The Bachelors (8 page)

‘I had
a friend called Colin that was killed,’ she said, ‘and Patrick Seton got
through to him and he gave me a message, it was quite incredible because nobody
could have known except Colin and me about this thing that he mentioned, it was
a secret between Colin and me.’

‘Can’t
you tell it to me?’ Matthew said.

‘Well,’
she said, ‘it’s rather personal.’ She looked at Matthew rather meaningly.
Matthew felt himself slightly endangered and was grateful, after all, for the
strong onion in his breath.

She
drank down her gin. Matthew filled her glass, and moved his chair towards her
again. ‘Are you feeling like supper?’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll just fry a couple
of rashers and eggs. Or you’ld perhaps prefer to come out, that would be
simpler.’

She
looked at him with quite a glow, and her face, haggard as it was, showed its
youth. ‘I’ll just have my drink,’ she said. ‘I’m enjoying this rest and opening
my heart to somebody.’

She
came over and sat on the arm of this chair. She began to finger his black
curls. He turned and breathed hard upon her.

‘You
remind me of Colin,’ she said, ‘in a certain respect. He used to be fond of
onions and I minded at first, but I got used to it. So I don’t mind your onion-breath
very much.’

Matthew
clasped her desperately round the waist, and sighed upon her as if to save his
soul. But she too sighed and shivered with excitement as she subsided upon him.

At ten
o’clock they went out to eat. Elsie then telephoned to see how Alice was
getting on and returned to report that Patrick had still not come home and
Alice was upset. And so Elsie took Matthew to the room in Ebury Street where
Alice sat up in bed with her long black hair let loose, and her beautiful
distress; and Matthew fell altogether in love with her.

After
he had gone, Alice said, looking at Elsie in a special way,

‘You’ve
been to bed this afternoon.’

‘Yes.
He reminds me of Colin in a way. His breath——’

‘Have
you been foolish tonight, Elsie?’

‘Well,
you know,’ said Elsie, ‘that I don’t mind a man whose breath smells of onions.
Colin’s always did.’

‘Makes
me sick, the thought of it.’

‘Oh
well,’ Elsie said, ‘I suppose there was something psychological in my
childhood. It makes me sick too, in a way.’

Chapter IV

PATRICK Seton sat in his
room in Paddington, about which nobody except Mr. Fergusson knew anything, and
thought. Or rather, he sat and felt his thoughts.

It was
the unfortunate occurrence.

Freda
Flower: danger.

Tomorrow
morning at ten at the Magistrate’s Court. Unless Freda Flower had changed her
mind again…

Mr.
Fergusson would know. Mr. Fergusson had taken his passport away from him.

Patrick
brushed his yellow-white hair with an old brush in his trembling hand and went
out to see Mr. Fergusson. He walked hastily, keeping well in to the shop side
of the streets. He hastened, for something about Mr. Fergusson always brought
him peace. Meanwhile, he felt his thoughts, and they began to run on optimistic
lines.

A great
many witnesses for the defence. They knew he was genuine. Marlene in the box.

Freda
Flower: what a gross, what a base, betrayal of all she had held sacred!

You are
acquitted, said the judge. After that: Alice. Alice must be dealt with, and her
unbelievable baby. For her own sake. He loved her. And always would. Even unto
her passing over. The spirit giveth life.

He had
come to the police-station. The constable at the desk looked up and nodded. ‘I’ll
tell Detective-Inspector Fergusson you’re here,’ he said.

Patrick
sat and fidgeted until the policeman came to call him. Patrick dusted the lapel
of his dark coat with a moth-like flicker of the fingers and followed the
policeman.

Patrick’s
nerves came to rest on Detective-Inspector Fergusson, who stood sandy-haired,
with his fine build, and spoke with his good Scots voice.

‘I’ve
come to see if there has been any development, Mr. Fergusson,’ Patrick said, ‘in
the unfortunate occurrence.’

‘Mrs.
Flower has been here,’ said Mr. Fergusson. ‘You must have got at her.’

‘She’s
changed her mind, I presume?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh!’

‘But we
haven’t.’

‘How do
you mean?’ Patrick said.

Mr.
Fergusson said, ‘It’s a police prosecution, you know. Witnesses can’t change
their minds.’

‘Yes,
but Mrs. Flower’s your chief witness. You’ll want the best out of her. You’d
want it given willingly.’

‘You’re
right there.’ Mr. Fergusson gave Patrick a cigarette. ‘The Chief is considering
our next course of action. There will probably be a remand tomorrow.’

‘I won’t
be sent for trial?’

‘The
case will merely be postponed,’ said Mr. Fergusson reassuringly. ‘We’ve got
your statement.’

‘I
could always deny it,’ Patrick whispered absentmindedly. ‘I was in a dazed
condition after a séance when I signed it.’

‘That
didn’t get you very far the last time.’

‘It
made an impression on the court.’ And Patrick waved the subject away as a wife
does when reciting to a husband retorts that she has repeated on other weary
occasions.

‘Keep
in touch with me,’ Mr. Fergusson nodded.

Patrick
felt sorry the interview was over. He felt steadied-up when in the company of
this policeman. One expected worldliness from Mr. Fergusson. One did not expect
it from people with an interior knowledge of the spirit, like Freda Flower.

‘It’s a
very painful occurrence,’ Patrick said.

‘Very,’
said Mr. Fergusson.

‘Is
there any chance of the Chief deciding not to proceed?’ Patrick said.

‘A
slight chance. If Mrs. Flower remains reluctant to give evidence against you there’s
a chance we won’t proceed. But Mrs. Flower may change her mind again. We have
to see her again and have a talk.’

Mr.
Fergusson rose and patted Patrick’s shoulder, at the same time propelling him
gently towards the door. ‘Ring me every morning,’ he said, ‘or call round. I’ll
keep you informed.’

Then
Patrick asked his usual question. ‘If the worst comes to the worst,’ he said, ‘how
long…?’

The
policeman said, as usual, ‘It depends on the judge. Eighteen months, two
years…

‘That’s
a long time.’

‘They
go by the antecedents,’ said Mr. Fergusson. ‘Cheer up, you’re lucky you’re a
bachelor. It’s worse for a married man. Look on the bright side, Patrick.’

At the
street entrance Patrick looked out on to the bleak pavements and immediately
felt unhappy again. He stood for a moment under the protective porch, then took
the plunge up the street. He felt within him a decision to go and see the
doctor.

‘He can look you in the
eyes,’ said Freda Flower to Mike Garland, ‘and make you believe it’s you that’s
telling the lie.’

‘You
don’t be a fool,’ Mike said. ‘You go back to Inspector Fergusson and tell him
you’re going on with it, as you said in the first place. The whole of your
savings gone. Remember that.’

‘Oh,
Mike, I was so good to him. You should have seen how he got round me with his
interior decorations and his odd jobs round the house.’

Pink-checked
Mike looked round the walls which were done with a pink wash. ‘Didn’t make much
of a job of it.’

‘He
didn’t do this room. He did the paint. And he did the kitchen. But I was good
to him.’

‘He’s a
fraud,’ Mike said, ‘and he ought to be exposed. For the sake of the Movement.’

‘I can’t
believe it, Mike. I still can’t believe, inside me, when I think of him that he’s
a fraud. He’s given me such good advice from the chair, Mike, and last Saturday
night—’

‘That
was a fake-up, clear enough,’ Mike said. ‘He wanted to frighten you.’

‘No,
Mike. He was really gone on Saturday night. You could see it.’

‘Think
of your money,’ Mike said. ‘What’s happened to your two thousand?’

‘I
still can’t believe it, Mike.’

‘You
know what Fergusson told you.’

‘I don’t
know what to think, Mike.’

‘There
have been other cases in the past. There are two other women over the last two
years.’

‘I
always feel somehow,’ she said, ‘that there’s some explanation. I was the only
woman for Patrick.’ She saw in her mind’s eye the grave thin face and blue eyes
of Patrick as it were superimposed on the curtain.

She
said, ‘You don’t realise how nicely he could talk. There was something about
him lifted you up. He’s a poet at heart.’

‘And he
lifted up your cash as well.’

‘Perhaps
there was some mistake.’

‘He
admitted it,’ Mike said. ‘And there’s your handwriting he’s forged.’

‘Perhaps
I did write the letter. I don’t know. It could be my own signature, after all, if
I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought the money was for bonds, but perhaps
the bonds were a dream, I don’t know—’

‘He
frightened you by his warnings,’ Mike said. ‘Well, let me tell you, there’s
nothing in them. I’m a clairvoyant and I can
see
he’s a fraud.’

She
looked at Mike’s pink face and his large frame. He failed to move her as much
as Patrick had done.

‘Two
thousand,’ Mike said. ‘Come, put your hat on and I’ll take you back to
Inspector Fergusson. You were a fool to part with the cheque.’

‘I think
he said he’d buy the bonds, I don’t know.’ Desperately she looked at the white
blossom on the green carpet, and at the curtains, fawn with a touch of pink to
match the walls, and her fawn and green suite.

‘Two
thousand, your life savings,’ Mike said.

‘I’ve
got the rooms all let,’ she said. ‘Thanks to you, Mike.’

‘But
nothing in the bank. Come on, let’s go. Two thousand, remember. He should get
five years imprisonment.’

She
said, ‘It was worth the money.’

But she
got ready, and accompanied Mike Garland all the way back to Detective-Inspector
Fergusson, who had been so severe when she had called previously to withdraw
her statement. When he spoke to her on this second occasion he was even more
severe, for she was so very full of tears and doubts.

Patrick spoke to the
receptionist from the telephone kiosk with a courteous smile, as if she could
see him.

‘If at
all possible,’ Patrick said.

‘His
appointment book is very full all day,’ the receptionist said.

‘Perhaps,’
said Patrick, ‘you could have a word with him and he’ll slip me in. You
remember me, don’t you? A private patient — Mr. Seton.’

‘Oh,
Mr. Seton.’ She went away and returned.

‘Half-past
twelve, Mr. Seton. He can give you some time.’

‘Thank
you,’ Patrick said. ‘I am so much obliged.’ Patrick was unaware what precisely
was the deep secret in Dr. Lyte’s career, to which he had given unconscious
utterance one night in the séance room, the only occasion on which Dr. Lyte had
attended a spiritualist meeting. Patrick, on coming round from his trance, had
perceived the shaken stranger and had moved with fluttering obliquity towards
him as a moth to the lamp.

The
stranger was Dr. Lyte. Patrick rapidly appreciated that he had said something
in his trance which had truly got its mark. ‘How exactly did you know?’ Dr. Lyte
said in a way which was very different from his nice clothes.

Patrick
bashfully screwed his head to the side and smiled.

When
Patrick called on him the next day, Dr. Lyte had pulled himself together.

‘I only
went there as an experiment,’ he explained.

‘By
whom recommended?’ Patrick said quietly.

‘Chap
called Ewart Thornton. A friend of—’

‘That
is correct,’ Patrick said. ‘Mr. Thornton recommended you. You are speaking the
truth.’

‘I have
no faith in spiritualism,’ Dr. Lyte said.

Patrick
nodded like a man of the world.

‘And
what you described,’ Dr. Lyte said, ‘in your so-called trance, was inaccurate.’

‘No,’
Patrick said, ‘Dr. Lyte, it was not inaccurate.’

‘Where
did you get this information?’

‘I don’t
know what you’re talking about,’ Patrick said with mendacious truth. ‘I’d
rather not discuss the details.’

‘What
do you want with me?’

Patrick
closed his eyes reprovingly.

‘What
can I do for you?’ said Dr. Lyte.