The 12.30 from Croydon (16 page)

‘Hallo, Charles,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘Glad to see you. Jones and the two Hallams have cried off, and we’re short of men.’

Charles grinned. ‘Glad I have some value,’ he returned, ‘even if it’s not personal.’

‘Don’t be so beastly conceited,’ Crosby advised. ‘I didn’t suggest you had any value. And so you’re off for a holiday?’

‘Now just how did you know that? I only fixed it up this morning.’

‘Ah – a little bird. One bird, little, pretty: to wit, your cousin Margot. Met her outside the office this morning.’

‘I dined there last night. I mean, at The Moat, not outside your beastly office. Yes, since you mention it, I’m going for three weeks.’

‘And what about the business while you’re away?’

‘Oh, I’ll leave Gairns and Macpherson in charge. There’s not such a frightful lot doing just now, worse luck.’

Crosby grew confidential and, Charles thought, questioning also.

‘You’ll forgive me, Charles,’ he said, ‘but as an old friend of your family’s I’d like to say how glad I am that there was nothing in those rumours about your business.’

Charles thought rapidly. If any question were afterwards to arise, Crosby must not suspect him. He also grew confidential.

‘I’m not so sure that there was nothing in them, Crosby,’ he returned. ‘As a matter of fact, very strictly for your ears alone, I may admit I’ve been approaching stony. I’ve wanted some new machines and I’ve not seen my way to get them. But I think I’m all right now. I told the uncle and he gave me a thousand. I’ve popped my pictures also and I’m getting the machines. The placing of the order is only waiting on getting some minor details.’

‘I’m glad of that, very glad. Your uncle hasn’t mentioned it to me, but I expect he will. And so the holiday? Well, I expect you deserve it.’

‘I’ll be glad of a change,’ Charles admitted. ‘I’ve felt a bit fed-up lately.’

Charles had come to The Ingle early so as to be there when Una arrived, but when he and his host reached the tennis-court he saw to his surprise that she was already there. A set had just been made up, and she was walking with her partner to the net. She waved her racket when she saw him, and the sight gladdened Charles’s heart. It was the cheery, friendly wave he had hoped for. Heaven for this afternoon was not going to be chequered.

It was, however, largely non-existent. Whether owing to sheer bad luck or to Una’s skilful contriving, he found it extraordinarily hard to get a word with her. There was only one court, and when the set was coming to an end another was made up in which he was a player. The sides were evenly matched and the new set developed into an interminable contest in which the games fell to each side alternately. When it was at last finished, Una was having tea in the centre of a large group, and Charles felt as far from her as if he had already reached the Mediterranean.

It was only when they were preparing to leave that he was able to speak to her and then it was only for a moment. But at least it was wholly satisfactory. She smiled in her old way.

‘Hallo, Charles,’ she said, and he hung on her words. ‘So you’re off to the Mediterranean? I’m so glad. You’ve been looking seedy and you want a change.’

‘If only you were coming, Una,’ he answered with earnestness if without originality. ‘I’m going on living in hope that sometimes we—’

‘S-h-h-h!’ she silenced him. ‘None of that! Perhaps when you come back we may talk about it, though I don’t promise. There, go and take those Bentham girls home. Their car’s broken down.’

‘But what about you, Una?’

‘My darling idiot, I got here without you and I can surely get home again. I have the small Austin.’

That was all, but as she turned to speak to Mrs Crosby she gave him a look which made up for everything. With his heart singing, Charles turned to offer transport to the two stout Benthams.

Though Charles had a good deal of extra work to get through in preparing for his absence, the next three days dragged interminably. Fears haunted him, nameless fears of discovery, as also the definite fear that Andrew might shake up the bottle and take the deadly pill before he, Charles, got away. He put Gairns and Macpherson in charge of their respective departments, giving them a free hand and adjuring them to consult together before taking any step. ‘Here are my addresses,’ he told Gairns. ‘If anything crops up you can send me a wire.’

In spite of Charles’s fears, nothing untoward took place before he left. Things at The Moat went on as usual, and on Wednesday morning Charles was driven to the station and took the local train for York, where he would board the London express. He reached Town in time to catch the 2
P.M.
boat-train from Victoria. As the express pulled slowly across the Thames some of his dread vanished. He was at least away from Cold Pickerby. Before he returned his fate would be settled, one way or another.

The Channel smiled on Charles as he crossed it that afternoon, and the blue carriages, standing on the wharf at Boulogne, seemed to him friendly and reassuring, like an ark of sorely needed refuge. With a sigh of relief, he climbed on board and settled down for his twenty-two hour run.

It was dusk when they reached the Gare du Nord in Paris, and dark when, after finishing their leisurely course round the Ceinture, they left the P.L.M. station. Charles was in bed within a few minutes of the start and asleep before they passed Fontainebleau. Once or twice he woke during the night, usually when the train stopped in some station, and for a time the whole world seemed dead. At Mâcon it was light, and when they crossed the Rhône out of the Perrache station at Lyons he thought it time to get up.

All that morning as they worked down the Rhône Charles tried to keep his attention on the passing landscape and to forget the horror from which he was flying. At Vienne and Valence he watched eagerly for the glimpses of the river which he believed he had seen on previous journeys. At Orange he recalled the great wall of the Roman theatre and tried to picture what a representation must have been like in the days of the emperors. Avignon, which he knew well, set him dreaming of medieval pomp: of jousts, of knights, of Papal splendour, and of besiegers camped outside those walls which the train was now encircling. Then came Tarascon. Once he had been in the château and he began to recall his impressions, when, suddenly remembering that it is still used as a prison, he shuddered and thought hurriedly of something else. Arles reminded him of Grecian women, of the arena with its marvellous dry stonework, its former tragedies and its present bull-fights, and of the great Roman theatre. Then they dropped to the interminable infertile Plaine de la Crau, passed the end of the Étang de Berre, and after winding through the tunnel and rocks of La Nerte, swung down the incline into Marseilles.

By four o’clock Charles was on board the
Jupiter.
She certainly fulfilled the claims of the advertisement as to super-luxury. Charles had never seen rooms of such proportions on any ship as were the lounge and great dining-hall. Indeed he had never seen longer corridors, ampler deck spaces, roomier cabins, and richer decoration. Everything, in fact, was there except the sea, of which there was nothing to suggest the presence. It was true that from the deck and certain of the port-holes it could be seen, insignificant and very far down, but it was obviously a factor which did not enter into the lives of the passengers. For the matter of that, there was nothing to suggest that these crowds of people on board were passengers. They gave Charles the impression of visitors staying in this very huge hotel.

She was not sailing, if such an expression could be applied to the
Jupiter,
till midnight, and though Charles did not care for Marseilles, he joined the trio at his table in an excursion to a music-hall ashore. It filled up the evening and kept him from thinking.

Contrary to his expectation, he slept well, and when he looked out of his window next morning – on B deck there were no port-holes – he recognized the little village of Villefranche. Villefranche he knew and loved. He thought it one of the most beautiful places, if not the most beautiful place, on the whole Riviera. As he went on deck and feasted his eyes on the view, he almost forgot that he was not there for holiday and pleasure, but as part of a scheme which he now knew that he loathed with all the strength of his being.

For two days the
Jupiter
lay at Villefranche. Various excursions had been arranged, and Charles joined those to Peira Cava and Sospel, having done the Corniche on different previous occasions and hating Monte Carlo. His incipient friendship with his table companions had grown rapidly, as they will. The leading light was a young middle-aged widow named Shearman. Mrs Shearman seemed to take a fancy to Charles, and before long he found himself telling her something of his life and his hopes of Una.

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I guessed you had something on your mind. My friend, Mrs Cardew, and I agreed about it. Not that we were discussing you, but we did say that. “He’s got something on his mind,” I said, and she said, “Yes, I’ve noticed that, too. You couldn’t mistake it.” You wouldn’t make a good criminal, Mr Swinburn, so don’t ever try crime.’ She laughed carelessly and changed the subject.

Charles was a good deal upset. He did not follow to the new subject.

‘When you’ve gone so far,’ he said, ‘I must tell you why I’m here. I’ve not been well. I’ve had something wrong with my nerves and I’ve come away for a change. It’s nothing serious, you know, but I want to get cured. Forgive me talking so much about myself, but you’ve really asked for it.’

She made a conventional reply and the matter dropped, but from that moment Charles never felt quite easy in her company. At the same time he didn’t dare to break away from her party, lest this should provoke remark.

Two days later another tiny incident occurred which worried him even more. They had left Villefranche and put in at Genoa. Charles and Mrs Shearman both knew Genoa city, though not its surroundings, and they joined three or four others in an excursion to Rapallo, Santa Margherita, and Portofino. It was at Rapallo that the thing happened.

They had finished lunch at an hotel and were sitting in its garden in the shade of some palms when Mrs Shearman gave a sudden cry. ‘Sir Francis! Is that possibly Sir Francis?’

A slim man, with heavy eyelids and a tired manner, looked round and came across with outstretched hand.

‘Mrs Shearman, by all that’s wonderful! Where on earth did you spring from?’

‘Same to you,’ the lady returned, smiling.

‘I? Oh, I’m here on business for my sins. At least not in Rapallo. I had to go to Rome on business, and I’d never been here, so I simply stopped on my way home. Are you staying here?’

She told him, and introduced Charles and one or two more of the party who were sitting near. Sir Francis sat down, and they smoked and chatted till it was time for the
Jupiter
party to leave.

‘Do you know who that was?’ Mrs Shearman asked as they turned up the gorgeous winding road over the Portofino promontory towards Ruta and Genoa. ‘That was Sir Francis Smythe.’ Charles wondered if she hesitated for a moment before adding, ‘He’s got some job in the police.’

Whether she hesitated or not, Charles thought she watched him rather closely while she made the statement. He couldn’t be sure: she had looked at him, but he couldn’t tell with what significance. Was there indeed the suspicion of a smile trembling on her lips? Charles wished he knew.

He was a good deal upset that his nerves should be under such poor control. He must be careful. If he began to imagine things it could only end in disaster. With an effort he pulled himself together and chatted adequately during the drive back to Genoa.

As they got nearer the
Jupiter
the great anxiety of his day began to obsess him. They had been out only four days and each evening his excitement on reaching the ship had been greater. On one of these evenings there would be a telegram. He found it hard to talk coolly and hang back as they climbed the ship’s ladder. He wanted to run to see what was awaiting him.

When, as hitherto, he found there was nothing, he was filled with a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief that the ghastly thing had not yet happened; disappointment that another long day of waiting was before him. For Charles was not really enjoying his delightful surroundings. For an easy mind he would gladly have exchanged them for the slums of Leeds or the wastes of Labrador.

They sailed from Genoa after dinner, watching from the deck the beautiful city slowly fade into the pearl-grey distance. The last thing they saw was the occulting eye of the Portofino lighthouse, to which they had walked earlier in the day.

Next morning they were out of sight of land, having passed Corsica and Elba in the night. Sometimes during the day they saw hills away in the distance on the port side, and occasionally there were islands, also far away. The usual games fiends put in an early appearance, and Charles for once welcomed them.

Shortly after tea they raised more islands right ahead, with above them a rather solid-looking mass of white cloud. At once people dropped their games and their books and their flirtations and went forward to the rail to look. For that big island was Ischia, at the edge of the Bay of Naples, and beneath that cloud of steamy smoke was Vesuvius.

They anchored in the harbour just as the dressing-bell went. Charles had not been to Naples before, and even his preoccupation could not prevent his being lost in admiration of the lovely bay.

In the harbour the view was obscured by piers and buildings and shipping. But just before they entered they got a magnificent panorama of the whole coast. To the left was the hill and cape of Posilipo, with its palms and olives and cypresses, screening the fine villas of the wealthy Neapolitans. In front was the city, stretching up to the heights behind, from this distance white and fair. Then to the right the great double-coned mass of Vesuvius rose, with its almost solid column of smoke thrusting fiercely up into the blue sky. It somehow suggested power, that column, white in the mass, but flecked at intervals with the yellow of sulphur and the red of flame. It poured up in seething eddies, gradually bending over as it rose and shifting slowly inland. Beyond Vesuvius the long line of the Sorrento peninsula stretched into the sea, with farther out, dead astern as they circled into the harbour, the high, jagged outlines of the island of Capri. Charles was tremendously impressed. At the same time he thought the Bay was too big for perfection. A closer view of those distant shores would have been lovelier still.