That farther door. Leave well alone. Go while the going was good … She tiptoed across and opened the door and looked into a kitchen. This was untidier than the other room. Plates and cutlery were piled in the sink, and a primus stove, which had evidently done most of the recent cooking, stood in the middle of the floor with a paraffin can and a bottle of methylated spirits beside it.
Suddenly, in the hall through which she had come, the clock began to strike midday …
She stood there frozen until it had finished and then with the fear of discovery, which had been clamouring away all this time, now too strong to withstand, she turned sharply, closing the door, to tiptoe in haste back across the living-room. It seemed that instead of silence the house was full of creaks and half-formed footsteps and breaths of wind.
She ran across the hall and slid out of the front door …
Conscious of enormity and the peering eyes of fifty windows, she walked back across the green and past the lodge.
The old man put his head out. ‘ Did ye see Mr Fleming?’
‘No. There was no one in.’
‘Aye, he’s at church. I thought he would be.’ The matter thus settled, the head withdrew.
Philippa walked back to the village, the wind pushing at her shoulder and flapping her skirts. Hope springs eternal, she thought. Well, it had sprung frequently enough in her, but now the mechanism was beginning to run down. Even if there was any clue to be found here – and even if by some miracle it was a clue which would help in Nick’s defence – the time was now too short. The schoolmasters were scattered on vacation; any one of ten or fifteen might have known Elizabeth slightly during the war years and have brought the song to the school – or given the manuscript music to Elizabeth; or she might have got it in a dozen other ways.
Well, she’d done her best: backwards and forwards about the country and in London and Holland, asking, asking, asking, meeting the suspicious stare, the curiosity, the open rebuff. As a girl she had sometimes taken part in house to house collections for charity, but had always disliked them because a single refusal made her feel impertinent and interfering. During the quests of this last months all these old dislikes and timidities had come up and had had to be faced and overcome in intensified form. That she had overcome them had been a measure of her determination. But she was coming to the end now.
As she reached the main street a good many more people were about and she realized they were just coming out of church. She glanced at the first corners, but receiving back their curious stares, she dropped her eyes and turned to look in a shop window. It was the only shop that hadn’t got its blinds down, but some of the groceries had been taken out of it and she found that the mirror at the side reflected most of the street to her view.
She wondered what Nick was doing. Usually he went to chapel on a Sunday morning at Brixton and then spent the afternoon reading. How many more hours would he have to spend in the witness-box tomorrow? Brooke Bond’s tea. Knight’s Castile soap. An old man passing in a donkey cart: he hadn’t been to church. What were the jury doing? she wondered. Would they be kept together or allowed to disperse to their own homes?
Quite suddenly her attention stiffened as if someone had struck her. Passing up the street was a woman between two men. And one of the men might have been Nick …
She swung round and stared after them. The resemblance was gone now. It had been a chance mistake, something in the angle of the mirror and a likeness of build. Why had it struck her? Perhaps she needed food. She had had no breakfast, practically nothing to eat for eighteen hours. Oh, she was going crazy, soon she would see Elizabeth Rusman coming out of one of the houses. It was the strain, the disappointment, the endless frustration. And yet …
On impulse she turned and walked quickly after them. They had got well ahead by now and were moving in the direction of the last houses, climbing the rising ground near the clump of firs. Presently they halted before a house with a brass name-plate. So they were stopping short of the school.
She found she had no excuse to dawdle but must go past them. As she did. so she heard the lady say to the taller of the men – the one she had seen:
‘I’m surprised to hear you quote the Jesuits. I’m sure it’s not a nice thing to do after coming to church with us.’
The man gave a short laugh. ‘ Misquote them probably, Mrs Wishart. I never remember whether it is five or seven years they specify. But I’m concerned with the later years …’
She was past and walked on as far as the fir coppice. There she waited.
As if this was something deeper than knowledge, as if some sort of intuition was warning her that this time she wasn’t crying wolf in vain, she was not surprised to see the tall man coming on alone.
He was about the same build as Nick but older, with, she thought, greying hair. As he came up she saw there was really no resemblance at all.
He glanced curiously at her and would have passed on, but she said.
‘Forgive me. Are you Mr Fleming?’
‘I am,’ he said, and as he looked at her with his light brown gaze it was as if there was a flicker of puzzled recognition in his eyes.
‘I’m Mrs Newcombe,’ she said. ‘I called at the school but you were out. I wanted to see you about sending my son to the school.’
He inclined his head. ‘I’m so sorry. Perhaps you’ll be able to call again?’
‘I should like to,’ she said. ‘ But I have to go back to London tomorrow. I was wondering if you could see me later today?’
‘I have an engagement this afternoon. Would six this evening be convenient?’
‘Thank you. That will do very well.’
He raised his hat and they parted.
Where have I seen her? he thought. I connect her with something, perhaps it’s a likeness; I mustn’t get suspicious of everyone. Why did I talk about an engagement this afternoon? It’s the practice of lying that grows. Or is it that I now shirk new contacts? Putting off. She reminds me of someone. Perhaps by this evening I shall know.
He’s not like Nick, Philippa thought, except in build and general features. But would it be enough for Grieve to mistake? He’s not like Nick except now and then: that sudden crinkling of the eyes. They might be distant cousins.
She got back to the hotel and realized she was nearly fainting with hunger. After a meal which contrived to be fairly satisfying, she found the manageress in a more talkative mood.
‘Och, it’s a good school,’ she said. ‘Your son’ll be well looked after there, and the air is fine, makes ’em eat and makes ’em grow.’
‘I met Mr Fleming this morning.’
‘Yes, he’s a good schoolmaster. And a God-fearing man too. A wee bit strict with the boys, they say. But no wonder, for you have to be wi’ lads of that age.’
Philippa wondered if that remark would be likely to endear Mr Fleming to a prospective client.
‘What was that?’ she said.
‘I said he was only here for another term, for he’s been appointed to the headmastership of Lovell’s in Glasgow. A big move up for him, but no doubt he deserves it.’
‘Is he married?’ Philippa asked.
‘Oh, yes … Mrs Fleming is away staying with relations. If you want tea, just ring the bell, will you?’
‘How long has she been away?’ asked Philippa.
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Fleming.’
‘Oh, a couple of months it’ll be now – perhaps more. I think it was about the end of February.’
‘I suppose that would be her photograph I saw in his sitting-room. A good-looking woman, younger than he is, very dark, rather sallow, with large eyes.’
‘Yes,’ said the manageress. Just ‘yes’, and went away.
The afternoon dragged on as if it would never end. Twice she went out and walked round the village, wondering if there was anything more she could do. Was this another blind alley she was entering? She felt it was not.
On, her second outing she called at
the garage and got the promise of a car into Edinburgh leaving Penmair at a quarter to nine. Once she thought of calling on the doctor she had seen talking to Fleming, but realized that without some authority she could never get anything out of him. At four-thirty she had tea and at five she went up to her bedroom, washed and put a little powder on her face but no lipstick. The spectacles were some use, she thought; but she wished she had a brimmed hat that would hide her face. At five-thirty she set herself to smoke one last cigarette before going out. At twenty to six she left the hotel.
The sky was heavy with cloud, which hung low over the expressionless sea. If it had not been for the birds singing one could have taken it for the early twilight of a winter’s afternoon. Among the fir trees there were pools on the road and a dozen starlings were fluttering and splashing. They flew away in a cloud as she came up and chattered at her from the trees.
As she came near the gates of the school she saw a figure standing there. It was Fleming.
‘I thought I would meet you,’ he said quietly. ‘ I sent the porter off, and he isn’t back yet.’
The clock in the tower was just striking six.
Chapter Twenty-One
He led her straight across to the main school building, talking affably. She could not decide whether he was a Scot or not. There was no accent. She saw that he had charm when he wished to exert himself; it showed through the first impression of rather prosy dryness. Parents would think, how deceptive these schoolmasters are. Imagination, or a greater awareness, made Philippa keen to catch the undertones, and once or twice she sensed the insincerity behind the telling phrases. They had been repeated so often that they were worn smooth.
But they were the phrases designed to appeal to parent or guardian, designed perhaps to conceal a certain contempt for this side of schoolmastering; when he spoke of teaching a different note crept into his voice.
He unlocked the big door and stood aside for her to go in. She found herself in a large square hall with some framed oil-paintings and rows of hooks with only one scarf and raincoat left on them. It was not very light in here for the windows were high. She stared round and listened to him carefully relocking the door behind him. For a few seconds she stood quite still. Then he came up beside her.
‘This way, please. We’ll go out by the other door.’
They walked down the hall, their feet sounding hollow on the boards.
‘Were you recommended, Mrs Newcombe?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Yes. The Henry Bakers. Their son Benjamin was here.’
He nodded. ‘He left last year. An intelligent boy. But he’s the sort who may waste his talents – if he’s allowed.’
They turned a corner and he opened another door.
‘This is one of the classrooms.’
She stared at the desks, the blackboard with the white chalk marks blurring the outer edge. It was all desolate, cold and desolate.
‘We specialize in small classes,’ he said. ‘ I’ve made it a principle since I came here. Teaching should be a co-operation. Lectures are useless.’
‘Are you musical, Mr Fleming?’ she asked as they turned to go out.
‘No.’ His pale brown eyes met hers.
‘I should like Leslie to take music, and I noticed –’ She stopped. What incredible madness was going to make her mention the piano in his sitting-room, ‘– noticed that the Baker boy had a good grounding.’
He seemed for a moment to be watching her closely.
‘Cantley is our choir-master, and Miss Wharton takes some classes. No doubt you saw their names in our prospectus.’
‘I haven’t had one,’ she said. ‘I was in Edinburgh on a family matter and came to see the school quite on the impulse of the moment.’
‘You are staying at the hotel?’
‘Not tonight. I’m hoping to catch the night train back to London.’
They were climbing the stairs now, he three steps behind her. They were wide stairs with carved banisters into which knobs had been screwed at intervals to spoil an obvious sport. He walked very quietly. When there was any carpet she could not hear his steps at all.
‘Has this been an old manor house?’ she asked.
‘It was built by the family of Donald about a hundred years ago. They were a spendthrift lot. The place has never been put to such good use as now.’ He opened another door. No, not yet, give me a minute to get confidence. The window was blood-red in the sudden sun.
She moved the switch and heard the hum of the electric blower. She began to play one of Bach’s preludes, one her father had taught her in the village church years ago. How sweetly normal they seemed, that church, that tune. Near poverty perhaps, but sweet and sane. She glanced in the mirror and saw that she could see Fleming reflected standing on the chancel steps.
She finished the prelude and began to play the song that Elizabeth Rusman had written.
Chapter Twenty-Two
With cold fumbling hands and sweat on her forehead she played it through to the end, while the stained-glass window burned in the evening sun. Then she looked in the mirror again and saw that Fleming had moved. She could no longer see him.
He’s coming up behind me, she thought, in a minute his fingers on my throat. Elizabeth choked, choked to death …
As her back straightened her fingers went down on the keys and she played a chord. And another chord, automatically. These notes came not from the brain but from muscles long ago attuned. She felt sick and faint but his fingers were not there.
She got up … from the organ, turned.
Not forward, he had not gone forward but back, out of the glow of the window.
She heard her own voice say: ‘ Yes, a very good organ.… Thank you.’
She walked slowly down the chancel steps. She could not see his face very well, but he stood aside to let her lead the way towards the door.
I can’t again, not turn my back on him again …
His shadow flicked along the bench ends beside her.
He said: ‘You play the organ very well, Mrs Newcombe.’
She had reached the door and waited for him to open it. As he opened it she saw his face a little more clearly. It was completely expressionless. Not a muscle moved. But there was a faint dampness of the skin.
Back along that covered way. On one side were school photographs, groups, year by year. Hundreds of little white dots, row on row, entities, held for a moment, gone now, records for the school.
Half-way along Fleming said.
‘Where did you hear that song?’
Somehow even to talk of it was better than the silence.
‘The little Baker boy was humming it all through the Christmas holidays when he came to stay with us. I hope his memory was good.’
‘Quite good.’
‘It’s your school song, isnt it?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s original, isn’t it? I wonder who wrote it.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Now, is there anything more I can tell you, Mrs Newcombe?’
Would they never get out in the open? She felt she could walk no farther.
‘I don’t think so. Thank you for giving me so much of your time.’
‘Not at all.’
The door. He was opening the last of them. Outside the watery sun was still shining across the grass.
‘I’ll write to you when I get back to London,’ she said.
‘Please do.’
He was coming out with her.
‘Don’t bother to come to the gate,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve given you a lot of trouble already.’
‘No, it’s been a pleasure.’
Put out your hand. Out. With a smile.
He took it.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Newcombe.’
‘Goodbye. And thank you.’
She went off.
Why has there to be this grass, she thought, not gravel so that I could hear footsteps?
The drive at last. No pink friendly face at the lodge.
By the gate she turned as if to get a final view of the school. The door was shut and he was gone. But gone where? She only knew that no power on earth – not even the hope of saving Nick – would have induced her to go back and enter that empty building again.
She turned and went down the road. With relief came sanity and self-criticism. What had she done? Nothing but walk over a school. What had been said? Nothing but what might have been expected. Had she then somehow imagined the whole of the undercurrent of tension which had seemed to exist?
Police officers were not concerned with feminine intuition. What had she to tell them? Enough to cause an inquiry to be made? If Elizabeth Rusman had married and lived here, then Fleming would be in a tight position; he would have to explain why he had not come forward, why he had lied about her being abroad. Was there a loophole? What sort of an alibi had he for the time of the murder?
But had she any proof yet that Elizabeth had been his wife? Anything to take back with her as tangible evidence to stop the case against Nick?
She found herself back in the village and went straight to the hotel. There was still an hour before the car was due to call.
And when he shut the door again he went back to the chapel.
He sat in the front pew and looked up at the stained-glass window from which nearly all the colour had now faded. He did not try to pray, but his thoughts went round and round in his head like robots at a fair. The dragons, the gargoyles, the angels, the leaping horses and the winged devils. Which one should he ride?
In this crisis his reason had been uppermost all the time; there had only been one moment of slipping, but he had quickly controlled it.
He was not sure yet if he had acted for the best, sometimes the impulse of the moment is the clearer guide. He did not know. She was catching the night train, she said. That would mean Murray’s car. What time did it go dark? This damned daylight saving. The sun would set in about an hour, then the long twilight. But it was a heavy evening. The light would be failing by the time the car left.
It was not a pretty problem. One weighed the risks, the advantages, the possible flaws, in any action or inaction. Reason it out. Consider it carefully.