Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

‘Now we must go on. We want our tea terribly!’ And Mrs. Verdew swept Jimmy up the hill.

With good fortune the morning newspaper arrived at Verdew Castle in time for tea, already a little out of date. Jimmy accorded it, as a rule, the tepid interest with which, when abroad, one contemplates the English journals of two days ago. They seem to emphasize one’s remoteness, not lessen it. Never did Jimmy seem farther from London, indeed, farther from civilization, than when he picked up the familiar sheet of The Times . It was like a faint rumour of the world that had somehow found its way down hundreds of miles of railway, changed trains and stations, rumbled across the estuary, and threaded the labyrinth of lanes and turnings between Verdew Grove and the castle. Each day its news seemed to grow less important, or at any rate less important to Jimmy. He began to turn over the leaves. Mrs. Verdew had gone to her room, absent-mindedly taking the killing bottle with her. He was alone; there was no sound save the crackle of the sheets. Unusually insipid the news seemed. He turned more rapidly. What was this? In the middle of page fourteen, a hole? No, not a mere hole: a deliberate excision, the result of an operation performed with scissors. What item of news could anyone have found worth reading, much less worth cutting out? To Jimmy’s idle mind, the centre of page fourteen assumed a tremendous importance, it became the sun of his curiosity’s universe. He rose; with quick cautious fingers he searched about, shifting papers, delving under blotters, even fumbling in the more public-looking pigeon-holes.

Suddenly he heard the click of a door opening, and with a bound he was in the middle of the room. It was only Rollo, whom business of some kind had kept all day away from home.

‘Enter the tired bread-winner,’ he remarked. ‘Like to see the paper? I haven’t had time to read it.’ He threw something at Jimmy and walked off.

It was The Times . With feverish haste Jimmy turned to page fourteen and seemed to have read the paragraph even before he set eyes on it. It was headed: Mysterious Outbreak at Verdew .

‘The sequestered, little-known village of Verdew-le-Dale has again been the scene of a mysterious outrage, recalling the murders of John Didwell and Thomas Presland in 1910 and 1912, and the occasional killing of animals which has occurred since. In this instance, as in the others, the perpetrator of the crime seems to have been actuated by some vague motive of retributive justice. The victim was a shepherd dog, the property of Mr. J. R. Cross. The dog, which was known to worry cats, had lately killed two belonging to an old woman of the parish. The Bench, of which Mr. Randolph Verdew is chairman, fined Cross and told him to keep the dog under proper control, but did not order its destruction. Two days ago the animal was found dead in a ditch, with its throat cut. The police have no doubt that the wound was made by the same weapon that killed Didwell and Presland, who, it will be remembered, had both been prosecuted by the R.S.P.C.A. for cruelty and negligence resulting in the deaths of domestic animals. At present no evidence has come to light that might lead to the detection of the criminal, though the police are still making investigations.’

‘And I don’t imagine it will ever come to light,’ Jimmy muttered.

‘What do you suppose won’t come to light?’ inquired a voice at his elbow. He looked up. Randolph Verdew was standing by his chair and looking over his shoulder at the newspaper.

Jimmy pointed to the paragraph.

‘Any clue to the identity of the man who did this?’

‘No,’ said Randolph after a perceptible pause. I don’t suppose there will be.’ He hesitated a moment and then added:

‘But it would interest me much to know how that paragraph found its way back into the paper.’

Jimmy explained.

‘You see,’ observed Randolph, ‘I always cut out, and paste into a book, any item of news that concerns the neighbourhood, and especially Verdew. In this way I have made an interesting collection.’

‘There seem to have been similar occurrences here before,’ remarked Jimmy.

‘There have, there have,’ Randolph Verdew said.

‘It’s very strange that no one has even been suspected.’

Randolph Verdew answered obliquely:

‘Blood calls for blood. The workings of justice are secret and incalculable.’

‘Then you sympathize a little with the murderer?’ Jimmy inquired.

‘I?’ muttered Randolph. ‘I think I hate cruelty more than anything in the world.’

‘But wasn’t the murderer cruel?’ persisted Jimmy.

‘No,’ said Randolph Verdew with great decision. ‘At least,’ he added in a different tone, ‘the victims appear to have died with the minimum of suffering. But here comes Vera. We must find a more cheerful topic of conversation. Vera, my dear, you won’t disappoint us of our bridge to-night?’

Several days elapsed, days rendered slightly unsatisfactory for Jimmy from a trivial cause. He could not get back his killing bottle from Mrs. Verdew. She had promised it, she had even gone upstairs to fetch it; but she never brought it down. Meanwhile, several fine specimens (in particular a large female Emperor moth) languished in match-boxes and other narrow receptacles, damaging their wings and even having to be set at liberty. It was very trying. He began to feel that the retention of the killing bottle was deliberate. In questions of conduct he was often at sea. But in the domain of manners, though he sometimes went astray, he considered that he knew very well which road to take, and the knowledge was a matter of pride to him. The thought of asking Mrs. Verdew a third time to restore his property irked him exceedingly. At last he screwed up his courage. They were walking down the hill together after tea.

‘Mrs. Verdew,’ he began.

‘Don’t go on,’ she exclaimed. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to say. Poor darling, he wants to have his killing bottle back. Well, you can’t. I need it myself for those horrible hairy moths that come in at night.’

‘But Mrs. Verdew——!’ he protested.

‘And please don’t call me Mrs. Verdew. How long have we known each other? Ten days! And soon you’ve got to go! Surely you could call me Vera!’

Jimmy flushed. He knew that he must go soon, but didn’t realize that a term had been set to his stay.

‘Listen,’ she continued, beginning to lead him down the hill. ‘When you’re in London I hope you’ll often come to see us.’

‘I certainly will,’ said he.

‘Well, then, let’s make a date. Will you dine with us on the tenth? That’s to-morrow week.’

‘I’m not quite sure——’ began Jimmy unhappily, looking down on to the rolling plain and feeling that he loved it.

‘How long you’re going to stay?’ broke in Mrs Verdew, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts. ‘Why do you want to stay? There’s nothing to do here: think what fun we might have in London. You can’t like this place and I don’t believe it’s good for you; you don’t look half as well as you did when you came.’

‘But you didn’t see me when I came, and I feel very well,’ said Jimmy.

‘Feeling is nothing,’ said Mrs. Verdew. ‘Look at me. Do I look well?’ She turned up to him her face: it was too large, he thought, and dull and pallid with powder; the features were too marked; but undeniably it had beauty. ‘I suppose I do: I feel well. But in this place I believe my life might stop any moment of its own accord! Do you never feel that?’

‘No,’ said Jimmy, smiling.

‘Sit down,’ she said suddenly, taking him to a seat as she had done on the occasion of their first meeting, ‘and let me have your hand—not because I love you, but because I’m happier holding something, and it’s a pretty hand.’ Jimmy did not resist: he was slightly stupefied, but somehow not surprised by her behaviour. She held up his drooping hand by the wrist, level with her eyes, and surveyed it with a smile, then she laid, it palm upward, in her lap. The smile vanished from her face: she knitted her brows.