The Summer Before the War (43 page)

“Craigmore is dead,” said Hugh. “What you do in the war won't change that. No amount of vengeance will bring him back.”

“It's not vengeance,” said Daniel. “It's duty. Craigmore believed in doing his duty, and I will not shirk mine sitting in some London office, writing recruiting posters.”

“If the hearing goes badly, you could be drummed out,” said Hugh. “I don't think you realize just how much trouble you are in, Daniel.”

“I fear your cousin is right, my young friend,” said Mr. Tillingham. “Some twenty years ago, I remember another young man who chose to make such a stand. His stubbornness led to the greatest scandal of the day.”

“You cannot seek to compare Daniel to that playwright,” said Hugh, horrified. He felt sick as the full implications of the comparison sank in. He found he could not look directly at his cousin. “Why, the man was a— He was a flagrant degenerate.”

Daniel looked at his shoes, and Mr. Tillingham considered the silver top of his walking stick and rubbed at a spot of tarnish.

“Hubris or nobility—whatever his motives, the fool earned himself jail and a pauper's death,” said Tillingham in a mild tone of reproof, whether for the playwright or for Hugh, Hugh could not say. His eyes looked more tired and hooded than usual as he gazed into the fire. “The scandal and fear sent many an artist and writer scurrying for the Continent or a house in the country.”

“Not that he wasn't a good writer,” said Hugh, hurrying to soften his high-handed dismissal. He did not wish to play the moral absolutist in the face of Daniel's brooding silence. “I mean, it was before my time,” he finished.

“Craigmore's father is doing his best to smear our friendship with such shame, and that is precisely why I cannot just slink away and let his insinuations stand,” said Daniel slowly. “But it is not at all the same, I assure you. They have nothing with which to impeach me.”

“A few letters, a couple of poems—nothing but the effusive exaggerations of the poet in youthful flood,” said Mr. Tillingham. “I have written more effusive and more outrageous letters in my time. They don't mean anything.”

“Would you come and say that at my hearing?” asked Daniel.

“My dear boy, you know there is nothing I would not do for you,” said Mr. Tillingham. Hugh saw an expression of horror quickly suppressed. “But to expose myself to such a topic would surely put at risk my important national war work?” When Daniel did not immediately reply, he continued, as if he might build up excuses like a legal brief and so be excused. “I am an old bohemian myself,” he wheedled. “The respectability I have earned is a thin and crusty garment with which I shield my nakedness from public humiliation and scorn.”

“I understand,” said Daniel. “I would never put you in such an awkward spot.”

“Besides, a couple of my letters meant exactly what they said, and I can't absolutely rely on the recipients not to produce them should my name become mentioned in such a scandal,” added Tillingham, looking frightened.

“I beg you to resign, Daniel, and not endanger your reputation,” said Hugh. “But if you insist on going forward, I will be a character witness.” He went to clasp him by the hand. “I've known you since childhood, Cousin, and I will swear on a Bible that your conduct and morals are both unimpeachable.”

“That is very sweet, Hugh,” said Daniel.

“It's not perjury if he believes it,” said Mr. Tillingham.

“Mr. Tillingham!” Hugh felt himself spluttering, but Daniel and Tillingham only smiled at each other in the manner of people who understand more than they say.

A knock on the door interrupted them, and the housekeeper came in to say that Miss Nash was downstairs with the Professor and that she understood there was an emergency. In the dining room, Beatrice Nash looked alarmed and the Professor looked as anxious as a man can manage after a large dinner, pudding, cheese, and half a bottle of vintage port.

Hugh had much he wished to say to Beatrice and wished that he might smile at her. But her demeanor demanded as serious a face as the discussion in the study.

“Celeste is missing,” said Beatrice. “She said she was coming here to visit her father, and when she did not return I came to find her, but the Professor tells me he has not seen her.”

“I have not,” said the Professor. “Mr. Tillingham and I have been here all evening, having dinner.”

“As this is her last night before she leaves, I thought nothing of her visiting you, Professor,” said Beatrice, her tone sharp.

The Professor looked away and polished his spectacles. “I thought it best to be quiet,” he said. “To say our farewell in the morning is enough, no?”

“Perhaps not, Professor,” said Beatrice. “She is very unhappy, and now she has run away or worse.”

“Did she take anything with her?” asked Hugh.

“I don't know,” said Beatrice. “I'll go at once and look.”

“I'll come with you,” said Hugh. “Meanwhile, perhaps, Mr. Tillingham, you can telephone to my uncle to start searching the roads by car.”

“Daniel, would you operate the telephone for me?” said Mr. Tillingham. “I live in abject fear of the woman at the exchange.”

“Please be careful what you say,” said Beatrice.

“Yes, we don't need to add any more scandals,” said Hugh. “For once let's hope all the neighbors are not listening in on the party line.”

At the cottage, Beatrice ran upstairs to search among Celeste's clothes and check under her bed.

“They'll have to dredge the river,” said Mrs. Turber, calling up from the bottom of the stairs with her arms folded.

“The only thing missing is her white dress with the lace,” said Beatrice coming back down to the parlor. “I didn't think she was wearing it, but I can't be sure.”

“Is anything else gone?” asked Hugh. “I hate to ask, but was there money in the house she might have taken?”

“Good heavens, my money box!” said Mrs. Turber, hurrying off. A few moments later a shriek went up, and soon Abigail came running to the parlor.

“Please, miss, the money is there, but Mrs. Turber's little pistol is missing. The one the Captain give her.”

“Oh no,” said Beatrice. She felt sick and helpless. How could she not have noticed? What kind of friend was she that she let Celeste slip from the house carrying a pistol in her bundle? Did she hear no tremor in the girl's farewell? Did she notice no fear, no set jaw of determination?

“Beatrice, pay attention,” said Hugh. She felt him shake her by the arm, and her head cleared. “Let us not speculate, let us look for her in a logical way,” he added.

“They'll find her in the river,” repeated Mrs. Turber.

“If they do, may it be on your conscience, Mrs. Turber.” Beatrice would have liked to scratch at the smug face of her landlady.

“Well I never,” said Mrs. Turber.

“You stay here,” said Hugh. “Daniel and I will search the riverbank while Mr. Tillingham and the Professor walk the upper town. My Uncle John and his chauffeur are searching all the main roads for ten miles around.”

“I'm coming with you,” said Beatrice. “I can't stay here and do nothing.”

“The reserves and the Boy Scouts patrol the canal at night,” said Abigail. “I can run down to the scoutmaster and see if they can keep an eye out for her?”

“I don't think we can,” said Beatrice. She felt the agony of indecision between having more eyes to search and the knowledge that further scandal might be impossible to overcome. She looked at Hugh and saw that he immediately understood.

“I'm sure it won't be necessary,” he said. “We should not alarm more people than we need. I'm sure we will find her ourselves, in short order.”

“You'll all be shot walking the marshes at night,” said Mrs. Turber. “Mark my words.”

Hurrying to the dark wharf, Hugh, Daniel, and Beatrice began to search among the fishing boats and the sailing barges. A night watchman had seen no woman passing, but a cabin boy thought he might have seen a figure slip by on the opposite bank of the river. For a few coins he shimmied up a tall mast to look out across the dark marsh, and he reported a flicker of white that might be a woman's dress, far downriver along the raised dyke.

“Could be nowt but an old sail dryin' on a fence,” said the night watchman. “A man sees what he's paid to see.”

They took no notice and hurried across the bridge to take the grassy path towards the sea. The houses gave way immediately to scrubby trees and then fields of low, salty grass tussocks, fit only for sheep and goats.

“If she has a pistol, why would she need to go to the river?” asked Hugh, ever practical.

“Because she has a pistol, the river is more likely than the train,” said Daniel. “The train—you wouldn't need a pistol, but it's messy.”

“You seem pretty sure?” said Hugh.

“Every poet imagines death,” said Daniel. “The river is the romantic choice. I imagine the pistol is just for insurance.”

“To apply a logical explanation to an irrational act is madness itself,” said Beatrice. “Do stop talking and hurry.”

The riverbank passed a small hamlet of fishing cottages, and then the river turned one last time and ran straight to the sea. The land was pebbled scrub now, harder to run across, and the riverbank was higher from the water, edged with thick walls of wooden piles and boards. A single hut, black with tar and roofed in old tin, crouched in the darkness. From the shadow of the hut, a lone figure, a woman, stepped to the edge of the river, and as they watched, she flung a white bundle into the water.

“Celeste!” screamed Beatrice. It was hard to shout, all her breath used for running, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. As Celeste turned towards them, and the moonlight gleamed on a small pistol in her hand, Beatrice's foot slipped on a clump of weeds amid the pebbles and she fell heavily. She rammed her knees and then her wrists on the pebbles as she tried to break her fall. She bit her lip and tasted blood.

“I've got her,” she heard Hugh say, and then his arms were around her, helping her to her knees. “You go on, Daniel.”

“I have to get to her,” she said, struggling to rise. “Help me up, help me, Hugh.”

“Slowly now, let's make sure you are not hurt,” said Hugh. “Probably best we don't all run at her at once.” It was difficult to stand; her knees were on fire and her breath was hard to catch. The taste of blood in her mouth made her gag.

“I can stand,” she said. Her hands and wrists hurt, and she held them against her chest gingerly.

“Let me help you,” said Hugh. “With your permission?” He put an arm around her, and with his help, Beatrice began to walk a few stiff steps towards where Daniel stood talking to Celeste.

“Faster,” she said. “I have to save her.”

“Daniel seems to be doing a good job,” said Hugh. As she looked, Celeste moved away from the very edge of the river to sit down on a low post used for mooring the larger ships that docked in the river mouth. Daniel took a similar perch, at a respectable distance. “Young girls like Daniel.”

“What if he fails?” Beatrice asked. “I must get to her.”

“My aunt is in grave trouble today because she thought only she could manage the world,” said Hugh. “Do you think perhaps you might let others help you sometimes?” His face was kind as he looked down at her. She breathed more deeply and leaned against him, thinking that she would like to drop her head to his shoulder and rest there. They stood together a long time and watched Daniel speaking, and Celeste making shy answers, but they could make out no words.

And then Celeste laughed. The sound carried, and it was as sweet to Beatrice's ear as the larks flying over summer marshes. People who laughed did not shoot themselves with pistols or tumble into a cold river, she thought. People who laughed were surely saved.

“If she throws herself in the river now, my cousin will have some explaining to do,” said Hugh. “Shall we intervene before he inflicts more of his humor on her?”

They sought shelter in the tiny hut. In silence Hugh lit the potbellied stove, which the fisherman owner had left primed with kindling and coal. In minutes Beatrice was warm, and she sat with her arms around Celeste until she too stopped shivering and became rosy in the face from the stove's heat. A reconnoitering of the tar-smelling hut produced a bottle of rum, sealed with a waxed cork. Daniel wasted no time in breaking the seal and urging Celeste to drink a tot, against the chill. They each drank, and with the heat from the stove and the heat from the rum burning its way into her belly, Beatrice felt that she might happily sit in this poor hut for ever. Hugh took a handkerchief doused in rum and gently cleaned her hands of blood and grit. She was sleepy from the late hour and the relief; she leaned against Hugh's shoulder and her eyelids dropped in pleasant drowse.

“I suppose we should make our way home?” asked Hugh. “Many people are out in the dark searching for—for us.”

“I am ready to go home,” said Celeste. “I have to tell my father I am so sorry.”

“We were so worried,” said Beatrice. “Please tell me you will let us help you, Celeste. I could not bear it if you tried again to end your life.”

Celeste blushed like a penitent child and spoke very quietly. “I am so sorry to cause you pain,” she said. “But I could never take my life. It is a sin.”

“But the river?” said Beatrice. “And the pistol?”

“Our Miss Celeste had planned to be fiendishly clever,” said Daniel.

“I throw my dress in the river so perhaps for a little while I am thought dead,” she said. “And I leave to another town to take a train to London. In the big city, I can be a different refugee perhaps?”

“And the pistol?” asked Beatrice.

Celeste's blush was one of pain and humiliation. “It is not a sin, Mrs. Turber says, to shoot yourself to protect from men,” she said. “Never again would I endure it.”