The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris (19 page)

“I'll stand by you, Father!” said Adam impulsively. The Major thanked him, but couldn't help being a shade disappointed that Adam hadn't offered to stand
for
him, instead. The more he thought of it, the more this failure of Adam's depressed him, and a slight cloud overcast their relationship. A lifetime's habits of suspicion were not so easily cast off, and the hapless Major found himself wondering if his son's eagerness to remain by his side was not prompted by the hope of another, more frightful vacancy.

The Major was a complex man, and suffered in a complicated fashion. But his opponent, Ralph Bunnion, was simple and did not suffer at all. Almost dressed, he was sharing a bottle of claret with the jovial Sir Walter Sorley. Indeed, his greatest concern seemed to be for what waistcoat he should wear for the occasion. Thus he was in the tradition of all those heroes who love to show death more respect than life. The love-lies-bleeding he rejected on
account of its unfortunate associations, while the love-in-idleness was stained. At last he fixed on an elegant creation of love-in-the-mist that Dolly Packer had done for him in the old days.

“Bleeding, idleness and mist,” he murmured in an unusual mood of poetry. “It's like life, ain't it, Sir Walter? First the wound, then the resting, and then the uncertainty of it all.”

Sir Walter sniggered and said it reminded him of marriage. Ralph frowned and put his waistcoat on. It was probably his most beautiful garment, having in addition to the purple flowers, several finely woven silver plumes twining down toward the edges.

“Pretty, isn't it,” said Ralph proudly. Sir Walter grinned.

“And witty, too,” he chuckled. “Old man's beard, I fancy. Couldn't you keep up with her, lad?” Here Sir Walter fairly choked with laughter, spraying claret all over himself in a fine red rain.

“It's traveler's joy!” said Ralph indignantly.

“You know best,” said Sir Walter, wiping himself dry. “You and the—the lady. Oh, Lord! Couldn't keep up with her! D'you get it? Must tell Maud and Lady Sorley!”

While the two men were thus preparing themselves for the fatal occasion, Dr. Harris, who was to attend one or the other of them, adjusted his wig and scowled at himself in the glass. The idiotic duel. As if he didn't have enough to worry about! Nearly
a week had gone by and there was still no news of Adelaide. Though he had by no means given up hope, he was beginning to feel that gnawing dread at his heart that he always experienced when he knew a patient was dying. Bitterly he felt that Captain Bostock had failed in his duty; he had done nothing and had been content to leave everything to Mr. Raven. Dr. Harris's confidence in the inquiry agent had waned. He had already paid him twenty-five pounds and all the fellow seemed to do was to drink brandy at the Old Ship. And all the while the weird Gypsy infant lay in Adelaide's cot.

Slowly the doctor packed his bag with such instruments as he might need. Privately he was convinced the two fools would miss each other, but he was cautious enough to go prepared for the worst. Bandages, forceps, scalpel, brandy . . . was that all? He fastened the bag, and observing the heavy rain, took out a cape. He would rather have waited for the wet nurse, but she didn't come till after eight. Still, Morgan would stay with Mrs. Harris and not leave her alone with the baby. There was no doubt his wife's hatred of the infant had become more acute in the last days. He went down the stairs. Damn Selwyn Raven! He would give the man until midday and then the Gypsy baby would go straight to the Bonneys at the poorhouse. He had had enough!

He opened the front door. Bandages . . . forceps . . . scalpel . . . brandy . . . From force of habit he told off the contents of his bag to make sure nothing had been forgotten. He paused, shook his head,
then half humorously he shrugged his shoulders and went back for a prayer book. “Just in case,” he murmured. “Just in case . . .” Then he went out of his carriage, which was already waiting.

Some two minutes after the doctor had gone, his front door opened again and his son emerged, carrying an old piece of blanket. He looked rapidly up and down the street, blessed the teeming rain that was keeping the townsfolk within doors, and hastened away to collect his friend. The change in the weather
must
mean a change in their luck, thought Harris, and he felt in his bones that all was set for success at last.

Unhappily no such optimism attended Major Alexander as he and his son set out from the school at approximately the same time as Harris met Bostock at the other end of the town.

“What about Mother?” asked Adam. “Oughtn't you—we to say goodbye?”

“Much she cares,” said the Major bitterly. “Damn her German soul!”

“And Mister Brett?”

“We'll meet him there.”

Ralph Bunnion, on the other hand, having no cause to be bitter with anyone save Tizzy Alexander, lingered to say goodbye to his father. Mrs. Bunnion, it turned out, was still asleep and the headmaster didn't want to waken her as he couldn't bear the thought of her distress at the parting scene. With tears in his eyes he wished Ralph well, and then
lapsed into the apathy of despair from which he'd been disturbed. Thus it was a good ten minutes after the Major and Adam had gone that Ralph and Sir Walter Sorley set off confidently for the fatal meeting.

“What about your seconds, lad? Your friend with the pistols and that fellow Brett?”

“We'll meet them there.”

The rain lashed down on the town with unabated fury and Frederick, walking briskly to the dueling ground with the mahogany pistol case under his arm, prayed that the powder would not get wet. He stopped and took off his cloak and wrapped the case inside it. It would be horrible if one of the weapons failed to discharge and someone was killed by the other. It would make him feel like a murderer. In a few moments he was wet to the skin, but at least the pistols were keeping dry and his friend would have a fair chance. He consulted the little silver and enamel watch that someone had left in one of his father's coaches. The time was twenty-five minutes to eight, so he quickened his pace.

The inquiry agent had arrived at Dr. Harris's house. He had been terribly hampered by his boot, which was full of rainwater and so was twice its ordinary weight. Furiously he banged on the door, and kept banging till a frightened maid appeared.

“Your master!” shouted Mr. Raven. “Where is he?”

“Gone out.”

“Already—already? Fetch your mistress. Quick—quick!”

Mrs. Harris, hearing the commotion, had already come down. The inquiry agent stared at her savagely. Her name was on the paper in his boot, caught in that frightful web. She was a guilty woman. All women were guilty.

“Give me the baby,” he snarled. “I know everything, Mrs. Harris.
Everything!
” She stared at him, at first not taking in what he'd said. Then a look of joyous amazement lit up her face. Adelaide! He had found her!

“Thank God!” she wept. “Morgan—quick! Fetch the baby!”

Perhaps had her mind not been so distraught with anguish and she had not loathed the Gypsy child so much, perhaps had her husband been at home, even, Mrs. Harris would not have been so hasty.

“Wait!” she pleaded. “Wait while I dress, Mister Raven!”

“No!” he answered harshly. “There is no time. A life is at stake.”

At twenty minutes to eight, with the Gypsy brat stoutly wrapped and held in his powerful arms, the inquiry agent left the Harrises' house and stumbled through the rain.

So, at last, they were all out in the open and going their several ways: the duelists, the inquiry agent, the Gypsy brat—and Bostock and Harris. The self-same rain came down and soaked them all as if in a universal dismay at the prospect before them.

The baby had begun to cry, but all the world was crying and Mr. Raven told it so. Then it peered up at
him through slitted eyes, and the inquiry agent shuddered at the iniquity in them.

It was possible that at some time during this final journey he had doubts as to the course he'd determined on, but doubts at all stages of an enterprise are part of the human condition. He was right to doubt. He was neither a beast of the field nor a god. He was a man—and men may be wrong. A little higher than the beasts, a little lower than the gods, man is ever a double loser. For a pinch of divine understanding he has sacrificed his instincts; therefore a man should always have his doubts, and etcetera . . .

Fiercely, Mr. Raven cast his mind back to the affair's beginning, while struggling to shield his burden from the rain: the bizarre appearance of the strange baby in Adelaide Harris's cot. Only an explanation as bizarre as the event itself would answer it. And there was no doubt Mr. Raven had provided such an explanation.

But then never knowing for certain how an event has begun, a man can only guide his understanding along the path of his own experience. Thus some men look up to the great sky and see God; others see but the blind and empty stars. Either way, a man is condemned to build his tower on the shifting sands of doubt. The best he can do is to struggle as high as he can, then make his divine leap. Mr. Selwyn Raven nodded his head, and struggled on to make his divine leap.

Two other voyagers in the rain, namely Bostock and Harris, had reached the poorhouse. They were very wet and somber. Bostock's mood was partly due to the distress in his home at the loss of the quilt, while Harris's was because he felt he had reached the end of a road. All his courage, all his ingenuity—and all his money—had been staked on this last endeavor. If he failed and Mrs. Bonney wasn't dead drunk, then Adelaide was lost forever. So also would be the esteem of Bostock, and in a strange way, Bostock counted for more than anything. Bostock was his friend and had always looked up to him. Where would Bostock be without him—and where would he be without Bostock?

Harris scowled. “This is it, Bosty, old friend.”

Bostock stared at him, and Harris fancied there was a coolness in Bostock's eyes. “This is it, Harris.”

The friends shook hands and pushed open the poorhouse door.

Within, the air was curiously strong. The ordinary smell of fish, gin and babies was overlaid with something sharper and yet richer. It was not in itself the smell of brandy, and yet there was brandy in it. It resembled more than anything a heavy cake that had been burnt. It was very powerful on the stairs and grew more so as the friends mounted. At last they reached the room where the foundlings lay, and the smell was tremendous. Bostock and Harris stopped in the doorway. They trembled.

There was a chair at the far end of the room, and in the chair, wrapped in Mrs. Bostock's quilt, sat
Mrs. Bonney. Her eyes were partly open but they gave no glimmer of recognition. The smell, now in great waves, was coming from her. As Harris had promised, the last eight shillings had done it. She was as brandied as a butterball and she stank like a vat.

“Christians,” she mumbled weirdly as Bostock eased off his mother's quilt. “Darlin' Christians at it again . . .”

Mr. Raven had made his divine leap. With a last muttered, “and etcetera,” he had laid the Gypsy brat outside the house of the Hemps.
The Hemps?
Yes, the Hemps. Where else should the thunderbolt fall?

He had rapped on the door, then hobbled into concealment to a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. Then he waited, his reputation at stake. If he was right—and still he was human enough to fear he might be wrong—then this one dramatic stroke would bring everything tumbling out of the cupboards of hell and into the light of day. He fumbled in his boot for one last glimpse of his plan. He drew it out. It was sodden with rainwater. Every last name and line had run into a filthy pool of ink. No human being could ever have made any sense of it. It was lost forever. Mr. Raven cursed. Then he grew still.

The door had opened. The elder Miss Morgan looked out, looked down. She screamed. Mr. Raven sighed with relief, and smiled.

The elder Miss Morgan crossed herself. Though
she'd never clapped eyes on it before, she recognized the weird infant from her sister's account. The worst had happened. The fateful spell she'd given away had come home to roost. She screamed again. Mr. Raven hugged himself. The foul goblins had laid the changeling at
her
door. If it entered in the house, then all the hellish mystery of Celtic ghosts would be let loose to break the plates and drive everyone storybook mad.

Careless of the rain, she knelt down, snatched up the wrinkled fiend and rushed away down the street. She would leave it where it could do nobody any harm.

Mr. Raven watched after her and wondered where she might be going. He would like to have followed, but he dared not. He was waiting for the murder. Very soon now, he had good reason to believe, Ralph tomcat Bunnion would attempt to assassinate Indian, or rather Gypsy Hemp. He hoped to God he would be able to prevent it.

Harris kissed his infant sister. He was sincerely glad to see her again. There were times when he never thought he would. Bostock looked on, deeply moved. Then the friends, watched by the insensible Mrs. Bonney, crept out of the room with the quilted Adelaide in her brother's arms.

“Harris,” whispered Bostock as they were on the stairs. “What about the other one? What do we do about the baby at your house?”

Harris looked at him. He had entirely overlooked the other baby. He couldn't think of everything, but he wasn't going to admit it to his friend. Bostock's faith in him was in the melting pot. To confess to an oversight now would be to crack the mold and let Bostock's faith trickle away altogether.

“First things first, Bosty,” he whispered, and continued down the stairs.

“Harris!” gasped Bostock as they opened the poorhouse door. “Oh, Harris, you're a genius!”

On the step before them lay the alien baby where the terrified elder Miss Morgan had deposited it a moment before.

“Christians,” sighed Mrs. Bonney, as Bostock and Harris laid the Gypsy child in the empty place. “Bleedin' Christians comin' and goin' like pink mice . . .”