Maurice Walsh - Nine Strings to your Bow (Maurice Walsh) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

Con Madden came out of the compartment next to Peter’s, brushed by his shoulder, and took half a dozen steps to the bookstall. Close by, a short, sturdy man, sporting a jut of spade beard, was reading a paper-covered book. Con glanced aside at him, caught his hard green eye and spoke casually.

“Well, Mr. Glover! Still here, I see?”

“I postponed my departure for a few days, sir.” Daniel Glover’s voice was uncordial.

“Any rooms available at the Spa Hotel?”

“It won’t be half-full yet, sir,” said the stallkeeper.

“I believe number 86 is available,” said Glover, “that is, if you intend patronizing the establishment.”

“I might move farther out into the country,” Con said.

“That might be advisable,” murmured Glover and moved farther along the stall to browse in The Hind Let Loose.

That is all that these two casual acquaintances said or had need to say to each other. Con turned to find out what was happening to Peter Falkner.

The porter had come hurrying along the train and impulsively thrust forth his hand.

“You’re welcome back, Mr. Falkner! Everyone is glad about you. Man, you’re lookin’ gran’.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Peter said easily. He could always control his voice. “There are some things in the van for the Home Farm. Chuck them in the waiting room, and one of the lads will run down later.”

He turned about then, his eyes bold but watchful. A good many Eglintoun people were scattered about the platform, and most of them were eyeing him with aloof interest. Peter turned towards the entrance hall, but before he might move, two people hurried on to the platform, and Peter pulled himself up stiffly.

One was a tallish young woman. A yellow silk oilproof could not hide the fine slender lines of her; she was like a strung bow. The other was a man slightly under middle height, in old well-fitting brown tweeds, and with a disreputable tweed hat far back on his fine dome of brow. His face was roundly smooth, his nose and mouth sensitively carved, and his eyes were big and dark and brilliant, and as long-lashed as any woman’s.

When the young woman saw Peter she cried out in a breathless way, “Peter! Oh, Peter!” and came running. Her eyes were alight, and there was colour high on her moulded cheekbones. Her leaping hands caught both of his and pressed them fiercely together between palms that were cold as ice. “You are all right, Peter! Aren’t you all right, my dear?”

“Don’t crowd me, you vixen!” he said. “I can still stand you on your ear.”

“Don’t let them get the better of you, Peter!” There was a husky note in her voice now. “Don’t let the damn’d Aitkens do you down! You are your father’s son, aren’t you, Peter?”

“That’s a’e solid fact, whoever he was,” said Peter.

“That’s the lad! The same old Peter!” She lifted one of her hands, and softly smoothed downwards his lean cheek.

“Oh my dear! My dear! We have been doing terrible things to you.” Her voice broke a little then.

“Take it aisy my darlint!” His voice was pure Irish. He slipped his left hand inside her arm and pivoted her round to face the man who had come slowly across the platform.

“I am only a damn cry-baby,” she said.

“Don’t let our sentimentality run away with us in the presence of the neutrals, Barbara,” said the pleasantly quiet voice of the man facing them. “Hello, Peter!”

“Hello, Hughes!” said Peter.

The two men smiled at each other, and their hands met firmly. Hughes Everitt’s smile lit up his grave face. His eyes, looking deep into Peter’s, saw that his friend had suffered but that he was not broken. Peter understood the contentment in his friend’s smile.

“Time is only relative,” Hughes said. “We are now at the beginning of a new incarnation.”

“You’ve said it, Mahatma,” agreed Peter equably.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” said Barbara. “I’ve the old bus outside. I’ve a meal for you at Danesford. It’s your place now.”

“Anyone at the big house?” Peter asked.

“Only Toby, but not this evening.”

“Look, Barbara, old girl. You don’t mind if I stick on at the Home Farm for a few days?”

“Of course not, Peter. I understand. I’ll drive you across after we feed you.”

But Peter hung back.

“You two go on and wait for me at Foster’s. I would like to stretch my legs up High Street.”

“Peter is right, Barbara,” said Hughes Everitt. “It is fitting that the populace should know his attitude from the beginning. Come, my children!”

“Bah!” said Barbara. “You men do love to go about stiff-legged. Oh, all right! I’m coming.”

The three went out together, carrying themselves easily. They were not going to shrink from public notice.

Barbara and Hughes got into the open two-seater, and Peter pointed a finger at them.

“Why are you two not married people? I ordered you to get hitched.”

“Go to blazes, Peter!” said Barbara and put her toe on the self-starter.

II

Con Madden, one hand in pocket, one arm swinging loosely, one toe a little inwards, slouched up the street after Peter Falkner who had chosen his pace carefully. He must not move so slow as to give the impression that he invited inspection, nor so fast as to seem to be running the gauntlet. Just a nice easy pace, hands out of pocket, head up—and not smoking. Confidence without bravado. And he could not help it if he felt a little stiff about the knees.

The cobbled High Street of Eglintoun is a long street for a country town, and it is historically ancient. Once long ago it had been considered wide and straight out of the common, but in a motor age it is strait and crooked. There were few people on the narrow pavements, and none of them was particularly intimate with Peter. A man here and there lifted a hand and nodded, and Peter nodded back; one or two said, “Welcome home, Mr. Falkner!” and he said, “Thank you.” He moved evenly on, and he was making a good impression though he was not aware of it. Some had expected him to come back cowed and slinking, others held that he would brazen it out. This quietly striding man was neither slinking nor brazen.

No one offered to shake his hand until half-way up the street. Then a tall, lean, black-haired man in grey, on the other pavement, saw him and without hesitation walked straight across and offered a quick and frank hand.

“I am glad to see you home, Mr. Falkner,” the tall man said.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Peter said. “I guess you’ll still have a string on me, Inspector Myles?”

“I have not, Mr. Falkner,” Inspector Myles said. “It is the duty of a policeman not to be officious. Good evening, sir.”

The two men parted, and Peter felt a little better. Twenty yards behind him Con Madden was leaning well into a bookseller’s window trying to shroud his face in cigarette smoke. Inspector Dick Myles leaned casually at his side and blew the smoke away out of the side of his mouth.

“My Gawd!” he murmured. “Whin did the bogtrottin’ Irish take to litheratchoor?”

“Get to hell out of here, you Portadown noranbe man!” murmured Con.

“God’llmighty Con! come away and have a drink somewhere.”

“No, Dick, no. I’m on a job—now—this minute. Leave me be. I’ll be in to tell you.”

“I’ll have the bracelets gilt for you. Make it soon, lad. I have three years’ talk on my chest. So long now, and good luck!”

Beyond the old market across the Town Chambers was a plaque indicating the Police Station. As Peter came abreast on the other side, a slender man in a well-fitting blue uniform came through the arch and halted on the edge of the pavement to look across at Peter. Unlike Inspector Myles he made no move to greet the released man.