The rivals of Sherlock Holmes : early detective stories (17 page)

In the living room he headed for Emma, who was talking to Peter Motherwell. But Awdry called to him, “I want you to meet an admirer of yours.”

It was the new guest, Caroline Summers. She was Munday’s own height, but gave the impression of being taller. She wore a long blue sleeveless dress of a silky material which clung and emphasized her shape. Her neckline was cut low, revealing part of the rounded undersides of her breasts; a small blue jewel on a chain rested at an angle just between her breasts which, unsupported, sloped against the soft cloth that draped them. Though she stood still and held a wine glass without drinking from it, Munday found himself staring at the slight movements in the cords of her neck and throat and the thin poised bones of her hands. He felt he could read those bones and the shadows on the planes of her face.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” she said, and took the wine glass in two hands. Munday saw the jewel right itself between her breasts.

“We’ve just been discussing your lecture,” said Janet Strick.

“No complaints, I hope,” said Munday. Outlined in the long blue cloth was her leg, from hip to ankle; its unadorned completeness more than its shape attracted him.

“Only praise,” said Caroline.

Drawn to her he avoided her eyes, and having ex-

amined her he looked closely at the others, Motherwell with his pipe, Awdry’s Foreign Office tie and suede shoes, Strick’s flowered shirt and tie in matching material, and next to him Janet Strick in her short skirt. Janet was pretty, her skin was young, she had a smooth face, a large head and a good fleshy figure. Her hair was long; Caroline’s was short, and yet there was something luxurious about Caroline, the message on her mouth, the angle of her chin, the bones lifting at the base of the neck, the distinct edges of her hips and the thrust her dress hugged. She was not thin, but her short hair and the proportions of her features made her appear so, the way she stood—her weight on one leg—the length of her fingers which circled the glass. From the moment he saw her he wanted to be near her, to touch her; he felt a mingled desire and respect, the same helpless yearning he had experienced watching Alice crouch in her denim jeans. But he saw in Caroline a power that could be terrible, not the youthful pleasingness of Alice, but the sensual wisdom of a woman who knows that she is within a few years of losing her beauty. Though she had a veneer of glamour, what cowed him was the destroying bloom he saw in her bones. She could hold him and crack him.

She said, “I imagined you’d be very severe and scientific.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“My Africans used to do imitations of me, behind my back. They thought I was a bit of a taskmaster.”

“Did that upset you?”

“They can be tricky little bastards.”

Then she did something that aroused Munday; she closed her eyes and smiled and rocked her head back on her long neck.

“I agree,” Awdry said, and he began to tell a story of African treachery.

In an effort to conceal his submissive interest in Caroline, Munday pretended to listen to the story

(it concerned an African’s clumsy forgery of a local chief’s official papers), for he sensed the interest was obvious on his face. But attempting to suppress it he felt it more deeply, as he had with Alice. He remembered that he had fled the daughter, not the mother, and he saw himself as a weak man, incomplete, who had denied himself passion, though he had seen it enacted close to him, while he had stayed on its periphery, observing, sometimes mocking, never venturing nearer. He saw that his severity was fear, and what virtue he had always claimed for himself was cowardice.

“What happened to the African?” Caroline was saying.

“Him? Oh, we let him go,” said Awdry. “The Crown had a case against him, but we weren’t sure how it would go down locally. He was in the wrong, of course—everyone knew that. As it turned out, he would have been safer with us.”

“Safer?” Caroline became interested. “But you said he was free.”

“He got a dose of village justice,” said Awdry. He winked at Munday. Munday shrugged.

“That sounds ominous,” said Caroline.

“It was quite a field-day,” said Awdry. “Mob of people pounced on him, sank their teeth into him and spat out the pieces. Everyone was laughing—Africans find torture frightfully amusing. When the poor chap died they assumed he must have been guilty.”

“I never believe a word you say,” said Caroline. “They can’t be as bloodthirsty as that.”

“Doctor Munday will vouch for me,” said Awdry.

“Two points,” said Munday in his tutorial manner. “One, there’s usually some kind of deliberation before a man is found guilty. And, two, where property is involved the punishment is fairly harsh.” He went on, though in doing so he felt an awkward sense of betraying people he knew for people who were only interested in discrediting Africans. It was the penalty of his long residence among Africans, he believed: his knowledge of them only seemed to incriminate them. But he was anxious to hold Caroline’s attention. He said, “I remember an African who got a five-inch nail hammered into his skull. He had killed his wife at a beer party. I’ve heard of others who’ve had their feet chopped off—and they still use the ant-hill in some parts of Uganda. A Chiga girl who commits incest is thrown over a cliff by her father—”

“Why that’s savage,” said Caroline, her eyes flashing.

“Perhaps no worse than our own death penalty,” said Munday. “The gallows, what-have-you.”

“You’re way out of date,” said Awdry. He was laughing.

“Capital punishment’s been abolished,” said Caroline.

“I had no idea,” said Munday.

“Bloody silly, if you ask me,” said Awdry. “But there it is. Ah, here comes Jerry. We ean eat.”

Jerry, the last guest to arrive, was out of breath, apologizing for being late as he handed his coat to Awdry. On the way over, he said, he had stopped to have a look at his cows and had found one which hadn’t been milked. The milking had delayed him.

“Jerry’s the only one who really belongs here,” said Caroline. “The rest of us are all foreigners.”

“The native among the expatriates,” muttered Munday.

“I was bom up the road,” he said to Munday. “Broadwindsor way.”

He was young, with a frank sunburned face, and square shoulders that had stretched his fashionable suit-jacket out of shape. Though his movements were shy—he glanced continually at his hands and heavy shoes—he had a clipped way of speaking, the local accent Peter Motherwell had tried to imitate (Jerry was saying, with the guileless scorn of a Bwamba, why his wife had had to stay at home). Now Munday understood the embarrassment of Peter’s mimicry. It was that of the settler joke, told when the houseboy was in the kitchen.

“Doctor Munday. Jerry Duddle,” said Caroline. “Doctor Munday’s been telling us the most horrible stories.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Jerry.

»Munday was about to ask him about his farm when Janet came over and asked, “Jerry, do you have any views on hunting?”

“I don’t hunt much myself,” said Jerry. “Don’t have time for it—too busy with the farm. I do a little fishing.”

“But, don’t you agree that hunting’s cruel?” Janet had stepped in front of Munday and was facing Jerry. “Cruel? In what way?”

“It’s bloody.”

“Bloody expensive,” said Jerry. “Those floats set you back a few quid.”

Janet raised her eyes to the ceiling and said, “I suppose I’m alone in thinking it should be banned.” Jerry said, “I always say if people can afford to do something, and they enjoy doing it, who am I to tell them they’re wrong?”

“That’s our boy,” said Awdry; and Peter said, “Hear, hear!” Awdry crossed the room to show Anne Motherwell and Michael Strick and the vicar’s wife a framed photograph on the wall, a group of Africans on the bank of a flood-swollen river, near which a Land Rover was parked. Awdry said, “Five minutes after that picture was taken, this old man was drowned trying to ford the river.”

Munday was on his way over to see the photograph of the doomed man. He noticed Emma near the fire, her hands clasped on a drink. She was alone.

“Are you all right?”

“I thought I was going to faint,” Emma said. “I think I startled that young man.”

Munday wondered which young man she was talking about. He looked around the room and then said, “Seems they’ve abolished capital punishment. I

had no idea. That Summers woman was telling me.” '7 could have told you that,” said Emma.

“What’s wrong?” said Munday. “You seem cross.” “I’m not well,” said Emma. “And I don’t like that woman.”

“Why? You don’t even know her.”

“I know her,” said Emma. “She wants you.”

“Don’t be silly.” Munday saw Caroline seated on the arm of a chair.

'‘I can tell—a woman can always tell. She’s making a play for you.”

Munday said, “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“This is tap water,” said Emma. “That young man fetched it. I thought I was going to faint.”

But Munday was staring at Caroline. He said, “How do you know she’s making a play for me? I didn’t say two words to her.”

“Something in her face—the way she was standing,” said Emma. “She stares at you.”

“Is that all!”

“And she hates me,” said Emma. “That’s the proof.”

“You’re imagining things,” said Munday.

“When I saw her come in tonight,” said Emma in a low voice, “I thought I recognized her. I was going to go over and introduce myself. But something stopped me. I took a good look at her and she glared at me in a most hateful way. And then I knew.” Emma turned to face Munday. She said, “Alfred, that’s the woman”

“Which woman?” he asked. But he knew.

Emma pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Her eyes were large with fright and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. The anger which had masked her fear had left her, and now she looked extremely tired and rather small and defeated.

Taking Emma by the arm Munday started towards the dining room, and though he was at some distance, nearly two long rooms away, he saw Caroline clearly in the candlelight where the other guests were

shadowy; she stared, searching him with her very white face, no stranger now, but so intimate she understood his longing. She had seen his conversation with Emma, and without hearing, she knew every word they had said.

“Is this hot or cold?” Anne Motherwell’s spoon was poised over the soup.

“It’s vichysoisse,” said Mrs. Awdry. “I hope you like it.”

“That’s means cold,” said the vicar.

“There’s always a first time,” said Jerry. Saying this he engaged the attention of the table. Everyone watched for his reaction while he took a spoonful. He smiled and swallowed. He said in a surprised voice, “Potatoes,” then, “but very tasty,” and the rest began to eat.

“Did anyone here go over to that meeting in Brid-port to protest the oil-drilling?” asked Janet Strick.

“We were there,” said Peter. “It was very encouraging to see all those concerned people.”

“What exactly are they concerned about?” asked Munday.

“Marauders,” said Anne.

“They’re planning to turn the countryside here into an industrial wasteland,” said Michael. “There’s a scheme afoot to drill for oil in Powerstock.”

“It’s got everyone up in arms,” said Awdry.

“Not everyone,” said Janet. “It looks as if they might go through with it.”

The vicar cleared his throat. He said, “Some years ago—this was before my time—they said they were going to put huge pylons through Marshwood Vale. There were protest meetings and so forth, petitions and letters to the paper. Some people were quite vocal.” He smiled. “And then of course they put the pylons up.”

“That’s always the way,” said Mrs. Awdry.

“I’ve seen them from the back of my house,” said Munday.

“Sorry about that,” said Awdry.

“It’s a rotten shame,” said Janet. “Why should the government designate this as an area of outstanding natural beauty one year and then put up oil rigs the next? I can’t fathom it.”

“They need oil,” said Jerry.

“There’s plenty of oil in the Middle East and America,” said Janet.

“I mean in Britain,” said Jerry.

“I see we’re divided on the oil question,” said Munday. He smiled at Caroline.

“What about the North Sea?” said Anne. “There’s masses there.”

“There’s none here,” said Janet.

“They say there might be,” said the vicar.

“There is,” said Jerry. “It’s here, all right. I’ve seen it running out of the ground over in Hooke— natural seepages.”

“I suppose you don’t care a damn whether they drill or not,” said Janet to Jerry.

Peter spoke to Munday. “It’s quite a problem,” he said. “People coming down here and spoiling the view.”

“People come down here and do all kinds of things,” said Jerry quietly. “I know you folks like the countryside and walks and that. So do I. But these hikers treat my property as if they owned it, break down the fences, leave the gates open for the cows to wander about in the road. I wanted to put up a cow-pen and they refused me planning permission, said I’d spoil the view.” He laughed. “Never heard that one before.”

He had not taken another spoonful of his soup; he continued to talk, toying with his spoon, while the others ate. “There’s not a lot of iribney around here. If finding oil means money and jobs then I’m sorry but I’m for it one hundred percent.”

“It’s pollution,” said Anne.

Jerry laughed again. “The farmers over in Pow-erstock make fifty thousand pounds from a few acres of pastures and you call it pollution!”

“I didn’t chuck a good job in London to come down here and stare at an oil-rig,” said Peter. “No thanks. I’ll go somewhere else if they start that sort of thing down here. I’ve had all I wanted of smoky chimneys and factory noise.”

“I saw the drilling rig, Mr. Awdry,” said Jerry. “She looks like a Christmas tree.”

“You don’t say,” said Awdry.

“With fairy lights,” said Jerry.

“What business are you in?” Munday asked Peter. “I’m in the building trade,” he said.

“What about planning permission?”

“It doesn’t affect me.”

“Peter does up houses,” said Anne. “And very nicely, too. But I'm biased.”