The Goose Girl and Other Stories (7 page)

Investigation of a practical kind came to an end. There was no one to question and nothing to find. Even the spiritualistic mediums who offered their services were of no real assistance, though some of them claimed to have established communication with Miss Joan Pomfret, who told them that everything was for the best in the best of all possible Beyonds. Mrs Pomfret, it was reported, had said, ‘Sometimes it is light here and sometimes it is dark. I have not seen Bulmer, but I am happy'. There was a little discussion on the significance of
Bulmer,
till a personal friend suggested that it was a mis-tapping for the name of Mrs Pomfret's favourite author; but the general mystery was in danger of being forgotten, dismissed as insoluble.

It was about this time that Mr Harold Pinto left Kirkwall in the Orkneys for Leith, sailing on the S.S.
St Giles
. Mr Pinto was a commercial traveller, more silent than many of his class, a student of human nature, and in his way an amateur of life.

When the
St Giles
was some four hours out of Kirkwall he stepped into the small deckhouse which served as a smoking-room, and, pressing a bell, presently ordered a bottle of beer. There were, in the smoking-room, two other commercial travellers with whom he was
slightly acquainted, the reporter of the provincial newspaper which had first heard of the Pomfret case, an elderly farmer who said he was going to South Africa, and a young, bright-eyed man, carelessly dressed, distinguished by a short, stubbly beard. He looked, thought Mr Pinto, as though he might be a gentleman. His nails were clean; but his soft collar was disgustingly dirty and his clothes had evidently been slept in. He asked for Bass, at the same time as Mr Pinto, in an educated and pleasant voice, but when the beer came he merely tasted it, and an expression of disgust passed over his face. He took no part in the general conversation, though Mr Pinto noticed that he followed the talk actively with his eyes—very expressive eyes they were, full, at times, of an almost impish merriment.

The conversation naturally centred on the Pomfret Mystery, and the reporter very graphically told the story from the beginning, embellished with certain details which had not been published. ‘There are some things,' he said, ‘which I wouldn't willingly tell outside this company. It's my private belief that old Pomfret took drugs. Don't ask me for proof, because I'm not going to tell you. And there's another thing. Joan Pomfret once asked the gardener at Swandale—he's a local man—whether he knew of any really lonely places near by. The sort of places where there were likely to be no casual passers-by. I didn't send that piece of news to my paper because I'm still waiting for the psychological moment at which to make it public. But you'll admit that it's significant.'

The other commercial travellers both contributed theories, at which the reporter scoffed, but Mr Pinto was almost as silent as the young man with the beard.

‘Mass suicide won't do,' said the reporter, ‘however much you talk about crowd psychology; and mass murder, followed by the suicide of the murderer, won't do either. None of them was likely to run amok. And where are the bodies? One at least would have been washed up before now. No, it's my opinion that there's an international gang at the bottom of it, and one of the party—at least one—was either a confederate or a fugitive from the justice of the gang.'

The man who was going to South Africa said that he had a cousin who had once disappeared in Mashonaland. He was about to tell the story more fully when the two commercial travellers and the reporter discovered that they were sleepy—it was nearly midnight—and went hurriedly below. And after a minute or two the man with the cousin in Mashonaland followed them.

The young man with the stubbly beard sat still, staring at nothing with eyes that were alert and full of comprehension. He seemed to
be listening to the throb of the steamer's screw and the answering wash of the sea. His lips moved slightly when a wave, louder than the others, ran with a slithering caress along the ship's side, and he smiled engagingly, looking at Mr Pinto as though he expected an answering smile.

‘The Möder Dy,'
¹
he said, ‘laughing at fishermen's wives. All summer she laughs lightly, but the laughter of her winter rut is like icebergs breaking.'

Mr Pinto, remarking that it seemed to be a fine night, stepped out on to the deck.

‘Oh, a glorious night,' said the young man with the beard, following him. ‘Look at the clouds, like grey foxes running from the moon.'

‘Indeed, there is one extraordinarily like a fox,' replied Mr Pinto politely.

‘She is hunting tonight,' said the young man. ‘Foxes and grey wolves. And see, there's a stag in the west. A great night for hunting, and all the sky to run through.'

Mr Pinto and his friend had the deck to themselves, and Mr Pinto began to feel curiously lonely in such strange company.

‘Listen,' said the young man, pointing over the rail. ‘Do you hear a shoal of herring talking out there? There's a hum of fear in the air. Perhaps a thresher-shark is coming through the Firth.'

Mr Pinto, convinced that he had a lunatic to deal with, was considering an excuse for going below when the young man said: ‘I saw you sitting silent while those fools were talking about Pomfret's disappearance. Why did you say nothing?'

‘Because I didn't think any of their theories were good enough,' answered Mr Pinto, feeling a little easier, ‘and because I had no theory of my own to offer.'

‘What do you think? You must think something?'

Mr Pinto blinked once or twice, and then diffidently suggested, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, you know; it sounds foolish, after having been quoted so often and so unnecessarily, but. . .'

‘It does not sound foolish. Those others were fools. You, it seems, are not yet a fool; though you will be, if you live to grow old and yet not old enough. If you like, I will tell you what happened to George Pomfret and his friends. Sit there.'

Mr Pinto, rather subdued, sat; and the young man walked once or twice up and down, his hair flying like a black banner in the wind,
turned his face up to the moon to laugh loudly and melodiously, and suddenly said: ‘They landed on Eynhallow in the quietness of a perfect evening. The tide was talking to the shore, telling it the story of the Seven Seals who went to Sule Skerry, but they could not hear it then. A redshank whistled “Oh Joy! look at them!” as they stepped ashore. But they did not know that either. They made a lot of noise as they walked up the shingle beach and the rabbits in the grass, because they made a noise, were not frightened, but only ran a little way and turned to look at them.

‘Mrs Pomfret was not happy, but they let her sit on the rugs and she fell asleep. The others walked round the island—it is not big—and threw stones into the sea. The sea chuckled and threw more stones on to the beach; but they did not know that. And the sea woke birds who were roosting there, and the birds flew round and laughed at them. By and by the shadow of night came—it was not really night—and they sat down to eat. They ate for a long time, and woke Mrs Pomfret, who said she could never eat out of doors, and so they let her sleep again. The others talked. They were happy, in a way, but what they talked was nonsense. Even Joan, who was in love, talked nonsense which she does not like to think about now.'

‘Then—' Mr Pinto excitedly tried to interrupt, but the young man went imperturbably on.

‘Disney said one or two things about the birds which were true, but they did not listen to him. And by and by—the hours pass quickly on Midsummer Night—it was time to dance. They had taken a gramophone with them, and Joan had found a wide circle of turf, as round as a penny and heavenly smooth, with a square rock beside it. They put the gramophone on the rock and played a fox-trot or some dance like that. Disney and Norah Disney danced together, and Joan danced with Samways. Two or three times they danced, and old Pomfret made jokes and put new records on.

‘And then Joan said, “These aren't proper dances for Eynhallow and Midsummer Eve. I hate them.” And she stopped the gramophone. She picked up the second album of records and looked for what she wanted; it was light enough to read the names if she held them close to her eyes. She soon found those she was looking for.'

The young man looked doubtfully at Mr Pinto and asked, ‘Do you know the music of Grieg?'

‘A little of it,' said Mr Pinto. ‘He composed some Norwegian dances. One of them goes like this.' And he whistled a bar or two, tunefully enough.

The young man snapped his fingers joyously and stepped lightly with adept feet on the swaying deck.

‘That is it,' he cried, and sang some strange-sounding words to the tune. ‘But Grieg did not make it. He heard it between a pine-forest and the sea and cleverly wrote it down. But it was made hundreds of years ago, when all the earth went dancing, except the trees, and their roots took hold of great rocks and twined round the rocks so that they might not join the dance as they wished. For it was forbidden them, since they had to grow straight and tall that ships might be made out of them.'

The young man checked himself. ‘I was telling you about the Pomfrets,' he said.

‘Joan found these dances that she loved, and played first one and then the other. She made them all dance to the music, though they did not know what steps were in it, nor in what patterns they should move. But the tunes took them by the heels and they pranced and bowed and jumped, laughing all the time. Old Pomfret capered in the middle, kicking his legs, and twirling round like a top. And he laughed; how he laughed! And when he had done shaking with laughter he would start to dance again.

‘“This is too good for Mother to miss,” he said, “we must wake her and make her dance too.” So they woke Mrs Pomfret and there being then six of them they made some kind of a figure and started to dance in earnest. Mrs Pomfret, once she began, moved as lightly as any of them except Joan, who was like thistledown on the grass and moonlight on the edge of a cloud.

‘And then, as the music went on, they found that they were dancing in the proper patterns, for they had partners who had come from nowhere, who led them first to the right and then to the left, up the middle and down the sides, bowing and knocking their heels in the air. As the tune quickened they turned themselves head over heels, even Mrs Pomfret, who held her sides and laughed to see old Pomfret twirling on one toe. And the gramophone never stopped, for a little brown man was sitting by it and now and again turning the handle, and singing loudly as he sat.

‘So they danced while the sky became lighter and turned from grey to a shining colour like mackerel; and then little clouds like roses were thrown over the silver, and at last the sun himself, daffodil gold, all bright and new, shot up and sent the other colours packing.

‘And everybody shouted and cheered like mad, and for a minute danced more wildly than ever, turning catherine-wheels, fast and faster in a circle, or shouting “Hey!” and “Ho!” and “Ahoi! Ahoi! A-hoi!”

‘Then they sank to the ground exhausted, and the Pomfrets looked at their partners who had come from nowhere; and were suddenly amazed.

‘“Well, I'm damned!” said old Pomfret, and all the little brown men rolled on the grass and laughed as though they would burst.

“Oh, they're the Wee Folk, the Peerie
¹
Men!” cried Joan, delightedly, clapping her hands. “Peerie Men, Peerie Men, I've found you at last!”

‘And again the little men laughed and hugged themselves on the grass. By and by, still laughing, they drew together and talked among themselves very earnestly, and then the biggest of them, who was as tall as a man's leg to the mid-thigh, went forward, saying his name was Ferriostok, and made a little speech explaining how delighted they were to entertain such charming guests on Eynhallow; and would they please to come in for breakfast?

‘Some pushed aside the stone on which the gramophone had been standing and, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, the Pomfrets went down rock stairs to a long, sandy hall, lit greenly by the sea, and full, at that time, of the morning song of the North Tide of Eynhallow. They sat down, talking with their hosts, and then two very old little men brought stone cups full of a yellow liquor that smelt like honey and the first wind after frost. They tasted it, curiously, and old Pomfret—he was a brewer, you know—went red all over and said loudly, “I'll give every penny I have in the world for the recipe!” For he guessed what it was.

‘And the little men laughed louder than ever, and filled his cup again. One said, “The Great King offered us Almain for it eleven hundred years ago. We gave him one cup for love, and no more. But you, who have brought that music with you, are free of our cellar. Stay and drink with us, and tonight we shall dance again.”

‘No one of them had any thought of going, for it was heather ale they drank. Heather Ale! And the last man who tasted it was Thomas of Ercildoune. It was for heather ale that the Romans came to Britain, having heard of it in Gaul, and they pushed northwards to Mount Graupius in search of the secret. But they never found it. And now old Pomfret was swilling it, his cheeks like rubies, because Joan had brought back to the Peerie Men the music they had lost six hundred years before, when their oldest minstrel died of a mad otter's bite.

‘Disney was talking to an old grey seal at the sea-door, hearing new tales of the German war, and Joan was listening to the Reykjavik
story of the Solan Geese which three little men told her all together, so excited they were by her beauty and by the music she had brought them. At night they danced again, and Joan learnt the Weaving of the Red Ware, the dance that the red shore-seaweed makes for full-moon tides. The Peerie Men played on fiddles cut out of old tree-roots, with strings of rabbit gut, and they had drums made of shells and rabbit skins scraped as thin as tissues with stone knives. They hunt quietly, and that is why the rabbits are frightened of silence, but were not afraid of the Pomfrets, who made a noise when they walked. The Peerie Men's music was thin and tinkly, though the tunes were as strong and sweet as the heather ale itself, and always they turned again to the gramophone which Joan had brought, and danced as madly as peewits in April, leaping like winter spray, and clapping their heels high in the air. They danced the Merry Men of Mey and the slow sad Dance of Lofoden, so that everybody wept a little. And then they drank more ale and laughed again, and as the sun came up they danced the Herring Dance, weaving through and through so fast that the eye could not follow them.