Anna, Where Are You?

CHAPTER XXVI

Mr. Craddock’s humour was not at its best by the time Inspector Jackson had finished his polite but pertinaceous questioning. He might, and possibly did, assure himself that he had throughout maintained a high standard of courtesy and philosophic calm, but to anyone whose mind was not adapted to so partial a view it was obvious that he was in a very bad temper. He came into the workroom, and standing upon the hearthrug rather to the rear of the sofa upon which Emily Craddock lay, he delivered himself of an oration. What, he demanded, was the world coming to, what was happening to society, when a person practically indistinguishable from a member of the Gestapo could walk into your house and demand an account of every moment of your time over a period of weeks, together with a complete itinerary of your walks and drives.

“Where was I upon this day and at this hour! And what road did I take to each place! And how long did I stay! I preserved my calm. I said to him, ‘My good Inspector, do you suppose that I keep a minute-to-minute diary of my comings and goings? Could you yourself possibly answer such questions? If you could, I am sorry for you, since it would prove you to be so obsessed with the minutiae of physical life and its earthbound materialism as to be incapable of any higher intelligence. For myself, I live in the realm of thought-I occupy myself with ideas. I am engaged upon an important work on the subject of Planetary Influences, and I certainly cannot tell you just what I was doing at three o’clock in the afternoon on the third of January. I may have been out, or I may have been in. I may have been engaged in my studies, or in writing, or in meditation. I was certainly not in London. It is a place I detest-all noise, and clatter, and disturbing vibrations. The only time I have been to London for months was on the occasion when I made the journey in order to interview Miss Silver, who, as I told the Inspector, will probably remember the date, which was assuredly not January the third.’ ”

He cast a look of lofty interrogation at Miss Silver, who sat knitting by the couch. Since she faced Emily Craddock, she was able to observe that she appeared to be rather stunned by the reverberations of Mr. Craddock’s powerful voice. She was also well placed to intercept his glance, and to reply,

“I believe it was January the eighth.”

The brief respite being over, Mr. Craddock resumed.

“The Inspector had literally nothing to say. I believe that, while remaining perfectly courteous, I was able to administer a sufficient rebuke. People on these lower planes are extremely insensitive, but I believe I was able to show him that his impertinence left me quite unmoved.” The rolling voice developed a rasp. He addressed his wife. “If it had not been for your lack of self-control, my dear Emily, I should not have been subjected to all this unpleasantness. I cannot imagine what came over you. I state in front of the other members of the Colony and in the presence of two police officers that I have nothing to hide, and you immediately give way to the incredible folly and stupidity of fainting. I really feel that I am entitled to an explanation. If you cannot perceive the invidious conclusions which might be, and undoubtedly were, drawn from this lamentable exhibition, I feel it my duty to point them out to you.”

Emily Craddock’s white cheek became a shade paler-something of a feat since it already appeared to be quite drained of colour. She put out her hand in a groping way towards Miss Silver, who laid down her knitting and took it in a kind warm clasp. It was cold to the touch, and it trembled.

“Mr. Craddock, your wife is quite unfit for all this. She has had a sleepless night, a trying morning, and no breakfast. I myself informed the Inspectors that she was in delicate health. What she now needs is rest, and I think there is no purpose to be served by continuing to discuss an experience which has not been very pleasant for any of us.”

Her eyes dwelt upon him, as in time past they had dwelt upon so many pupils-the nervous, the tongue-tied, the intelligent, the pretentious, the impudent, the recalcitrant, the cocksure. Each had found in it some corrective quality-encouragement where encouragement was needed, rebuke where rebuke was called for, authority for the rebellious, and, in every case, a most penetrating understanding.

Peveril Craddock had a horrid moment in which he found himself with nothing to say. His head was full of words, but they buzzed there like flies, and he could make no use of them.

Miss Silver continued to hold Emily’s hand and to look at him. The sweat had come to his brow before she said,

“Your studies have been gravely interrupted, have they not? I will see that Mrs. Craddock has everything she needs.”

It was a dismissal, and he was thankful to accept it.

When he had gone Emily Craddock withdrew her hand and put it over her eyes. After a little time she said in a small, weak voice,

“It would be better if I were dead.”

Miss Silver had resumed her knitting. The gentle click of the needles came and went with a rhythmic sound. She said in a firm and cheerful voice,

“Oh, no, my dear, that is quite untrue. You have three children to care for. It would be forsaking a post of duty.”

“I’m-no good to them-”

The words could hardly be distinguished, but Miss Silver was in no doubt of their meaning.

“That is not true,” she said. “It can never be true of anyone who is doing his duty. You have not to count up what you can do, or how much good it will accomplish. That is not your business. You have only to do what you can, one day at a time, without regretting yesterday or being afraid about tomorrow.” After a pause she added, “Your children need you very much indeed. Jennifer now-”

Emily Craddock burst out crying.

“She’s so like her father!” she said. “I don’t mean to look at, but in herself. We quarrelled, and I can’t even remember what it was about now-but he went away. He used to, you know, and write articles, and do sketches, and come back again. But this time he didn’t. He went to America, and the plane crashed and everyone was killed. And then Francis left me his money and-I married Mr. Craddock-” The words got fainter and fainter and fainter until with Peveril Craddock’s name she turned her face into the pillow and found no more to say. There was silence in the room.