Such Is Death (2 page)

My visits in any case will not be at regular times. People in a place like this do everything at regular times, rise, eat, take walks and sleep. The chances are that one or two people take the air on the seafront every evening at six or eight, and if I made my visit a fixed thing we should get to know one another by sight. No, that must
never happen. I shall go sometimes as early as seven and sometimes as late as eleven.

I shall wait till October is over and the last of the autumn visitors have gone, then, on one of those dark blustering November or December nights I shall know the delicious sensation of being a murderer….

T
HE
Queen Victoria hotel at Selby-on-Sea was not, as its advertisements claimed, two minutes from the beach, unless you had a fast motor-car and there was no traffic, but six minutes' sharp walking brought you from its stolid façade down Carter Street to the seafront. It was not the best hotel in Selby, but it was by no means the worst, a frowsty place of comfortable chairs and big bedrooms in which the furniture and fittings had not been changed since the hotel opened in the year of the Diamond Jubilee. Once the bourn of commercial travellers it still catered for visitors on business rather than holiday-makers for there was nothing very festive about its dining-room, which overlooked a narrow street, or its lounge from the lace-curtained windows of which could be caught no glimpse of the sea.

Its bar had an entrance direct from the street and was a popular meeting-place for the town's residents, particularly in winter when a big coal fire was lit half an hour before opening. There was a vast mahogany erection of mirrors and cornices and between this and the counter were to be seen two ladies who had presided there for several years and were known as Doris and Vivienne.

They were admirably contrasted, Vivienne tall, remote, pensive and pale, Doris short, talkative, given to whispered conferences with clients across the bar, Doris leaning over and the customer stretching forward till their heads were close together. These conferences had a way of being
terminated with a sentence or two for all to hear. Whisper, whisper, whisper the two would go until suddenly both participants would stand upright and Doris would say loudly—“So you see, don't you?” or “I only hope you're right,” as though to indicate that there had been no secrets. Perhaps there had not and Doris's conspiratorial behaviour was a mannerism.

Everyone liked Doris, but it was Vivienne to whom they turned when they became pot-valiant and talkative, for her hauteur tempted them. Doris would smile to all the customers but to win a smile from the cold thin lips of Vivienne was an achievement. Both ladies were in their late thirties and both were described by the hotel's proprietor as ‘smart-looking girls', but Vivienne's languid expression made her seem older than dumpy, cheerful Doris.

“Nasty blustering night, isn't it?” said Doris to Vivienne when they opened the bar one evening in late November.

“Mmmm,” said Vivienne musically. It was not exactly a word, but it was more than a letter. Humming through several notes it was absent-minded, yet perfectly polite, and with various modulations served Vivienne for most forms of discourse.

“Shouldn't like to have to go out this evening. The wind seems to go right through you.”

“Oh, I don't know,” reflected Vivienne.

“I thought so as I came in. It cuts through you like a knife, I thought. There weren't many about, either. You can't blame them. Just one or two on the front.”

“Mmmm?”

“Yes. I noticed as I came by. I thought to myself, I wonder whatever they want to walk along there for on an evening like this. I suppose it's sea air they're after. Well, there's enough of it to go round. Did you enjoy the film?”

“Mmmm,” said Vivienne dubiously.

“They're a long time starting to come in tonight, aren't they? There's no one much in the hotel. One
booked in just now, though. I saw him as I was coming through the hall”

“Mmmm?” said Vivienne with slightly more animation.

“Yes. Kind of staring eyes. Didn't look as though he was much, either. One little case and rather shabby-looking, I thought. I expect he'll be in later and you can see for yourself. Perhaps you'll fancy him!”

“Mmmm!” denied Vivienne disdainfully.

They were busy for the next half-hour with the regulars, Vivienne for all her remoteness as efficient in serving as Doris. Some intimate matter engaged Doris and Mr Lobbin, the newsagent, from a few doors away, for their heads were close for several minutes, to be separated finally with Doris's loud—“I'd never have believed it, mind you.” The windy cheerless night seemed to have driven in more than usual of the town's sturdy businessmen and there was a discreet bass rumble of hearty talk.

Presently Doris moved close to Vivienne as she poured a Guinness.

“That's the fellow I told you about. Standing near the door. The one who booked in tonight. Got a funny look, hasn't he?”

“Mmmm,” said Vivienne not without interest.

“I don't like those eyes, though. The sort you read about in the paper. Seem to drill right into you, don't they? That's his second double Scotch in ten minutes.”

The man she referred to was gaunt and grey-haired, a stringy individual with large powerful hands. He might have been fifty, or a little less. His mouth was wide but thin-lipped and tightly shut and his eyes, as Doris said, were large and staring. He seemed to take no notice of anyone but drank as though it was a timed exercise, a gulp, a wait, a gulp and then two or three steps to the bar for a refill.

Doris could not take her eyes from him.

“I don't like it,” she said to Vivienne. “There's something queer about him. Look at the way he's drinking that whisky as though he'd got a train to catch. Glad I don't
sleep in the hotel. I shouldn't have a moment's peace thinking about it.”

“Oh well,” volunteered Vivienne chattily.

“You don't think he's escaped from Somewhere, do you? He might have, you know. I was only reading in the paper the other day …”

At this point the man under discussion came up to the bar.

“Where's the telephone?” he asked.

“There isn't one, not in the bar,” exclaimed Doris. “You'll have to go through to the hall. You'll see it there. It's got ‘Telephone' up on it. You'll need coppers, though, because it's a public box. Did you want a local call?”

The man hesitated.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“I can give you coppers if you want them.”

Without answering the man went towards the door leading to the hall.

“There,” said Doris. “I told you there was something funny about him. Did you notice the way he looks at you with those eyes? Seem to go right into you. Didn't it give you a queer feeling?”

“Mmmm,” said Vivienne, dubiously negative.

“Well it did me. Soon as ever I saw him. I hope he doesn't come back in here. He's had four doubles already.” She turned to a customer. “Yes, Mr Stringer? A nice light ale? There was something I was going to tell you.” She was soon leaning forward while Mr Stringer, torn between her whisper and his thirst, uneasily inclined his head. After he had taken a long draught, he began to nod appreciatively and in his turn to reply. “So it wasn't what it looked like being, was it?” said Doris at last releasing him.

It was at least ten minutes before the man returned and ordered another large Scotch, served in silence by Vivienne.

“Did you get through?” asked Doris chattily.

“No. No reply from any of them,” said the man.

“There. Isn't it a nuisance when you want to call someone and there's no answer? Still, you can try again later, can't you? You staying long?”

“I don't know yet.”

“It's a bit quiet this time of year. I mean, look at the weather. You can't expect people to come to the seaside when it's like this. It's not raining though, is it? Just dark and blowy. Still, you're all right. You're staying in the hotel. You haven't got to go out in it.”

“Who says I haven't?” he asked rather fiercely.

“Well of course I don't know. I only thought that as you were staying in the hotel …”

“Give me another Scotch.”

Doris seemed subdued for a moment as she served him.

It was the man who spoke again.

“I've got business to attend to here,” he said.

“I thought you must have,” said Doris. “No one comes much in the winter otherwise.”

The man's large eyes, which had an expression of resentment but of anxiety or even fear too, watched Doris fixedly, but she thought they showed a certain glazed haziness. The whisky so steadily swallowed was beginning to have its effect. When he next spoke he used a surprising phrase.

“I'm presumed dead,” he said.

Doris tried a startled giggle.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked. “You're alive enough.”

“Presumed
dead,” said the man impatiently. “Have been for years though I did not know it. How would you like to be presumed dead?”

“I don't know what you mean,” said Doris uncomfortably.

“When nothing's heard of you after a time your family can consider you a dead man. That's what I mean. I've been a dead man for years. Now I'm coming to life again.”

“That's a funny way to talk,” said Doris.

“I'll tell you something else,” said the man. “There's more than one in this town who won't be at all pleased
at my resurrection.” A very unpleasant smile appeared on his face. “They won't be at all pleased.”

“Do you know it well?” asked Doris, aiming at normal talk. “Selby-on-Sea, I mean?”

“Never been here before in my life,” said the man, motioning to show he wanted yet another whisky. “But I've … blood ties with it, you might say.”

“You do say funny things,” said Doris, looking anything but amused.

“And I do funny things, too,” the man told her. “Especially to those who do funny things to me.”

He moved away from the counter and Doris watched him find a place in a far corner of the room.

“He gives me the creeps,” she confided to Vivienne. “I don't know what he's on about half the time, death and resurrection and that.”

“Religious, perhaps,” said Vivienne indifferently as she served a small gin-and-pep.

“It's not that,” said Doris. “Presumed dead, was what he told me and now he's come to life again. He says some won't be pleased at that, and I don't wonder.”

“Mmmm,” agreed Vivienne absently on two notes.

“When George comes in to do the fire I'm going to ask him to see what name that fellow's given in the hall. Sounded so funny about people in the town not being pleased to see him. I'd like to know who he is.”

George duly appeared at nine o'clock and was sent on his mission. He came back to tell Doris that the new guest's name was Ernest Rafter.

“Can't say I've ever heard it,” Doris regretfully told Vivienne. “It's not one of the regular customers anyway. That's not saying it isn't known in the town, though.”

Vivienne somehow thought she'd heard the name but couldn't remember where. She did not sound interested.

Half an hour later the man called Ernest Rafter brought his glass to the counter but did not order another drink. He moved with the peculiar deliberateness of one who is controlling his own tipsiness.

“I shall leave it till tomorrow,” he told Doris
ambiguously. “Plenty of time then. I don't feel like tackling it tonight.”

“Going to bed, are you? That's right. You get a nice night's sleep and you'll feel better tomorrow.”

“I am not going to bed. I don't need a nice night's sleep and I feel perfectly well tonight,” retorted the man sulkily.

“You do whatever you think best, then. I was only saying.”

“I shall go for a walk,” said Ernest Rafter obstinately.

“What, in all that wind? It cuts right through you like a razor. Wherever are you going?”

“Promenade,” said the man. “There is a promenade, isn't there?”

“Of course there is. Ever so nice it is in summer. But there won't be many out there tonight.”

“Suits me. Good night.”

“Cheerio,” said Doris and watched him march resolutely to the door. “He's had too much,” she told Vivienne. “I can't think what he's going down to the front for, unless it's to cool his head. He'll certainly do that in this wind, won't he?”

“Mmmm,” said Vivienne, agreeing.

Meanwhile Ernest Rafter made straight for the sea as though he went to an appointment. His light raincoat did little to protect him from the wind and his head and shoulders were thrust forward. He passed almost no one on his way down Carter Street which ran from the Queen Victoria hotel to the promenade, not even a policeman trying doors or a conscientious drinker coming from his pub. One bundle of rather aged womanhood and a young man with hands in pockets ostentatiously without a coat were the only people he saw and of these he took no notice.

“Tomorrow,” he said irritably and aloud, as he reached the promenade. It was as though he was answering someone's nagging questions. ‘Tomorrow,' he was thinking. ‘There's plenty of time. They'll have to pay for my hotel. Might even stay for a while.'

Had he been sober enough for surprise he would have found it odd that the asphalt was not quite deserted. Even by the reduced lighting he could see several hurrying figures and coming towards him was a young policeman who had evidently just completed a tour of inspection of the promenade. The policeman seemed to eye him rather fixedly but said nothing as he passed.

Ernest Rafter breathed heavily. The cold wind seemed to make his head swim and he hesitated, as though trying to decide which direction to take, to the left towards the bandstand or to the right, towards the end of the promenade and the last shelter. He chose the right.