Читать книгу Sanctuary Island - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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ELIZABETH stood watching until the boat was just out of the cove, and then, with a wave of her hand to him, she turned and went back up the path towards the bungalow, frowning thoughtfully.

It was just like Richard to send that curt, peremptory telegram without a word of explanation. He was not accustomed to giving explanations: he issued his orders and expected unquestioning obedience. He was like that in business, she had heard—brusque, domineering, the hard, inscrutable man of affairs—and he ran his home on the same lines. Many a time, during the first few months of her marriage, she had flamed into furious resentment against his hectoring way with her, but she had soon discovered that any expression of her resentment was not worth while, and that for the sake of peace it was better to ignore his frequent rudeness.

She was puzzled to think what could have occurred of sufficient importance to make her husband wire to her. A sudden thought that her mother might be ill she instantly dismissed. Her mother, since the legacy of debts left by her husband had been removed from her shoulders, and she had enjoyed good food, expensive clothes, the comforts of Dilchester Court, and the dignity of being the mother-in-law of Richard Anson had shed a good ten years; her aches and pains had miraculously disappeared, and although there was always an array of patent medicines in her bedroom, of each of which she occasionally took a few doses, she was actually in excellent health.

But if not her mother, then what? Richard had never before telegraphed to her during her spells at Sanctuary Island, though there had always existed the arrangement that in case of emergency he could wire to her at the post-office at Whitbourne. Perhaps he himself was ill....

She fetched the telephone from her bedroom, seated herself in an arm-chair in the sitting-room, placed the instrument on a table beside her and plugged in; a few moments later came her husband's clear, precise voice: "Is that you, Elizabeth?"

"Yes. What's wrong, Richard?"

"Are you quite well?"

"Of course. Why?"

"I wondered," replied her husband, and she knew from the tone of his voice that he was displeased with her about something.

"Is anything wrong, Richard?"

"You may well ask, Elizabeth. You must forgive my saying so, but you have been most thoughtless and inconsiderate."

"I don't know why you should say that, Richard—"

"Please don't interrupt me," he cut in, and she could picture the look of annoyance on his face, and his plump white fingers, perfectly manicured, irritably drumming his desk as he spoke. "You have been most thoughtless and inconsiderate. I have been extremely anxious. When you left home on Saturday, the arrangement was that you would be returning on Monday at the latest. Today is Tuesday."

"I said I might be home on Monday, Richard. But it's absolutely perfect down here—glorious weather."

"The weather is equally glorious in Dilchester, Elizabeth, and in any case I fail to see that the meteorological conditions enter into the question. I was expecting you on Monday, and when you did not arrive I was naturally anxious. I thought you might be ill."

"Sorry, Richard, but I really wasn't definite about Monday. In any case, I'm perfectly well and enjoying myself immensely, so you needn't worry about me any more."

"That is a great relief to me. And when, may I ask, are you proposing to return to your home?"

"Oh, I don't know. I haven't really thought about it. At the end of the week, I suppose. Why?"

"I should have thought," he replied, "that a husband was entitled to ask a question without being called upon to state his reasons, but perhaps I am over-estimating the claims which a man has on his wife."

Elizabeth bit her lip.

"Very well, then, Richard; I'll be home on Saturday, Will that do?"

"It will certainly not do. As you seem to have forgotten all about it, I will remind you that tomorrow—Wednesday—there is a function which, as my wife, you will be expected to attend."

"Then I have forgotten, Richard. What function?"

She distinctly heard his "Tut!" of annoyance.

"Tomorrow, Elizabeth," he said, in a voice that suggested a schoolmaster repeating something for the fiftieth time to an inattentive pupil, "there is the ceremony of unveiling the memorial to Anna Rita Rymer."

"Oh, yes—the missionary woman. I'm afraid I had forgotten that. But there's no need for me to be there, is there?"

"My dear Elizabeth, of course you must be there. Everyone of any importance in Dilchester will be there."

"But I'm not so important as all that, Richard."

"That is for you to decide. As my wife, you will be expected there. I sometimes despair of ever making you realize, Elizabeth, that a woman who is married to a man of my—er—position and importance has duties and responsibilities which she cannot shirk no matter how much she may dislike them. It was at my suggestion, and chiefly with my money, that the memorial to Anna Rita Rymer was erected, and as I am performing the unveiling ceremony, you can hardly expect me to appear without my wife. You will please return home immediately."

Elizabeth sighed.

"Very well, Richard; I'll be there."

"I shall expect you in time for dinner this evening. The ceremony is at three o'clock tomorrow—"

"I'll be there," Elizabeth repeated. "But don't expect me for dinner this evening. I'll be home in time for lunch tomorrow. Good-bye."

She rang off without giving him time to raise objections. After all, there was no need for her to leave until the next morning, and she wanted to make the most of the few hours that were left. It might be some time before she could slip away to Sanctuary Island again. Richard was becoming more and more difficult each time she came now, and there would have to be a decent interval before her next visit.

She went out on to the verandah, seated herself in a deck-chair and gazed, as she was so fond of gazing, at the span of water that cut her off from the mainland. But the spell was broken. Her serenity had gone, and in its place had come a sense of irritation and discontent. She had got to go back.

She would always have to go back. These visits to her island could never be more than brief interludes which in reality only made her normal life seem less bearable by contrast. Looking ahead, she saw herself for long years as the wife of Richard Anson, attending "functions", sitting on committees, organizing bazaars, entertaining people with whom she had absolutely nothing in common, crushing down her longing for all those things which she had once believed to be the only things worth having—all those things which she and John would have found together and which she could never hope to find with Richard.

It was her own fault, she supposed. It was of no use longing for love and all that love could give when she had deliberately thrown love on the scrap-heap. But, no; that wasn't true. It was not her fault. She had been tricked, cheated, swindled. If life had played fair with her, John would now be sitting here with her and she would not be going back to Dilchester Court.

It was queer how she kept thinking of John today. She did not want to think of him: it hurt too much—even after three years as Richard's wife. Or was it especially after three years as Richard's wife? But somehow today she could not help thinking of him and of all that she had missed by losing him. Children. She and John had discussed that subject and had planned their children as they had planned everything else. There were to be three of them— two boys and a girl, all of them, according to John, to be exactly like their mother, and all, according to her, to be exactly like John. She had wanted children—then.

She went to bed that night feeling depressed and dispirited. But the next morning, after a swim and a hearty breakfast, the prospect of returning to Dilchester did not seem quite so unbearable. After all, she told herself, she was lucky to be able to slip away to a place like Sanctuary Island, and to sulk because her holiday was over was merely childish.

Getting out the little motor-boat, she started up the engine and set off for the mainland. There, having handed over the boat to the care of Jim Huggett, she made her way along the village street towards the garage where she had left the long, low sports two-seater which she always used for these trips.

Richard didn't approve of the car; for the wife of a man in his position and importance he considered it undignified, and insisted that in Dilchester she should make use of the Rolls-Royce and the chauffeur; but since she had bought it herself he could not very well forbid her to have it, and as long as she refrained from appearing in it in the streets of Dilchester more than was absolutely unavoidable, she drove it, if not with his approval, at least with his consent.

She was half-way along the street when she heard her name called.

"Mrs. Anson!"

It was Dr. Guy Ewell, broad, bluff, with bushy grey eyebrows and twinkling blue eyes, Dilchester's rudest and most popular medical practitioner, arrayed in a suit of dazzling plus-fours and with a bag of golf clubs slung over his shoulder.

"And what are you doing fifty miles away from home, Mrs. Anson?" he asked. "Playing truant again, eh? You needn't trouble to deny it; I saw Anson yesterday and he told me." He smiled at her. "You know, Mrs. Anson, you must be a sore trial to that husband of yours."

"After three years, Dr. Ewell," she laughed, "isn't every wife a sore trial to her husband?"

"God bless my soul, hark at the woman! Who's been telling you state secrets?"

"So you admit it's true?"

"I'm admitting nothing. But if it is true. I'd prefer to think you didn't know it. I'm going to stir up my liver with a round of golf. I come to the Whitbourne course when I can spare the time. If I play golf anywhere nearer home, people expect me to give consultations on the greens and prescribe all along the fairway, and I can't even charge 'em for it." His keen eyes regarded her shrewdly. "What have you been doing to yourself? You're looking better."

Elizabeth smiled.

"Please remember, Dr. Ewell, that I didn't ask for a consultation in Whitbourne High Street. I'm splendid, thanks. I've just been doing nothing a for few days—lying in the sun, lazing."

"H'm!" grunted the doctor. "Tanning, eh? And you fancy you're bursting with health just because every square inch of you body is toasted brown? It never seems to strike a woman that if God had intended her to have a brown skin He'd have given her one."

"And has it ever struck you, Dr. Ewell, that if God had intended that a woman shouldn't get tanned by the sun He'd have arranged for her to be born in stockings, skirt, and a high-necked jumper?"

"I'm not arguing," replied the doctor. "And I'm not complaining. I made more money out of sun-bathing last summer than out of all the other diseases put together. And when is Dilchester going to see you again?"

"I'm going back this morning. I'm just on my way to pick up the car. Duty calls."

"And you didn't pretend not to hear it? You must be a very remarkable woman, Mrs. Anson."

"I did pretend not to hear it," she laughed, "but it made such a hullabaloo that it was no use trying to keep up the pretence. For the sake of peace and quietness I'm going home with my skin three shades lighter than I intended it to be. There's a—function this afternoon, and I've got to be there." She made a wry face. "I never knew such a place as Dilchester for functions. You'd be doing everyone a kindness if, as a doctor, you could throw some of Dilchester's functions out of order. I suppose you'll be there this afternoon, won't you?"

"Not if I know it. What is it this time?"

"This memorial to Anna Rita Rymer. Richard is unveiling it this afternoon."

"Huh!" grunted Dr. Ewell.

"That's just how I feel, if 'huh' means that you find it terribly hard to summon up much interest in Anna Rita Rymer."

"Interest? God bless my soul, I took her tonsils out! You can't expect a man to be interested in a woman when he's taken out her adenoids and tonsils."

"Then you won't be there?"

He smiled.

"Between you and me, Mrs. Anson, when I saw your husband yesterday I promised him I'd put on my silk hat and mix with the celebrities on the platform, but I've a sort of an idea I'm going to have another appointment this afternoon."

"A serious consultation with a niblick?"

"That's more than likely. But I'm glad you're going home, Mrs. Anson. It doesn't do to have you away from Dilchester; things go wrong. What's the matter with your husband?"

"Nothing that I've noticed."

"Then you're an unobservant young woman, that's all I can say. The man's all on edge—nervy—-worried about something, I should say. When I met him yesterday and pulled his leg about the Bank—told him he ought to be ashamed of himself battening on the savings of the poor and running a Rolls—he fairly jumped down my throat. Bless me, I meant no harm."

"I'm sure you didn't, Dr. Ewell. But Richard has been—well, rather nervy lately; I have noticed that. He's been working terribly hard and really needs a holiday. Still, if Richard's nerviness is the worst catastrophe that has befallen Dilchester while I've been away—"

"It isn't."

"Battle, murder, and sudden death?"

He glanced at her quickly.

"So you've heard about it, have you?"

"I've heard nothing."

"Then you made a very good guess. Battle, murder, and sudden death just about hits the nail on the head. I was called in to the case, but the man was dead before I reached him."

"Another road accident?"

"Bless me, no! Some woman—a Mrs. Burns—killed her husband. Suddenly attacked him with a hatchet. But I'll spare you the gruesome details. She must have gone out of her mind."

"Perhaps."

"Eh? What do you mean—perhaps?"

"And perhaps not," said Elizabeth. "But you're not seriously suggesting, Dr. Ewell, that Mrs. Burns killed her husband because I came to Whitbourne to tan my skin?"

The doctor shook his head, smiling.

"There's logic, and there's woman," he said, "and never the twain shall meet. I'm not suggesting anything of the sort, Mrs. Anson." He laid a hand on her arm. "I'm just telling you in my own clumsy way, my dear, that Dilchester isn't quite the same to any of us when Mrs. Anson isn't there." He glanced at his watch. "Bless my soul! Trust a woman to gossip! I shall never get further than the third green before it's time for lunch."

Elizabeth smiled as she watched him hurrying off along the street. She liked Dr. Ewell. He was—safe. He always gave her that feeling of security. The sort of man who would see you through if anything went wrong....

Making her way to the garage, she got out her long, low, red-winged sports car, and, with the exhaust emitting a sound like the popping of colossal corks from gigantic magnums, set off along the road to Dilchester.