The Case Of William Smith (14 page)

Katharine said ‘No — ’ on a long sigh. It turned into a laugh. ‘I shan’t have much choice about telling him. Everybody in Ledstow will know him at sight. William Smith will be an exploded myth from the moment my Mrs. Perkins sets eyes on him. She lives next door and comes in and does for me when I’m there, and she has known William since he was five years old. But you’re quite right — he has got to know. Only it would be so much better if he hadn’t got to be told.’

Miss Silver gave a short, brisk cough.

‘Very true. Meanwhile there is something he should do without delay. He should inform the local police of the fact that the wheel of his car had been loosened. They will make the usual routine enquiries. It is possible that the person who tampered with the wheel was observed. In what kind of street is the garage?’

‘It isn’t a garage at all, only a shed where a local builder keeps odds and ends — ladders amongst other things. And you can’t call it a street. It’s just a narrow cut running along the back yards of the houses fronting on Ellery Street.’

Miss Silver looked attentive.

‘Not the kind of place which a stranger would frequent. The person we are looking for may have attracted attention. By all means get your husband to notify the police. In the second place, I would like your permission to talk the whole matter over with Frank Abbott.’

‘Oh, no!’

Miss Silver held up her pencil in a hortatory manner.

‘Pray think again, Mrs. Eversley. There have been three attempts on your husband’s life, an attempt on Mr. Tattlecombe of which your husband may have been the real object, and a fatal accident to Mr. Davies — the day after he had recognised him as William Eversley. I am not saying from what quarter these attacks have come. By changing your address you may have obscured your own connection with William Smith for a time, but it must be clear to you that anyone who is taking a serious interest in his identity with William Eversley cannot remain long in ignorance of the part you have undertaken to play. As soon as that is known, and as soon as it is known that you have gone through a form of marriage with him and are living as his wife, it will be evident to the person or persons who have been attempting his life that the time remaining to them is short. He, or they, must know that you will not remain silent. As soon as you speak and William Smith comes forward as William Eversley they cannot any longer hope to act in the dark. Attention will be focused upon anyone who has an interest in resisting his claim. Do you not see that the sooner that claim is made, the harder it will be to make any fresh attempt upon his life? Where a common street accident to William Smith could very well pass unsuspected of being anything more than an accident, his sudden death immediately after he has claimed to be William Eversley whose return from the dead was likely to involve his relatives in a good deal of financial embarrassment could hardly fail to attract the attention of the police.’

Katharine said, ‘Yes.’

Miss Silver laid down her pencil with an air of finality.

‘It will, I think, be quite a good plan for you to leave town tomorrow for the weekend. Pray do not tell anyone where you are going. Meanwhile I should like to talk the matter over with Frank Abbott. I do not care to accept the responsibility alone. I think you may rest assured that no action will be taken without reference to your husband and yourself. If Frank thinks as I do he may discuss the matter with Chief Inspector Lamb, a most worthy and dependable officer. He has great experience, and I feel sure that you need not be afraid that he will authorise any precipitate action. Routine procedure may, however, produce some interesting evidence. Have I your permission?’

Katharine looked at her for a full long minute. Then she said,

‘Yes.’

They drove down to Ledstow on the grey Saturday afternoon. Katharine need not have troubled herself to find excuses for starting late. William brought the car up to the Mews and spent considerably more than an hour in going over everything that could be gone over. She didn’t want to arrive in daylight, and by the time’they started it was quite certain that if they made Ledstow before nightfall they would be fortunate. They talked a little until they were clear of the London belt. William had thought it quite a good plan to let the local police know that the car had been tampered with. He had gone round to the police station before fetching it. He talked about his interview with a monumental sergeant.

‘He made me feel about ten years old — ’ he branched off suddenly — ‘I wonder what I was doing when I was ten. You’d think you’d get used to not remembering anything, but you don’t. It’s running into a blank wall when you know there ought to be a window there. Sometimes it makes me feel as if I was going to bang my head.’

‘Does it?’

He gave a quick nod. After a moment he said,

‘You wouldn’t think I’d mind so much now. I mean you wouldn’t think I could mind anything now I’ve got you. But I do — I mind worse. It’s idiotic, isn’t it?’

‘No, I don’t think so. You mean you mind because of me?’

‘Yes. You’ve got a sort of pig in a poke, haven’t you? And then if we had children, I’d mind awfully for them.’

She said, ‘You’ll remember.’

He turned a momentary look on her, and she saw the trouble in his eyes.

‘Remember — what?’ he said. ‘Perhaps I oughtn’t to have married you.’

Katharine put her hand on his knee.

‘Don’t be stupid, darling — you’ll remember all right. And it won’t be anything to worry about, you’ll see.’

They came clear of the houses and the traffic and drove on.

Afterwards Katharine looked back and thought what a strange drive; it had been — the air mild and full of moisture, mist rising from the fields, and cloud hanging low — the world like a silver-point drawing, no colour anywhere, grey cloud and leafless trees, hedgerows hung with drops like crystal beads, a river streaked with silver and lead, mist on the fields like smoke rising.

William said once, ‘It won’t turn to fog till after dark,’ but for most of the way neither of them spoke. There was a curious sense of being cut off, not from one another, but from the familiar shape of things. Presently there was no distance. Outlines began to blur. The damp in the air frosted the windscreen and had to be wiped away. The road which Katharine knew so well took on a strangeness, like something remembered but not quite real. She had stopped planning what to do and what to say. It wasn’t any use. The road would take them to the house, and when she got there she would know what to say and what to do. She remembered driving down to the Cedar House with William after their July wedding — July 1939, and everyone thinking and talking of war — a bright, clear day and the July sun sloping to the west over fields almost ripe for harvesting. ‘Thrust in thy sickle and reap, for the harvest of the earth is ripe.’ That was in the Bible, in the Book of Revelations. It had been a bitter and a bloody reaping. She looked back. There had been an agony of love, an agony of parting, a long-drawn agony of slowly fading hope. Now they were here together in a mist, travelling the old road to the old house on a January afternoon.

They came through Ledlington with the last of the daylight and the lamps shining in the streets. William drove right through the town and out on the other side without a check, and when they were clear of the straggle of new houses which has sprung up all round the old town he drove straight on over the seven miles of lonely road into the middle of the village street and stopped there, the headlights of the car making a straight shining beam in which the mist dazzled like motes in the sun.

Katharine said, ‘We’re here.’

He didn’t answer her. He got down and opened the door. His arm came round her. Then he said,

‘I’ll just put the car away. I won’t be long.’

Her heart stood still. A July evening — confetti in her hat — sunlight slanting down the village street—the new, shining car — William opening the door and putting his arm round her as she got out — ‘I’ll just put the car away. I won’t be long’…

The garage was across the street, the doors open, waiting not for the new shining Alvis but for William’s old tin kettle assembled bit by bit from the scrap-heap. She smiled in the dark, held his arm for a moment, and went up the three steps to the Cedar House. She saw William back the car and turn in as he had done a hundred times.

She lifted the latch of the door and went into the house. The lights were on in the hall. She turned them out, to leave only one. Then she crossed to a door at the far end and went down a stone-paved passage to the kitchen.

Mrs. Perkins, stout and rosy in a blue dress and a white apron, turned round from the range.

‘Oh, Miss Kathy — and I never heard you come!’

Katharine kissed her and stood holding both her hands.

‘Perky darling, I told you I’d got a big surprise for you, and I’ve only got about half a minute to tell you what it is. You won’t faint, will you?’

Mrs. Perkins chuckled.

‘I’m not the fainting kind. It don’t do when you’re as stout as me. Who’s going to pick you up when you weigh as much as what I do?’ Then, with a sudden change of voice, Oh, Miss Kathy, what is it?’

Katharine said, ‘William — ’

‘Oh, my dear — you’ve heard something?’

Katharine nodded. She had stared dry-eyed at the telegram which told her William was missing. Now the tears sprang unchecked. Her eyes shone with them. They ran down and were salt on her quivering lips. ‘He’s come back — ’

Katharine was in the hall again. She dropped her fur coat on a black and gold lacquer chair under the portrait of great-great-uncle Ambrose Talbot in the uniform he had worn at Waterloo — tight white breeches, scarlet coat, high stock, and a fair, almost girlish face — not quite eighteen when the picture was painted, after Napoleon had gone to St. Helena and his shadow had passed from the world. The Cedar House had belonged to Talbots ever since William Talbot built it for a country lodging nearly four hundred years ago. It took its name from the great cedar he had planted at the end of the lawn, and from the panelling which kept moth away and to this day diffused its own faint sweetness everywhere.

William’s grandmother was the last of the long Talbot line. He himself had the name of its founder. He was William Talbot Eversley. The house, and its portraits, and its memories were his. There were a lot of portraits, a lot of memories — a judge in scarlet robe and a portentous Georgian wig — an admiral with a pig-tail and a brown crumpled face, holding a spy-glass in his hand and looking out of the picture with William’s eyes. The girl in the pink dress of the middle eighteenth century was Amanda Talbot who made a romantic runaway marriage with a black-browed Highland Jacobite and lived with him in exile after the ’45. She had lovely, arch eyes and a sweet smiling mouth. Her portrait hung above the fireplace. A log fire burned there. Katharine stood by it and waited. The door was latched but not locked. Presently it would swing in. It was all very quiet, very familiar — the stairway going up on the other side of the hall, the door to the dining-room just beyond the stair foot. On the other side, behind the wall with the chimney-breast, the drawing-room, where the panelling had been painted ivory-white and the china which Gran used to show them when they were children was ranged against it in cabinets of Amanda’s date.

Katharine’s heart beat fast, then quieted. There was nothing to be troubled about. William was coming home.

When the door opened she went to meet him. He took her in his arms and held her without speaking. It was one of those moments for which there are no words. When at last he lifted his head and spoke, it was like coming out of a dream. Something slipped away from them to join the other memories of the house. He said her name, and then,

‘This was the place to come to. It always did feel like coming home.’ With his arm still round her, he looked across her shoulder to the glowing bed of the fire where the logs were heaped, one a shell, red-hot, another black against tongues of flame from below. His voice broke on a half laugh as he said,

‘That looks good. But what a climate! Nobody would think it was July!’

July — and they had driven here through the winter dusk. Half-past five o’clock, and outside the January night had closed down. Katharine drew away lest he should feel that she was shaking. She waited with caught breath for what he would say next. It came in his most cheerful voice.

‘Gosh — I’m hungry! I hope Perky’s got something for us. It’s not too late, is it?’ He turned his wrist, glanced at the watch on it, and exclaimed, ‘What time is it? This thing’s stopped at twenty to six. It must be all of ten o’clock.’

‘Why?’

‘Pitch-dark outside. We must have made very bad time.’

The fair brows drew together in a puzzled frown, then relaxed.

‘It doesn’t matter as long as we are here. Go and see what Perky can do about it. I’ll just take our cases upstairs and get a wash.’

Katharine went through to the kitchen and found Mrs. Perkins filling a kettle and weeping into the sink.

‘Perky, listen — you mustn’t cry.’

‘Oh, Miss Kathy my dear, it’s because I’m so glad.’

She set the kettle down and put out both her hands. Katharine took them and held them hard.

‘Perky — listen.’ I told you he didn’t remember anything before ’42. Well, he does now. It’s the last few years that have gone. At least I think they have — I don’t know. But he thinks it’s July. He thinks we’ve just been married. He thinks we’ve come here for our honeymoon, and he thinks it’s ten o’clock at night because it’s dark outside. Perky, you’ve got to help.’

Mrs. Perkins gazed at her.

‘What can I do, my dear?’

Katharine’s voice trembled into laughter.

‘He says he’s hungry. He wants to know what you can give us for supper.’

The rosy face cleared.

‘Then you’d best let me be getting on with it. There’s soup all ready to hot up, and a nice pie. Would he like it cold, or shall I put it in the oven?’

‘We’ll ask him.’

‘And a chocolate shape I made — the way you’ve always like it, Miss Kathy.’

‘Lovely!’

And then William came in, kissed Mrs. Perkins as Katharine had done, and sat on the corner of the kitchen table as he had been scolded for doing as long as Katharine could remember. He laughed and said,

‘Horrid weather you’ve conjured up for us. I couldn’t see my hand before my face coming over the road, and Katharine couldn’t see her wedding ring. Has she shown it to you? She’s frightfully proud of being a married woman.’ He took her left hand and held it up. ‘Looks good, doesn’t it? Sounds good too — Mrs. William Eversley! And, Perky darling, it’s not a bit romantic, but we’re simply starving. I can’t think why we took so long to get here. STARVED TO DEATH ON HIS WEDDING DAY is going to be my epitaph if I don’t get something to eat pretty soon.’

Mrs. Perkins rallied nobly.

‘Then you’ll have to get out of my kitchen, Mr. William and off of that table, or you won’t get nothing.’

It was the strangest evening. They went into the drawing-room, and William made love to her as the young William of years ago had done when life was the gayest, most carefree adventure in the world. And then suddenly in the middle of it all he fell silent, looked puzzled, and walked away from her down to the far end of the room where faded sea-green curtains screened the door into the garden and the casement windows on either side of it. He parted them and stood there looking out. What Katharine got was the impression that night looked in. It was certain that he could see nothing, unless it were the picture stamped indelibly upon mind and memory through all his growing years. Standing behind him, Katharine could see it too — the small formal terrace with its stone jars which in July would be brimming over with bloom, then the lavender hedge, the two tall myrtle-bushes, the even, velvety lawn, and the great cedar tree. As she touched him, he turned abruptly and said,

‘It’s all right, isn’t it — the cedar wasn’t blitzed?’

She was almost too startled to answer, but she managed to keep her voice level.

‘No, it’s all right. You’ll see it tomorrow.’

The puzzled look was intensified.

‘See what?’

‘The cedar. You asked if it was all right.’

‘Did I? Why shouldn’t it be?’ He went over to one of the china-cabinets and stood there. ‘Remember how Gran taught us to feel the glaze? You know, it’s an awfully odd thing — I can remember with the tips of my fingers just the difference between those plates and these cups. She wouldn’t ever let us touch them unless she was there. Funny to think how many people have touched them since they were made, and now they’re ours.’

When Mrs. Perkins summoned them to the dining-room it all seemed stranger still. Gran watched them from her picture on the chimney-breast. Amory’s masterpiece — Gran at ninety, with a lace scarf over the white curls she had been so proud of, a lace shawl over her blue dress, her face still vividly alive, her eyes still blue. She sat in her big chair and watched the room. To Katharine her look said, ‘You needn’t think you’ll ever get rid of me. I love you all too much.’ She watched them now.

All through the meal William talked eagerly, cheerfully, about what they would do in the garden.

‘I saw a place where they have rows of white lilies growing in front of a dark hedge — it looked pretty good. I thought we might try it down at the bottom against the arbor vitae. What do you think? I’m rather keen on lilies. There’s a good apricot-coloured sort too — they grow it a lot in the north — I’d like to have some of those. It’s a pity it’s too far for me to go up and down every day, but we could do weekends in the summer. I’d like to play about with the garden. I’ve got an idea for a pool — water-lilies and things. Wait till we’ve finished, and I’ll do a sketch for you.’ He looked at her suddenly and laughed. ‘It’s going to be fun, isn’t it?’

When he talked like that he might have been William Smith, or he might have been William Eversley, or a third William walking the debatable ground between the other two. She encouraged him to go on talking about the garden.

Afterwards, in the drawing-room, she played to him. When they went upstairs together he said the strangest thing of all. They had reached the last step, when he halted and stood there looking round him. The arm about her shoulders dropped to his side, the fair brows drew together. He said,

‘I had an awfully funny dream about this place. I can’t remember what it was.’

‘I shouldn’t try.’

He nodded, came up on to the landing, and turned again. His eye went from the eagle on the right-hand newel-post to the man on the left.

‘It was something about the Evangelists,’ he said slowly. ‘Something — about — ’ he gave a sudden laugh — ‘I know — I dreamt the man was Mr. Tattlecombe! Barmy — wasn’t it?’

Katharine said, ‘Quite.’

Still laughing, he put his arm round her and they kissed, and went on together into the room which was theirs, a long room over the drawing-room with windows looking down the garden to the cedar tree. It didn’t matter any longer which of the Williams he was, or which way the pendulum of his memory swung. He was the William who loved her and whom she loved. He was the William who had always loved her and would love her always.