Ngaio Marsh - Dead Water

“I second that from the chair,” said Mr. Nankivell. “Though with reservations prejudicial to an optimistic view. Major?”

“What’ll I do? I’ll try and reason with her. Give her a straight picture of the incontrovertible cures. If the man of science,” Major Barrimore said with a furious look at Dr. Mayne, “would come off his high horse and back me up, I might get her to listen. As it is—” he passed his palm over his hair and gave a half-smile —“I’ll do what I can with the lady. I want another drink. Anyone join me?”

The Mayor, and, after a little persuasion, Miss Cost joined him. He made towards the old Private Taproom. As he opened the door, he admitted sounds of voices and of people crossing the flagstone to the main entrance.

Patrick looked in. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said to his mother. “The busload’s arrived.”

She got up quickly. “I must go,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

His stepfather said: “Damn! All right.” And to the others: “I won’t be long. Pat, look after the drinks, here, will you? Two double Scotches and a glass of the sweet port.”

He went out, followed by his wife and Patrick, and could be heard welcoming his guests. “Good evening! Good evening to you! Now, come along in. You must be exhausted. Awfully glad to see you—”

His voice faded.

There was a brief silence.

“Yes,” said the Mayor. “Yes. Be-the-way, we didn’t get round to axing the lady’s view, did we — Mrs. Barrimore’s?”

For some reason they all looked extremely uncomfortable.

Miss Cost gave a shrill laugh.

“ And I’d take it as a personal favour ,” Alleyn dictated, “ if you could spare a man to keep an eye on the Island when Miss Pride arrives there. Very likely nothing will come of these communications, but, as we all know, they can lead to trouble. I ought to warn you that Miss Pride, though eighty-three, is in vigorous possession of all her faculties and if she drops to it that you’ve got her under observation, she may cut up rough. No doubt, like all the rest of us, you’re understaffed and won’t thank me for putting you to this trouble. If your chap does notice anything out of the way, I would be very glad to hear of it. Unless a job blows up to stop me, I’m grabbing an overdue week’s leave from tomorrow and will be at the above address .

“ Again — sorry to be a nuisance. Yours sincerely, …

“All right. Got the name? Superintendent A. F. Coombe, Divisional H.Q., wherever it is — at Portcarrow itself, I fancy. Get it off straight away, will you?”

When the letter had gone he looked at his watch. Five minutes past midnight. His desk was cleared and his files closed. I should have written before, he thought. My letter will arrive with Miss Emily.

He was ready to leave, but for some reason dawdled there, too tired, suddenly, to make a move.

After a vague moment or two, he lit his pipe, looked round his room and walked down the long corridor and the stairs, wishing the P.C. on duty at the doors “Goodnight.”

It was his only superstition. By the pricking of my thumbs … As he drove away down the Embankment he thought: Damned if I don’t ring that Super up in the morning: be damned if I don’t.

Miss Emily arrived at noon on Monday. She had stayed overnight in Dorset and was as fresh as paint. It was agreeable to be able to command a chauffeur-driven car, and the man was not unintelligent.

When they drew up at Portcarrow jetty she gave him a well-considered tip, asked his name and told him she would desire, particularly, that he should be deputed for the return journey.

She then alighted, observed by a small gang of wharf loiterers.

A personable young man came forward to meet her.

“Miss Pride? I’m Patrick Ferrier. I hope you had a good journey.”

Miss Emily was well-disposed towards the young and was, she had good reason to believe, a competent judge of them. She inspected Patrick and received him with composure. He introduced a tall, glowing girl who came forward, rather shyly, to shake hands. Miss Emily had less experience of girls but she liked the look of this one and was gracious.

“The causeway is negotiable,” Patrick said, “but we thought you’d prefer the launch.”

“It is immaterial,” she rejoined. “The launch let it be.”

Patrick and the chauffeur handed her down the steps. Trehern stowed away her luggage and was profuse in cap-touching. They shoved off from the jetty, still watched by idlers, among whom, conspicuous in his uniform, was a police sergeant. “ ’Morning, Pender!” Patrick called cheerfully as he caught sight of him.

In a motor launch, the trip across was ludicrously brief, but even so Miss Emily, bolt upright in the stern, made it portentous. The sun shone and against it she displayed her open umbrella as if it were a piece of ceremonial plumage. Her black kid gloves gripped the handle centrally and her handbag, enormous and vise-like in its security, was placed between her feet. She looked, Patrick afterwards suggested, like some Burmese female deity. “We should have arranged to have had her carried, shoulder-high, over the causeway,” he said.

Major Barrimore, with a porter in attendance, awaited her on the Island’s jetty landing. He resembled, Jenny thought, an illustration from an Edwardian sporting journal. “Well tubbed” was the expression. His rather prominent eyes were a little bloodshot. He had to sustain the difficult interval that spanned approach and arrival and decide when to begin smiling and making appropriate gestures. Miss Emily gave him no help. Jenny and Patrick observed him with misgivings.

“Good morning!” he shouted, gaily bowing, as they drew alongside. Miss Emily slightly raised and lowered her umbrella.

“That’s right, Trehern. Easy does it. Careful man,” Major Barrimore chattered. “Heave me that line. Splendid!” He dropped the loop over a bollard and hovered, anxiously solicitous, with extended arm. “Welcome! Welcome!” he cried:

“Good morning, Major Barrimore,” Miss Emily said. “Thank you. I can manage perfectly.” Disregarding Trehern’s outstretched hand, she looked fixedly at him. “Are you the father?” she asked.

Trehern removed his cap and grinned with all his might. “That I be, ma’am,” he said. “If you be thinking of our Wally, ma-am, that I be, and mortal proud to own up to him.”

“I shall see you, if you please,” said Miss Emily, “later.” For a second or two everyone was motionless.

She shook hands with her host.

“This is nice,” he assured her. “And what a day we’ve produced for you! Now, about these steps of ours. Bit stiff, I’m afraid. May I…?”

“No, thank you. I shall be sustained in my ascent,” said Miss Emily, fixing Miss Cost’s shop and then the hotel façade in her gaze, “by the prospect.”

She led the way up the steps.

“ ’Jove!” the Major exclaimed when they arrived at the top. “You’re too good for me, Miss Pride. Wonderful going! Wonderful!”

She looked briefly at him. “My habits,” she said, “are abstemious. A little wine or cognac only. I have never been a smoker.”

“Jolly good! Jolly good!” he applauded. Jenny began to feel acutely sorry for him.

Margaret Barrimore waited in the main entrance. She greeted Miss Emily with no marked increase in her usual diffidence. “I hope you had a pleasant journey,” she said. “Would you like to have luncheon upstairs? There’s a small sitting-room we’ve kept for you. Otherwise, the dining-room is here.” Miss Emily settled for the dining-room but wished to see her apartment first. Mrs. Barrimore took her up. Her husband, Patrick and Jenny stood in the hall below and had nothing to say to each other. The Major, out of forgetfulness, it seemed, was still madly beaming. He caught his stepson’s eye, uttered an expletive and without further comment made for the bar.