Ngaio Marsh - Last Ditch

“It looks like it.”

“Confession may be good for the soul,” Jasper said lightly, “but I must say I find it a profoundly embarrassing exercise.”

“He’s coming.”

Mr. Harkness came out of the house under escort, like the victim of an accident. Doctor Carey and Sergeant Plank had him between them, their hands under his arms. The driver got down and opened the rear doors. His colleague looked out.

“It’ll only take a moment,” they heard Dr. Carey say.

On one impulse they turned and walked away, around the house and down the drive, not speaking to each other. A motorcycle roared down the cliff road, turned in at the gates, and, with little or no diminution of speed, bore down upon them.

“Look who’s here,” said Jasper.

It was Syd Jones. At first it seemed that he was going to ignore them but at the last moment he cut down his engine and skidded to a halt.

“G’ day,” he said morosely and exclusively to Jasper. “How’s tricks?”

They looked wildly at each other.

“Seen Dulce?” asked Syd.

ii

Any number of distracted reactions tumbled about in Ricky’s head. For an infinitesimal moment he actually thought Syd wanted to know if he’d seen dead Dulce with the broken body. Then he thought “we’ve got to tell him” and then that dead Dulce might be carrying Syd’s baby (this was the first time he’d remembered about what would doubtless be referred to as her “condition”). He had no idea how long this state of muddled thinking persisted, but their silence or their manner must have been strange because Syd said, “What’s wrong?” He spoke directly to Jasper and had not looked at Ricky.

Jasper said: “There’s been an accident. I’m afraid this is going to be a shock.”

“It’s bad news, Syd,” Ricky said. Because he thought he ought to and because he was unexpectedly filled with a warmth of compassion for Syd, he laid a hand on his arm and was much discomforted when Syd shook him off without a glance.

“It’s about Dulcie Harkness,” Jasper said.

“What about her? Did you say an accident? Here!” Syd demanded. “What are you on about? Is she dead? Or what?”

“I’m afraid she is, Syd,” Ricky ventured.

After a considerable pause he said, “Poor old Dulce.” And then to Jasper: “What happened?”

Jasper told him. Syd was, Ricky knew, a quite remarkably inexpressive person and allowances had to be made for that. He seemed to be sobered, taken aback, even perturbed, but, quite clearly, not shattered. And still he would not look at Ricky.

“You can hardly credit it,” he mumbled.

He seemed to turn the information over in his mind and after doing so for some time said: “She was pregnant. Did you know that?”

“Well, yes,” Jasper said. “Yes, we did.”

“They’ll find that out, won’t they?”

“Yes, I expect they will.”

“Too bad,” he said.

Jasper caught Ricky’s eye and made a slight face at him.

“Who,” he asked, “is the father?”

“I dunno,” said Syd, almost cheerfully. “And I reckon she didn’t. She was quite a girl.”

Somebody else had used the phrase about her. Recently. It was Louis, Ricky remembered, Louis Pharamond in the Fisherman’s Rest at Bon Accord.

“Where’s the old man?” Syd asked Jasper.

“In the house. The doctor’s there. And a police sergeant.”

“What’s he want?” Syd demanded.

“They have to make a formal appearance at fatal accidents,” Ricky said and was ignored.

“He’s very much upset,” said Jasper.

“Who is?”

“Mr. Harkness.”

“He warned her, didn’t he? You heard him.”

“Of course he did.”

“Fair enough, then. What’s he got to worry about?”

“Good God!” Jasper burst out and then checked himself.

“My dear Jones,” he urged. “The man’s had a monstrous shock. His niece has been killed. He’s had to identify her body. He’s—”

“Aw,” said Syd. “That, yeah.”

And to Ricky’s bewilderment he actually turned pale.

“That’s different again,” he said. “That could be grotty, all right.”

He stood for a moment or two with his head down, looking at his boots. Then he hitched his shoulder, settled himself on his seat, and revved up his engine.

“Where are you going?” Jasper shouted.

“Back,” he said. “No sense going on, is there? It was her I wanted to see.”

They stood and watched him. He kicked the ground, turned his machine, and roared off the way he had come.

“That creature’s a monster,” said Jasper.

“He may be a monster,” Ricky said, “but there’s one thing we can be sure he’s not.”

“Really? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, I suppose we can.”

The sound of the motorcycle faded.

“That’s a bloody expensive machine,” Ricky said.

“Oh?”

“New.”

“Really?” said Jasper without interest. “Shall we shog?”

It was an opulent evening, as if gold dust had been shaken out of some heavenly sifter, laying a spell over an unspectacular landscape. Even the effects of chiaroscuro were changed so that details, normally close at hand, were set at a golden remove. L’Espérance itself was enskied by inconsequent drifts of cloud at its base. The transformation would have been a bit too much of a good thing, Ricky thought, if its impermanence had not lent it a sort of austerity. Even as they saw the glow on each other’s face, it faded and the evening was cold.

“Ricky,” Jasper said, “come up and have a drink and supper with us. We would like you to come.”

But Ricky thought it best to say no and they parted at the entrance to the drive. He mounted his bicycle and was sharply reminded of his saddle-soreness.

When he got back to the cove it was to find that news of the accident was already broadcast. Mrs. Ferrant met him in the passage.

“This is a terrible business, then,” she said without any preliminaries and stared at Ricky out of her stewed-prune eyes. He had no mind to discuss it with her, anticipating a series of greedy questions. He remembered Mrs. Ferrant’s former reactions to mention of Dulcie Harkness.

“They’re saying it was a horse-riding accident,” she probed. “That’s correct, is it? They’re saying there was arguments with the uncle, upalong, over her being too bold with her jumping. Is it true, then, what they’re saying, that you was a witness to the accident? Was it you that found her, then? There’s a terrible retribution for you, isn’t it, whatever she may have been in the past?”

Ricky staved her off as best he could but she served his supper — one of her excellent omelets — with a new batch of questions at each reappearance, and he fought a losing battle. In the end he was obliged to give an account of the accident.

While this was going on he became aware of sundry bumps and shufflings in the passage outside.

“That’s him,” Mrs. Ferrant threw out. “He’s going on one of his holidays over to Saint Pierre-des-Roches by the morning boat.”

“I didn’t know there was one.”

“The Island Belle . She calls once a week on her way from Montjoy.”

“Really?” said Ricky, glad to steer Mrs. Ferrant herself into different waters. “I might take the trip one of these days.”

“It’s an early start. Five a.m.”

She had left the door ajar. From close on the other side, but without showing himself, Ferrant called peremptorily: “Marie! Hê!”

“Yes,” she said quickly and went out, shutting the door.

Ricky heard them walk down the passage.

He finished his supper and climbed up to his room, suddenly very tired. Too tired and too sore and becoming too stiff to go along to the Cod-and-Bottle, where in any case he would be avidly questioned about the accident. And much too tired to write. He had a hot bath, restraining a yelp when he got into it, applied with difficulty first aid plasters to the raw discs on his bottom, and went to bed, where he fell at once into a heavy sleep.