The Blackmailer, page 14
‘What d’you mean?’ she said.
He paused, then said: ‘Well, we won’t go into it. All I mean.…’
‘Yes we will,’ she said. ‘What about Thomas Hood?’
‘No, you looked guilty,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes it does,’ she said. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, my dear, what do I know about it?’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you together that’s all. I’ve seen him, after that time you went away for so long. I know you used him as an escape from me. I know the state of mind you were in. I can see he’s in love with you, as you are not with him, and that you know he’s very young and quite unable to deal with you. I can only think your behaviour rather ruthless.’
Judith’s eyes filled with tears but she said nothing.
‘He can’t help, you know,’ said Baldwin. ‘It’s no good pretending things are other than they are. That’s why I think we ought to get married.’
After a pause, Judith said: ‘Apart from anything else, you’ve already pointed out that it would mean the end of any sort of relations with the Lanes. That makes it out of the question for me.’
‘Will you try one thing?’ said Baldwin. ‘And if it fails you shall decide as you like. Take me up there for a week-end. She doesn’t know I was the blackmailer. I’ll return the money to you, so that you can pay him back before we go there, and we’ll explain to him somehow that it was a mistake and I’ll see if I can improve the situation. Just let me try. After that, if you really want it, I’ll give up.’
‘You really will?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘I suppose I could,’ she said, slowly. ‘If you insist. I could ask anyway. Yes, I suppose I could.’
‘You will then?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I will,’ she said. ‘All right. I will.’
Thomas’s mother and sister came back from America. He went to meet the boat train at Victoria.
On the station he bought two yellow rosebuds, one for each of them. When he had come out of the shop he stood uneasily between platforms six and seven, holding the flowers and wondering if the gesture were not rather affected. He decided it was. He would rather keep them and give them to Judith; but he could hardly greet his mother and Emma holding flowers which were not for them. If he shortened their stalks, he might almost put them in his pocket; but then they would probably be squashed. Could he, perhaps, out of the two pieces of paper in which they were severally wrapped, make them into one uninteresting parcel which would escape his mother’s notice?
Engrossed in this problem, he began to walk towards the platform at which the boat train would arrive.
A moment later he saw Baldwin Reeves. He would have preferred not to have spoken to him, but Baldwin had already seen him, and breezily accosted him.
‘Ah Thomas!’ he said. ‘Where are you off to? I’m on my way back from a case in the suburbs—you’ve no idea what lurid lives they lead there. What charming flowers.’
‘I’m meeting my mother,’ said Thomas. ‘She’s coming back from America.’
‘I wonder how it will have affected your nice sister,’ said Baldwin. ‘They’ve been there several months haven’t they?’
‘Three,’ said Thomas.
‘Seen anything of Judith Lane lately?’ said Baldwin.
‘Yes,’ said Thomas.
The proud monosyllable annoyed Baldwin. Not having altogether meant to, he nevertheless found himself saying: ‘We’re getting married you know.’
Thomas looked surprised, and politely interested.
‘Congratulations,’ he said.
Baldwin was embarrassed, and would have liked to have withdrawn his remark.
He went on rather abruptly: ‘Yes, we’re going up there next week-end—tomorrow in fact. Well, I must be going—see you later.’
‘Up where?’ asked Thomas.
‘To Harris,’ said Baldwin.
‘Oh I see,’ said Thomas, with more interest. ‘Is she a friend of Judith’s?’
‘Is who a friend of Judith’s?’
‘Your—that is, the person you are marrying?’
‘But I am marrying Judith.’
They stood without moving, Baldwin half turned away and Thomas amazed.
‘I don’t understand you,’ said Thomas, eventually.
Baldwin moved his feet awkwardly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been a bit premature in telling you,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ said Thomas. He paused a moment, then went on firmly: ‘But there’s a mistake. You’re wrong.’
Baldwin smiled uneasily, annoyed again. ‘I’m not, you know,’ he said.
‘You can’t marry Judith,’ said Thomas, with finality.
‘I can,’ said Baldwin. There was another pause.
‘Judith is my mistress,’ said Thomas.
Baldwin turned red. ‘Even so.…’ he said.
‘She told you?’ asked Thomas.
‘Well.…’ said Baldwin.
‘How can you marry her, then?’ said Thomas.
‘Look, I’m awfully sorry about this,’ said Baldwin.
‘How can you marry her?’
‘What do you mean, how can I?’ said Baldwin. ‘Of course I can.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Thomas.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Baldwin. ‘I should have left it to her to tell you.’ He stood inadequately, not knowing what to say but not thinking of telling Thomas the truth, that he had simply made the suggestion to Judith. This was because, though he felt genuinely sorry for Thomas, it seemed to him out of the question that he should lose face in front of him by going back on his original assertion: he was also by now convinced that it would soon become a fact.
‘Well, I must be getting along, you know,’ he said. ‘Sorry about all this. Silly of me to say anything about it. Anyway—we’ll meet soon. Good-bye.’
But Thomas, though almost as outwardly composed as ever, was in the grip of the most bitter emotion of his life. Out of it he said, suddenly and loudly as Baldwin began to walk away, ‘I want you to have these.’
He held out his two yellow roses, stiffly, at the end of his arm. Baldwin stopped, but looked at him in silence. Thomas pressed the roses into his hand, stared into his face a little wildly, and in a moment had disappeared, running through the crowd towards the way out of the station.
11
They went to Harris. It was May and bitterly cold. The wind from the north swept through Wensleydale and Wharfedale, whisking away, it is true, the rainy edges of the deep cloud that lay over the Lake District, but bringing with it a bleak unseasonable cold.
The central heating was turned off on the first of April, regardless of the weather. The huge boiler, which, antiquated, wasteful and marvellously powerful, kept the draughty house warm all through the winter, finished its task the moment March was over, and though for several years now, such had been the slowness of our northern spring, there had been protests, discussions, even decisions, nothing had ever been done, and the central heating still went off on April the first.
Nanny was even against fires after that date. There was no reason for this. She suffered from the cold as much as, if not more than, most people; but she had always been very mean with other people’s property. Fires were lit, however, because Mrs. Lane insisted on it, but Nanny had various methods of sabotaging this course of action. Looks and sighs and mutterings went unnoticed, so she attacked the fuel supply. She would intercept Florence, the maid, a gentle shy girl from the village, and volunteer to carry the refilled coal scuttle into the drawing-room; then she would leave it outside. She would also seize any opportunity she had when left alone in that room to push the wood basket into a dark unaccustomed corner. When anybody complained of the lack of fuel, she would say briskly (or as briskly as she ever said anything): ‘Well, do you really think it’s cold enough? I hardly think it’s really cold enough, you know.’ And then occasionally the fire would be allowed to go out, and Nanny would be left with a sense of righteous victory.
This campaign took up most of her time for the few weeks after the central heating was turned off. They were probably the happiest weeks of her year, for in them she felt the mental stimulation which is the reward of the overworked.
Feliks came with them. It was his first visit to Harris: neither Anthony nor Judith had ever been much given to asking people there; and it was perhaps partly the feeling of achievement his having finally got there gave him which made him so extravagantly delighted with the place. He was eulogistic at meals, thereby immediately forfeiting the regard of Mrs. Lane, Sir Ralph and Nanny, who could none of them believe him to be sincere.
Judith knew that he was, and was glad after all that he had come. He had asked himself, unable, he said, to bear the humiliation of Baldwin’s having been asked before he was; and Judith, quite unable to explain why Baldwin was coming at all, had half-heartedly agreed. As it was, though, he was an asset, for though Mrs. Lane was charming to Baldwin, it was an uneasy, over-laboured, charm, and Sir Ralph had retreated into age and silence.
Judith tried to talk to him, but could get nothing out of him. He had found a canvas bag in some old cupboard. It was a relic of the days when he had had, for a year or two, a passion for sailing, and had raced an eight-metre with startling success, but it seemed to have hardly been used.
‘This is going to make things much easier for me, much easier,’ he said. ‘I shall be able to take all my things out to the turning-round-house.’
There was an old creaking summer-house in the garden where he liked to sit when it was warm enough. The trouble was that it very seldom was warm enough, and he spent a good deal of time packing his ‘ditty-bag’ with all his account books, his writing materials, his scarf, and anything else he thought might come in useful—glue, a dictionary, a compass—and taking it out into the garden, only to be told, or to decide for himself, that he was bound to catch a chill. He would come back again and unpack. Then a shaft of bright sunlight would come through the window, the sky would be briefly blue and the whole process would start again.
‘You did understand about the money,’ Judith said. ‘That it all came back?’
‘Yes, yes indeed,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘I think I’ve sorted that out all right. Took some doing, but I’ve got it clear now. Haven’t had my this month’s statement, though, of course—I daresay he’s made a muddle of it.’
‘You see it was all a mistake,’ said Judith. ‘About Baldwin, I mean.’
‘I’m not going to take a dictionary today,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘What on earth do I want a dictionary for?’
‘The Times crossword?’
‘Oh,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘Oh yes. You may be right. The crossword. But this is a German dictionary.’
‘You see he never meant that, at all—it was my fault really,’ said Judith. ‘I was so frightened—when I heard, I mean—it was really my idea to give him money.…’
‘I will take it,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘I will take it. You never know, do you? And besides, I like dictionaries—always have liked them—even German ones. Never ought to be without a dictionary.’
‘But you do understand?’ said Judith.
‘What’s that?’ said Sir Ralph.
‘I want you to understand about the mistake about Baldwin Reeves and the money and Anthony,’ said Judith. ‘It’s very important to me that you should.’
‘Do you know what the Vicar’s Christian name is?’ said Sir Ralph.
‘No,’ said Judith.
‘I was listening to what you were saying,’ said Sir Ralph, apologetically. ‘Only it reminded me that I didn’t know the Vicar’s Christian name. On account of Baldwin being such a funny name for a fellow. Really a very funny name.’
‘D’you like him?’ asked Judith.
‘Wardle?’ said Sir Ralph.
‘No, Baldwin,’ said Judith.
‘Oh yes yes yes,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘Very much indeed. You like everybody when you get to my age. Except Nanny. What about this, eh? This string.…’
‘I wanted to talk to you about Baldwin,’ said Judith. ‘I thought you might be able to help.’
‘Ah, as to that,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘I think I will take this string. I might want to do some gardening. Yes, I know, I know. I’m an old man you know, Judith, we mustn’t forget that. I’m really an old, old man.’
‘Oh I didn’t mean,’ said Judith, ‘to bother you.’
‘You could never bother me, my dear,’ said Sir Ralph, smiling at her. ‘But don’t you worry. There’s a point, you know, when one must let oneself grow old, just as there’s a point when one must let oneself die. It’s difficult to know when they’re reached—very difficult. I don’t want to read out there, do I, as well? I’ve got my accounts. Still, I might as well take a book, just in case.’
‘What about a rug?’ asked Judith.
‘A rug. Yes,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘Though it really looks quite warm out there. Still there’s no harm in taking a rug. Don’t you worry my dear. There’s nobody I wish better than you, nobody at all. No, don’t bother. I can carry it. Gets a bit heavy, though. D’you know I think I will leave that dictionary behind after all?’
Mrs. Lane said to Judith: ‘How charming Anthony’s friend is.’ That was what she had made him in her own mind—Anthony’s faithful friend, courageous witness to the heroism of his superior officer—and as such she talked to him endlessly of her son. He let her do it, hoping it might make her look less ill.
He was interested besides, in hearing anything about Anthony. This odd hard house had been where he had lived and Baldwin’s feelings about him were refreshed by it; in fact, Mrs. Lane’s memories being all coloured by her state of mind, he found the house a more rewarding source of information about Anthony than his mother was.
‘Did Anthony like this house?’ he asked Nanny.
‘No,’ said Nanny.
He had lived here though. He had walked into this cold room, thrown down a coat or a stick, lain in this chair, been a light-eyed boy in the nursery.
‘He was a boy, like all boys,’ said Nanny sourly, in answer to his queries. ‘They’re all the same, boys.’
‘All?’ said Baldwin.
‘Well, he had a way with him, that’s all,’ Nanny admitted. ‘He was up to all the tricks I will say. I never knew a child like him. Not but what he was like all boys. They’re all the same, all boys.’
‘You mean he didn’t like washing?’ Baldwin asked. ‘That sort of thing?’
‘He was a clean boy, that I will say,’ said Nanny. ‘Not a sissy but always looked nice. Lovely complexion he had, all through school and everything, I remember. But untidy! You’d have needed three of me to clear up after him. Did he ever take off his coat without throwing it on the floor? And books and paints and pencils and forever taking off the dogs’ collars and losing them.’
‘Oh dogs,’ said Baldwin. ‘Was Bertie one of them?’
‘Retrievers he had,’ said Nanny. ‘He always had retrievers. It was she liked this kind. He had retrievers. And bones all over the house and never did he hang up a coat of his own.’
‘But when he married,’ said Baldwin. ‘Then of course it must have been different.’
‘Nothing could change him,’ said Nanny, with satisfaction.
‘No, I daresay nothing did,’ said Baldwin. ‘Did you go to their wedding?’
‘I went to London for it,’ she said. ‘We all went to London for it. There’s many would have given a lot to be in her shoes, though she suited him, I will say she suited him well enough. And the nursery now, the nicest room in the house, he used to say.’ This admission, rashly made to a stranger she did not wholly trust, seemed at once to strike her as having been a mistake, for she began to mumble in a vaguely qualifying way.
‘I can see he broke a lot of hearts,’ said Baldwin unkindly.
‘Well, I must be getting along,’ Nanny said. ‘They’re all the same, all boys. Well, I must be getting along.’ She bustled out of the room, quite as if she had something to do.
Later Baldwin walked up into the nursery, and found that the wide windows and some pale sunshine in which the dust danced made it what might well have been the nicest room in the house.
There was an ink-stained desk in the corner at which Anthony had presumably sat. In the thin face the light brown eyes had scanned, bored, the unrewarding country from this window: the voice had been here, had insulted, probably, that doting old Nanny; all those familiar movements had been made in this room. ‘Oh, Baldwin,’ he might have said, turning as if he had been waiting for him, ‘Oh, Baldwin,’ and made some demand on him, with which he would have without question complied.
The room had the look very much of being uninhabited, which made Baldwin feel quite simply the desolation of being dead, no matter how many demands might have been made, and acceded to, how much love willingly or unwillingly claimed.
As he went out of the room he vaguely registered it as being the one in which he and Judith were least likely to be disturbed, should it come to that. He did not go into the question of whether or not the fact of its being the room most still reminiscent of Anthony had anything to do with the pleasantness of his picture of Judith’s seduction there. It was all too complicated.
The next thing now, it seemed to him, encouraged by his success with Mrs. Lane, was to charm Sir Ralph.
At first he surveyed him cautiously but with confidence, a military expert inspecting a beleaguered garrison which could not hope to hold out much longer. It was simply a question of finding the weaknesses in the ancient walls, of executing the campaign with the most possible dash and bravado. But in some extraordinary way the citadel remained impregnable. Through lunch, tea, dinner, the garden, the cold summer house, the draughty library, the campaign was waged, and failed.
At dinner Baldwin had all his forces out. Hardly a name in public life for the last fifty years but was evoked to help his cause. (You must have known So-and-so—he was a friend of mine.’) Some or other variation of this method had usually worked in the past. There was nearly always a snobbery somewhere, of however rare a variety, through which an assault could be made. Here there was either none or one so vast as to imply: ‘Of course you know all the right people—otherwise you wouldn’t be in my house.’ Baldwin could not make up his mind which was the case, but nor could he believe that this tried old method would not somehow prove applicable in the end. Like a general with too many victories to his credit, he had become inflexible.
