The Second Shot (7 page)

‘Only too charmed,’ Eric tried to grin, but his attempt was feeble and I could see that the man’s alarm was little less than my own. And as for myself, my discomfort was by now so acute that the sensation was almost physical.

But Mrs de Ravel would spare none of us. ‘Unfortunately, however, Paul has discovered the truth about me and Eric, through overhearing a scene between us in which I tax my lover with intending to give me up for mere money, and threaten that if
I
cannot have him no woman shall. That, you see, dearest,’ she added to her husband, ‘gives you a motive for killing Eric, too.’ I had never heard Mrs de Ravel use an endearment to her husband before, nor did I ever again; and it seemed, as she said it, the most terrible thing I had ever heard.

It was almost incredible that the numbskull had perceived no hidden meaning in his wife’s words, but apparently he had not. ‘That’s right,’ he nodded, stroking his little black moustache with a complacent air and completely oblivious of the electricity with which the room seemed filled. ‘That’s right. I could shoot you like a dog, eh, Eric?’

‘Like a definition bow-wow,’ Eric agreed, but his usual blatant laugh failed to ring out. I noticed him casting uneasy glances at John as if imploring help. Even Eric’s thick hide had been riddled.

John did speak, but he gave Eric no help. To my astonishment he was just as cool as ever. My opinion of John rose very rapidly at that moment. I had done him an injustice. ‘That’s very good, Sylvia,’ he said, in quite his normal tones. ‘I should think that ought to do very well. It gives, as you say, Paul a motive, and myself a motive because I’m so fond of Elsa that I’d rather run the risk of hanging than see her married to such a low fellow as Eric. No, I’m afraid Sylvia’s plot doesn’t leave you with much of a character, Eric.’

‘Doesn’t seem to,’ Scott-Davies mumbled. He was not a good prevaricator.

‘And of course it gives you a motive too, Sylvia,’ John pursued tranquilly.

‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Mrs de Ravel. ‘Oh, yes. It gives me a motive too.’

‘Poor Eric!’ laughed Elsa, still somewhat nervously. I think she saw that something curious was happening, but did not understand what. ‘Poor Eric! Everybody seems to want to kill him except me. Never mind, Eric. I don’t, you know.’

‘No,’ John agreed. ‘I’m afraid nobody could find a motive for you, Elsa. You’ll have to be content with being the cause of all the trouble.’

‘I feel terribly important,’ tremulously smiled the dear child.

‘And if Cyril plays the policeman he’s out of it too,’ continued John, who had now placidly taken things into his own hands. ‘And so is Ethel. As a model hostess she’s far too busy housekeeping for the party to have time for killing any of it. But Armorel – ’

‘Hullo?’ said Armorel. She tried to speak naturally, but I noticed a little quiver in her voice. She of course had missed nothing of what had passed. ‘Don’t say you’re going to give me a motive for wiping out Eric too?’

‘Oh, yes; we must have you in. What do you suggest, Sylvia? Couldn’t Armorel be violently in love with Eric too?’

‘Oh, my God,’ said Armorel coarsely.

‘We mustn’t strain the probabilities too far,’ glinted Mrs de Ravel.

‘Anyhow, what’s the idea, John?’ Armorel demanded. ‘Am I one of those trying females who devour their mates? Like the spider, or whatever they used to teach us.’

‘No, I think something like this. You love Eric, and in spite of his entanglements you think he loves you, so being a romantic young woman you’re all for a suicide pact, and – ’

‘One minute, John,’ drawled Mrs de Ravel. ‘We mustn’t have too much of the same kind of motive, surely. Why not give Armorel a different one? If Eric dies, let us say, she inherits Stukeleigh and whatever is left of the family fortunes that Eric has not squandered. You’ll have to be a squanderer as well as a cad, Eric, for my plot.’

This time Eric was able only to grunt. I looked at Armorel. She had gone as white as the white dress she was wearing.

But Mrs de Ravel would have no mercy. ‘There’s been some talk of Eric selling Stukeleigh, you see,’ she continued deftly, her eyes fixed on Armorel. ‘You, a person of far more delicate sensibilities than Eric, are naturally horrified at the idea. Besides, you want it for yourself. Wouldn’t that be better, John?’

‘Perhaps it would,’ said John, but he spoke a little doubtfully.

I was still looking at Armorel. In spite of desperate attempts to control herself the girl was visibly shaken. Had my imagination been unkindly stimulated by Mrs de Ravel’s words, or was there really only too sound a basis for this new insinuation? In any case, the woman was a devil.

Armorel bit her lip. ‘V – very well,’ she said uncertainly. ‘That’s all right for me.’ I had never seen Armorel Scott-Davies lose her self-possession before.

Again John took charge. He began to tell us what we should do, setting out the closest details: how I was to follow Eric down to the stream, where he was to go and where I was to catch him up, how I was to get from him the gun he had under his arm, and all the rest of it. Mrs de Ravel took up the discussion with him about the quarrel in the house party. She insisted that her husband’s suggestion of acting it, in order to be pat with convincing answers on its details, should be adopted. John was not sure we need bother to do that. They argued, and eventually, backed by De Ravel himself, Mrs de Ravel carried the point.

It may all have been most interesting and amusing. No doubt it was. But I found myself unable to pay the least attention to it. There is a trite metaphor about sitting on the edge of a volcano. If ever I have felt myself to be on the edge of a metaphorical volcano it was in Ethel’s drawing room that evening.

When at last, well past one o’clock, we finally did disperse to bed, I made an opportunity for a word alone with Ethel. I told her frankly that the thing should be stopped. ‘Believe me,’ I said earnestly, ‘Mrs de Ravel is dangerous. I’m certain she has some plan of her own in mind.’

To my astonishment I perceived that Ethel’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘I know,’ she said rapidly. ‘I know she has. She’s going to strike at last, in her own way. Don’t interfere, Cyril,
please.
Things are going better than anything I could possibly have arranged myself.’

‘But the danger is over,’ I protested. ‘After this evening, I should hardly imagine that Miss Verity could fail to see Eric in his true colours. There will be no more thought of an engagement. So why let Mrs de Ravel play with fire in this way?’

‘Listen, Cyril. I watched Elsa closely this evening. She’s hopelessly in love. You can be sure that Eric, when he took her out, succeeded in explaining away that business. Didn’t you see how different her manner to him was after they came back? I tell you, the danger has never been so great as it is now, and I’ll stop at nothing – nothing, I tell you! – to prevent it. Certainly I’ll let Sylvia have as free a hand as she wants.’

‘But what do you think she has in mind?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s something to do with this story she insists on our acting, obviously. I’ll tell you what I think: if she’s sure she’s lost Eric for good and all, she’d tell Paul the truth rather than let him get Elsa. Well, if she does,
I’m
not going to stop her. What does a rift between the De Ravels weigh against Elsa’s whole future?’

‘You’re convinced, then, that if the truth does come out Miss Verity will have nothing more to do with Scott-Davies?’

‘No,’ said Ethel slowly. ‘I’m not. I can only hope so. I believe really that we’re playing against time. If only their engagement isn’t announced before she learns the truth, I think she’d have nothing to do with him; if it is, I’m afraid she might persuade herself to believe him against everyone. Elsa is very loyal.’

There was a short silence between us.

‘Ethel,’ I said, more earnestly than I usually care to speak, ‘Ethel, abandon the whole plan. I confess, frankly, I’m afraid of what may happen. You’re playing with fire.’

‘No,’ Ethel smiled. ‘Not fire; only candles. And the game is worth them. Good-night, Cyril.’

It was in a more than uneasy mood that I sought my room, and sleep did not come for long after I got into bed. The events of the evening had left me spiritually battered, and it was a state not only to which I was unaccustomed but which I did not care for at all. That Mrs de Ravel had something desperate in mind I could not doubt, and it seemed to me madness on Ethel’s part to allow her to proceed with it. And yet – if she was right and the danger of an engagement between that poor deluded child and the unspeakable Scott-Davies was really so imminent, was it not worth while risking anything in the world to prevent it?

I turned uneasily between my sheets. The more I contemplated that engagement, the more filled with horror of it I became. It
was
impossible. Ethel was right.

It was not until well into the small hours that a startling thought came to me. Why did
I
feel so strongly in this matter? Why was I not pursuing my usual policy of leaving other people’s troubles to look after themselves – of remaining aloof from the complexity of interfering in other people’s affairs? What was the mainspring of this real horror I felt of a marriage between Scott-Davies and Elsa Verity? Could it be, could it possibly be, that I had fallen in love with the girl myself?

Once this extraordinary idea had presented itself, I lost no time in examining it very thoroughly. I had never been in love, so far as I know, so that the characteristics of the state were unknown to me; but it seemed that if I were in love with Miss Verity I should definitely want to marry her. Did I wish to marry her? Indubitably (I realized with relief) I did not. She was a charming girl, compared with Armorel Scott-Davies she was idyllic; but it was useless to pretend that she was not something of a nonentity, her character seemed far more negative than positive, she was no whetstone for the sharpening of wits. And though one may cherish an idyll, does one ever want to marry it? Theocritus is admirable for the enjoyment of an idle hour, none better; but one could not possibly read Theocritus morning, noon, and night. No, for serious consideration one falls back on something more solid than an idyll.

I liked Elsa Verity very much indeed, I pitied her innocence with all my heart, I was as anxious to prevent her from being crushed as one would be concerning a delicate flower growing too near the edge of the path; but love her? No, thank goodness; a hundred times no.

I am telling this story not at all well. I began the last chapter with a reference to Armorel’s invitation to me, on the morning following that fateful evening, to help her gather bluebells for lunch. I had to excuse myself, because John had selected the place in the woods which was to be the scene of the supposed murder, and I had to familiarize myself with it and carry out certain arrangements in preparation for the afternoon. These arrangements completed, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was barely eleven o’clock. The pretended quarrel in the house party was to be enacted at twelve o’clock, and I was not looking forward to it in the least. In the meantime I would have half an hour to spare for Armorel and the bluebells.

I have probably made it plain that I do not care for the type of young woman which Armorel Scott-Davies represents, with her cigarettes and her lipstick (I believe that is the term); on the other hand her well-meant attempts to atone for her cousin’s boorishness had touched me, and I thought it only kind to requite them. I made my way along the stream to the bluebell wood. Elsa Verity, I may say, had gone into Budeford with Scott-Davies in his car on the excuse of purchasing a false beard for De Ravel, without which the poor fool had pronounced it impossible to play the part of a deceived husband. Little enough of a false beard he had needed to play the part in unwitting reality! But the fact of Miss Verity’s disappearance lent ominous significance to Ethel’s words of the night before.

The bluebell wood at Minton Deeps is about an acre in extent, composed of large trees and thick but not dense undergrowth; it lies along the lower slope of the steep valley and is bordered by the stream. The winding path which is the main way through it follows more or less the margin of the rivulet. I had gone almost the whole length of this path, pausing occasionally to call in subdued tones for Armorel but without response, when, reaching the conclusion that she must have completed her task and departed, I determined to strike uphill along one of the many narrow tracks that traverse the woods, and so reach the house that way through the fields. I had passed about halfway through the wood, still keeping a lookout for her pale brown linen dress in the distance, when I all but fell over Armorel herself at a twist in the track. She was lying at full length, a sheaf of bluebells near her, her face to the ground, and it was evident even to my inexperience that she was sobbing bitterly.

I paused in some confusion, for feminine tears I have always endeavoured to avoid; they are embarrassing, emotionally disturbing, and by no means always necessary. Armorel’s tears were, in addition, astonishing. If I had not actually seen it, I could hardly have imagined Armorel weeping.

In the ordinary course I should have slipped unobtrusively away, pretending that I had noticed nothing, and perhaps whistling a gay little tune to aid the deception. At present, however, this was impossible; the girl was lying not merely at my feet but right across my path. I could not but be cognizant of her presence.

I determined to put as good a face on it as possible. ‘Ah, Armorel, here you are,’ I said, as cheerfully as I could. ‘So you’ve picked the bluebells, I see. I’ll tell Ethel. She’ll be delighted.’

Armorel had sat up with a violent start, keeping her face still turned from me. I made as if to pass on my way.

Then compunction overcame me. In vain I reminded myself that feminine tears were rarely as serious as they appeared. I felt that I must at least offer some consolation. ‘Is anything the matter, Armorel?’ I asked, in considerable embarrassment.

She shook her averted head. ‘No, thanks. Just making a fool of myself, that’s all.’