Читать книгу Antidote to Venom - Freeman Wills Crofts - Страница 6

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For some couple of months after the Burnaby’s reception time passed uneventfully for George Surridge. Once again some unexpected luck at poker recouped the greater part of his losses and left him in easier, if still precarious, circumstances. His relations with Clarissa remained much as usual: if they were not happier, they were not visibly worse. On the other hand, things at the Zoo were better. The elephants had arrived in good condition and had proved great acquisitions. The disease among the monkeys had ceased and there had been no more deaths. They had received some rare and greatly prized small cats from Indo-China: creatures which not even the London Zoo possessed. The rebuilding was going on satisfactorily and the new watchman in Cochrane’s place was doing well.

But though George’s position was temporarily easier, he was still very short of money. If only, he thought for the hundredth time, he had his aunt’s five thousand! Nothing less than a sum of this magnitude would put him permanently right. A few pounds at poker was well enough; it would meet gambling debts and immediate necessities, but to obtain the fundamental improvement his circumstances needed would take something very different.

With intense though hidden interest he had noted the change in Miss Pentland’s health, and he had been a little shocked at his own disappointment when he found it was not deteriorating as rapidly as he had hoped. That she was ill he felt sure; her face had the drawn pallor of disease. And she was, he thought, getting weaker, though so slowly that there seemed no promise of an early inheritance.

Invariably at this stage George reminded himself that he did not wish the old lady any harm. But as the days passed, his disappointment at her continuing strength changed to actual dismay. More than anything he had ever wanted, he longed for that money.

Then one night a dreadful idea shot into his mind. She was ill and very old: she must die soon. If her death was too much delayed—could it not be—accelerated?

George was filled with horror when he realised just what he had been thinking. Why, that would be—he could scarcely bring himself to frame the word—that would be murder! Good God, how dreadful! Hastily he banished the thought.

But in spite of all his efforts, it came back. It grew, not less hateful, but more familiar. He toyed with the idea, wondering how such a thing might be done, then again assured himself with vehemence that nothing in heaven or earth would ever induce him to be guilty of such a hideous crime.

Still the horrible suggestion lurked in the recesses of his mind....

The next afternoon it happened that George had business at the other side of the city, and when it was finished he took a bus back. As he sat down he glanced indifferently round. Then a hand seemed to grip his heart. There, just opposite him, was the woman whom he had shown round the Gardens, and whose image had ever since remained in the background of his thoughts.

The meeting was so unexpected that for a moment he couldn’t move. Then, recovering himself, he leant forward.

“I wonder if you remember me?” he asked diffidently. “We met some weeks ago at the Zoo.”

“Of course.” She smiled in a conventional way and he was thrilled to notice the colour deepen in her cheeks. There was a vacant seat beside her. With pounding heart he took it.

“An unexpected pleasure,” he went on as lightly as he could. “I have often hoped you would come back to take another look at our mutual friends.”

“I wanted to,” she answered, and he found that her voice was infinitely more moving and delightful even than he had supposed. “But I’ve not been able. I don’t live here, you know.”

“I hope you’ll manage it,” he went on. “After you left I remembered I had not shown you our photographs. We’ve got some quite decent ones. There’s one I should think must be unique: of Tommy—you remember Tommy, the lion?—springing across his cage. It’s rather fine.”

She smiled and her eyes lit up with interest. “How did you manage to get that?”

George warmed to his subject. “A fluke really,” he declared, going on to talk about the intricacies of animal photography. “But I can’t explain it in a few seconds.” He paused and glanced out of the window. They were just about to leave the centre of the city. “I wonder if I might be very daring? I was just going to have some tea. Will you be extraordinarily kind and join me?”

He waited as if the retention of his job were at issue. Then a surge of delight passed over him as she answered: “That would be nice. Thank you, yes, I’ll come.”

They were near what he considered the best restaurant in the city and he installed her in a secluded alcove. It was early and they had the place practically to themselves. George felt absurdly nervous: he couldn’t understand what was the matter with him. He particularly wished to be easy and offhand, though pleasant in manner, but he knew himself to be addle-headed, tongue-tied and as self-conscious as a boy in his teens. On many occasions he had mentally rehearsed conversations with her, but now all these fled from his mind. He could think of nothing but the most inane platitudes, and even these he pronounced hesitatingly and without conviction.

But marvellously she didn’t appear to notice it. Her lips formed themselves into a slow smile which turned his heart to water, while she spoke to him as if he were a normal human being, almost indeed her equal. Her soft low-pitched voice fell upon his ears like distant music. He was so moved that it took all his resolution to maintain his role of casual acquaintance.

Presently the subject of the Zoo animals palled and, without deliberate intention, they began to talk of themselves. He told her that he was married, believing it not only right to do so, but wise. On her part she was equally frank.

Her name, it appeared, was Nancy Weymore, and she was a widow. Her husband had been a doctor in Worcestershire, and had built up a large and lucrative practice when he developed sepsis from an infected cut and died in great pain. Then she had endured a further shock. It transpired that he had been living almost entirely upon income and had saved but little money. As she had none herself, she had therefore to find a job. She had been lucky in getting one as model in the fashion department of one of the big Birmington shops. Unfortunately, owing to a reconstruction, she had recently lost this job, and for the last three months she had been acting as companion to an invalid lady living in the country near Neverton, some dozen miles from Birmington. The old lady, she said, was a dear and she was very happy with her.

She did not tell all this to George in a breath. It came out bit by bit as they talked. Some of it, indeed, he grasped only by putting two and two together. Now that it had been suggested to him, he noticed that her clothes, while still conveying the impression of extreme neatness and good taste, appeared older and more worn than on their first meeting.

She seemed lonely and glad of the chance of talking, and their tea dragged out for nearly an hour. Then she said it was time for her bus and that she must go. He wanted to see her off, but she would not allow that.

“But I may see you again?” he implored as she collected her things. “There is so much I want to tell you.”

She demurred, though he thought not very decisively. An inspiration seized him. “Have you ever been on Orlop Hill?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then you must come,” he declared firmly. “Orlop Hill is our chief beauty spot and no one can appreciate this country who has not been there. It’s an escarpment of the Peak District and you can see the hills of that area to the north and to the south this great plain. There’s a road for cars to near the top, and from there it’s only a short walk to the beacon.”

“It sounds delightful,” she said, doubtfully. “How should we manage it?”

“Drive, of course,” he returned, excitement at the prospect swelling up within him. “I’ll call for you at Neverton with the car. It’s in the same general direction as Orlop and won’t be much out of the way. Only on account of the short evenings we’ll have to start early to get the view.”

She didn’t seem very keen on the idea, but at last she gave in and a meeting was arranged. On Wednesdays and Saturdays George played golf, and on the following Wednesday he undertook to call for her instead.

It was not till he was in bed that night that the real significance of the step he had taken began to knock for admission into George Surridge’s mind. He did not wish to think of it, but he could not help doing so. What exactly had happened to him? Had he fallen in love with this woman, and if so, what was he proposing to do about it? If he went on with this friendship, how would it end? Would it mean the break-up of his home and the loss of his job?—in other words, his ruin?

He knew that on the grounds of expediency, as well as morality, he should not proceed with the affair, but when he pictured Nancy Weymore as she had appeared seated beside him in the restaurant: when he remembered what she had said and recalled the tones of her voice, he felt that if necessary he would risk all and every consequence to see and hear her again.

Fortunately it was not necessary that he should risk anything. He could meet her without fear of any resultant disaster. This drive on Wednesday would commit him to nothing. In itself it would be a quite ordinary excursion without any special significance, and they could part at the end of it as they had met, mere acquaintances.

But when he considered the matter further, George found that it was not quite as simple as he had supposed. He usually took a bus to the golf course, leaving the car for Clarissa. He couldn’t get the car without letting her know why he wanted it, and he didn’t feel like telling her a direct lie.

He saw, in short, that he would have to hire a car. Here was more expense. He could scarcely make ends meet as it was, and to take on a further outlay was the last thing he desired. However, that couldn’t be helped. At least he needn’t be afraid of the garage people talking: in the interests of trade they would keep their own council.

He need not be afraid either, of being seen on the Orlop Hill. At this time of year it would be as deserted as the Sahara. They could not go to a restaurant because none would be open. He would have to take tea with him. He could not very well use flasks from home, as Clarissa might notice their absence. It would be better to buy one of those tea outfits and have it filled at an hotel. Still more expense, confound it! However, he felt he was now too far committed to draw back.

Next day after lunching at the Club he went to a garage where they specialised in the hiring of cars, and arranged for an N.J. Gnat to be ready on the Wednesday. At an adjoining shop he bought a tea box—it cost him nearly three pounds—and left it in an hotel with the necessary orders. All this made him feel excited and upset. He oscillated between trepidation over the step he was taking and an almost unbearable eagerness for the time to arrive.

At length it did so. He woke that morning with the impression that something of overwhelming importance was about to happen, and sprang out of bed to look at the sky. Thank goodness, it was going to be fine. He dressed as in a dream and carried out his morning’s work like an automaton, his mind full of what was coming. Gone were his fears and regrets. For that morning at least he would not have changed his position with any man in England.

His plans functioned without a hitch. He went as usual to the club for lunch, leaving early on the plea that he had to pay a call in the country. The Gnat, shining as if it had just left the makers’ hands, was ready for him, as was also the well-filled tea-box. With the box in the rear and soft rugs on the seat beside him, he drove out of Central Square in Birmington, taking the road to the north-east.

He was annoyed to find that nervousness was again overtaking him, and that the nearer he came to Neverton, the worse it grew. Nancy had indicated that she would walk out along the road to meet him, from which he concluded that she did not wish him to call at her employers house. He began now to worry about all sorts of things: whether he could be on the wrong road and so miss her, whether he could ever be as witty and interesting as not to bore her, whether she would enjoy the excursion. But no longer did he consider possible untoward results of the acquaintanceship: by now he could not see beyond the present.

At last, some mile before he reached the village of Neverton, his heart was set fluttering by the sight of a figure on the road ahead. Yes, it was she: a new Nancy Weymore in a tweed coat and skirt, a felt hat and tan brogues. Charming as she had looked in her town clothes, he thought she looked even more ravishing in these. He pulled up.

“I’m not late, I hope?” he said, anxiously. “You’ve come a long way.”

“I was just going to say how punctual you were,” she answered as she got in and settled herself beside him. “What a delightful car! New, surely?”

“Borrowed, I’m afraid,” he returned, smiling. “The family bus is in use to-day.”

To have as much time as possible on the Orlop, he drove quickly. The needle oscillated between forty and fifty, occasionally touching sixty, and, for George did not wish to risk being stopped, rigorously dropping to twenty-eight in controlled areas. The road soon began to ascend, and then as it wound higher and higher, they exchanged the fertile and populous plain, first for outlying farm-houses surrounded by pastures, and finally for the open moor. Presently they reached the summit and George drew into a parking-place where the road turned down a long gentle slope between two hummocks.

“The beacon’s up there,” he said, pointing to the higher of the little peaks. “It’s really not far. Are you game?”

“Rather,” she nodded. “What a perfect place! I had no idea there was anything like this in the neighbourhood.”

“Wait till you see the view from the top,” he advised. “Shall we have tea up there, or wait till we get back to the car?”

She smiled entrancingly. “Tea in this wilderness? Are you a complete wizard?”

He showed her the case. She gave a little cry of satisfaction. “That was all that was required to make it perfect,” she assured him. “But I think we’d better wait till we come back. Don’t you?”

He would have been delighted to have had it anywhere or nowhere, at that moment or never, but all he said was: “Right-o. Then shall we start?”

A rough path had been beaten by many feet over the coarse grass and scrubby heather of the mountainside. There were no trees and they could see the curving contours of the ground stretching away into the distance, the dark green broken here and there by the browns and greys of outcropping rock. Little runnels of water crossed the path and a more vivid colouring in the grass showed boggy patches. The air was sharp and clear and exhilarating, and the thin yellow sunlight, streaming nearly horizontally, threw dark shadows everywhere.

They reached the top after a short climb and stood gazing round them. Nancy breathed a soft “Oh!” and to hear that sound more than recompensed George for all the trouble and expense of the outing. It was indeed a splendid panorama which lay before them. As George had said, the view to the north was of mountains, peak rising after peak with dark valleys between, while southwards lay the plain, with the white streak of the road they had come by, winding down backwards and forwards and getting narrower and narrower, till eventually it disappeared in the haze of the low-lying ground.

Climbing in the comparatively low temperature had been pleasantly warm, but the wind at the top proved a different matter. They did not wait there long. After gazing for a few minutes in one direction after another, Nancy said she was cold and they began the descent.

Up to this everything had gone on in a perfectly normal way, and had Clarissa herself been there she would have seen nothing to which she could possibly have taken exception. But as they climbed down the rough track something happened which changed the whole character of the expedition.

Stepping on a small stone where a little stream flowed across the path, Nancy’s foot slipped. She splashed into the water and would have fallen had not George leaped forward and caught her in his arms.

He had not intended that their little excursion should be anything but a pleasant meeting between acquaintances, but he had not reckoned with a situation of this kind. The contact swept away his caution and paralysed his powers of resistance. For a few moments he stood motionless, then with a hoarse cry of “Nancy!” he crushed her to him and covered her face with kisses.

At first she struggled. “No, no, no,” she gasped, trying to escape from his arms. But presently she became quiet and then, slowly, she turned to him and threw her arms round his neck.

When he released her both stood as if dazed. Then she gave a little moan. “Oh,” she cried, “we shouldn’t have done that. It was so pleasant, and now we’ve spoilt it all.”

“We’ve spoilt nothing, Nancy,” he returned. “We love each other. This was bound to come.”

She shivered. “Oh, no,” she repeated, “we shouldn’t have done it. We were wrong. We must forget it.”

He turned down the hill. His heart was still pounding, but he controlled himself and spoke quietly. “We can never forget it. This is too big a thing to forget. It’s fundamental.”

She began to walk by his side. “No, we must forget it. It can’t come to anything but unhappiness.”

“It has happened,” he returned doggedly. “Nothing can change it, and we can’t forget it.”

She looked more troubled. “Your wife,” she said, softly. “You know you told me—”

He shook his head impatiently. “That can’t affect it. I have never—” he hesitated as if for a word, then went on, “I have never—felt for her—as I do—for you.”

She made a gesture as if to stop him, but she didn’t speak and they walked in silence to the car. In silence she got in, merely shaking her head when he murmured something about tea. “Let us go back,” she said at last. “We must think what is best to be done.”

This time he drove slowly, letting the car for the most part coast down the long hill. His mind was in confusion. He did not know what to suggest. Already he was beginning to realise the two outstanding features of the situation: first, that he loved this woman as he had never before loved anyone, as he had not known that anyone could be loved, and secondly, that to proceed further with the affair would mean complete disaster. Not only would there be the terrible break with Clarissa, which he could face, but also entire financial ruin through the loss of his job, which he didn’t see how he could.

Lost in thought, he drove steadily on till an exclamation from Nancy told him that they were approaching Neverton. “Stop,” she warned him. “I must get out here.”

“But we’ve settled nothing,” he returned, as he drew in to the side of the road.

“It’s been settled for us,” she declared, “by circumstances. It will be misery if we don’t see each other again, but it’ll be greater misery if we do. We must part: now.”

George felt that in theory she was right: they would have to part. But not then: at least not finally. “We can’t,” he insisted, “just say good-bye like that, as if we were strangers and I had casually given you a lift. It may be that when we have thought things over we shall decide you are right and that we shall have to part. But we can’t do that unless we are absolutely sure there’s no other way. No, Nancy, I’m not unreasonable, but I can’t agree to that. We must meet again to settle what we’re going to do.”

She was against it, but he was firm and at last she gave way. One further meeting she would agree to, but no others: and there were to be no letters. Finally it was arranged that on that day week—the first date that Nancy could manage—they should repeat their drive to Orlop. Wondering how he could exist for a whole week without seeing her, George drove back to Birmington.

That week dragged in a way he had never before experienced. He thought it would never come to an end. Fortunately, their secret remained intact. He had prepared a plausible story of a business visit to a neighbouring town for use in case of need, but he was relieved to find that this was not required. No questions were asked, and he was satisfied that no suspicions had been anywhere aroused.

On the next Wednesday he repeated his preparations. He hired the same car and had the tea box filled at the same hotel. He drove out to near Neverton, picked up Nancy, and went on to the hills. They had a walk, came back to the car, had tea, and returned as before.

In one way it was the most thrilling afternoon George had ever spent, and in another it was the most unsatisfactory. It was thrilling, wonderful and delightful beyond belief, because he was with Nancy. Alone with her he was completely happy. All he wanted was that time should stand still, and that they two could go on for ever just as they were. She, he believed, felt the same: complete and absolute bliss in a present which ruled out all disturbing thoughts of the future.

It was this powerful urge, to enjoy what they could while they could, that made the afternoon at once delightful and unsatisfactory, because when it came to an end it found them with the question of their future still undecided. Nancy urged a final parting, though not nearly so strongly as she had on the first occasion. He was for another meeting, this time definitely to settle the matter. In the end she once again allowed herself to be persuaded.

As a result there happened what, had they been in a normal frame of mind, they could easily have foreseen. At their next meeting they came no nearer to a conclusion, and a further excursion was arranged. So gradually they formed a habit. Every Wednesday afternoon, and often evenings in between, they managed to meet. And the more frequently they discussed their final parting, the further the decision receded from both their minds. These successive meetings began to form a continuous present, and future problems were more rigorously excluded than ever from their thoughts. Trouble might be coming, but why go out to meet it?