Out of the Past

CHAPTER 26

Two things happened after lunch. Miss Silver went down to Sea View to retrieve a missing skein of wool, and James Hardwick took his wife out in the car. Carmona had found him at the writing-table in the study. Looking up as she came in, he noticed how pale she was. How very, very pale. And not with the clear translucent pallor which he had noticed the first time he saw her. This was a drained, exhausted look, and the marks under her eyes were like bruises. She shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and said in a low, steady voice,

“James, we can’t go on like this. I must speak to you.”

He laid down his pen.

“Some things are better left unsaid, don’t you think? The less you know, the less I know, the less we talk about whatever we know, or don’t know, or guess, or suspect, or imagine, the better.”

For a moment she thought-she did not know what. That he had made, or that he was going to make some movement in her direction-she didn’t know.

James Hardwick checked himself. He could snatch her into his arms and say, “Why do you look like this? Has the bottom dropped out of everything because Alan Field is dead? Does he matter to you so much?”

He said nothing.

If she had a vague hope that he would say something that would make her feel less frightened, less urged by a dread she could no longer escape, the hope failed her. His look was stern, and there was no comfort in it. She said, her voice almost gone,

“But I must-I really must-I can’t go on-”

He considered her in a frowning silence. If she must-well, then he supposed she must, and better to him than to anyone else. Only not here in the house where there were too many eyes and ears, too much concern, compunction, and all the other sensibilities-too many people noticing too many things and talking them over in too many words. He pushed back his chair and got up.

“All right, if you must. I think much better not, but if you feel you’ve got to talk to someone, it had better be to me. Only not here, with people popping in and out like a warren, and the police on the doorstep every half hour or so. I’ll get the car, and we’ll drive out along the coast road. Damnably hot, but no eavesdroppers. You’d better get a hat.”

It certainly was hot-no shade, and the sun pouring down. When they were clear of the houses and the small bungaloid growths which had fastened upon what had once been the pleasant outskirts of Cliffton, he said,

“If I keep her at forty, we shall get some air.”

“But I couldn’t talk,” said Carmona-“not really.”

He gave her a sudden smile.

“Not very modern, are you? Forty is a mere crawl, you know. I believe what you would really like is somewhere between fifteen and twenty.”

She felt a very slight easing of the tension in her mind. The needle of the speedometer went back to twentyfive. The sun was scorching hot, but there was still a little breeze. She said,

“James, I’ve really got to know. It gets worse and worse, and I can’t bear it any longer. You’ve got to tell me. Where were you on Wednesday night?”

“I?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I woke up, and you weren’t there. I felt as if something dreadful was going to happen. Someone was running-up from the cliff. I went and looked in your dressing-room, and you weren’t there. Then I went out on the landing, and Pippa was there by the newel. The front of her dress was all soaked with blood. We went into her room. Alan had been blackmailing her. She went down to the beach hut to give him her pearls, and she stumbled over his body and came down. That is how the blood got on her dress. He had been stabbed.”

“Yes, I understand from the police that that is her story. Do you believe it?”

“Yes, I do. She wasn’t in the sort of state when you can make anything up. If she had stabbed him she would have told me. Please let me go on. We burned her dress and her stockings. She had on beach-shoes-they washed. We didn’t know about the marks on the stair carpet. We thought we had got everything cleared up-we took about half an hour. When I got back to my room you were in bed and asleep. At least I don’t know-perhaps you only wanted me to think you were asleep.”

She didn’t look at him. She looked at his hands, which were steady on the wheel, and waited for him to speak. When he said nothing, words came from her with a violence which he had never known her use.

“Where had you been? And what did you think had become of me? You were not in your room, or in mine. Where were you when I was asleep? And afterwards, when I was in Pippa’s room? We were there-and we went down to the kitchen to burn her dress. Where were you, and where did you think I was? I’ve got to know!”

He said without any expression at all,

“It is sometimes better to know too little than too much.”

The thing that frightened her, the thing she wouldn’t look at, came nearer. Through all the heat of the day she felt the cold of it. The force went out of her voice. She said in a whisper,

“What do you mean? James-please-”

He laughed.

“Just exactly what I say. When one is being asked a great many questions by people like the police it is sometimes quite useful to be able to tell the truth and shame the devil by saying you just don’t know.”

Carmona said, “I’ve got to know.”

“All right, I’ll tell you. When I put out the dressing-room light I drew back the curtains and looked out. Someone was going down the garden in the direction of the cliff path. It was about a quarter past twelve. I thought it was an odd time for anyone to be going for a walk. I also thought it might be someone who hadn’t any business to be there, so I went down to have a look, and found the glass door of the drawing-room ajar. Poor old Beeston would have had a fit. I couldn’t very well lock it again, and I didn’t much care about leaving it as it was, so I went out to have a look round.”

Carmona drew a long breath.

“Pippa said she had a feeling there was someone watching her-after she had run back up the path. Was it you?”

“I expect so.”

“Did you know it was Pippa?”

“I thought it might be. She was in a very considerable state- sobbing and catching her breath.”

“Why didn’t you speak to her?”

“I didn’t know what she had been up to, and I didn’t really want to know.”

The cold fear had not left Carmona. This was a story that didn’t fit in. If James had followed Pippa, where had he been whilst she went down the steep path to the beach? If he had gone down there too, she would have heard him on the shingle. Nobody can walk on shingle without being heard. And if he had stayed on the narrow path, Pippa would have run into him when she came flying back. She said,

“What did you do? She went down to the beach. Did you go down too? You couldn’t have done that-she would have heard you.”

He was silent for a minute. Then he said,

“When I opened the gate from the garden I couldn’t see anyone on the cliff walk. I had a torch, but I didn’t want to put it on. I walked along until I came to the path to the beach. Someone was there, going down. I couldn’t say who it was, or even if it was man or woman. I went a little way along the cliff walk and came back. As I was coming back, someone came up from the beach. That is all I can tell you.”

She had a feeling of something withheld, but her own relief prevented her from dwelling on it. Her hand went out to touch him. She said,

“Oh, James!”

“Satisfied? Or have you still got a lurking suspicion that I somehow managed to reach the hut and murder Field before Pippa got there?”

“James!”

“That is what you have been thinking, isn’t it?”

“Not thinking-”

“Well, being afraid of-getting cold feet about. That is what you have been doing, isn’t it? I can’t say I’m flattered, you know. Stabbing in the back isn’t really in my line-at least I hope it isn’t. A bit medieval, don’t you think?”

Carmona wasn’t thinking. She was feeling a warm rush of emotion. The tears began to run down her face.

James Hardwick stopped the car.