All Fall Down

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The telephone rang again before they had finished dinner, and Bradstreet informed Ellis that the coroner had made no difficulty about postponing the inquest till the Thursday. As no witnesses had to be brought from a distance, with the exception of Mr. Stuyvesant and, possibly, Nelder, a minimum of inconvenience would be caused.

“Ring Stuyvesant, will you?” he asked Bradstreet. “I think he’s happier with you than me. He thinks I’m mad, for some reason.”

A sound like a discreet chuckle came down the wire.

“Very good. I’ll tell him.”

“Bless you. Sweet sleep.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, Sweet sleep. Peepy-bye.”

“Thank you. The same to you.”

Ellis came back, grinning.

“When we have had our coffee and tarried awhile in carminative discourse, I shall leave you. I have an errand.”

“I can see you want me to ask you what it is.”

“And if I did not, your curiosity would compel you. Well, you shall know. There are no secrets between us; very few, anyway; and this shall not be one. I am going to call on friend Rattray just after nine, i.e., at the hour when he should be home from his do.”

“He won’t be there.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“But he’ll spot it, Ellis. He told you he didn’t get back till ten.”

“He didn’t. She did.”

“Well then——”

“I’ll say they told me in the pub he was free at nine. That’ll give him a little explaining to do. I don’t see why we should do all the work.”

As soon as they had finished, Ellis took his book into the garden, and read till five to nine. Then he got up, and went off down the road to Rattray’s house.

On second thoughts, he did not go in at once. A long tête à tête with Ursula Rattray did not appeal to him. Accordingly he went down to the bridge, and spent a few minutes watching the trout which had had such a calming effect upon the emotions of Mr. Stuyvesant. He was not alone, and soon found himself an object of greater interest to the villagers than the trout, which, he supposed, they had likewise come to look at. What on earth did they imagine he was doing? The idea that the trout might be the object of his professional attention so amused Ellis that he gave a sudden shout of laughter, startling the onlookers, who, after the first stare of astonishment, looked away as if he had committed an indecency.

Still chuckling, Ellis walked on, making a circuit of the village and timing himself to arrive at Rattray’s just after half past nine. He entered the gate with an air of immense purpose.

There was no sign of Mrs. Rattray in the verandah. Her chair had been put away.

Ellis beat a tattoo on the door with his knuckles. A shrill yapping broke out somewhere inside the house, and was hushed by the closing of a door. Then, after an interval of silence, soft footsteps advanced timidly to the door. It opened, and a scared-looking girl of about thirteen stared up into his face.

“Good-evening,” Ellis cried, in loud tones. “May I see Mr. Rattray, please?”

“He isn’t in,” the girl whispered timidly. “He’s out.”

“Out? I understood in the village that he would be here soon after nine.”

She shook her head.

“He isn’t in,” she repeated.

“Well then,” Ellis said, “perhaps I can come in and wait for him. Is Mrs. Rattray in? Maybe she’ll see me. If not, I’ll wait in his study.” He stepped into the hall. “Ask Mrs. Rattray, will you, please?”

She closed the door, stared at him doubtfully, whispering something he could not hear, and started off on her errand.

“Who shall I say it is, please?”

“Mr. Ellis McKay.”

“Mr. Ellis McKay,” she repeated dutifully, and, still staring, backed out of the hall.

Ellis waited. The atmosphere of the house closed in around him. A clock in the corner ticked heavily, slowly. What went on here? What form of life, what secrets, what hopes, what agonies and fears? A stuffy tension, a taut respectability: or was he imagining it? Would not any such gimcrack hallway breathe forth the same on a hot June evening?

“Will you come this way, please, sir?”

She led Ellis down a short passage and into a room at right angles to the hall. The shaded light revealed Ursula Rattray lying on a sofa, with the air of exhaustion shown by cross-channel passengers who have just been sick, and expect soon to be sick again.

“How do you do, Mr. McKay.” She hung a limp hand at him. “How nice of you to call.”

“How nice of you to receive me.” He sat down, his thick legs apart, and beamed at her. “I just dropped in to see your husband for a moment. I expect he won’t be long.”

“Ten.” Her eyes wandered to the clock. “He is always in by ten.”

“Can you put up with me till then? I won’t be keeping you up, or anything?”

“Oh no. I never go to bed till David’s back. He always carries me to my room.” She gave a hideous, coquettish smile. “It’s a little ceremony we’ve kept ever since our honeymoon.”

Ellis repressed the shiver that ran up his spine.

“Very nice and romantic,” he said heartily. “A pity more people don’t keep up those things. I’m all for the little ceremonies of life, myself. The ritual.”

“The ritual,” she echoed him, her large eyes staring into his. “That’s just it. You like it. You understand. So many men don’t. They don’t realise what these little things mean to a woman.”

“No, indeed. They study a woman at first, and then they take her for granted.”

She did not react to this. Ellis soon saw that she followed an unbroken train of thought, and took no notice of any remark that led away from it.

“The little things of life mean so much. To any woman. But particularly to a woman like me.”

Ellis inclined his head, gravely sympathetic.

“We sick women need them so much more than other women. We need them continually. If David were the ordinary uncomprehending sort of man, I—I couldn’t live.”

“You are lucky, Mrs. Rattray, to have such a devoted husband.”

“Yes, yes, I am, indeed. I know.”

The faint gleam left her face, as she wondered whether she might not be putting herself in too happy a light. Guessing her thought, Ellis hastened to put matters right.

“You need that, Mrs. Rattray. Life owes you so much. You have enough to bear as it is. A devoted husband is the least that can be granted to you. We must have some justice, even in this world.”

She gazed at him.

“How well you understand! Your wife must be a very happy woman.”

“Oh, I’m not at all a good husband. Understanding is one thing. Performance is another.”

She gave her horrible little sickly smile.

“Now you’re abusing yourself. I won’t believe you.”

“You’re too kind. Your own life makes you too indulgent to other people’s faults.”

Then he felt ashamed of himself, for she shook her head.

“Oh no. I don’t think that’s true. I’m often horribly cross and fault-finding.”

“That’s your health,” he assured her.

“It is, partly. But I mustn’t put all the blame on that. Some of it is just me, being horrid.”

He looked at her more kindly, seeing in her a pathetic struggle towards honesty and self-knowledge. The horror of her appearance, the emaciated, paint-encrusted face, the gash of a mouth, the claw-like hands, blurred into the softer outline of a victim trying still to present an appearance to the world.

“It’s so hard to tell,” he said, looking away over her head. “I had a bad illness once, and took months to get over it. Not till I was over it, and quite recovered, did I realise that my mind had been affected with my body. I didn’t go dotty, or anything like that. But just as I had a sick body, I had a sick mind, and I thought sick thoughts. But, at the time, I didn’t realise it. I thought I was thinking straight.”

She screwed her mouth up into a wrinkled crimson ring.

“I don’t think I like that thought. It frightens me. Because I’m sick all the time. So I might never think straight.”

“I shouldn’t worry too much about that. How do any of us know we’re thinking straight? I’m always making a fool of myself. I’m never sure.”

“You’re only saying that to cheer me up.”

“Oh no, I’m not. I think something stupid every day of my life, and don’t find out till afterwards.”

She smiled faintly, and looked at the clock.

“David will be here soon,” she said.

“It’s a shame he has to be away so much. That’s the worst of a man that does good works. But then, he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t, would he?”

“He’s out so many evenings now.”

“Everybody wants him. He’s a most popular man.”

“Yes,” she agreed listlessly. The opinion in which other people held him did not interest her. Ellis pressed on.

“I heard a wonderful tribute to him, only this morning.”

“People do like him.”

“This was from poor Joan Baildon.”

Her thin body tightened on the instant. Ellis proceeded without a pause. “She said he was the kindest person she had ever met. She couldn’t say too much for him. She’d naturally be grateful, after all he had done to help her. But this was more than gratitude. Evidently he has made a very deep impression on her.”

Her face lengthened. She was looking at him with an. expression he could not read.

“Joan is perfectly loyal,” she said, in almost fierce assertion. (She pronounced it “loyle.”) “She’s one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met.”

“I’m sure she is. She’d never hear a word against anyone she was fond of.”

“I don’t mean in that way. I mean——”

It was all too plain what she meant. Ellis stifled a feeling of nausea.

“She’s only a child,” he said. “And a handicapped child at that. I think it is wonderfully kind of your husband to take so much trouble with her.”

“David is perfectly sensible, of course. Even if she did get silly, the way young girls do. Some men aren’t sensible. No matter how young the girl is. In fact, it often makes them all the sillier. The men, I mean.”

“Well—with him so sensible, and her so loyal——” The words stuck in Ellis’s mouth: he couldn’t go on.

“Yes.”

She looked at him earnestly, anxiously. He put his elbows on his knees, and resolutely changed the subject.

“What part of Scotland do you come from, Mrs. Rattray?”

“Scotland?” she said faintly: then she flushed. “How did you know? I haven’t a trace of accent.”

“No. But you’re some sort of a Celt: and there’s a tune in your voice, every now and then. It isn’t Welsh, it isn’t Irish; there’s nothing it could be but Highland. I’d say you were a Highlander who had lived in London, or a Londoner who spent a lot of time in the Highlands.”

“I’m not Scottish, really. My mother was. I was born in London. We went up a few summers to my granny’s place. I never learned to speak her way, though. That’s why I can’t think how you guessed.”

“They were good summers, were they?”

“Lovely.” The refined Cockney had come back into her voice. She glanced pettishly at the clock.

“I can’t think where David is.”

“He’ll be back soon. Tell me about your summers in the Highlands.”

She glanced at him, unwillingly, and made a small restless movement. He could see that she did not want to surrender.

“He’s usually in before this,” she said.

“Too bad. Have you been up there since you married?”

“We went for a part of our honeymoon.”

“Wasn’t it a success?”

“No. It rained, and brought on my rheumatism. David hated it. He wouldn’t let me go there since.”

“D’you want to?”

“I couldn’t stand the journey. And it’s so wet up there.”

“I never mind the wet,” Ellis said. “It’s worth it, for the colours afterwards.”

“Yes.” A memory gleamed in her eyes. “I remember once, when I was only about six or seven, and it had been raining all day, suddenly it turned fine about six, and I thought it was the end of the world, and asked Granny if we were in Heaven.”

“I know. The new Jerusalem.”

“Yes.” The gleam faded. She looked hunted and worried. Before Ellis could speak, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she said, in a moan he realised to be her habitual public protest against her invalidism.

The door opened, and the little girl put her head round.

“Please’m, I got to go home now. Dad said I wasn’t to stop a minute after ten.”

Mrs. Rattray uttered a whimper of distress and anger. She rolled an eye at the clock, like a frightened horse.

“That’s all right,” Ellis assured her heartily. “I’ll stay here and look after Mrs. Rattray till Mr. Rattray comes back. You go off home.”

The girl looked mutely at him, then at her mistress.

“Very well,” she whispered. “Goodnight’m.”

She went out. There was a silence. Looking at his hostess, Ellis saw with horror that she was smiling again. He caught at her mood before she could speak.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Rattray,” he cried, with his best assumption of bluffness. “I’m a good, safe, dependable married man. Anyway, it’s your husband’s fault. If he stays out working, and leaves you alone, he can’t complain if another man takes care of you till he comes back.”

Vigorously, without pause, he set himself to dominate and charm her. Before she could resist, he had dragged her back to the Highlands. She shall not look at that clock, he decided. So, while her eyes faltered and ached to turn towards it, he put forth all his power, telling her story after story of the Highlands, using the strength of his voice, every power he had, in the effort to hold her attention and charm or bludgeon her into forgetfulness of the present.

And he succeeded. Her eyes, gazing into his, at first unwillingly, then mournfully, lightened, came alive, then gleamed with pleasure and disturbance. The sickly face became animated, the drooping mouth relaxed, and he saw, in flashes, the girl she must once have been, the girl that took David Rattray’s staid but passionate fancy and won his heart. She laughed: her breath came faster: she uttered little exclamations of delight and recognition. For close on a quarter of an hour she forgot the clock. Then a hurried step sounded, the door opened, and David Rattray rushed in.

His wife turned with a small tearful cry in which joy and relief were already smothered in remonstrance. Ellis had time to notice the speed with which, although for a few minutes she had wholly forgotten him, she switched to a note of reproach, before all his attention was claimed by Rattray.

The man appeared distraught. His face was white, his hair dishevelled, his eyes staring, and he breathed as if he had run a mile. He rushed towards his wife, began to gasp out some cry of endearment and contrition, when suddenly he saw Ellis.

The effect on him was extraordinary. He pulled up with the abrupt irrelevance of a figure in a stopped cinematograph film. His already white face set like marble, his eyes went dark and small, and he began to babble and stutter as if he had had a stroke.

Then, sibilant and breathy, the words came.

“You here. You—what are you doing—you—at this hour.”

His voice burst through the obstruction and leaped out in an uncontrolled shout.

“What do you mean by coming here when I am away, and badgering my wife with your questions? You coward! How dare you! Torturing a poor helpless invalid who can’t defend herself, when I am not here to protect her!”

For a moment after he stopped the echoes of his voice seemed to blare from the walls. Then Ursula Rattray made a queer little mewing noise of protest.

“But, David dear, Mr. McKay hasn’t been bullying me at all. He’s been telling me the most lovely stories about the Highlands.”

The effect of this was to infuriate Rattray still more. He stuttered helplessly, his eyes rolled in his head, and foam appeared at the corners of his mouth.

“Highlands!” he got out at last. “Highlands! Damnation! I won’t have anyone talk to you about the Highlands!” He pointed to the door. “Get out! Get out this instant!”

Ellis was on his feet, pugnacious, square, his lower lip thrust out. His voice rang clear in contrast to the other’s thickened shout.

“Pull yourself together, man. Don’t talk rubbish. I came here to ask you a question, at a time when I was given to understand you would be at home. When you did not appear, and the child who was here had to go home, I stayed to keep Mrs. Rattray company till you came. If you object to that, you should come home at the proper time.”

A mew came from the sofa.

“Yes, David darling, pet, truly you should. You’ve never been so late. Pet rabbit was so frightened. At least, she would have been if nice kind man hadn’t stayed and told her lovely stories.”

Rattray looked at her without speaking, then at Ellis. He began to shake all over, turning finally to her with a look of desperate appeal. Then, regardless of Ellis, he plunged blindly forward, and fell on his knees, burying his head in her lap. Groans came from him. She cooed and stroked his hair. Her face was transfigured with tenderness.

“There, Davie pet. Own rabbit will forgive ’oo, make ’oo well.”

Ellis felt that in a couple of seconds he would be sick. He coughed imperatively.

“I am going now, Rattray. If you will be so good as to come to the door with me, I will ask you the question I came to ask.”

Slowly, Rattray turned to him a bleared, bewildered face. All the fight had gone out of him. He was like a tired man wakened suddenly from sleep.

“Yes,” he said, and lumbered to his feet. “Yes.” He turned to his wife. “I won’t be a moment, darling.”

“Good-night, Mrs. Rattray,” Ellis said. “Thank you for entertaining me so well.”

She barely raised her eyes: she had forgotten him.

“Yes,” she said simply. “Don’t be long, Davie.”

“I won’t. I won’t.”

Silently he accompanied Ellis to the gate. There, Ellis wheeled round on him, about to snap out his question peremptorily, in the need to break into his mood. Seeing Rattray’s face, he checked himself in amazement. The schoolmaster was looking at him composedly. His face was still pale, but he had quite recovered.

“I must ask you to forgive me, Mr. McKay. I—I have been under a considerable strain lately, largely from overwork. I was tired to-night, and on the way back I had a puncture. The delay and the knowledge that Ursula would be waiting for me and be anxious, perhaps terrified, preyed on my mind: and when I came in and unexpectedly found you there, I’m afraid it was your profession I remembered, rather than yourself, and jumped to the conclusion that you had been taking advantage of my absence to question her.”

“That’s all right,” Ellis said. “The question——”

“Our relationship has something more than usually protective about it, owing to her state of health. In that I am abnormally sensitive where she is concerned.”

“Quite right. I came to——”

“I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive what must have seemed not only boorish, but ungrateful.”

“Think no more about it. I had just one question to ask you, Mr. Rattray: the question that brought me to your house. Perhaps you would prefer me to leave it till later?”

“No, no. I am at your service.”

“When you went into the Baildons’ house, on Friday afternoon, to return the book you had borrowed, why were you in such a hurry when you came out?”

Rattray did not answer at once. He looked down at the ground, and the colour came back to his face. When he spoke his voice was indistinct, a muttering only.

“You humiliate me, Mr. McKay. I should have thought you had already seen enough of our life to realise——”

He threw up his head.

“My wife, as you have seen, is abnormally sensitive to any absence from her on my part. It is part of her illness. Often—I am telling you this in confidence—often it takes the form of a morbid suspicion. She fears, poor soul”—his face was contorted—“that her affliction has made her unattractive to me, and therefore she tends to misconstrue any absence from her which is not accounted for to the minute. Knowing that I was about to leave the book at the house, and knowing that, as it was a holiday, Joan would be at home, she—she exacted from me a schedule, a time-table——”

He was looking at the ground again, his face dark.

“I dare say you will think it unmanly of me to submit to such an extent to her whim, to humour her: but I believe it to be my duty, and Dr. Carter, I may say, agrees with me. Even so, I find it a very painful subject to discuss.”

Ellis nodded.

“Were you behind your schedule when you left the book?”

“I—I don’t—I may have been, by a minute or two. Why do you ask?”

“It would account for your anxiety not to be seen coming out of the gate.”

Ellis, carefully flicking at a flower with his finger, felt rather than saw Rattray stiffen and scrutinise him.

“I do not remember any anxiety. If I manifested any, it was probably an unconscious action. A reflex almost. One develops strange protections, under the pressure of a constant vigilance and suspicion.” He raised his chin. “Does that satisfy you, Mr. McKay?”

“For the moment. Good-night, Mr. Rattray.”

“Good-night. And try not to think too badly of my behaviour.”

“That’s all right.”

Ellis waved his hand, and stumped off in the rich golden dusk. Bats dipped above his head, and the trees, westward, stood out rich and dark against the mellowed splendour. He began to whistle softly, in low, liquid notes that filled the quiet roadway.

A villager called good-night to him from a doorway, and presently another and another. The warm, sing-song voices harmonised perfectly with the light and the air. Ellis sang back an answer, each encounter, each step almost, cleansing from him the marks of the hour he had just spent.

By the time he reached the inn, he was at peace. He exchanged a few words with the porter, looked at the sky, its softness pricked faintly with tiny stars, and then, in distaste at the thought of repeating to Gilkison what had happened, made straight for his room and went to bed.