Down Under (11 page)

Later he went over to see Elfreda. She took him into the schoolroom after ten minutes or so of difficult conversation with Miss Hortensia and James Carew.

Elfreda banged the schoolroom door.

“I've got to stay here for another week because Daddy won't be back till then. Isn't it grim? I think aunts ought to be abolished—don't you—except some of them are rather lambs really. I think Aunt Hortensia must have been frightfully badly brought up. I mean, why doesn't Uncle James tell her to hold her tongue and go to Timbuctoo?”

“Elfreda, I want to talk to you,” said Oliver. “I suppose you really knew Rose Anne better than anyone else.”

The tears rushed into Elfreda's eyes.

“I suppose I did—I mean I do—I mean I'll do anything for her.”

“Well, I want you to tell me something—which might be a help—in looking for her.” The words stuck and wouldn't come out. It wasn't so easy to ask questions about Rose Anne.

Elfreda stared.

“But I can't think of anything, Oliver.”

“Wait a minute—I haven't asked you yet. Did she ever speak of anyone—any man? Was there anyone who—who—anyone with red hair?”

“Oliver, she wasn't like that. She wouldn't—she didn't—I mean we just laughed about him. It wasn't the least bit serious—I know it wasn't.”

Oliver's heart gave a thump. He said quickly,

“Then there was someone—with red hair?”

“But it wasn't anything in the world. Oliver, it wasn't—she wouldn't.”

He put his hand down hard on her shoulder.

“I know she wouldn't, but I want you to tell me about it all the same—everything, please.”

Elfreda blinked, and blinked away a couple of tears.

“It was when she was staying with us last summer in the Isle of Wight. There was a big fancy dress dance—you know, we wanted you to come, and you couldn't get leave—and Rose Anne went as a white rose. Nannie made the dress. She really did it beautifully—all big cut-out petals. It was a lovely dress.”

“When you say ‘Nannie,' whom do you mean?”

“Oh, Mrs Garstnet. Rose Anne still calls her Nannie. Well, she really did look like an angel in the dress, and she had a great success. And about half way through I saw her dancing with the most frightfully good looking man—he really was. He was all in white too, a kind of eighteenth-century court dress, only instead of a powdered wig he had his own red hair.”

Oliver's hand closed on her shoulder. She cried out,

“Oh, you're hurting me!”

“I'm sorry.” He took his hand away. “You said this man had red hair—”

“Too marvellous—the dark red sort. And as soon as I got the chance I asked Rose Anne who he was, and she said, ‘Well, he calls himself Mr Octavian.' So I said, ‘How do you mean, he calls himself?' and she laughed and said, ‘Well, he says he's the Rosenkavalier.' And of course the Rosenkavalier's name was Octavian, and I suppose what he meant was that he was Rose Anne's cavalier—anyhow that's how he behaved. But it was only a joke to her—it really was, Oliver, because we all teased her about it, and she just said that their dresses went together and their steps went together, so why shouldn't she?”

“Why shouldn't she what?”

“Oh, dance with him. And she did, quite a lot, and I don't blame her, because he was easily the best dancer in the room.”

Oliver said, “Go on,” and got a frank, surprised look.

“But there isn't anything—there really isn't.”

“Do you mean she didn't see him again?”

“No, of course she didn't. He just blew in and blew out again. I think he must have come ashore from one of the yachts. The amusing thing was that everybody thought he was with somebody else's party. Personally I believe he gate-crashed—he looked as if he'd got nerve enough to do anything. He told Rose Anne he had come there to dance with her, and as a matter of fact he didn't dance with anyone else—at least I don't think he did—and we ragged her about it. And then he just faded away, and no one ever saw him again.”

“You're sure Rose Anne didn't see him again—quite sure, Elfreda?”

“Oh, yes, I'm quite sure.”

“Or hear from him?”

“No, I'm sure she didn't.” She paused, hesitated, and said in a dragging voice, “Unless—there was that telephone call.”

“Which telephone call?”

Elfreda gulped.

“You know—the one they've all badgered me sick about.”

“Yes. Just run over it again, will you?”

“Well, you know—it was that afternoon, and you were in the garden. We were talking about people flirting, and you said she didn't need to flirt. You said, ‘She just looks, and we fall down flat,' and she got up—and went away—and looked round over her shoulder and said, ‘Did anyone call up for me?'”

Oliver said, “Yes, I remember.” Had Rose Anne at that moment remembered someone, not Oliver, who had fallen down and worshipped at a single look? Had she expected a call, a message? She had looked over her shoulder and smiled. Of what had she been thinking—of
whom
had she been thinking?

Elfreda swallowed a choking sob.

“Then, when Aunt Hortensia was scolding me about the wreaths, there was that telephone call—and it's no use anyone asking me any more about it, because the only single thing I know is that there was a man on the line, and he said, ‘Is that Miss Carew?' And I said, ‘Miss Hortensia Carew—or Miss Rose Anne Carew?' and he said, ‘Miss Rose Carew.' So of course I thought it wasn't anyone who knew her, because no one ever calls her Rose. And I said she couldn't come, could I take a message? And he said no, I couldn't, and it didn't matter and he'd ring again—only he didn't.”

Oliver stared straight in front of him. “No one ever calls her Rose.”… But the Rosenkavalier—the Cavalier of the Rose—who had met her, seen her, just that once in her white rose dress—he might think of her as the Rose, and ask for her as Miss Rose Carew.…

With an abrupt movement he turned away. It was all madness. Because they had nothing to go upon, they were trying out of this nothing to make something—to force a shape upon it—clothe it with empty theories. Could he ask himself or anyone else to believe that this man, this red-headed gate-crasher who had met Rose Anne once four months ago, had only to ring her up on her wedding eve for her to throw everything to the winds and go to him? No, he hadn't ever rung her up. He had said he would ring again, but there had been no second call—only Mrs Garstnet telephoning from the Angel begging Rose Anne to come to Florrie—to Florrie.

He turned back to Elfreda.

“Thank you very much, my dear. I shouldn't cry any more if I were you—it doesn't do any good.”

He went back to the Angel. It was in his mind that he must go to London and see Mr Benbow Smith again. He had left his car in a Malling garage, so he would have to make an early start if he meant to do the three miles on foot and catch the 8.20. He would miss his appointment with Florrie, but that couldn't be helped. He doubted very much whether there was anything to be got out of her. Anyhow she could wait.

He went in by the back way, because he didn't want to meet anyone. Anyone really meant Mabel Garstnet, who was showing a tendency to linger in his path and giggle at him. The back way was the one he had commonly taken when coming in from the garage. It led past the kitchen, and the parlour used by the Garstnets. It occurred to him that he might knock on the parlour door and notify his early start. He was just about to do so, when he saw that the door was ajar, and it went through his mind that this probably meant the room was empty. And then, hard upon that, he heard the sound of a sob. He had just come from one weeping woman, and he was in no mood for another. He drew back as Matthew Garstnet said “Shut up!” on a low growl of anger.

Well, if there was a family row going on, he had better go up to his room and ring. But before he could pass he heard Mrs Garstnet say in a choking voice, “It's her face—the way she looked at me. Oh, I can't get it out of my mind!”

This time Matthew Garstnet swore. He may have struck her as well, for she cried out sharply. He certainly struck the door, for it slammed to not a foot from Oliver's shoulder.

He went softly up to his room, and thought about what he had heard.

CHAPTER XIII

“Now I wonder what the young man will have to say,” said Mr Smith. “What do you think about it all, Ananias?”

The grey parrot sidled along his perch, bobbing a sleek head and repeating in a cooing whisper the words of a curse learned long ago in unregenerate foc'sle days. It was now forbidden, and Mr Smith reproved him, tempering his rebuke with a gentle ruffling of the feathers at the side of the bobbing head.

“No—no, Ananias! I have no doubt that you are perfectly right, but you must restrain yourself. And I was not asking you whether you thought there had been—er—dirty work, because I am tolerably sure on that point myself.”

The parrot lifted an arched claw and stepped off the perch on to his master's wrist.

“Now you know, Ananias, I am expecting Captain Loddon. He said two o'clock, and it will be two o'clock in exactly half a minute from now, so you had better get back to your perch.”

The sound of the front door bell and the sound of the parrot's loud “Awk!” of protest came together. Then the door opened and Miller was announcing Captain Loddon. Mr Smith advanced to greet him with the parrot still upon his wrist. Perhaps he wished to see how Ananias and his guest would react to one another. He had had visitors before now who had blenched visibly at grasping a hand within reach of such a very sharp beak. Mr Smith's opinion of them had not been enhanced by this behaviour. It had occasionally been confirmed.

Oliver took the hand that was offered to him.

“How do you do, sir? It is very good of you to see me.” His eyes went to Ananias. “That's a very fine parrot.”

Mr Smith nodded.

“Shake hands, Ananias.”

And coyly sidling, Ananias stretched out a cold, horny claw. There were some very loud “Awks” when he was put back on his perch again. When they had subsided, Mr Smith waved Oliver to a chair and took the one beside him.

“Well, Captain Loddon, what did you find at Hillick St Anne's?”

“Nothing,” said Oliver—“nothing at all. It's just a completely derelict village. There isn't one house with a roof on it or a place where you could hide a cat.”

“And did you—er—come to tell me that?”

Oliver said bluntly, “No, I didn't. Look here, sir, I haven't really got anything to tell you at all, but I want to tell it to you all the same. There's nothing that would be any good to the police, but—”

“You may tell me anything you like, Captain Loddon.”

“It's so little,” said Oliver in a restless voice—“and what there is can be so easily explained away.”

“Yes?” said Mr Smith on an enquiring note.

From his perch Ananias regarded them with disfavour. He had an urge to make himself felt. Rising upon his toes, he flapped his wings and declaimed:

“Three jolly admirals all of a row,

Collingwood, Nelson, and bold Benbow.”

“No—no—
no!
” said Mr Smith.

His voice meant business. The wings dropped again, the rose-coloured linings were hidden. Ananias sulked.

“Well, Captain Loddon?” said Mr Smith as if there had been no interruption.

“I've got three or four—well, scraps,” said Oliver. “First of all, sir, I'd like to tell you that no one who wasn't a lunatic, and suicidal at that, would have attempted to ride a bicycle down that track from Hillick St Anne's. I shouldn't have thought anyone would even try to wheel a bicycle on it, but if your man was wheeling one, he might have tripped and gone over the edge. On the other hand it doesn't seem very likely.”

Mr Smith nodded gently.

“And that—er—leaves us just where we were before.”

“Well then, I went back to St Agnes, and Mabel Garstnet told me her mother had had to send Florrie away. She said they couldn't do anything with her, she was so upset. She didn't say where they'd sent her, but Elfreda found out from the post office.”

“Elfreda?” murmured Mr Smith.

“Elfreda Moore. She's a first cousin, and she was Rose Anne's greatest friend. She was going to be her bridesmaid.”

“Yes? Go on.”

“She found out that Florrie was at Oakham. It's only about ten miles away, so I went there. It's right off the map—just cottages, and a few outlying farms, and one big house they call The Place. It's empty, and Florrie's there with the caretaker, who is Matthew Garstnet's sister-in-law. Mrs Garstnet told me that.”

“You asked her?”

“Not about Oakham. She doesn't know that I've been there, or that I know where Florrie is. I just asked after the child, and she thanked me and said Florrie had been so upset about—about Rose Anne that they had sent her away to a sister-in-law of Matthew's, but she didn't say where, and I didn't say anything more.”

“That was wise. Go on, Captain Loddon.”

“Well, I saw Florrie. She was down at the gate. But I didn't get anything out of her—at least I don't know whether I did or not. She's frightened about something. She's been coached. She said a piece about Rose Anne.”

“Yes?”

“She said, ‘Miss Rose Anne's run away with a gentleman and I expect they're married by now.' Regular parrot stuff—you could tell she'd been coached. And when I thought she'd let something out, she did the same stunt again.”

“What did she—er—let out?”

“She said her sister Mabel came into her room and took the green hat, the one Rose Anne is supposed to have borrowed to go away in. She said it was her hat and Mabel had no business to take it, and then she got scared and let off a piece about Mabel having borrowed the hat for Miss Rose Anne, and I thought she'd been taught that too. Only you see, sir, if she got an idea in her head about Mabel taking the hat, it would be quite natural for Mrs Garstnet to explain to her that she had taken it for Rose Anne—if she really had.”