Through the Wall

Chapter 33

Every moment of that long fine afternoon was to come under the microscope. Everyone in the two houses would be asked, “Where were you between the hours of three and five? Were you alone? Who was with you? How long were you together? If you were out, when did you return to the house?”

At three o’clock Cyril Felton was still talking to his wife. Eliza Cotton had stepped out into the garden to look for Mactavish, and the sound of their voices reached her from Ina Felton’s bedroom. The window was open, and she heard Cyril Felton say, “Don’t be a fool! It’s nothing.” And she heard Ina answer, “No, no, I won’t. It’s no use your wanting me to, because I won’t.” Eliza called out to Mactavish, and the voices stopped. She thought to herself, “Just as well they should know someone can hear them,” and after standing for a few minutes at the top of the steps going down to the next terrace and seeing no sign of Mactavish she went back into the house. Later she had a bath.

Felix and Penny were up on the cliffs. They had found a place where there was a wide grassy ledge sheltered from the wind. Felix lay full length on the grass, his forehead on his crossed arms, his face hidden. The sun was warm on his back. His mind was as nearly as possible blank. He had feelings, but not thoughts. He felt as a man feels who has had a long illness and knows that the tide has turned, and that he is going to get well. He felt as if he had had a feverish dream and was waking from it. Consciousness was swept clean. He felt the sun, and a light air that came and went.

The new grass smelt sweet where his arms were bruising it. The tide was going out. There was no sound from the sea. Helen Adrian was a long time ago-a long, long time ago. When he began to think again he would know that she was dead. He hadn’t begun to think-he only felt. He had no feelings about Helen Adrian.

Penny was sitting beside him. The wall of the cliff rose between six and ten feet at the back of their ledge, following a broken line. She sat leaning against the wall with her hands locked about her knees. Felix was so close to her that she would have touched him if she moved. But she didn’t move. She had sat like that, quite still, for nearly an hour, looking out over the sea and saying the kind of prayers which haven’t any words. The nearest that they came to it were the old familiar ones which have come down through so many generations. She would never be able to hear them again without feeling just this quivering ecstasy of the heart. “This my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.”

She did not speak, and Felix did not speak. The sun shone on them. The light air moved. The tide went down.

Miss Silver was in the study with the Chief Constable until a little before half past three, when he bade her an affectionate farewell and went home to participate in a tea-party arranged by his wife. At the time that she went through the hall with him and let him out there was no sound anywhere in all the house. She locked the front door after him and returned to the study. After which she may or may not have closed hçr eyes and drifted into a light nap. The room was warm, the sofa corner comfortable. It is certain that she was not knitting when Eliza came in with the tea-tray at a few minutes before five. Derek’s stocking, with only an inch or two to go, lay coiled on her lap with the needles sticking up brightly like pins on a pin-cushion. Miss Silver’s hands rested upon the grey wool. Miss Silver’s eyes were closed. It may have been only for the moment, because at the sound of Eliza’s voice they were immediately opened.

“Just on five o’clock, and those that don’t come back to tea will have to go without, so I’ll give a knock on Mrs. Felton’s door and see if I can’t get her to come down.”

“Is Miss Brand not in?”

Eliza opened her mouth to say, “No,” and shut it again, because at just that moment she saw Marian Brand crossing the lawn with Richard Cunningham beside her. The clock struck five as they came up the two shallow steps into the study.

Marian said, “I’m so dreadfully sorry we’re late. We’ve been down on the beach, and I went to sleep, and Richard went for a walk. And we found Mactavish catching sand-hoppers as we came up.”

Eliza said gloomily, “He does,” and went up to knock on Ina Felton’s door.

In the house on the other side of the wall a Sabbath afternoon quiet had set in with the departure of the Chief Constable and Inspector Crisp. Neither of the two dailies came on Sunday. Mrs. Woolley cooked a meal and left it ready, and they could have it cold, or they could heat it themselves. She didn’t mind working double time on Saturday morning, but she wasn’t working on Saturday afternoon nor Sunday, not to please anyone-they could do for themselves. It was a cause of deep resentment to Florence Brand, even though it was Penny who did the Sunday work. Cassy Remington helped occasionally-if you could call it helping to fidget to and fro and criticize what somebody else was doing. But Florence never put a hand to anything. By three o’clock on Sunday afternoon she had two cushions at her back and her feet up on a footstool in the sitting-room which she shared with her sister. There was always a book on her lap, but it was very seldom opened. It was always a very dull book. On this particular afternoon it was Some Chapters of my Life by A Wessex Parson. At five o’clock Mrs. Brand, the footstool, and the Wessex Parson occupied the same respective positions which they had done at three.

Miss Remington’s Sunday afternoon programme was different from her sister’s, but just as immutable. She always made herself a large strong cup of coffee, which she took up to her bedroom. When she had drunk it she ate a chocolate and occupied herself in going through her clothes, experimenting with face-creams, powders, and even, very tentatively, with lipstick. She had never felt sure enough about the lipstick to be seen wearing it outside her own room. She did not like the feeling or the taste of it, but its possibilities fascinated her. At some period she generally removed her Sunday dress, put on a dressing-gown, and lay down upon her bed. At five o’clock on this particular Sunday afternoon she was fastening her brooch and slipping her amethyst chain over her head. They did not have tea until five o’clock on Sunday, a habit formed so long ago that no one now remembered that when Mrs. Martin Brand taught a Sunday afternoon class in Farne this hour had been fixed in order that she might get home in time to pour out tea.

Miss Cassy, looking at herself in the glass with her head a little on one side, hoped that Penny had remembered to come home and put the kettle on. She was apt to be sadly forgetful when her mind was taken up with Felix. Really the way she ran after him was quite ridiculous. Girls nowadays simply didn’t care what anything looked like-no proper pride, no self-restraint. Felix would think more of her if she were not always at his beck and call.

She went downstairs, and met Penny coming through from the kitchen with the tea-tray. They were having tea in the parlour-they always had it there on Sunday. As Cassy Remington opened the door and Penny and the tray went in, Florence Brand sat up with a jerk and the Wessex Parson fell off her lap.

Cassy said, “Where’s Felix?” and Penny answered her.

“He said he didn’t want any tea. It’s lovely up on the cliff. I said I’d go back.”

It was at this moment that Eliza Cotton came out of the study on the other side of the house and went up the stair to knock on Ina Felton’s door. There was a little pause before the key turned in the lock, long enough to give Eliza time to disapprove. She didn’t hold with people locking themselves into their bedrooms, and she considered that Mrs. Felton did ought to rouse herself and go out with her sister and Mr. Cunningham. And not their fault if she didn’t, because she had heard them ask her. All the same, when Ina opened the door Eliza thought she was looking better-not what you would call hearty, but less like something that had been kept too long on ice. She said, “Oh, thank you, Eliza,” in quite a human voice, and they went back down the stairs together.

It was Miss Silver who enquired after Cyril Felton. Ina was stretching out her hand to take the cup of tea which Marian had just poured out for her. She stopped like that to look at Miss Silver.

“He said he was going to lie down in his room. He had a headache. He was up very late last night. He said he wanted a good sleep.”

Marian said, “He might like some tea. Richard, perhaps you wouldn’t mind seeing if he is awake. It’s the little room on the left of the front door as you come in.”

He said, “Of course,” put down his cup, and went out.

There was some talk between Miss Silver and Marian about Eliza’s tea-cake and Eliza’s superlative raspberry jam.

“Such a light hand. You may have the best recipe and the best materials, but there is a lightness of touch which, I believe, cannot be taught. My housekeeper, Hannah Meadows, has it, and I feel I am indeed fortunate. So much good food is wasted by bad cooking.”

Richard Cunningham opened the door and stood there.

“Miss Silver, someone wants to speak to you for a moment. Could you come?”

But when she reached the hall and the door was shut again he drew her away from it and said,

“I’m afraid I’m the person who wants to speak to you. Can you stand a shock?”

“What has happened?”

“Someone has stuck a knife into Cyril Felton. He’s dead.”