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

But Jimmy declined. The flickering candles lighted them across the hall and up the stone stairs.

And it’s lucky I have a candle, Jimmy thought, trying in vain the third and last switch, the one on the reading-lamp by the bed. The familiar room seemed to have changed, to be closing hungrily, with a vast black embrace, upon the nimbus of thin clear dusk that shone about the candle. He walked uneasily up and down, drew a curtain and let in a ray of moonlight. But the silver gleam crippled the candlelight without adding any radiance of its own, so he shut it out. This window must be closed, thought Jimmy, that opens on to the parapet, for I really couldn’t deal with a stray cat in this localized twilight. He opened instead a window that gave on to the sheer wall. Even after the ritual of tooth-cleaning he was still restless and dissatisfied, so after a turn or two he knelt by the bed and said his prayers—whether from devotion or superstition he couldn’t tell: he only knew that he wanted to say them.

‘Come in!’ he called next morning, in answer to the footman’s knock.

‘I can’t come in, sir,’ said a muffled voice. ‘The door’s locked.’

How on earth had that happened? Then Jimmy remembered. As a child he always locked the door because he didn’t like to be surprised saying his prayers. He must have done so last night, unconsciously. How queer! He felt full of self-congratulation—he didn’t know why. ‘And—oh, William!’ he called after the departing footman.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘The light’s fused, or something. It wouldn’t go on last night.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Jimmy addressed himself to the tea. But what was this? Another note from Mrs. Verdew!

Dear Jimmy (he read),

You will forgive this impertinence, for I’ve got a piece of good news for you. In future, you won’t be able to say that women never help a man in his career! (Jimmy was unaware of having said so.) As you know, Rollo and I have to leave to-morrow morning. I don’t suppose he told you why, because it’s rather private. But he’s embarking on a big undertaking that will mean an enormous amount of litigation and lawyer’s fees! Think of that! (Though I don’t suppose you think of anything else.) I know he wants you to act for him: but to do so you positively must leave Verdew to-morrow. Make any excuse to Randolph; send yourself a telegram if you want to be specially polite: but you must catch the night train to London. It’s the chance of a life. You can get through to Rollo on the telephone next morning. Perhaps we could lunch together—or dine? À bientôt , therefore.

P.S.—I shall be furious if you don’t come.

Jimmy pondered Mrs. Verdew’s note, trying to read between its lines. One thing was clear: she had fallen in love with him. Jimmy smiled at the ceiling. She wanted to see him again, so soon, so soon! Jimmy smiled once more. She couldn’t bear to wait an unnecessary day. How urgent women were! He smiled more indulgently. And, also, how exacting. Here was this cock-and-bull story, all about Rollo’s ‘undertaking’ which would give him, Jimmy, the chance of a lifetime ! And because she was so impatient she expected him to believe it! Luncheon, indeed! Dinner! How could they meet for dinner, when Rollo was to be back at Verdew that same evening? In her haste she had not even troubled to make her date credible. And then: ‘I shall be furious if you don’t come.’ What an argument! What confidence in her own powers did not that sentence imply! Let her be furious, then, as furious as she liked.

Her voice, just outside his door, interrupted his meditation. ‘Only a moment, Rollo, it will only take me a moment!’ And Rollo’s reply, spoken in a tone as urgent as hers, but louder: ‘I tell you there isn’t time: we shall miss the train.’ He seemed to hustle her away downstairs, poor Vera. She had really been kind to Jimmy, in spite of her preposterous claims on his affection. He was glad he would see her again to-morrow. . . . Verdew was so much nicer than London. . . . He began to doze.

On the way back from the woods there was a small low church with a square tower and two bells—the lower one both cracked and flat. You could see up into the belfry through the slats in the windows. Close by the church ran a stream, choked with green scum except where the cattle went down to drink, and crossed by a simple bridge of logs set side by side. Jimmy liked to stand on the bridge and listen to the unmelodious chime. No one heeded it, no one came to church, and it had gone sour and out of tune. It gave Jimmy an exquisite, slightly morbid sense of dereliction and decay, which he liked to savour in solitude; but this afternoon a rustic had got there first.

‘Good-day,’ he said.

‘Good-day,’ said Jimmy.

‘You’re from the castle, I’m thinking?’ the countryman surmised.

‘Yes.’

‘And how do you find Mr. Verdew?’

‘Which Mr. Verdew?’

‘Why, the squire, of course.’

‘I think he’s pretty well,’ said Jimmy.

‘Ah, he may appear to be so,’ the labourer observed; ‘but them as has eyes to see and ears to hear, knows different.’

‘Isn’t he a good landlord?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘He’s a tolerably good landlord. It isn’t that.’ He seemed to relish his mysteriousness.

‘You like Mr. Rollo Verdew better?’ suggested Jimmy.

‘I wouldn’t care to say that, sir. He’s a wild one, Mr. Rollo.’

‘Well, anyhow, Mr. Randolph Verdew isn’t wild.’

‘Don’t you be too sure, sir.’

‘I’ve never seen him so.’

‘There’s not many that have. And those that have—some won’t tell what they saw and some can’t.’

‘Why won’t they?’

‘Because it’s not their interest to.’

‘And why can’t the others?’

‘Because they’re dead.’

There was a pause.

‘How did they die?’ asked Jimmy.

‘That’s not for me to say,’ the old man answered, closing his mouth like a trap. But this gesture, as Jimmy had already learned, was only part of his conversational technique. In a moment he began again:

‘Did you ever hear of the Verdew murders?’

‘Something.’

‘Well, ‘twasn’t only dogs that was killed.’

‘I know.’

‘But they were all killed the same way.’

‘How?’

‘With a knife,’ said the old man. ‘Like pigs. From ear to ear,’ he added, making an explanatory gesture; ‘from ear to ear.’ His voice became reminiscent. ‘Tom Presland was a friend o’ mine. I seed him in the evening and he said, he says, “That blamed donkey weren’t worth a ten-pound fine.” And I said, “You’re lucky not to be in prison,” for in case you don’t know, sir, the Bench here don’t mind fellows being a bit hasty with their animals, although Mr. Verdew is the chairman. I felt nigh killing the beast myself sometimes, it was that obstinate. “But, Bill,” he says, “I don’t feel altogether comfortable when I remember what happened to Jack Didwell.” And sure enough he was found next morning in the ditch with his throat gapin’ all white at the edges, just like poor old Jack. And the donkey was a contrary beast, that had stood many a knock before, harder than the one what killed him.’

‘And why is Mr. Verdew suspected?’

‘Why, sir, the servants said he was in the castle all night and must have been, because the bridge was drawed. But how do they know he had to use the bridge? Anyhow, George Wiscombe swears he saw him going through Nape’s Spinney the night poor old Tom was done in. And Mr. Verdew has always been cruel fond of animals, that’s another reason.’

How easy it is, thought Jimmy, to lose one’s reputation in the country!