There is a tide in the affairs of men,Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune,Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries.On such a full sea are we now afloat,And we must take the current when it serves,Or lose our ventures.
Prologue
I
In every club there is a club bore. The Coronation Club was no exception; and the fact that an Air Raid was in progress made no difference to normal procedure. Major Porter, late Indian Army, rustled his newspaper and cleared his throat. Every one avoided his eye, but it was no use."I see they've got the announcement of Gordon Cloade's death in the Times," he said. "Discreetly put, of course. On Oct. 5th, result of enemy action. No address given. As a matter of fact it was just round the corner from my little place. One of those big houses on top of Campden Hill. I can tell you it shook me up a bit. I'm a Warden, you know. Cloade had only just got back from the States. He'd been over on that Government Purchase business. Got married while he was over there. A young widow - young enough to be his daughter. Mrs Underhay. As a matter of fact I knew her first husband out in Nigeria."Major Porter paused. Nobody displayed any interest or asked him to continue. Newspapers were held up sedulously in front of faces, but it took more than that to discourage Major Porter. He always had long histories to relate, mostly about people whom nobody knew."Interesting," said Major Porter, firmly, his eyes fixed absently on a pair of extremely pointed patent leather shoes - a type of footwear of which he profoundly disapproved. "As I said, I'm a Warden. Funny business this blast. Never know what it's going to do. Blew the basement in and ripped off the roof. First floor practically wasn't touched. Six people in the house. Three servants, married couple and a housemaid, Gordon Cloade, his wife and the wife's brother. They were all down in the basement except the wife's brother - ex-Commando fellow - he preferred his own comfortable bedroom on the first floor - and by jove, he escaped with a few bruises. The three servants were all killed by blast - Gordon Cloade was buried, they dug him out but he died on the way to hospital. His wife was suffering from blast, hadn't got a stitch of clothing on her! but she was alive. They think she'll pull through. She'll be a rich widow - Gordon Cloade must have been worth well over a million."Again Major Porter paused. His eyes had travelled up from the patent leather shoes - striped trousers - black coat - egg-shaped head and colossal moustaches.Foreign, of course! That explained the shoes. "Really," thought Major Porter, "what's the club coming to? Can't get away from foreigners even here." This separate train of thought ran alongside his narrative.The fact that the foreigner in question appeared to be giving him full attention did not abate Major Porter's prejudice in the slightest."She can't be more than about twenty-five," he went on. "And a widow for the second time. Or at any rate - that's what she thinks..."He paused, hoping for curiosity - for comment. Not getting it, he nevertheless went doggedly on:"Matter of fact I've got my own ideas about that. Queer business. As I told you, I knew her first husband, Underhay. Nice fellow - district commissioner in Nigeria at one time. Absolutely dead keen on his job - first-class chap. He married this girl in Capetown. She was out there with some touring company. Very down on her luck, and pretty and helpless and all that. Listened to poor old Underhay raving about his district and the great wide open spaces - and breathed out, 'Wasn't it wonderful?' and how she wanted 'to get away from everything.' Well, she married him and got away from it. He was very much in love, poor fellow - but the thing didn't tick over from the first. She hated the bush and was terrified of the natives and was bored to death. Her idea of life was to go round to the local and meet the theatrical crowd and talk shop. Solitude a deux in the jungle wasn't at all her cup of tea. Mind you, I never met her myself - I heard all this from poor old Underhay. It hit him pretty hard. He did the decent thing, sent her home and agreed to give her a divorce. It was just after that that I met him. He was all on edge and in the mood when a man's got to talk. He was a funny old-fashioned kind of chap in some ways - an R.Q., and he didn't care for divorce. He said to me, 'There are other ways of giving a woman her freedom.' 'Now, look here, old boy,' I said, 'don't go doing anything foolish. No woman in the world is worth putting a bullet through your head.'"He said that that wasn't his idea at all. 'But I'm a lonely man,' he said. 'Got no relations to bother about me. If a report of my death gets back, that will make Rosaleen a widow, which is what she wants.' 'And what about you?' I said. 'Well,' he said, 'maybe a Mr Enoch Arden will turn up somewhere a thousand miles or so away and start life anew.' 'Might be awkward for her some day,' I warned him. 'Oh, no,' he says, 'I'd play the game. Robert Underhay would be dead all right.'"Well, I didn't think any more of it, but six months later I heard that Underhay had died of fever up in the bush somewhere. His natives were a trustworthy lot and they came back with a good circumstantial tale and a few last words scrawled in Underhay's writing saying they'd done all they could for him, and he was afraid he was pegging out, and praising up his headman. That man was devoted to him and so were all the others. Whatever he told them to swear to, they would swear to. So there it is... Maybe Underhay's buried up country in the midst of equatorial Africa but maybe he isn't - and if he isn't Mrs Gordon Cloade may get a shock one day. And serve her right, I say. I never met her, but I know the sound of a little gold digger! She broke up poor old Underhay all right. It's an interesting story."Major Porter looked round rather wistfully for confirmation of this assertion. He met two bored and fishy stares, the half-averted gaze of young Mr Mellon and the polite attention of M. Hercule Poirot.Then the newspaper rustled and a greyhaired man with a singularly impassive face rose quietly from his arm-chair by the fire and went out.Major Porter's jaw dropped, and young Mr Mellon gave a faint whistle."Now you've done it!" he remarked. "Know who that was?""God bless my soul," said Major Porter in some agitation. "Of course. I don't know him intimately but we are acquainted... Jeremy Cloade, isn't it, Gordon Cloade's brother? Upon my word, how extremely unfortunate! If I'd had any idea -""He's a solicitor," said young Mr Mellon. "Bet he sues you for slander or defamation of character or something."For young Mr Mellon enjoyed creating alarm and despondency in such places as it was not forbidden by the Defence of the Realm Act.Major Porter continued to repeat in an agitated manner:"Most unfortunate. Most unfortunate!""It will be all over Warmsley Heath by this evening," said Mr Mellon. "That's where all the Cloades hang out. They'll sit up late discussing what action to take."But at that moment the All Clear sounded, and young Mr Mellon stopped being malicious, and tenderly piloted his friend Hercule Poirot out into the street."Terrible atmosphere, these clubs," he said. "The most crashing collection of old bores. Porter's easily the worst, though. His description of the Indian rope trick takes three quarters of an hour, and he knows everybody whose mother ever passed through Poona!"This was in the Autumn of 1944. It was in late Spring, 1946, that Hercule Poirot received a visit.
II
Hercule Poirot was sitting at his neat writing-desk on a pleasant May morning when his manservant George approached him and murmured deferentially:"There is a lady, sir, asking to see you.""What kind of a lady?" Poirot asked cautiously.He always enjoyed the meticulous accuracy of George's descriptions."She would be aged between forty and fifty, I should say, sir. Untidy and somewhat artistic in appearance. Good walking-shoes, brogues. A tweed coat and skirt - but a lace blouse. Some questionable Egyptian beads and a blue chiffon scarf."Poirot shuddered slightly."I do not think," he said, "that I wish to see her.""Shall I tell her, sir, that you are indisposed?"Poirot looked at him thoughtfully."You have already, I gather, told her that I am engaged on important business and cannot be disturbed?"George coughed again."She said, sir, that she had come up from the country specially, and did not mind how long she waited."Poirot sighed."One should never struggle against the inevitable," he said. "If a middle-aged lady wearing sham Egyptian beads has made up her mind to see the famous Hercule Poirot, and has come up from the country to do so, nothing will deflect her. She will sit there in the hall till she gets her way. Show her in, George."George retreated, returning presently to announce formally:"Mrs Cloade."The figure in the worn tweeds and the floating scarf came in with a beaming face. She advanced to Poirot with an outstretched hand, all her bead necklaces swinging and clinking."M. Poirot," she said, "I have come to you under spirit guidance."Poirot blinked slightly."Indeed, Madame. Perhaps you will take a seat and tell me -"He got no further."Both ways, M. Poirot. With the automatic writing and with the ouija board. It was the night before last. Madame Elvary (a wonderful woman she is) and I were using the board. We got the same initials repeatedly. H.P. H.P. H.P. Of course I did not get the true significance at once. It takes, you know, a little time. One cannot, on this earthly plane, see clearly. I racked my brains thinking of someone with those initials. I knew it must connect up with the last seance - really a most poignant one, but it was some time before I got it. And then I bought a copy of Picture Post (Spirit guidance again, you see, because usually I buy the New Statesman) and there you were - a picture of you, and described, and an account of what you had done. It is wonderful, don't you think, M. Poirot, how everything has a purpose? Clearly, you are the person appointed by the Guides to elucidate this matter."Poirot surveyed her thoughtfully.Strangely enough the thing that really caught his attention was that she had remarkably shrewd light-blue eyes. They gave point, as it were, to her rambling method of approach."And what, Mrs - Cloade - is that right?" He frowned. "I seem to have heard the name some time ago -"She nodded vehemently."My poor brother-in-law - Gordon. Immensely rich and often mentioned in the press. He was killed in the Blitz over a year ago - a great blow to all of us. My husband is his younger brother. He is a doctor. Dr Lionel Cloade... Of course," she added, lowering her voice, "he has no idea that I am consulting you. He would not approve. Doctors, I find, have a very materialistic outlook. The spiritual seems to be strangely hidden from them. They pin their faith on Science - but what I say is... what is Science - what can it do?"There seemed, to Hercule Poirot, to be no answer to the question other than a meticulous and painstaking description embracing Pasteur, Lister, Humphrey Davy's safety lamp - the convenience of electricity in the home and several hundred other kindred items. But that, naturally, was not the answer Mrs Lionel Cloade wanted. In actual fact her question, like so many questions, was not really a question at all. It was a mere rhetorical gesture.Hercule Poirot contented himself with inquiring in a practical manner:"In what way do you believe I can help you, Mrs Cloade?""Do you believe in the reality of the spirit world, M. Poirot?""I am a good Catholic," said Poirot cautiously.Mrs Cloade waved aside the Catholic faith with a smile of pity."Blind! The Church is blind - prejudiced, foolish - not welcoming the reality and beauty of the world that lies behind this one.""At twelve o'clock," said Hercule Poirot, "I have an important appointment."It was a well-timed remark. Mrs Cloade leaned forward."I must come to the point at once. Would it be possible for you, M. Poirot, to find a missing person?"Poirot's eyebrow's rose."It might be possible - yes," he replied cautiously. "But the police, my dear Mrs Cloade, could do so a great deal more easily than I could. They have all the necessary machinery."Mrs Cloade waved away the police as she had waved away the Catholic Church."No, M. Poirot - it is to you I have been guided - by those beyond the veil. Now listen. My brother Gordon married some weeks before his death, a young widow - a Mrs Underhay. Her first husband (poor child, such a grief to her) was reported dead in Africa. A mysterious country - Africa.""A mysterious continent," Poirot corrected her. "Possibly. What part -"She swept on."Central Africa. The home of voodoo, of the zhombie -""The zhombie is in the West Indies."Mrs Cloade swept on :"- of black magic - of strange and secret practices - a country where a man could disappear and never be heard of again.""Possibly, possibly," said Poirot. "But the same is true of Piccadilly Circus."Mrs Cloade waved away Piccadilly Circus."Twice lately, M. Poirot, a communication has come through from a spirit who gives his name as Robert. The message was the same each time. Not dead... We were puzzled, we knew no Robert. Asking for further guidance we got this. 'R.U. R.U. R.U.' - then 'Tell R. Tell R.' 'Tell Robert?' we asked. 'No, from Robert. R.U.' 'What does the U. stand for?' Then, M. Poirot, the most significant answer came. 'Little Boy Blue. Little Boy Blue. Ha ha ha' You see?""No," said Poirot, "I do not."She looked at him pityingly."The nursery rhyme Little Boy Blue. 'Under the Haycock fast asleep' - Under hay - you see?"Poirot nodded. He forbore to ask why, if the name Robert could be spelt out, the name Underhay could not have been treated the same way, and why it had been necessary to resort to a kind of cheap Secret Service spy jargon."And my sister-in-law's name is Rosaleen," finished Mrs Cloade triumphantly."You see? Confusing all these Rs. But the meaning is quite plain. 'Tell Rosaleen that Robert Underhay is not dead.'""Aha, and did you tell her?"Mrs Cloade looked slightly taken aback."Er - well - no. You see, I mean - well, people are so sceptical. Rosaleen, I am sure, would be so. And then, poor child, it might upset her - wondering, you know, where he was - and what he was doing.""Besides projecting his voice through the ether? Quite so. A curious method, surely, of announcing his safety?""Ah, M. Poirot, you are not an initiate. And how do we know what the circumstances are? Poor Captain Underhay (or is it Major Underhay) may be a prisoner somewhere in the dark interior of Africa. But if he could be found, M. Poirot. If he could be restored to his dear young Rosaleen. Think of her happiness! Oh, M. Poirot, I have been sent to you - surely, surely you will not refuse the behest of the spiritual world."Poirot looked at her reflectively."My fees," he said softly, "are very expensive. I may say enormously expensive! And the task you suggest would not be easy.""Oh dear - but surely - it is most unfortunate. I and my husband are very badly off - very badly off indeed. Actually my own plight is worse than my dear husband knows. I bought some shares - under spirit guidance - and so far they have proved very disappointing - in fact, quite alarming. They have gone right down and are now, I gather, practically unsaleable."She looked at him with dismayed blue eyes."I have not dared to tell my husband. I simply tell you in order to explain how I am situated. But surely, dear M. Poirot, to reunite a young husband and wife - it is such a noble mission -""Nobility, chиre Madame, will not pay steamer and railway and air travel fares. Nor will it cover the cost of long telegrams and cables, and the interrogations of witnesses.""But if he is found - if Captain Underhay is found alive and well - then - well, I think I may safely say that, once that was accomplished, there - there would be no difficulty about - er - reimbursing you.""Ah, he is rich, then, this Captain Underhay?""No. Well, no... But I can assure you - I can give you my word - that - that the money situation will not present difficulties."Slowly Poirot shook his head."I am sorry, Madame. The answer is no."He had a little difficulty in getting her to accept that answer.When she had finally gone away, he stood lost in thought, frowning to himself.He remembered now why the name of Cloade was familiar to him. The conversation at the club the day of the Air Raid came back to him. The booming boring voice of Major Porter, going on and on, telling a story to which nobody wanted to listen.He remembered the rustle of a newspaper and Major Porter's suddenly dropped jaw and expression of consternation.But what worried him was trying to make up his mind about the eager middle-aged lady who had just left him. The glib spiritualistic patter, the vagueness, the floating scarves, the chains and amulets jingling round her neck - and finally, slightly at variance with all this, that sudden shrewd glint in a pair of pale-blue eyes."Just why exactly did she come to me?" he said to himself. "And what, I wonder, has been going on in -" he looked down at the card on his desk - "Warmsley Vale."It was exactly five days later that he saw a small paragraph in an evening paper - it referred to the death of a man called Enoch Arden - at Warmsley Vale, a small old-world village about three miles from the popular Warmsley Heath Golf Course.Hercule Poirot said to himself again: "I wonder what has been going on in Warmsley Vale..."
BOOK I
Chapter 1
Warmsley Heath consists of a Golf Course, two Hotels, some very expensive modern villas giving on to the Golf Course, a row of what were, before the war, luxury shops, and a railway station.Emerging from the railway station, a main road roars its way to London on your left - to your right a small path across a field is signposted Footpath to Warmsley Vale.Warmsley Vale, tucked away amongst wooded hills, is as unlike Warmsley Heath as well can be. It is in essence a microscopic old-fashioned market town now degenerated into a village. It has a main street of Georgian houses, several pubs, a few unfashionable shops and a general air of being a hundred and fifty instead of twenty-eight miles from London.Its occupants one and all unite in despising the mushroom growth of Warmsley Heath.On the outskirts are some charming houses with pleasant old-world gardens. It was to one of these houses, the White House, that Lynn Marchmont returned in the early spring of 1946 when she was demobbed from the Wrens.On her third morning she looked out of her bedroom window, across the untidy lawn to the elms in the meadow beyond, and sniffed the air happily. It was a gentle grey morning with a smell of soft wet earth. The kind of smell that she had been missing for the past two years and a half.Wonderful to be home again, wonderful to be here in her own little bedroom which she had thought of so often and so nostalgically whilst she had been overseas. Wonderful to be out of uniform, to be able to get into a tweed skirt and a jumper - even if the moths had been rather too industrious during the war years!It was good to be out of the Wrens and a free woman again, although she had really enjoyed her overseas service very much. The work had been reasonably interesting, there had been parties, plenty of fun, but there had also been the irksomeness of routine and the feeling of being herded together with her companions which had sometimes made her feel desperately anxious to escape.It was then, during the long scorching summer out East, that she had thought so longingly of Warmsley Vale and the shabby cool pleasant house, and of dear Mums.Lynn both loved her mother and was irritated by her. Far away from home, she had loved her still and had forgotten the irritation, or remembered it only with an additional homesick pang. Darling Mums, so completely maddening! What she would not have given to have heard Mums enunciate one clichй in her sweet complaining voice. Oh, to be at home again and never, never to have to leave home again!And now here she was, out of the Service, free, and back at the White House.She had been back three days. And already a curious dissatisfied restlessness was creeping over her. It was all the same - almost too much all the same - the house and Mums and Rowley and the farm and the family. The thing that was different and that ought not to be different was herself..."Darling..." Mrs Marchmont's thin cry came up the stairs. "Shall I bring my girl a nice tray in bed?"Lynn called out sharply:"Of course not. I'm coming down.""And why," she thought, "has Mums got to say 'my girl.' It's so silly!"She ran downstairs and entered the dining-room. It was not a very good breakfast. Already Lynn was realising the undue proportion of time and interest taken by the search for food. Except for a rather unreliable woman who came four mornings a week, Mrs Marchmont was alone in the house, struggling with cooking and cleaning. She had been nearly forty when Lynn was born and her health was not good. Also Lynn realised with some dismay how their financial position had changed. The small but adequate fixed income which had kept them going comfortably before the war was now almost halved by taxation. Rates, expenses, wages had all gone up."Oh, brave new world," thought Lynn grimly. Her eyes rested lightly on the columns of the daily paper.
"Ex-W.A.A.F. seeks post where initiative and drive will be appreciated."
"Former W.R.E.N. seeks post where organising ability and authority are needed."
Enterprise, initiative, command, those were the commodities offered. But what was wanted? People who could cook and clean, or write decent shorthand. Plodding people who knew a routine and could give good service.Well, it didn't affect her. Her way ahead lay clear. Marriage to her cousin Rowley Cloade. They had got engaged seven years ago, just before the outbreak of war. Always as long as she could remember, she had meant to marry Rowley. His choice of a farming life had been acquiesced in readily by her. A good life - not exciting perhaps, and with plenty of hard work, but they both loved the open air and the care of animals.Not that their prospects were quite what they had been - Uncle Gordon had always promised...Mrs Marchmont's voice broke in plaintively opposite:"It's been the most dreadful blow to us all, Lynn darling, as I wrote you. Gordon had only been in England two days. We hadn't even seen him. If only he hadn't stayed in London. If he'd come straight down here.""Yes, if only..."Far away, Lynn had been shocked and grieved by the news of her uncle's death, but the true significance of it was only now beginning to come home to her.For as long as she could remember, her life, all their lives, had been dominated by Gordon Cloade. The rich, childless man had taken all his relatives completely under his wing.Even Rowley... Rowley and his friend Johnnie Vavasour had started in partnership on the farm. Their capital was small, but they had been full of hope and energy. And Gordon Cloade had approved. To her he had said more."You can't get anywhere in farming without capital. But the first thing to find out is whether these boys have really got the will and the energy to make a go of it. If I set them up now, I wouldn't know that - maybe for years. If they've got the right stuff in them, if I'm satisfied that their side of it is all right, well then, Lynn, you needn't worry. I'll finance them on the proper scale. So don't think badly of your prospects, my girl. You're just the wife Rowley needs. But keep what I've told you under your hat."Well, she had done that, but Rowley himself had sensed his uncle's benevolent interest. It was up to him to prove to the old boy that Rowley and Johnnie were a good investment for money.Yes, they had all depended on Gordon Cloade. Not that any of the family had been spongers or idlers. Jeremy Cloade was senior partner in a firm of solicitors, Lionel Cloade was in practice as a doctor.But behind the workaday life was the comforting assurance of money in the background. There was never any need to stint or to save. The future was assured. Gordon Cloade, a childless widower, would see to that. He had told them all, more than once, that that was so.His widowed sister, Adela Marchmont, had stayed on at the White House when she might, perhaps, have moved into a smaller, more labour-saving house. Lynn went to first-class schools. If the war had not come, she would have been able to take any kind of expensive training she had pleased. Cheques from Uncle Gordon flowed in with comfortable regularity to provide little luxuries.Everything had been so settled, so secure.And then had come Gordon Cloade's wholly unexpected marriage."Of course, darling," Adela went on, "we were all flabbergasted. If there was one thing that seemed quite certain, it was that Gordon would never marry again. It wasn't, you see, as though he hadn't got plenty of family ties."Yes, thought Lynn, plenty of family. Sometimes, possibly, rather too much family?"He was so kind always," went on Mrs Marchmont. "Though perhaps just a weeny bit tyrannical on occasions. He never liked the habit of dining off a polished table. Always insisted on my sticking to the old-fashioned tablecloths. In fact, he sent me the most beautiful Venetian lace ones when he was in Italy.""It certainly paid to fall in with his wishes," said Lynn dryly. She added with some curiosity, "How did he meet this - second wife? You never told me in your letters.""Oh, my dear, on some boat or plane or other. Coming from South America to New York, I believe. After all those years! And after all those secretaries and typists and housekeepers and everything."Lynn smiled. Ever since she could remember, Gordon Cloade's secretaries, housekeepers and office staff had been subjected to the closest scrutiny and suspicion.She asked curiously, "She's good-looking, I suppose?""Well, dear," said Adela, "I think myself she has rather a silly face.""You're not a man, Mums!""Of course," Mrs Marchmont went on, "the poor girl was blitzed and had shock from blast and was really frightfully ill and all that, and it's my opinion she's never really quite recovered. She's a mass of nerves, if you know what I mean. And really, sometimes, she looks quite half-witted. I don't feel she could ever have made much of a companion for poor Gordon."Lynn smiled. She doubted whether Gordon Cloade had chosen to marry a woman years younger than himself for her intellectual companionship."And then, dear," Mrs Marchmont lowered her voice, "I hate to say it, but of course she's not a lady!""What an expression, Mums! What does that matter nowadays?""It still matters in the country, dear," said Adela placidly. "I simply mean that she isn't exactly one of us.""Poor little devil!""Really, Lynn, I don't know what you mean. We have all been most careful to be kind and polite and to welcome her amongst us for Gordon's sake.""She's at Furrowbank, then?" Lynn asked curiously."Yes, naturally. Where else was there for her to go when she came out of the nursing home? The doctors said she must be out of London. She's at Furrowbank with her brother.""What's he like?" Lynn asked."A dreadful young man!" Mrs Marchmont paused, and then added with a good deal of intensity: "Rude."A momentary flicker of sympathy crossed Lynn's mind. She thought: "I bet I'd be rude in his place!"She asked: "What's his name?""Hunter. David Hunter. Irish, I believe. Of course they are not people one has ever heard of. She was a widow - a Mrs Underhay. One doesn't wish to be uncharitable, but one can't help asking oneself - what kind of a widow would be likely to be travelling about from South America in wartime? One can't help feeling, you know, that she was just looking for a rich husband.""In which case, she didn't look in vain," remarked Lynn.Mrs Marchmont sighed."It seems so extraordinary. Gordon was such a shrewd man always. And it wasn't, I mean, that women hadn't tried. That last secretary but one, for instance. Really quite blatant. She was very efficient, I believe, but he had to get rid other."Lynn said vaguely: "I suppose there's always a Waterloo.""Sixty-two," said Mrs Marchmont. "A very dangerous age. And a war, I imagine, is unsettling. But I can't tell you what a shock it was when we got his letter from New York.""What did it say exactly?""He wrote to Frances - I really can't think why. Perhaps he imagined that owing to her upbringing she might be more sympathetic. He said that we'd probably be surprised to hear that he was married. It had all been rather sudden, but he was sure we should all soon grow very fond of Rosaleen (such a very theatrical name, don't you think, dear? I mean definitely rather bogus). She had had a very sad life, he said, and had gone through a lot although she was so young. Really it was wonderful the plucky way she had stood up to life.""Quite a well-known gambit," murmured Lynn."Oh, I know. I do agree. One has heard it so many times. But one would really think that Gordon with all his experience - still, there it is. She has the most enormous eyes - dark blue and what they call put in with a smutty finger.""Attractive?""Oh, yes, she is certainly very pretty. It's not the kind of prettiness I admire.""It never is," said Lynn with a wry smile."No, dear. Really, men - but well, there's no accounting for men! Even the most well-balanced of them do the most incredibly foolish things! Gordon's letter went on to say that we mustn't think for a moment that this would mean any loosening of old ties. He still considered us all his special responsibility.""But he didn't," said Lynn, "make a will after his marriage?"Mrs Marchmont shook her head."The last will he made was in 1940. I don't know any details, but he gave us to understand at the time that we were all taken care of by it if anything should happen to him. That will, of course, was revoked by his marriage. I suppose he would have made a new will when he got home - but there just wasn't time. He was killed practically the day after he landed in this country.""And so she - Rosaleen - gets everything?""Yes. The old will was invalidated by his marriage."Lynn was silent. She was not more mercenary than most, but she would not have been human if she had not resented the new state of affairs. It was not, she felt, at all what Gordon Cloade himself would have envisaged. The bulk of his fortune he might have left to his young wife, but certain provisions he would certainly have made for the family he had encouraged to depend upon him. Again and again he had urged them not to save, not to make provision for the future. She had heard him say to Jeremy, "You'll be a rich man when I die." To her mother he had often said, "Don't worry, Adela. I'll always look after Lynn - you know that, and I'd hate you to leave this house - it's your home. Send all the bills for repairs to me." Rowley he had encouraged to take up farming. Antony, Jeremy's son, he had insisted should go into the Guards and he had always made him a handsome allowance. Lionel Cloade had been encouraged to follow up certain lines of medical research that were not immediately profitable and to let his practice run down.Lynn's thoughts were broken into.Dramatically, and with a trembling lip, Mrs Marchmont produced a sheaf of bills."And look at all these," she wailed. "What am I to do? What on earth am I to do, Lynn? The bank manager wrote me only this morning that I'm overdrawn. I don't see how I can be. I've been so careful. But it seems my investments just aren't producing what they used to. Increased taxation, he says. And all these yellow things. War Damage Insurance or something - one has to pay them whether one wants to or not."Lynn took the bills and glanced through them. There were no records of extravagance amongst them. They were for slates replaced on the roof, the mending of fences; replacement of a worn-out kitchen boiler - a new main water pipe. They amounted to a considerable sum.Mrs Marchmont said piteously:"I suppose I ought to move from here. But where could I go? There isn't a small house anywhere - there just isn't such a thing. Oh, I don't want to worry you with all this, Lynn. Not just as soon as you've come home. But I don't know what to do. I really don't."Lynn looked at her mother. She was over sixty. She had never been a very strong woman. During the war she had taken in evacuees from London, had cooked and cleaned for them, had worked with the W.V.S., made jam, helped with school meals. She had worked fourteen hours a day in contrast to a pleasant easy life before the war. She was now, as Lynn saw, very near a breakdown. Tired out and frightened of the future.A slow quiet anger rose in Lynn. She said slowly:"Couldn't this Rosaleen - help?"Mrs Marchmont flushed."We've no right to anything - anything at all."Lynn demurred."I think you've a moral right. Uncle Gordon always helped."Mrs Marchmont shook her head. She said:"It wouldn't be very nice, dear, to ask favours - not of someone one doesn't like very much. And anyway that brother of hers would never let her give away a penny!"And she added, heroism giving place to pure female cattiness: "If he really is her brother, that is to say!"
Chapter 2
Frances Cloade looked thoughtfully across the dinner table at her husband.Frances was forty-eight. She was one of those lean greyhound women who look well in tweeds. There was a rather arrogant ravaged beauty about her face which had no make-up except a little carelessly applied lipstick. Jeremy Cloade was a spare grey-haired man of sixty-three, with a dry expressionless face. It was, this evening, even more expressionless than usual.His wife registered the fact with a swift flashing glance.A fifteen year-old girl shuffled round the table, handing the dishes. Her agonised gaze was fixed on Frances. If Frances frowned, she nearly dropped something, a look of approval set her beaming.It was noted enviously in Warmsley Vale that if any one had servants it would be Frances Cloade. She did not bribe them with extravagant wages, and she was exacting as to performance - but her warm approval of endeavour and her infectious energy and drive made of domestic service something creative and personal.She had been so used to being waited on all her life that she took it for granted without self-consciousness, and she had the same appreciation of a good cook or a good parlour-maid as she would have had for a good pianist.Frances Cloade had been the only daughter of Lord Edward Trenton, who had trained his horses in the neighbourhood of Warmsley Heath. Lord Edward's final bankruptcy was realised by those in the know to be a merciful escape from worse things. There had been rumours of horses that had signally failed to stay at unexpected moments, other rumours of inquiries by the Stewards of the Jockey Club. But Lord Edward had escaped with his reputation only lightly tarnished and had reached an arrangement with his creditors which permitted him to live exceedingly comfortably in the South of France. And for these unexpected blessings he had to thank the shrewdness and special exertions of his solicitor, Jeremy Cloade. Cloade had done a good deal more than a solicitor usually does for a client, and had even advanced guarantees of his own. He had made it clear that he had a deep admiration for Frances Trenton, and in due course, when her father's affairs had been satisfactorily wound up, Frances became Mrs Jeremy Cloade.What she had felt about it no one had ever known. All that could be said was that she had kept her side of the bargain admirably. She had been an efficient and loyal wife to Jeremy, a careful mother to his son, had forwarded Jeremy's interests in every way and had never once suggested by word or deed that the match was anything but a freewill impulse on her part.In response the Cloade family had an enormous respect and admiration for Frances.They were proud of her, they deferred to her judgment - but they never felt really quite intimate with her.What Jeremy Cloade thought of his marriage nobody knew, because nobody ever did know what Jeremy Cloade thought or felt. "A dry stick" was what people said about Jeremy. His reputation both as a man and a lawyer was very high. Cloade, Brunskill and Cloade never touched any questionable legal business. They were not supposed to be brilliant but were considered very sound. The firm prospered and the Jeremy Cloades lived in a handsome Georgian house just off the Market Place with a big old-fashioned walled garden behind it where the pear trees in Spring showed a sea of white blossom.It was a room overlooking the garden at the back of the house that the husband and wife went when they rose from the dinner table. Edna, the fifteen-year-old, brought in coffee, breathing excitedly and adenoidally.Frances poured a little coffee into the cup. It was strong and hot. She said to Edna, crisply and approvingly:"Excellent, Edna."Edna went crimson with pleasure and went out marvelling nevertheless at what some people liked. Coffee, in Edna's opinion, ought to be a pale cream colour, ever so sweet, with lots of milk!In the room overlooking the garden, the Cloades drank their coffee, black and without sugar. They had talked in a desultory way during dinner, of acquaintances met, of Lynn's return, of the prospects of farming in the near future, but now, alone together, they were silent.Frances leaned back in her chair, watching her husband. He was quite oblivious of her regard. His right hand stroked his upper lip. Although Jeremy Cloade did not know it himself the gesture was a characteristic one and coincided with inner perturbation. Frances had not observed it very often. Once when Antony, their son, had been seriously ill as a child, once when waiting for a jury to consider their verdict, at the outbreak of war, waiting to hear the irrevocable words over the wireless, on the eve of Antony's departure after embarkation leave.Frances thought a little while before she spoke. Their married life had been happy, but never intimate in so far as the spoken word went. She had respected Jeremy's reserves and he hers. Even when the telegram had come announcing Antony's death on active service, they had neither of them broken down.He had opened it, then he had looked up at her. She had said, "Is it -?"He had bowed his head, then crossed and put the telegram into her outstretched hand.They had stood there quite silently for a while. Then Jeremy had said: "I wish I could help you, my dear." And she had answered, her voice steady, her tears unshed, conscious only of the terrible emptiness and aching: "It's just as bad for you." He had patted her shoulder."Yes," he said. "Yes..." Then he had moved towards the door, walking a little awry, yet stiffly, suddenly an old man... saying as he did so, "There's nothing to be said - nothing to be said..."She had been grateful to him, passionately grateful, for understanding so well, and had been torn with pity for him, seeing him suddenly turn into an old man. With the loss of her boy, something had hardened in her - some ordinary common kindness had dried up. She was more efficient, more energetic than ever - people became sometimes a little afraid of her ruthless common sense...Jeremy Cloade's finger moved along his upper lip again - irresolutely, searching.And crisply, across the room, Frances spoke."Is anything the matter, Jeremy?"He started. His coffee cup almost slipped from his hand. He recovered himself, put it firmly down on the tray. Then he looked across at her."What do you mean, Frances?" "I'm asking you if anything is the matter?""What should be the matter?""It would be foolish to guess. I would rather you told me."She spoke without emotion in a businesslike way.He said unconvincingly:"There is nothing the matter -"She did not answer. She merely waited inquiringly. His denial, it seemed, she put aside as negligible. He looked at her uncertainly.
