House That Berry Built (29 page)

I was the first to reach him.

He was trying to raise himself, and I put an arm about him and lifted his shoulders up.

For a moment he stared at me.

Then—

“By God,” he said, “it’s Pleydell. You’re always turning up.” Then he seemed to forget I was there and to talk to himself. “Silly to fall down on Tass. Now if it had been Old Rowley… But that’s the way it goes. You win The National, and then you break your neck in some – point-to-point.”

And I think he would have said more, but a rush of blood choked his utterance, and, when it was over, he died.

As I laid his body back in the long, sweet grass—

“Better so,” said Jonah. He turned to the Superintendent. “Your men do you credit, Monsieur. That was a beautiful shot. Can you keep this out of the papers?”

“Why not, Monsieur?” said the other. “What good will a scandal do?”

“That’s how I see it,” said Jonah. “I’ll lay that none of his relatives know where he is. And all they need ever know is that his body was found and shoved under the sod. We’ll pay his funeral expenses.”

“And his passport, Monsieur?”

“Is not to be found,” said Jonah. He felt in Shapely’s breast-pocket, picked the passport out and slipped it into his own. “An unknown man is found dead. We can settle the details later. Don’t you agree, Falcon?”

“Whole-heartedly,” said Falcon. “France has done the justice that England could not do. A formal letter will be written, expressing our great admiration and grateful thanks. But what has that to do with the public? It is not for us to feed a sensational Press.”

“Rely upon me,” said the other. “The matter is closed.”

They can do these things in France.

Except to make sure that the body was that of Tass, the remains that lay in the barn were not disturbed.

Shapely’s body was officially ‘found’ the next day.

When Shapely failed to keep his appointment with Schurch, the latter ‘got in touch with’ the police. Schurch identified the body, which was then buried forthwith. Shapely’s passport was found in a suitcase at his hotel. The British Consul was informed of what had occurred. And he reported to London ‘the facts of the case’.

The following paragraph appeared in some of the papers in France.

STRANGER LOSES HIS LIFE IN THE PYRENEES.

M F C Shapely of London is the latest victim of the folly of venturing alone into unfrequented parts of the Pyrénées. He had left his car, presumably to explore some valley. He lost his way and was overtaken by night. When found the following day, he was already dead. Exhaustion and exposure had done their work.

After a little while, Shapely’s obituary notice appeared in
The Times
.

By de Moulin’s advice, the purchase-money was repaid to the peasant from whom Shapely had bought the land, and meadow and barn were presumed to belong to the State.

As we said goodbye to Falcon—

“Your hunch was right,” said Jonah. “You always insisted that Tass was somewhere down here.”

Falcon smiled.

“It didn’t help much,” he said. He turned to look up at the mountains, bathed in the evening sun. “Shapely was, of course, that, happily, very rare thing – the murderer born. His work was brilliant – you can’t get away from that. But he had the misfortune to run into you and Captain Pleydell. Your powers of deduction were as brilliant, as had been his work.”

“I can’t allow that,” said I. “We had at least three slices of the most astonishing luck – the train conversation, the lime and the meeting with Caratib.”

“No man,” said Falcon, “no man can make bricks without straw. But very few men I know would have made such bricks. To go back to Shapely. What was so very clever was the way in which he convinced us that he had conspired with Tass and that, if we could only find Tass, Tass would make some statement which let him, Shapely, in. And all the time, Tass was dead. Curious the way he lost his nerve at the last.”

“Schurch’s letter,” said I, “must have been a terrible shock. It showed that the stars were against him, just as de Moulin said.”

“They were – all along,” said Falcon. “If you hadn’t built up here… Oh, well, it’s all over now. And I’m really more than thankful he died as he did. What things the French can get away with. Now if we had powers like that, what couldn’t we do?”

“I know,” said Jonah. “I know. They’ve been very helpful here. But I have known cases…”

“Oh, yes,” said Falcon. “You’re right. The English Coroner’s Inquest has saved a great many lives.”

My sister was reading the paper.

“Hullo,” she said. “Shapely’s dead. ‘In France, very suddenly.’”

“Oh, is he?” said I. “Well, I decline to mourn him.”

Daphne laid down the paper and looked at me.

“You were sure he had something to do with Old Rowley’s death.”

“I shall always think that,” I said.

“You and Jonah suspected his alibi. I’ve seen you come in all thoughtful. Did you ever find anything out?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Odds and ends,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter now.”

My sister sat back in her chair and a hand went up to her mouth.

“‘In France, very suddenly.’ And you were out all day… and Falcon was here.”

“My sweet,” I said, “now don’t go getting ideas. And please don’t talk like this to anyone else.”

“I won’t. But tell me this. Did you know he was dead?”

“Yes.”

“I may form my own conclusions?”

“Of course. But please don’t hand them on.”

“You are provoking,” said Daphne. “I’m sure you know everything.”

“Indeed, I don’t,” said I.

“Well, you know a good deal.” She moved to the arm of my chair. “Tell me one thing, darling. Was it he that put out Old Rowley?”

“That’s my belief,” said I. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Daphne laid her cheek against mine.

“I’m very discreet. I’ll never say a word to a soul. But you were there, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know where you mean.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You and Jonah did it.”

“I don’t know what you mean. We never did anything.”

“I mean, brought it home. And when he saw he was done, he took his life.”

“That’s near enough,” I said. “Please leave it there.”

“I will. Does Berry know?”

“Something. But he won’t talk.”

“Oh, well,” said Daphne. And then, “Poor Shapely. If his father had lived, it wouldn’t have come to this.”

She was probably right.

All the same, I could not forget the words I had heard a Judge use, when he was about to sentence a convict to death.

‘In your hungry lust for gold, you had no pity for the victim whom you slew.’

Poor Tass.

In Which Jonah Tells Us the Truth,

and Berry has Cause for Complaint

The garden was taking shape.

Before Jonah had left for England, the lawn had been levelled and sown; and now, in mid-September, the grass was coming up well. Soon it could be rolled and then, very carefully, scythed. And in the spring the turf would be firm enough to employ a lawn-mower. With unremitting care, we should have a lawn worth having in two or three years.

Berry, Jonah and I had paved the paths; this had been easy work, but it gave us great satisfaction: men, I suppose, have a weakness for things that are built to last. All things considered, the display of flowers which Daphne and Jill had contrived, did them, I think, great credit: but they, of course, were looking to years to come. Ulysse had commended one Olim, as a builder of dry stone walls, and Olim worked with us for day after day. An elegant bay of dry wall about the base of that hazel, retaining a violet-bed…a curling flight of steps that led from a meadow below to a meadow above…fair standing about the grotto – we did them all. We could not have done them without him, for building without any mortar is expert work. Any fool can pile stones in a line to make a fence; but to build a wall so well that it looks like masonry, to round your curves or to hang half a dozen steps – these things can be done by a craftsman, but not by anyone else. Olim had a wonderful eye; but all his tools were three hammers of varying size and shape. He had a small ball of very ragged string, and now and again he would ask for a straight piece of wood. And with that equipment he did his beautiful work. But he had no part in the rock-garden. That was our own affair. Berry and I did that – in the sweat of our face. Daphne and Jill gave the orders: we carried them out.

The thing was this.

Long years ago, between the house and the
ruisseau
, there must have been a very slight fall of earth. All traces of this occasion had disappeared, and the turf was as good and as firm as anywhere else: but, at that point, the rise of the meadows had been broken: for some fourteen feet the ground rose much more gently and then stood up in a little cliff of turf, as though to regain all at once the height it had lost. This little sloping dip was roughly square and, since it lay close to the
ruisseau
, it was easy to school some water to tumble along its length. In the course of the excavation behind the house, some substantial rocks had been found; these had been carefully saved and carried along to the dip; so there we had our site and material. All that we had to do was so to arrange the rocks that the dip should become the garden which Daphne and Jill desired. All. The girls were merciless. It was the Waterloo balusters over again. The slope was not so steep, but some of the rocks must have weighed three times what the balusters weighed. We managed with levers and wedges. So perhaps Stonehenge was built. Twice we had to call upon peasants, working in neighbouring fields. It was a question of man-power, and nothing else. But exacting as was the labour, we worked six hours a day with grateful hearts. Munich was on.

Each evening we spoke with Jonah…

When the rocks were all in order, we settled the line of the ril; and when that work was done, we piped the water in and we piped it out. Daphne and Jill were ravished. Here they would plant such a garden as never was seen. Then they withdrew to the house, for the stuffs for the curtains had come. But Berry and I had our hands full. Creepers had to be planted at the foot of Hadrian’s Wall; wistaria shoots, the length of the terrace walls; daffodil bulbs in the meadows; planes by the side of the
ruisseau
; firs in the scarecrow field…

And then, on October the fifth, my cousin, Jonah, returned.

I shall always remember that night in the library.

Daphne and Jill had retired, and the logs, which had been flaring, had sunk to a winking glow.

“For better or for worse,” said Jonah, “the date of the coming deluge has been postponed. For six months or a year. I’m inclined to think for a year. The Boche has always meant business: but this time the business he means is going to be very big. We’re going to have our backs to the wall as never before.”

“And we?”

Jonah looked down.

“Our services are not required. The war to come is to be a young man’s war.”

“But—”

“I said it all,” said Jonah. “I said it very loud and clear. I indicated the obvious. But all in vain. And then, at last, Roderick appeared. He dined with me on Sunday at Cleveland Row.” He paused there, to set a match to his pipe. “You won’t expect me to tell you all he said. But I like to think that he didn’t leave anything out. I mean that. He says he can bear being starved, because he has always been starved; but what’s breaking his heart is this – that, because his news is bad, it is considered unfit for human consumption and, apparently, thrown away. Well, that’s all right with fish. But this isn’t fish. It’s the truth – from Germany.”

“Great God!” said Berry. “And Roderick, too. What the devil’s the matter with people?”

Jonah leaned forward.

“A disease called ‘wishful thinking’. Things are going so well that, though they are shown the spanner, they decline to contemplate the possibility of its being thrown into the works. Spanner? Monkey-wrench. And it damned near went in last month.”

“Can he help us?” said I.

“Not now. He’s tied and bound – with the chain of other men’s sins. But his hour is certain to come. It will come with the crash. Then they will turn to him, and he will make his own terms. In that case, I shall go back and he will look after you. Berry, he says, must stay here, because he has a way with the French. That is perfectly true. Berry changes hats with the Mayor, while we are shaking hands.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We are to do our utmost to make the Entente a real thing. He was very pleased when I told him about the house. ‘Nothing could have been better. You have paid well for your land, you’ve employed a lot of labour; better still, you’ve worked with the men and, if I know you, you’ve made a lot of good friends. Would you like to build another? Say, Orleans way?’ I said no, we couldn’t do that, but I’ve ordered a cinema-van and a packet of films. ‘The King and Queen in Paris’ and less emotional stuff. If we tour the Department, and Berry would lecture a bit… I mean, it’s better than nothing, and the sands are running out.”

The curtains were up. The rooms were secured against the winter blasts. And all was very well. The servants were content with their lot. Eugène was insane about the electric range. Therèse would let no washing go out of the house. The heating worked like a dream. Madame Martigny’s clock kept beautiful time. The chimneys drew to perfection. The daffodil bulbs went in. The Waterloo balusters turned from black to grey. I think we were, all of us, fitter than we had ever been. Our ivory tower had proved an immense success.

Four nights a week we took out the cinema-van. Three of us always went with it: Daphne and Jill took it in turns to come. We always went by appointment – each time to a different place. Very soon we had a waiting-list. We had to limit our range to seventy miles, but people beyond that radius used to come in. We never advertised, but the word went round. As commentator or
compère
, Berry was simply superb. On the nights when he did not go, I tried to use his thunder and take his place. The enthusiasm was marked, wherever we went, and the poor people crowded about us, shaking hands and begging us to return. We never went to a town, but only to villages. Once I found that money was being taken. I was in charge that night and I waited until the show was about to begin. Then I rose and said that there had been a mistake, that this entertainment was free and that it would not take place until every penny paid had been handed back. It was handed back under my eyes, while gramophone records were played. We were not invited to drink with the Mayor that night, but word went round and the English stock went up.

Anyway we had a good time.

Berry was writing his reminiscences.

“Listen to this,” he said. “D’you think it’s all right?”

I laid down my pen.

“Look here,” I said. “You’ll simply have to sit in the morning room. If you’re going on like this, I cannot possibly work. I’ve been here for nearly two hours, and I’ve written a page and a half.”

“Just this one,” said Berry. “I want your expert advice.”

“Well, this is the last. I have to have a table, but you can lie on your back in any room in the house. Besides, you don’t look things up. I must work in here, for I need the books.”

“I must work here,” said Berry. “I need the atmosphere.”

“Then work in silence, as I do. The only peace I get is when you’re out with the van.”

“Now don’t be ungracious,” said Berry, “or I shan’t give you any ideas. Now listen to this.

“
I well remember the General Election of—. Both in its conduct and its results, it presented what was probably the finest argument for dictatorship that the world has ever seen. That day were set before the English, the blessing and the curse. They chose the curse – thanks to the false pretences made by the winning side. For months before the day, a rising flood of misrepresentation had been skilfully directed into the system which had been surreptitiously prepared. The truth was swamped. Evil begets evil. Four years later, the Cabinet included more than one member who would not have qualified for the reference traditionally accorded to the incompetent charwoman
.”

I fingered my chin.

“It’s on the warm side,” I said. “If you leave out the date of the election…”

“But that would spoil it,” said Berry.

“Well, if you don’t,” said I, “the publisher will.” I picked up my pen. “Never mind. And now—”

“Wait a minute,” said Berry. “Then, just to ease the tension, I take the reader back to Montmartre.”

I covered my face. Berry’s memories of Montmartre were – well, arresting.

“First, I thought I’d put in a short monograph on the nomenclature of the cafés. That’ll have to wait, for I can’t remember them all.”

“I shouldn’t try,” said I.

“Don’t be silly,” said Berry. “Besides, it’s never been done.”

“It never will be,” said I. “By you or anyone else.”

Berry frowned.

“The omission must be repaired. Who knows what history lies behind those names. One, I remember, was called
The Seat of the Clergyman’s Trousers
. Well, there must have been some reason for that.”

“No doubt,” said I. “But I tremble to think what it was. And if you propose to indulge your powers of surmise…”

“After the monograph,” said Berry, “I return for a moment to London.

“From time to time, in London, efforts were made to capture the spirit and manners of Montmartre. Such an endeavour was commendable, but hopeless. Naturally reserved, the English must drink to get going. The French require no such stimulus. They can become uproarious over a grenadine. Still, with the aid of liquor the old — in — Street did contrive to reproduce some of the less attractive features of the cafés of the Latin Quarter. It says much for the conduct of this establishment that, while it was condemned by the kill-joys, it was approved by the police. As a house of call, shortly before midnight, it did more than serve its turn; and I must confess that I find it engaging to remark how many of its habitués have made good, as pillars of Church or State. There were occasions, such as ‘Boatrace Night’, when the clientèle unbent, and I have had the privilege of seeing a future Bishop follow a future Cabinet Minister into the dock at Marlborough Street Police Court as a result. The point is that youth was served. But my most elevating memory of the —, was the arrival in its hall of a German and his wife, who, attracted by its name, had decided to stay there during their English holiday. It is, of course, just possible that before now some English Vicar’s Warden has been set down with his family and luggage at the doors of The Red Nose in Montmartre, but I cannot believe that his welcome was more enthusiastic than that accorded to two of the most objectionable Teutons that I have ever seen. While their luggage was being unpacked, a table d’hôte was hastily improvised and ten minutes later four of us took our seats, attired in the changes of raiment the man and his wife had brought. It takes a lot to put a Boche off his food… They looked pretty hard at me – in a morning coat and plus-fours and a celluloid dickey and a pair of banana boots; but when their eyes settled on Sibyl, who was wearing a Mannheim model as no Mannheim model was ever meant to be worn, the woman endeavoured to rise and the man wrung his soup from his beard with a gesture I shall never forget… The things they said about England. But then, you see, on arrival they should not have spat in the hall. One of my collaborators is now a member of the House Committee at The Athenoeum; but I sometimes wonder if his something ponderous responsibilities afford him one tenth of the pleasure which that one did. After all, as the poet says, ‘One crowded hour without a name Is worth an age of public life.’”

“Very good indeed,” said I. “I suppose you’ll get someone to print it. You’ll have to cut out that bit about Marlborough Street.”

“That just shows,” said Berry, “how much you know. Why, everyone will be asking which of the Lords Spiritual it is. And
The Glass
will have an article – THOU ART THE MAN. I tell you, the public will eat it.”

“The Church and State won’t,” said I. “And publishers have to live.”

“The trouble with you,” said Berry, “is that you have lost what sense of proportion you had. Just to show you what I mean, I’m going to read you my appreciation of The League of Nations.”

He did so faithfully.

When he had finished, I took a stroll on the terrace, to let my emotions cool down. I knew of no case in which the submission of a manuscript had constituted the publication of a libel; but I could see no reason why it should not. If it did…

We spent Christmas and the New Year in England, as we had done before. But, happy as everyone made us, the world seemed gross after Gracedieu, and we were relieved to return to the meadows and hanging forests and the unspoiled beauty that waited upon the topless hills.