Читать книгу Vanishing Point - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 9

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After twenty four hours of the Holly Tree, Craig Lester made up his mind to go no farther. The ostensible reason for his journey into these parts being a dutiful visit to a nono-genarian great-uncle, he felt that Uncle Rudd could be duly and daily-inspected just as well from Hazel Green as from any hotel in Melbury. For a good many years now it had not been practicable to stay in the house, where everything went like clockwork and an elderly housekeeper and an elderly nurse united in a benevolent despotism. Uncle Rudd was beautifully looked after, and his visits were a matter of form, yet he paid them with regularity, and would do so to the end. They had not always been convenient, but at the moment they provided an admirable reason for his remaining in the neighbourhood.

On the third day of his visit he encountered Henry Cunningham in the bar, a tall stooping figure with a beard and an untidy head of greying hair. Remembering Jenny’s story of a romantic attachment in the Romeo and Juliet manner, he reflected that no one could possibly have looked less like Romeo. But then, in spite of all his other misfortunes, that young gentleman had been spared the detractions of middle age. Looked at dispassionately, it was possible to conceive that Henry might have had his points before he let his shoulders sag, grew a beard, and stopped incurring the expense of a hair-cut. The current growth had every appearance of being botched at home with the nail-scissors. He strolled over with his own glass and made a few observations on the weather. They were received in a limp but perfectly amiable fashion, and some desultory conversation followed, in the course of which names were exchanged.

“I have to come down to these parts every now and then to see an old uncle of mine, and this time I thought I would stay here instead of in Melbury.”

In a quite detached manner Henry Cunningham echoed the words.

“An uncle—”

Craig Lester said, “Retired doctor. Used to have quite a practice in these parts—Dr. Rudd Lester. He’s in his nineties now, but quite spry.”

Henry Cunningham said, “Ah, yes—Dr. Lester—” He might or might not have said any more. From his general habit of letting a subject drop it could have been deduced that he had no more to say, but at this moment a man who had just come in crossed over and hailed him.

“Well, well, well—always merry and bright! A pint of mild and bitter, Mr. Stubbs, if you please. How’s bugs, Mr. Cunningham?”

The hearty voice, the rubicund appearance, were in the strongest contrast to Henry Cunningham’s lack of vigour. He lost no time in naming himself to Craig.

“Newcomer here, aren’t you?... Oh, staying for a day or two? Well, nobody could make you more comfortable than Mrs. Stubbs—I’ll guarantee that. My name’s Selby—Fred Selby at your service. Hit on this cosy little village when I was looking for somewhere to retire to, and I’ve never regretted it. Nicest place you could find anywhere, and the nicest people. Used to be in business in London, and everyone said I’d find it too dull in the country—never stick it.” He laughed heartily, took a pull at his beer, and went on. “Well, I don’t say I don’t take a run up to town now and again, because I do. But as to going back to there to live—no, thank you, sir! Not if you were to offer me a fortune! Why, I used to have nerves, and where are they now? Suffered from insomnia—I give you my word I did. And now—well as often as not I don’t so much as turn over before the alarm goes off in my ear.”

“Early to bed and early to rise?”

“That’s the ticket! I’ve got a few dozen hens—just for a hobby, you know—and it makes all the difference if they get their hot mash in the morning. I tell you, three years ago I didn’t think I’d be getting up at half past six to cook breakfast for a lot of hens! I tell my wife she ought to take a hand, but she says she’s got enough to do without, and I suppose she has, though we’ve a girl comes in mornings and gives her a hand, which is more than she had in town.” He went on talking.

Presently Henry Cunningham drifted away.

Next morning in his uncle’s bright, hot room Craig brought up the name.

“I met a chap called Cunningham last night. Henry Cunningham—Hazel Green. Do you remember the family?”

Old Dr. Lester was a good deal like a monkey. The neat black skull-cap which he wore added somehow to the resemblance, so did the red flannel dressing-gown. An organ-grinder’s monkey, looking about him sharply to see what was coming along, only instead of the brown eyes being sad they were still capable of a lively spark of mischief. At the moment they were a little vague. He said,

“Cunningham?” And then, “Sister called Lucy?”

“I believe so.”

The eyes brightened.

“Yes—yes—oh, dear me, yes! Henry Cunningham—lord, what a hoo-ha there was!”

“What about, sir?”

“Hazel Green you said. Come across any of the Crewes?”

“I’ve met Miss Lydia Crewe.”

“Then you’ve met the whole lot of ’em rolled into one. Know what I used to call her? Only to myself, you know—a doctor can’t afford to be witty about his patients. ‘Pride and Prejudice’, and it hit her off to a T!” He chuckled to himself and went on. “Lydia Crewe—and Crewe House—and no money. And her father sold the Dower House to the Cunninghams. She put herself in such a state I had him in bed for a month with a hospital nurse to keep her out of his room. Well, he had to have the money. And after all the fuss, she made friends with the Cunninghams and fell in love with Henry. Silly affair—very silly, and a good thing it didn’t come to anything, because she’d have swallowed him whole. Dominant personality, quite ruthless, and ten years older than he was—he’d have been swallowed. So it was all just as well, but there was a lot of talk at the time.” He gave a half chuckle and rubbed his hands together, lacing and interlacing the fingers.

When Craig said, “What kind of talk?” he said in a falling voice,

“God bless my soul—I don’t know—it’s all too long ago.... What were we talking about?”

“Henry Cunningham and Lydia Crewe.”

Dr. Lester brightened.

“Made a lot of talk—a lot of talk. But there wasn’t any proof. Mrs. Maberly was a very careless woman—couldn’t go into a shop without leaving a bag or an umbrella—she probably left the ring somewhere when she went to wash her hands, and forgot all about it. I don’t suppose she had it on at all the day she said she missed it, and of course nothing was proved. But there was a great deal of talk—a great deal of talk—and when Henry went off like that, of course everyone believed the worst. Did you say he was back again now?”

“Yes, sir, he’s back.”

Dr. Lester nodded.

“Well, well, it’s a long time ago—quite a long time ago.”