Nothing Venture (24 page)

Nan's voice came small, and steady, and clear.

“You haven't seen him?”

“Not since yesterday.”

Nan hung up the receiver. She turned a composed, colourless face on Ferdinand.

“What are we to do?”

“What did she say?”

“The Tetterleys are away. She says they went away last night. She says she hasn't seen him. She says he goes off—suddenly—like this. Is that true?”

F.F. ran his hand through his ginger hair.

“Well—he's sudden. Jervis has always been mighty sudden. It's his temperament. If he gets an idea, he don't want to wait and turn it over in his mind—he wants to get going and do something about it mighty quick. I've known him start off across Europe without any luggage. Look here, he's all taken up with improving his breed of sheep—well, isn't he? And suppose he went into Croyston and met someone that told him there was a prize ram he'd be a fool to miss—in Northumberland, or anywhere as far as you can get on the map where they do breed sheep—well, he'd be quite liable to board the next train—”

“Without letting anyone know?”

Ferdinand rumpled his hair again.

“Well, he might give a telegram to someone to send, and they might forget it. That's a thing that's very liable to happen. But I was thinking I'd run down into Croyston and make some inquiries.”

Jervis had not been seen in Croyston. He had not been seen at the railway station. There was an early train to town at seven-forty-five. They tracked down the two porters who had been on duty. Neither of them knew Mr Weare by sight—but the train had been quite crowded as there was a day excursion. The most of the passengers were ladies; but that wasn't to say that there weren't some gentlemen too. This was the porter who had clipped the tickets. No—he hadn't taken particular notice of any of them, not knowing anyone by sight—“Only got my transfer a week ago, and I'm sorry I can't help you, ma'am.”

The other porter, a long melancholy man with a thin neck and an embarrassingly mobile Adam's apple, proved to be the type of witness who responds instantly to any suggestion. Asked if he had noticed a tall gentleman with black hair, he fingered his Adam's apple and looked vaguely over Nan's head.

“Tall gen'leman? Black hair?”

“Yes,” said Nan. “Did you see him?”

“Well, I might have done.”

“But did you?”

“Very tall gen'leman?”

“Six foot,” said Ferdinand firmly.

The porter's eyes came down an inch or two. From his manner it appeared that if they had wanted a gentleman of six-foot-three or upwards, he could have obliged them—but six foot … He shook his head mournfully.

“Well, I can't say as I noticed anyone of that description.”

“You'd be liable to notice Mr Weare—he's kind of noticeable. Quick walk—strong build—very black hair—holds his head up and looks as if he'd bought the earth.”

“Foreign gen' leman, sir?”

“No,” said Nan—“Mr Weare of King's Weare.”

“Oh—
him
?”

“Did you see him?” said Nan quickly.

“Well, I couldn't rightly say I seen him.”

“Would you have known him if you had?”

“Well, I couldn't rightly say I'd know him.”

“Was there anyone on the train who might have been Mr Weare?”

“Well, there might have been.” The porter brightened slightly.

“A tall gentleman.”

“Well, there might have been.”

“Was there?” said Nan.

The porter seemed to think so. He stopped fingering his Adam's apple and scratched his head in a melancholy, ruminative manner.

“There
was
a tall gentleman on the train?”

“Well, there might have been.”

They had to leave it at that.

Whey they were driving back from Croyston, Nan said in a suffocated little voice,

“I dreamt—last night—that he was—dead.”

“Well, I guess that means he's alive,” said Ferdinand. “Dreams go by contraries.” But he didn't look at her.

“Stop the car!” said Nan rather breathlessly.

Ferdinand pulled up at the side of the road. They were out of sight and hearing of the sea, in a lane with a straggling hedge on either side. The sky over them was veiled with something between haze and fog. The hedges were powdered thick with dust. It was very hot and very still. The light was pitiless—glare without sun.

“I guess there's going to be a storm,” said Ferdinand.

Nan took no notice.

“I dreamt—last night—that he was dead.” She looked straight in front of her, and neither face nor voice had any expression. “It was—a dreadful dream. There was a dark place—and I saw him—he was lying on wet stones—it was quite dark.”

“How could you see him if it was dark?” said Ferdinand. Nan was affecting him very uncomfortably. He made his voice as brisk as possible.

“I don't know—you can in dreams. I saw him. He was lying on the wet stones—and his eyes were shut. I woke up screaming, and he came in.”

“Jervis did? When did you say this was?”

“Last night.”

“What time was it?”

“I don't know. I looked at my watch afterwards—it was a quarter to two.”

“
Afterwards?
”

“After he'd gone back to his room.”

“Was he just as usual then?”

Nan's chin quivered for a moment.

“He was—kind.”

“Oh, you poor kid!” said Ferdinand to himself.

He did not say anything out loud, but he took his left hand off the wheel and laid it on her knee.

“Well, that means he was up and about at two o'clock. It might mean that he dressed and went out then. We ought to find out which of his clothes are missing.”

“I've asked Alfred—he sees to them.”

“What does he say?”

“He doesn't seem sure. He says there's a pair of grey flannel trousers and a blazer gone—and he thinks a blue serge suit, but he isn't sure whether Jervis brought it back from town. I made him ring up and find out, and they say it's not there.”

“Anything else missing?”

“I don't know. I told Alfred to go through everything whilst we were out. We'd better go on.”

They got back to find Alfred tolerably sure that there were quite a number of things missing—the doubtful blue serge suit; evening trousers and dinner jacket; shirts, socks, and pants; and, most important of all, tooth-brush and razor.

“No pyjamas?” said Ferdinand.

Alfred was very dubious about pyjamas. No—Mr Weare hadn't taken his dressing-gown or his hair-brushes. But Alfred was prepared to swear to a dozen pocket handkerchiefs, because they were new and Mrs Mellish had had them to mark.

“Now that's mighty strange,” said Ferdinand. “He's taken his handkerchiefs and left his hair-brushes. And if all these things have gone, what have they gone in?”

“Oh, there's a suit-case missing, sir,” said Alfred.

“Where from? Where did he keep it?”

They were in Jervis' room, Nan sitting on the edge of the bed, Alfred on his knees in front of piles of clothes, and Ferdinand moving restlessly about the room. Alfred got up and dusted himself.

“Mr Weare likes to keep his suit-cases handy, sir. He wouldn't have them taken to the box-room in case of wanting them in a hurry.” He opened a door in the wall near the head of the bed, and disclosed a deep cupboard. There were three or four suit-cases in it, and some hat-boxes.

“Are you sure one is missing, Alfred?” said Nan.

Alfred appeared, for once, to be on really firm ground.

“The new Revelation, ma'am.”

“And you're sure it was here?”

“Oh yes, ma'am. He brought it down new from town. Mr Monk will tell you the same.”

Downstairs again, Nan and Ferdinand faced one another.

“It looks as if he'd gone away,” said Nan.

“It surely looks like it.” Ferdinand's eyes avoided hers.

“Why didn't he leave a message?”

Ferdinand looked out of the window.

“He might have given a telephone message or a telegram to someone to send off. I've done that myself—and sometimes it's all right, but sometimes you're liable to get let down.”

“Why didn't he leave a note
here
?”

“Well—he seems to have been in a mighty hurry.”

“Why did he taken all those handkerchiefs and leave his hair-brushes?” said Nan.

XXXII

There was no letter from Jervis by the post next day. Nan did not know that she was counting on one until the post had come and brought nothing. She looked at Ferdinand, and Ferdinand exercised some ingenuity.

“Now look there, there's a thing he might have done—a thing I've done myself when I've had my mind all taken up with something. He might have written a note to leave here, and have gone away with it in his pocket. If he finds it, he'll send a wire—but he mightn't find it till he gets back home. It's a thing might happen to anyone. Why, in my own hometown there was the case of Shucks Lawson. Poor old Shucks had got it bad. He wasn't a man any more; he was just a shadow—Cornelia Van Bien's shadow. And then all of a sudden he lit out and everyone would have bet their bottom dollar that Cornelia had given him the mitten. By and by Cornelia began to look kind of shadowy too. She'd never been what you'd call robust, but she got so poetic-looking that she pretty nearly wasn't there at all. And then one day she got a cable from Melbourne, Australia—and I know what was in it, because I knew the operator pretty well, and he told me. It was one of the longest cables we'd ever had in our town, and he was kind of proud of it. It said: ‘Letter proposing marriage just found pocket winter suit can you forgive love you to distraction cable reply or shall go plumb crazy Shucks.'”

Nan had been looking down at her plate. She had made a very fitful breakfast. She heard Ferdinand's voice, but she did not really hear what he was saying, because her own thoughts were speaking so loudly all the time. She felt suddenly as if she could not sit there and listen to them any longer. Her face changed, her mouth quivered. She pushed back her chair and got up.

“I must go and see Mrs Mellish,” she said.

Since she had come to King's Weare she had daily interviewed Mrs Mellish. It was really Mrs Mellish who conducted the interview, but Nan hoped that with a little practice she might yet arrive at ordering beef when Mrs Mellish had proposed mutton.

She proceeded to the housekeeper's room, and was received with Mrs Mellish's usual austere respect—a respect not in the least personal, but indicative of the fact that Mrs Mellish knew her manners. Today Nan approved the menu without so much as reading it. She stood, and Mrs Mellish stood. She said, “Yes, that will do very well,” and continued to stand, looking past Mrs Mellish in a manner which was secretly resented—“There's places where one should be, and there's places where one shouldn't be; but to be looked past as if I wasn't there—in my own housekeeper's room—
well
!” Nan continued to look past her until Mrs Mellish, in her own phraseology, “Could abear it no longer.”

“Was there anything further, ma'am” she said in such a politely controlled voice that anyone less absorbed than Nan could scarcely have missed the offence behind it.

Nan did not start, but she came out of her abstraction and turned her eyes upon Mrs Mellish's face.

“Yes,” she said. “I wanted to ask you whether you or the maids heard anything on the night Mr Weare went away. We think he has written, and that the letter has been mislaid.”

“Yes, ma'am?” Mrs Mellish's tone was not really a very encouraging one.

“If anyone noticed anything,” said Nan, “it would be a help. Someone may have heard him moving about. It would be a help if we knew what time it was when he went out. We are—” She paused for a long time, and then said, “anxious.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Mrs Mellish.

Her plainly banded hair made the neatest possible frame to her plump, pale face. The hair was iron grey. In the morning Mrs Mellish dressed to match her hair, in a strong iron-grey material which suggested in the most insistent manner reliability and moral worth.

“Will you ask if anyone noticed anything?”

“Certainly, ma'am,” said Mrs Mellish.

She left Nan to a feeling that she had been knocking imploringly upon a door that was not made to open. Then, as she stood waiting for Mrs Mellish to return, it came to Nan that it was not so much that the door was not made to open, as that it had been deliberately slammed in her face. She stood there and thought about this. Why do people slam doors? Either because they are angry, or else because they have something to hide. There wasn't any reason why Mrs Mellish should be angry with her. Had Mrs Mellish by any chance got something to hide?

Mrs Mellish came back into the room with the slow walk of a comfortably covered woman who is concerned with her dignity. It appeared that nobody had noticed anything. Gladys had slept all night—“and hard enough to get her up in the morning, ma'am.” Fanny had waked up with the cocks crowing, but she hadn't been awake more than five minutes and she “hadn't heard nothing.”

“And you, Mrs Mellish? Your room is the nearest.”

“No, ma'am.”

Her eyelids came down over her rather pale and prominent eyes. There was the effect of a blind being pulled down. First the door of the house had been slammed, and now the blinds were down. In a civilized country you cannot break into somebody else's house. Nan turned and walked out of the room with the sense of defeat heavy upon her.

She found Ferdinand Fazackerley in the study.

“I want to go and see Rosamund,” she said.

“Why?”

“I want to.”

“Why do you want to?”