun to say something, and that before the words reached her lips the cigarette which she was holding slipped sideways so that the red-hot tip burnt her finger. It was just an impression.

The cigarette slipped, and Rosamund said, “Damn!”

Nan thought that she had been going to say something else. She didn't say it. She tossed the cigarette out of the open window and began to light another.

“Didn't he take any luggage?” she said. Then she went on without waiting for an answer. “That doesn't mean very much—does it?”

Nan said, “I don't know.”

“Do you want me to dot the ‘i's? I don't mind if
you
don't.”

“I would like you to say what you mean.”

Rosamund laughed again.

“Perhaps he picked up what he wanted at Carrington Square.”

“No,” said Nan.

“You've been ringing them up?”

“Yes,” said Nan.

Rosamund blew another smoke-ring.

“Well—they're Jervis' servants,” she said.

Nan let that go.

Rosamund walked to the window. The movement brought her into the full sunlight. She turned. Her hair shone in the sun like bright, pale gold; her eyes were sharply blue.

“There is an alternative of course. If a man pays the rent of a flat, he very often keeps some things there.”

“You don't seem to have a very high opinion of Jervis,” said Nan.

Rosamund shrugged her shoulders.

“I don't expect him to be a plaster saint. If you do, I'm afraid you're going to get a good many jolts. If I had married him, I should have been quite philosophical about that sort of thing—but of course
I
never pretended to be in love with him.” The stress on the “I” was of the slightest, but it was there.

Nan's colour rose a little. She kept her voice quiet.

“You are trying to make me believe something that you don't believe yourself. I'm wondering why.”

The ash fell from Rosamund's cigarette. It made a dusty patch on the fine primrose linen of her dress. With an abrupt movement she turned and dropped the stub on to the gravel below the window. With a still more abrupt movement she turned back again.

“Would you rather believe that he was drowned?”

The colour in Nan's cheeks drained away. Her voice did not change.

“It's not a question of what either of us would rather believe—it's a question of the facts. I want to know what is true.”

Rosamund stood with her hands behind her. They held the jamb of the window. She leaned back upon them.

“You're very detached,” she said. “Well, then, here are your facts. Twice this summer, whilst we were bathing together, Jervis had cramp pretty badly. The last time I had to help him in. I don't think he'd have got in if he'd been alone. Well—you would have it you know.”

A little more colour ebbed away. Nan said,

“Is that true?”

“Certainly.”

“Then the servants would know about it.”

“If you think Jervis would be likely to go round telling people that sort of thing—”

“Did
you
tell anyone about it?”

“Why should I? I didn't particularly want to make Jervis wild with me just then.”

“I see. Then nobody knew about this cramp but you?”

“And Jervis,” said Rosamund.

“Yes, of course. Jervis would know if he had had cramp,” said Nan.

She watched Rosamund's face, but it showed nothing. The sun dazzled behind her.

“You can't tell me anything else?”

“I'm afraid not. Ring me up if you hear anything.”

“Yes,” said Nan. “I'll ring you up when he gets back.”

She said, “Good-bye, Rosamund,” and turned and walked out of the room.

XXXIII

“Well?” said Ferdinand Fazackerley as they turned out of the Tetterleys' gate.

“I don't know,” said Nan, “Don't talk to me for a little.”

They drove in silence along the cliff road. It was very hot, but there was a breeze from the sea. When they turned inland, they lost it.

“What don't you know?” said Ferdinand after a while. “In my opinion it's always a whole sight better to tell what you don't know, because that's the sort of stuff that's liable to go sour on you.”

“I'm going to tell you,” said Nan. “I'm only sorting it out.”

“Well, I'm not curious, but I like to know things—and when there isn't anything to know, I'm a whale at guessing. Did you get anything out of the beautiful lady? Is she still talking too much?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Now that's very interesting. I'd like to know what she talked about.”

“She tried to make me angry,” said Nan. “She tried to make me jealous. And then she tried to frighten me.”

“That's not very original. Will you tell me what she said?”

Nan looked at the dusty hedgerow sliding past. A little straw had caught on the lowest branch of an overhanging thorn-tree. The shining stalks held the sun as Rosamund's hair had held it.

“What she said doesn't matter. She wanted to make me think that there was—someone Jervis might be with.” She paused, and added, “Some woman. I told her she didn't believe what she was trying to make me believe. Then, I think, she was angry—but I'm not sure if she was really angry. She turned right round and tried to make me believe that Jervis—was drowned.” She stumbled over the words, and her hand took hold of the edge of the seat and gripped it.

“What did she say?” said Ferdinand quickly.

Nan forced her voice.

“She said he'd had—cramp. She said he'd had it—when he was bathing—with her. She said—she'd had—to help him in.”

“Jumping Mississippi I wish she'd said it to me!”

“Why?” said Nan.

“So I could tell whether she was lying. I've had a heap of practice at telling whether folks are lying. It takes a real smart liar to put it across with me.”

“Oh, it wasn't true,” said Nan.

“Sure?”

She gave a half impatient nod.

“Yes—quite sure. I'm not worried about that—I'm worried about why she said it—I'm worried about why she said any of it. It—it frightens me.”

“Great Hoover! Why?”

“I don't know why.”

Ferdinand looked at her.

“You're scared to death. Can't you tell me about it?”

He had slowed the car to a bare ten miles an hour. She put her hand to her cheek and pressed it there.

“If she knows—anything—” She paused.

“Yes?” said Ferdinand encouragingly.

“Perhaps she doesn't,” said Nan.

“But if she does?”

“She might—want—” She stopped, flung her hand down in her lap, and said in a choked voice, “I can't!”

“Try!”

“If they—if she—knew—where he was—” She broke off again. “They might want him to do something—there might be—a choice.” She beat with one hand upon the other, hard. “They might let him go if he gave them enough money—but if he wouldn't—if he
wouldn't
—they could say—they had always thought—he was—drowned.” She faced round on Ferdinand and said passionately, “I'm wicked to think a thing like that! Tell me I'm wicked, F.F.! Tell me it couldn't be true!”