Читать книгу The Woman at the Door - Warwick Deeping - Страница 4

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Tramping under the beech trees into West Brandon he came to the village’s one responsible inn, The Chequers. West Brandon still smelt of the eighteenth century, and was beautiful, a village of individual cottages set back from the road in gardens. Rooks were busy in the high elms beyond the church. Orchards were in flower. One old red house raised its gables and chimneys amid the gloom of cedars. Of shops there were perhaps three, but West Brandon was feeling the urge of modernity. It had taken to itself a garage, and an estate office, for the inevitable syndicate had acquired building land here.

West Brandon did not trouble to stare at Luce. He was just a large person in an old plus-four suit, hatless, going grey at the temples, and with a pack on his back. The Chequers, a white building, set back from the road behind posts and chains, accepted the gentleman with a casualness that was not intended to be churlish.

“Can I have a room for the night?”

The sophisticated young person in the office gave him a cursory glance. He was just one of those earnest, middle-aged asses who walk about the country looking at churches and exploring by-ways, which, to the sophisticated young person is, in an age of wheels, mere foolishness.

“One night?”

“I might stay two.”

The young person was looking through some new gramophone records.

“No. 3. Dinner’s at half-past seven.”

She did not offer to direct him, and Luce made his way upstairs in search of No. 3. He wanted a bath. He found both Room No. 3 and an elderly maid sitting by a landing window mending someone’s socks.

“Can I have a bath, please?”

He was a somewhat shaggy person both as to hair and clothes, but the maid was less inhumanly self-centred than the young person below. She knew a gentleman when that rather rare genus put in an appearance, and this gentleman had a peculiarly gentle face. Yes, the dreamy sort who painted pictures or took photographs and scribbled in little books. The maid put her mending aside and stood up.

“Yes, sir.”

Luce strode into No. 3. He was a very big man, and like many very gentle creatures, extremely powerful. The floorboards of No. 3 complained of his weight. The maid heard him moving about in the room, softly whistling some song that was strange to her. As a tribute to his type she had given the bath a wipe, and put down a clean pink bath-mat. She knocked at his door.

“The bath’s ready, sir.”

He appeared in a blue shirt, brown knickers and stockings, with a sponge-bag looking puny in a large hand. The maid had returned to a chair by the window. From it you could see the high elms beyond the church, and hear the rooks’ chorus.

Luce paused on the landing.

“By the way, do you happen to know this neighbourhood?”

Her rather tired blue eyes met his. She was sufficiently old to be wise as to when a particular gentleman could be humoured.

“I was born here, sir.”

“Been here all your life?”

She gave a little wincing smile. No; she had other memories than those associated with West Brandon, but they had not been happy ones.

“Not quite, sir.”

“Do you happen to know Brandon Heath?”

Did she not? As a girl she had walked with a lad on Brandon Heath.

“There’s a queer place there, a tower.”

“O, you mean the old signal tower, sir.”

“Signal tower?”

“Yes, sir, in the old days they used to telegraph from it. They do say there were towers all the way to Portsmouth.”

Luce’s face was suddenly illumined.

“Of course. A semaphore tower. Why didn’t I think of that? Thanks, very much,” and he went in to his bath.

The maid heard him splashing and humming a tune. Yes, this was a nice gentleman, the sort of man who would have made a woman a good husband. And he hadn’t. Or—had he? He looked the bachelor sort, easy and absent-minded and natural. The maid let the sock lie in her lap and stared with faded eyes at the elm trees. It was spring and the rooks were busy, and all April things had gone out of her life. And suddenly her face looked old and haggard.

The bathroom door opened, and he was there in the same blue shirt and shaggy brown knickers and stockings. His hair looked wet, his face at peace with the world. She noticed how very blue his eyes were.

“By the way—do you happen to know who owns that tower?”

“I think it belongs to the Brandon Estate, sir.”

“And who?”

“O, Sir Evelyn Gage.—But he’s always abroad, sir. Mr. Temperley could tell you.”

“And who is Mr. Temperley?”

“The agent, sir. He’s a lawyer, too. Lives in the old red house at the top of the village.”

Luce thanked her, and disappeared into No. 3. He had decided to call on Mr. Temperley.