Part 17 (1/2)

We turned left and began to climb the hill out of the valley, the river behind us, the snow reaching above the knees of my companions with every step, making progress laborious and slow.

”Wait,” he said, letting go her hand, ”there may be a drift ahead before we strike the path,” and he plunged upwards, sweeping the snow aside with both his hands, so that for a moment, as he walked on alone to higher ground, I was left with her, and could stare for a brief instant at the small, pale, resolute face beneath the hood.

”All's well,” he called. ”The snow is firmer here. I'll come and fetch you.” I watched him turn and advance, half-sliding down the slope towards her, and it seemed to me suddenly that two men were moving there, not one, and both of them were holding out their hands to help her climb. It must be Robbie, having heard his brother's voice, who had come down from the track above.

Some instinct warned me not to move, not to climb, but to let her go alone and grasp their hands. She went from me and I lost sight of her, and of Roger, and of the third shadowy figure too, in a sudden great pall of snow that blotted all of them from sight. I stood there, shaking, the strands of wire between me and the line, and it was not snow that blanketed the opposite hills and the high bank, but the grey canvas hangings looped to the wagons of the goods-train as it rattled and lumbered through the tunnel.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

SELF-PRESERVATION is common to all living things, linked perhaps to that older brain which Magnus said forms part of our natural inheritance. Certainly in my own case instinct transmitted a danger signal: had it not done so I should have died as he did, through the same cause. I remember stumbling blindly away from the railway embankment to the protection of the pa.s.sage-way where the cattle had sheltered, and I heard the wagons thunder over my head as they pa.s.sed down the line into the valley. Then I crossed a hedge and found myself in a field behind Little Treverran, home of the wood-worker, and so on to the field where I had left the car.

There was no nausea, no vertigo, the instinct to awake had spared me this as well as my life, but as I sat huddled behind the wheel, still shaking all over, I wondered whether, had Magnus and I ventured forth together on that Friday night, there would have been what the reporters like to term a double tragedy. Or would both of us have survived? It would never now be proved; the opportunity for us to wander together in another time had gone for ever. One thing I knew, which no one else would ever know, and that was why he had died. He had stretched out his hand to help Isolda in the snow. If instinct had warned him otherwise he had disregarded it, unlike myself, and therefore showed the greater courage.

It was after half-past seven when I started the car, and as I drove over the water-splash I still did not know how far I had walked during the excursion to the other world, or which farm or former site had proved to be Tregest. Somehow it no longer mattered. Isolda had escaped, and on that winter's night of 1332, or 33, perhaps even later, had been bound for Kilmarth; whether she reached it or not I might discover. Not now, nor tomorrow, but one day... My immediate purpose must be to conserve my strength and mental alertness for the inquest, and above all watch out for the after-effects of the drug. It would not do to appear in Court with a couple of bloodshot eyes and an inexplicable sweating sickness, especially with Doctor Powell's experienced eye upon me. I had no desire for food, and when I arrived home at about half-past eight, having parked the car at the top of the hill to while away the time, I called to Vita that we had all dined early at the hotel in Liskeard, and I was dead-beat and wanted to go to bed. She and the boys were eating in the kitchen, and I went straight upstairs without disturbing them, and put away the walking-stick in the dressing-room cupboard. I knew now, to the fullest extent, what it felt like to lead what is called a double life. The walking-stick, the bottles locked in the suitcase, were like keys to some woman's flat, to be used when opportunity offered; but more tempting still, and more insidious, was the secret knowledge that the woman herself might be under my own roof even now, tonight, in her own time.

I lay in bed, my hands behind my head, wondering how Robbie and the wild-haired sister Bess received their unexpected visitor. First warm clothes for Isolda, and food before the smoky hearth, the youngsters tongue-tied in her presence, Roger playing host; then groping her way to bed up that ladder to one of the straw-filled mattresses, hearing the cattle moving and stamping in the byre beneath her. Sleep might come early, through exhaustion, but it would more likely be late, because of the strangeness of everything about her, and because she would be thinking about her children, wondering whether she would see them again. I shut my eyes, trying to picture that dark, cold loft. It would correspond in position, surely, to the small back bedroom above the bas.e.m.e.nt, used in other days by Mrs. Lane's unfortunate cook, and filled today with discarded trunks and cardboard boxes. How near to Roger in the kitchen below, how unattainable, both then and now!

”Darling-”

It was Vita bending over me, fantasy and confusion combining to make her other than she was, and when I pulled her down beside me it was not the living woman and my wife whom I held but the phantom one I sought and who I knew, in reality and the present, never could respond. Presently, when I opened my eyes-for I must have dozed off for a while-she was sitting on the stool before the dressing-table, smothering her face with cream.

”Well,” she said smiling, looking at me in the gla.s.s, ”if that's the way you celebrate your inheritance of this place I'm all for it.” The towel, wrapped turban-fas.h.i.+on round her head, and the mask of cream gave her a clown-like appearance, and suddenly I felt revolted by the puppet world in which I found myself, and desired no part of it, neither now, nor tomorrow, nor at any time. I wanted to vomit. I got out of bed and said, ”I'm going to sleep in the dressing-room.”

She stared at me, her eyes like holes in the mask. ”What on earth's the matter? she said. What have I done?”

”You've done nothing,” I told her. ”I want to sleep alone.” I went through the bathroom to the dressing-room and she followed me, the silly s.h.i.+ft she wore in bed flouncing round her knees, grotesquely ill-suited to the turban; and it struck me for the first time that the varnish on her finger-nails made her hands like claws.

”I don't believe you've been with those men at all,” she said. ”You left them in Liskeard and have been drinking at some pub. That's it, isn't it?”

”No,” I answered.

”Something's happened, all the same. You've been somewhere else, you're not telling me the truth; everything you say and do is one long lie. You lied about the laboratory to the lawyer and that Willis man, you lied to the police about the way the Professor died. For G.o.d's sake what's behind it? Did you have some secret pact between you both that he would kill himself and you knew about it all the time?”

I put my hands on her shoulders and began to push her out of the room. ”I've not been drinking. There was no suicide pact. Magnus died accidentally, walking into a goods train as it was going into a tunnel. I stood by the line an hour ago and nearly did the same. That's the truth, and if you won't accept it it's just too bad. I can't make you.” She stumbled against the bathroom door, and as she turned to look at me I saw a new expression on her face, not anger, but amazement, and disgust as well.

”You went and stood there again”, she said, ”by the place where he was killed? You deliberately went and stood there and watched a train go by that might have killed you too?”

”Yes.”

”Then I'll tell you what I think. I think it's unhealthy, morbid, crazy, and the worst thing about it is that you were capable, after such an experience, of coming here and making love to me. That I'll never forgive, or forget. So for heaven's sake sleep in the dressing-room. I prefer it that way.”

She slammed the bathroom door, and I knew this time it was not another of her gestures, made on impulse, but something fundamental, springing from the core of innermost feeling shocked beyond measure. I understood, even honoured her for it, and was torn by a strange, inarticulate pity, but there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do. We met next morning not as husband and wife on edge after yet one more marital tiff, but as strangers who, through force of circ.u.mstance, were obliged to share a common roof- dress, eat, walk from room to room, make plans for the day, exchange pleasantries with the children, who were bred of her body and not mine, thus making the division yet more complete. I sensed her profound unhappiness, was aware of every sigh, every dragging step, every weary inflexion in her voice, and the boys, sharp like little animals to the atmospheric change of mood, watched both of us with gimlet eyes.

”Is it true”, asked Teddy warily, catching me alone, ”that the Professor has left the house to you?”

”It is,” I answered. ”Unexpected, but very kind of him.”

”Will it mean we shall come here every holidays?”

”I don't know, it depends on Vita,” I said.

He began fiddling with things on tables, picking them up and putting them back again, then kicking aimlessly at the backs of chairs.

”I don't believe Mom likes it here,” he said.

”Do you?” I asked.

”It's all right,” he shrugged.

Yesterday, because of fis.h.i.+ng and the genial Tom, enthusiasm. Today, with the adult mood at odds, apathy and insecurity. My fault, of course. Whatever happened in this house had been, would be, my fault. I could not tell him so, or ask forgiveness.

”Don't worry,” I said. ”It will sort itself out. You'll probably spend the Christmas holidays in New York.”

”Whew... How super!” he exclaimed, and ran out of the room on to the terrace, calling to Micky, who was outside, ”d.i.c.k says we may spend next holidays back home.”

The cheer that echoed from his young brother summed up their joint att.i.tude to Cornwall, England, Europe, doubtless to their step-father as well.

We got through the weekend somehow, though the weather broke, making it the more difficult, and while the boys played a form of racquets in the bas.e.m.e.nt-I could hear the b.a.l.l.s thudding against the walls below-and Vita wrote a ten-page letter to Bill and Diana in Ireland, I made an inspection of all Magnus's books, from the nautical tales of Commander Lane's day to his own more personal choice, touching each one with possessive pride. The third volume of The Parochial History of the County of Cornwall (L to N-no sign of the other volumes) was tucked behind The Story of the Windjammers, and I pulled it out and ran my eye over the index of parishes. Lanlivery was there, and in the chapter allotted to it pride of place was given to Restormel Castle. Alas for Sir John; his seven months tenure as Keeper was not mentioned. I was just about to replace the book, with the intention of reading it in full another time, when a line at the top of the page caught my attention.

'The manor of Steckstenton or Strickstenton, originally Tregesteynton, belonged to the Carminowes of Boconnoc, and pa.s.sed from them to the Courtenays, and eventually to the representatives of the Pitt family. The estate of Strickstenton is the property of N. Kendall, Esq.'

Tregesteynton... the Carminowes of Boconnoc. I had got it at last, but too late. Had I known ten days ago, had we both known, Magnus could have crossed the valley lower down, at Treesmill, and need not have died. As to the original manor-house, the site of it had surely been below the present farmhouse, or, trespa.s.sing there in time last Thursday evening, I must have been seen by the present owners. Strickstenton... Tregesteynton. One thing was certain: I could bring the name up in Court if the Coroner questioned me. The date of the inquest was fixed for Friday morning-earlier than had been expected. Dench and Willis would do as they had done before-travel down by a night train and return after it was over.

I was congratulating myself, as I was shaving on the day of the inquest, that I had suffered no side-effects from the drug, no sweats, no bloodshot eyes, and despite the estrangement with Vita had pa.s.sed the last few days in comparative peace, when suddenly, for no reason, the razor dropped from my hand into the wash-basin. I tried to pick it up, and my fingers would not co-ordinate; they were numb, with a sort of cramp. There was no feeling in them, no pain-they just did not function. I told myself it was nerves, due to the forthcoming ordeal, yet later at breakfast, as I reached for a cup of coffee without thinking, the cup slipped out of my hand, spilling the contents and smas.h.i.+ng itself on the tray.

We were breakfasting in the dining-room to be on time for the inquest, and Vita was sitting opposite me.

”Sorry,” I said. ”What a b.l.o.o.d.y clumsy thing to do. She stared at my hand, which had started to tremble, the tremor seeming to run up the wrist to the elbow. I could not control it. I thrust my hand into my jacket pocket and kept it close to my side, and the tremor eased.

”What's wrong?” she asked. ”Your hand is all shaking.”

”It's cramp,” I said. ”I must have lain on it during the night.”

”Well, blow on it or something,” she said. ”Stretch the fingers, and bring the circulation back.”

She began mopping up the tray, and poured me a fresh cup of coffee. I drank it with my left hand, but appet.i.te had gone. I was wondering how I was going to drive the car, with one hand trembling or useless. I had told Vita that I preferred to attend the inquest alone, for there was no reason for her to come with me, but when the moment drew near to leave my hand was still useless, although the tremor had ceased.

”Look, I think you'll have to take me into Saint Austell,” I said. ”My right hand has still got this infernal cramp.”

The warm sympathy which would have been hers a week ago was lacking. ”I'll drive you, of course,” she replied, ”but it's rather odd, isn't it, suddenly to have cramp? You've never had it before. You had better keep your hand in your pocket, or the Coroner will think you have been drinking.”

It was not a remark calculated to put me at my ease, and the very business of having to sit as pa.s.senger, humped beside Vita as she drove instead of being at the wheel myself, did something to my self-respect. I felt inadequate, frustrated, and began to lose the thread of the answers to the Coroner which I had so carefully rehea.r.s.ed.

When we arrived at the White Hart and met Dench and Willis Vita, quite unnecessarily, apologised for her presence by saying, ”d.i.c.k's disabled. I had to act as chauffeur,” and the whole silly business was then explained. There was little time for talking, and I walked with the others to the building where the inquest was to be held, feeling a marked man, while the Coroner, doubtless a mild enough individual in private life, took on, in my eyes, the semblance of a judge of the Criminal Court, with the jury, one and all, adepts at finding a prisoner guilty. The proceedings started with the police evidence about the finding of the body. It was straightforward enough, but as I listened to the story I thought how strangely it must fall on other ears, and how suggestive of someone who had temporarily lost his reason and been bent on his own destruction. Doctor Powell was then called to give evidence. He read his statement in that clear, no-nonsense-about-it voice which suddenly reminded me of one of the younger Rugger-playing priests at Stonyhurst.