She Painted Her Face Page 2

  I had been something surprised that such a man as he should choose such an hotel, but I saw that he sat at the table of one of the residents – a quiet, sad-faced old fellow, whose name I knew to be Inskip, who used to go up to London twice in the week. The two spoke hardly at all, and I had no doubt that business was to be done. I found myself hoping that Inskip knew what he was about.

  That night I took Gering’s statement and read it again. Then I took pen and paper and wrote down the verbal statement which he had made to me. After that, I made two fair copies and sealed the originals up to be lodged at my Bank. And then I went to my bed, proposing to sleep on a matter which seemed to call at least for inquiry, into which I was not armed to inquire. And yet nobody else could do it. There was the rub.

  But, though I was weary enough, I could not rest – because I had called up spirits which now would not let me be. The life and death of Gering and the horror of Red Lead Lane demanded recognition in detail and would not be denied, and it was not till day was breaking that out of sheer, mental exhaustion I fell asleep.

  When Winter called me that morning, I asked him if he could tell me what Inskip’s profession was; and he said at once that he was a diamond merchant and added that he had heard say that he was ‘a very big man’.

  Winter was the valet who always attended to me. He was an excellent servant, quick and deft and willing and very quiet. He did for me much that could not be called his duty, and, because he was so pleasant, I had come to know him better than anyone else I had met since Gering died. He was only thirty years old, and I sometimes used to wonder that a man so strong and upstanding should have chosen a valet’s life: but he told me once that, though he had been trained for a chauffeur, the only posts he could get would have held him in Town, and I think that, to be in the country, he would have broken stones for the roads.

  That day I went to London myself – with a vague idea of engaging a private detective to shadow Percy Virgil and follow him out to Brief: but, instead, I purchased some Austrian ordnance maps and then, on a sudden impulse, walked into a motorcar dealer’s and spent an hour discussing the virtues of various cars.

  From this it will be seen that I was as good as halfway to leaving for Brief myself. Indeed, all that held me back was the thought that however shameful the state of affairs there might be, I could do nothing at all to put them right. I had a fine bow to bend, but not a single arrow to fit to its string – an agonizing position, if game got up. I knew. Impotence had his headquarters in Red Lead Lane.

  And then another thing happened.

  Winter did not call me next day – for the first time for nearly six months. As the man who had taken his place made to leave the room —

  “Where’s Winter?” I said. “He’s not ill?”

  “He’s gone, sir. He left last night.”

  “Gone?” said I.

  “That’s right, sir. He’s – left the hotel.”

  After breakfast I asked the porter for Winter’s address, and fifty minutes later I ran my friend to earth at his sister’s home.

  When I asked him why he had left, he looked distressed.

  “I lost my temper, sir. That’s one of the things a servant’s paid not to do. In a sense it wasn’t my fault, but the manager couldn’t pass it. If I’d been placed like him, I wouldn’t have passed it myself.”

  I bade him tell me the facts.

  “It was that foreign gentleman, sir. Mr Virgil, I think was his name. He was to have left this morning. I expect he’s gone. He’s – he’s not a nice way with servants. I waited upon him as well as ever I could, but – well, I don’t think he fancied me and I really believe he set out to twist my tail. He rang for me seven times in the same half-hour. ‘Do this,’ he’d say, and stand there and watch me do it: and when I was through, ‘Do that.’ And at last I turned. ‘Do it yourself,’ I said, ‘and be damned for the cad you look.’ I give you my word, I was angry. I believe if he’d answered me back, I’d have knocked him down. But he jumped for the telephone…”

  “I don’t blame you at all,” said I. “And next time, perhaps, there won’t be a telephone.”

  “Next time?” said Winter, staring.

  I laughed.

  “I was thinking aloud,” I said. “Never mind. Would you like to be my servant? I’m going abroad.”

  Looking back upon the order of our going, I cannot believe that any enterprise was ever undertaken with so hazy a plan of action or so indistinct a goal. All I knew was that I meant to put up at some village not far from Brief and from there somehow to observe the state of things prevailing within that house. But because I had set no course, I was perhaps the more ready to catch at such chances as happened to come my way; and but for these I should have accomplished nothing and so, of course, should have had no tale to tell.

  I set out for Innsbruck in June, taking Winter with me and making the journey by road.

  To Winter’s pride and delight, I had purchased a fine Rolls-Royce, and though at first I felt very much ashamed of owning so handsome a car, I was very soon more than thankful for what I had done. I took with me the maps I had bought and two powerful binoculars; and a certain Bank in Innsbruck was ready to honour my cheques. And that, I think, was all – except that I carried two pistols, in case of accidents. And these lay in the Rolls’ toolbox, wrapped in rubbers and hidden beneath the tools.

  I crossed the Channel by night, and before the next day was over had come to Basle. There I lay at a well-known house on the banks of the Rhine, and, liking the look of the place, decided to spend a day there, before going on.

  It was not that I was weary, and if I was to rest by the way, I would have preferred to stay in the countryside; but I had set out, not thinking my task would be easy, but proposing to let my embarrassments make themselves felt. And now the first one had done so. And since, so far from being outwitted or even reduced, it was likely to hang as a millstone about my neck, I felt I must have time to reflect before going on.

  I could speak no language at all, except my own. I dare say this would not have mattered, if I had been but a tourist, with nothing to do but visit famous places and stay at the best hotels. But that was not my mission, and the helplessness I had known ever since I had landed in France had not only opened my eyes but had shaken me up. I could not even order a meal. As for ‘pumping’ some Austrian peasant…

  Though I had said nothing to Winter, the more I considered this drawback, the more disconcerted I felt, and I strolled about Basle that pleasant sunshiny morning, cursing my education and wondering whether the German which Austrians spoke was as paralysing a language as that which the Swiss employed.

  In this uneasy mood I presently repaired to the garage in which the Rolls was bestowed, to have a word with Winter – to whom, I may say, the curse of Babel seemed to be matter for mirth – and see that the car was no worse for her full day’s run.

  As I walked into the place, I saw a nice-looking fellow half-sitting on the wing of a Lowland, with his hat on the back of his head. The owner of the garage stood before him with outstretched hands, as though to declare his regret at being unable to please, but the other looked up to heaven and mournfully shook his head, and then said something or other which made the foreman beside him laugh outright. He was very plainly English and might have been thirty-five: his merry face was belying his injured air: and, to tell the truth, it did me good to see him, for his gaiety was infectious and his careless, easy manner was that of a man on intimate terms with Life, who can always count on his crony to see him through.

  The moment he saw me he smiled and put up a hand. Then he touched the proprietor’s arm and pointed to me.

  “There you are,” he said, using English. “The hour produces the man.”

  Recognizing me, the proprietor bowed and smiled, and I stood still and waited to know what was wanted of me.

  The other went straight to the point.

  “I desire your ruling,” he said. “Will you be so very good as to sa
y what this Lowland is worth? And put it as low as you dare. You see, I’m inclined to buy her: but Mr Schelling here is asking me rather too much.” He turned to Schelling. “You can’t say that isn’t fair.”

  “But how can I say?” said I. “She looks all right, but—”

  “Assume she’s in perfect order, two years old and has done twenty thousand miles.”

  I raised my eyebrows and took a look at the car.

  In fact, I was in a position to give the ruling he wished, for I had had a Lowland until I had purchased the Rolls.

  The others watched me in silence.

  At length —

  “I think she’d be cheap,” said I, “at three hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “I’m much obliged,” said Herrick – to give him his name. “Well, Schelling, what about it?”

  The garage proprietor sighed.

  “What will you?” he said. “I go to make out a cheque.”

  As he made his way to the office —

  “I beg,” said Herrick, “that you will lunch with me. If you hadn’t appeared when you did, I should now be the poorer by exactly one hundred pounds.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I know. I was selling the car – not Schelling. I asked him three hundred pounds, and he wouldn’t go beyond two. He swore she wasn’t worth more, and I couldn’t wait. Is that your Rolls over there?”

  I told him ‘yes’, and we moved to where Winter was fussing about his beautiful charge. Whilst I was talking to him, Schelling returned with a cheque for three hundred pounds and, when he had pocketed this, Herrick repeated his invitation to lunch.

  Ten minutes later we entered a good-looking café‚ where he was plainly known, for the host himself conducted us up some stairs and gave us a table beside an open window, commanding an agreeable prospect of lawns and trees.

  “Now, isn’t that nice?” said Herrick, regarding the pretty scene. “Sit down with Madam Nature, and your meal, however humble, becomes a repast. Of course you must have fine weather. A picnic in the rain can provoke more downright misery than anything I know. I envy you going to Innsbruck. I had a stomach ache there in 1912. Eating too many figs, I think. And the country round is superb. Then, again, the people are charming – the peasants, I mean. Always do anything for you. What about some trout to begin with? And while we’re worrying that, they can squeeze us a duck.”

  Since I was accustomed to keep no company, the entertainment he offered was like some gift from the gods, and I found myself talking and laughing as I had not done since I left Oxford – three years before. I never enjoyed myself so much in my life, and today I can remember that luncheon down to the smallest detail of what was eaten and said.

  It was when they had brought the coffee that Herrick spoke of himself.

  “I’m really a tout,” he said: “at least, I was. Employed by a firm in England to sell their stuff over here. I sometimes think I was meant for better things, but when you come down to concrete, a double-blue at Cambridge is about as much good in the City as the art of elocution would be to a Trappist monk. As it was, my French and German got me the job. And it’s not been too bad, you know. Quite a good screw, and out and about all day. And I’ve not been dismissed, you know. You mustn’t think that. The English company’s failed… I might have guessed when I didn’t get my quarterly cheque. But I’m not too good at money, and when at last I wrote, they said the cashier was ill. And then, two days ago, I found they were bust… Hence the sale of the Lowland… Thanks to you, my dear Exon, I can now discharge all my debts and travel back to England in that degree of comfort which an insolent flesh demands.”

  “And then?” said I.

  Herrick considered his brandy.

  “I shall take a new job,” he said. “Between you and me, it won’t be for very long. My uncle, Lord Naseby, is failing, and I’m his heir. He hates the sight of me – a family quarrel or something: I don’t know what. But he can’t do me out of the money – he would if he could. But that’s by the way. I’ve always reckoned my sentence would work out at fifteen years. And twelve were up in April, so I’ve only got three to go. And now tell me about yourself. You’ve had your cross to bear, or I’ll bolt a bucket of bran.”

  “You make me ashamed,” said I, and said no more than the truth.

  With that I told him my tale.

  When I had made an end —

  “I don’t blame you at all,” he said. “When a man has no hope, one year of hell can easily break his heart. And you had two… I admit that I’ve had twelve years. But they haven’t been years of hell, and, what is more to the point, ahead has shone certainty. Nothing so flimsy as hope. An absolute certainty. When Uncle Naseby goes out, I shall have the ancestral home and four or five thousand a year. Not a bad Rachel to wait for, my bonny boy. And a damned sight more attractive than I found her at twenty-four.”

  “I – I congratulate you,” I said slowly, “on several things.” I got to my feet. “And thank you very much for the last two hours. Will you dine with me tonight? I’m not going to dress.”

  “I will with pleasure,” said Herrick. “Can you make it nine o’clock? I’d like to clear everything up before I come.”

  “Nine o’clock,” said I. “I’ll be in the hall.”

  But long before then I resolved to obey my impulse and made up my mind to offer John Herrick a job.

  It was when we had dined that night and were sitting above the river, which hereabouts seemed to be a gigantic race, that I told him Gering’s story and gave him the statements to read. Then I spoke of Percy Virgil and, finally, of the business which I had set out to do.

  “And now,” I concluded, “we come to the water-jump. I need a companion in this, an Englishman who can speak German, a man that I can talk to, who’s willing to work with me if there’s work to be done. In a word, I want you. Your expenses, of course, would be mine from beginning to end, and, if you say ‘yes’, I shall pay your fee in advance.”

  “I don’t want any fee,” said Herrick.

  “I know,” said I. “But I want you to feel independent: and if I’ve all the money, you can’t. Please don’t forget that I’ve been much poorer than you.”

  “All right,” he said, and a hand went up to his brow. “I’m on, of course. I’ll love it. And I’m greatly impressed by this business. More than impressed. I’m dazed. You see, I know something of… Gering. In fact, I was a page at his wedding. His wife, the Countess Rudolph, was one of my mother’s best friends. And I’ve stayed at Brief. I was only twelve at the time, and I’ve never been back. But I still remember the house and the seven staircase-turrets which led to the upper floors. But I never was in the great tower. The Count of Brief had his rooms there, and, if I remember aright, it was holy ground.”

  2: We Spy Out the Land

  Now my idea had been to discover some village, not very far from Brief, at which we could take up our quarters for as long as we meant to stay. From there we could make such approaches as circumstances seemed to permit, and though these excursions demanded long and irregular hours, we should always have rest and shelter a few miles off. We could only begin, I considered, by keeping observation on Brief and thus getting to know the habits of those who lived and moved upon the estate. With that knowledge, we could go further, either by getting in touch with one of the staff or by going right up to the castle to learn what we could for ourselves.

  Herrick approved these plans – if, indeed, they deserve the name, and, after two nights at Innsbruck, we left that city at six o’clock in the morning, travelling east. At nine o’clock we had breakfast, some twenty-five miles from Brief, and, after that, we set out to prove the country, working, of course, by the map and aiming at finding a reasonably comfortable lodging, which was neither too near nor too far.

  Neither Herrick nor Winter nor I will ever forget that day. To and fro and around and about we went, stopping and starting and turning and losing our way, condemning this inn on sight and entering that – only
to see some objection before we had tasted our beer. Some of the inns were too busy, and some were foul: this one was short of a coach-house, and that had a host that was sick, and one would have done very well – but it had no roof, because a fire had destroyed it the day before.

  I must confess that the country through which we ran was some of the very finest I ever saw. On all sides forest-clad mountains were neighbouring streams and pastures and delicate woods. We climbed a majestic shoulder, only to drop to a drowsy, land-locked valley where elms rose out of deep meadows and a lazy water mirrored the drinking cows: we stole through a whispering beechwood, where the pretty speech of a brook was fretted now and again by the fluting of birds, and ten minutes later we crossed a fall of water the steady roar of which could be heard for a quarter of a mile. Now our world was a watch of summits lifting their casques of fir trees into a cloudless sky: and now it was a comfortable pleasance, where the dawn was never challenged, where Husbandry and Nature had kissed each other.

  It was half-past five that evening, and we were beginning to wonder where we should spend the night, when for the fifth or sixth time we lost our way.

  As I brought the Rolls to rest —

  “I decline to apologize,” said Herrick. “I know I’m holding the map, but the map is wrong. Where did you get the swine?”

  “It’s an ordnance map,” I protested. “It can’t be wrong. If we’d turned to the left at—”