Taken at the Flood (7 page)

I

I
t was a fine morning. The birds were singing, and Rosaleen, coming down to breakfast in her expensive peasant dress, felt happy.

The doubts and fears that had lately oppressed her seemed to have faded away. David was in a good temper, laughing and teasing her. His visit to London on the previous day had been satisfactory. Breakfast was well cooked and well served. They had just finished it when the post arrived.

There were seven or eight letters for Rosaleen. Bills, charitable appeals, some local invitations—nothing of any special interest.

David laid aside a couple of small bills and opened the third envelope. The enclosure, like the outside of the envelope, was written in printed characters.

A strangled sound came from David's throat. Rosaleen looked up smiling, then her face changed to an expression of alarm.

“David—David—what is it?”

Mutely he held out the letter to her. She took it and read it.

“But—David—I don't understand—what does it mean?”

“You can read, can't you?”

She glanced up at him timorously.

“David—does it mean—what are we going to do?”

He was frowning—planning rapidly in his quick far-seeing mind.

“It's all right, Rosaleen, no need to be worried. I'll deal with it—”

“But does it mean that—”

“Don't worry, my dear girl. Leave it to me. Listen, this is what you've got to do. Pack a bag at once and go up to London. Go to the flat—and stay there until you hear from me? Understand?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I understand, but David—”

“Just do as I say, Rosaleen.” He smiled at her. He was kindly, reassuring. “Go and pack. I'll drive you to the station. You can catch the 10:32. Tell the porter at the flats that you don't want to see any one. If any one calls and asks for you, he's to say you're out
of town. Give him a quid. Understand? He's not to let any one up to see you except me.”

“Oh.” Her hands went up to her cheeks. She looked at him with scared lovely eyes.

“It's all right, Rosaleen—but it's tricky. You're not much hand at the tricky stuff. That's my lookout. I want you out of the way so that I've got a free hand, that's all.”

“Can't I stay here, David?”

“No, of course you can't, Rosaleen. Do have some sense. I've got to have a free hand to deal with this fellow whoever he is—”

“Do you think that it's—that it's—”

He said with emphasis:

“I don't think anything at the moment. The first thing is to get you out of the way. Then I can find out where we stand. Go on—there's a good girl, don't argue.”

She turned and went out of the room.

David frowned down at the letter in his hand.

Very noncommittal—polite—well phrased—might mean anything. It might be genuine solicitude in an awkward situation. Might be a veiled threat. He conned its phrases over and over—“I have news of Captain Robert Underhay”…“Best to approach you”…“I shall be pleased to go into the matter with you…” “Mrs. Cloade.” Damn it all, he didn't like those inverted commas—
Mrs. Cloade…”

He looked at the signature. Enoch Arden. Something stirred in his mind—some poetical memory…a line of verse.

II

When David strode into the hall of the Stag that evening, there was, as was usual, no one about. A door at the left was marked Coffee Room, a door on the right was marked Lounge. A door farther along was marked repressively “For Resident Guests Only.” A passage on the right led along to the bar, from whence a faint hum of voices could be heard. A small glass-encased box was labelled Office and had a pushbell placed conveniently on the side of its sliding window.

Sometimes, as David knew by experience, you had to ring four or five times before any one condescended to come and attend to you. Except for the short period of meal times, the hall of the Stag was as deserted as Robinson Crusoe's island.

This time, David's third ring of the bell brought Miss Beatrice Lippincott along the passage from the bar, her hand patting her golden pompadour of hair into place. She slipped into the glass box and greeted him with a gracious smile.

“Good evening, Mr. Hunter. Rather cold weather for the time of year, isn't it?”

“Yes—I suppose it is. Have you got a Mr. Arden staying here?”

“Let me see now,” said Miss Lippincott, making rather a parade of not knowing exactly, a proceeding she always adopted as tending to increase the importance of the Stag. “Oh, yes. Mr.
Enoch
Arden. No. 5. On the first floor. You can't miss it, Mr. Hunter. Up the stairs, and don't go along the gallery but round to the left and down three steps.”

Following these complicated directions, David tapped on the door of No. 5 and a voice said Come in.

He went in, closing the door behind him.

III

Coming out of the office, Beatrice Lippincott called, “Lily.” An adenoidal girl with a giggle and pale boiled-gooseberry eyes responded to the summons.

“Can you manage for a bit, Lily? I've got to see about some linen.”

Lily said, “Oh, yes, Miss Lippincott,” gave a giggle and added, sighing gustily: “I do think Mr. Hunter's
ever
so good-looking, don't you?”

“Ah, I've seen a lot of his type in the war,” said Miss Lippincott, with a world-weary air. “Young pilots and suchlike from the fighter station. Never could be sure about their cheques. Often had such a way with them that you'd cash the things against your better judgment. But, of course, I'm funny that way, Lily, what I like is
class.
Give me class every time. What I say is a gentleman's a gentleman even if he does drive a tractor.” With which enigmatic pronouncement Beatrice left Lily and went up the stairs.

IV

Inside room No. 5, David Hunter paused inside the door and looked at the man who had signed himself Enoch Arden.

Fortyish, knocked about a bit, a suggestion of having come down in the world—on the whole a difficult customer. Such was David's summing up. Apart from that, not easy to fathom. A dark horse.

Arden said:

“Hallo—you Hunter? Good. Sit down. What'll you have? Whisky?”

He'd made himself comfortable, David noted that. A modest array of bottles—a fire burning in the grate on this chilly spring evening. Clothes not English cut, but worn as an Englishman wears clothes. The man was the right age, too….

“Thanks,” David said, “I'll have a spot of whisky.”

“Say When.”

“When. Not too much soda.”

They were a little like dogs, manoeuvring for position—circling round each other, backs stiff, hackles up, ready to be friendly or ready to snarl and snap.

“Cheerio,” said Arden.

“Cheerio.”

They set their glasses down, relaxed a little. Round One was over.

The man who called himself Enoch Arden said:

“You were surprised to get my letter?”

“Frankly,” said David, “I don't understand it at all.”

“N-no—n-no—well, perhaps not.”

David said:

“I understand you knew my sister's first husband—Robert Underhay.”

“Yes, I knew Robert very well.” Arden was smiling, blowing clouds of smoke idly up in the air. “As well, perhaps, as any one could know him.
You
never met him, did you, Hunter?”

“No.”

“Oh, perhaps that's as well.”

“What do you mean by that?” David asked sharply.

Arden said easily:

“My dear fellow, it makes everything much simpler—that's all.
I apologize for asking you to come here, but I did think it was best to keep”—he paused—“Rosaleen out of it all. No need to give her unnecessary pain.”

“Do you mind coming to the point?”

“Of course, of course. Well now, did you ever suspect—how shall we say—that there was anything—well—
fishy
—about Underhay's death?”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Well, Underhay had rather peculiar ideas, you know. It may have been chivalry—it may just possibly have been for quite a different reason—but let's say that, at a particular moment some years ago, there were certain advantages to Underhay in being considered dead. He was good at managing natives—always had been. No trouble to him to get a probable story circulated with any amount of corroborative detail. All Underhay had to do was to turn up about a thousand miles away—with a new name.”

“It seems a most fantastic supposition to me,” said David.

“Does it? Does it really?” Arden smiled. He leaned forward, tapped David on the knee. “Suppose it's true, Hunter? Eh? Suppose it's true?”

“I should require very definite proof of it.”

“Would you? Well, of course, there's no superdefinite proof. Underhay himself could turn up here—in Warmsley Vale. How'd you like that for proof?”

“It would at least be conclusive,” said David dryly.

“Oh, yes, conclusive—but just a little embarrassing—for Mrs. Gordon Cloade, I mean. Because then, of course, she wouldn't
be
Mrs. Gordon Cloade. Awkward. You must admit, just a little bit awkward?”

“My sister,” said David, “remarried in perfectly good faith.”

“Of course she did, my dear fellow. Of course she did. I'm not disputing that for a second. Any judge would say the same. No actual blame could attach to her.”

“Judge?” said David sharply.

The other said as though apologetically:

“I was thinking of bigamy.”

“Just what are you driving at?” asked David savagely.

“Now don't get excited, old boy. We just want to put our heads together and see what's best to be done—best for your sister, that's to say. Nobody wants a lot of dirty publicity. Underhay—well, Underhay was always a chivalrous kind of chap.” Arden paused. “He still is….”

“
Is?
” asked David sharply.

“That's what I said.”

“You say Robert Underhay is alive. Where is he now?”

Arden leaned forward—his voice became confidential.

“
Do you really want to know, Hunter?
Wouldn't it be better if you
didn't
know? Put it that, as far as
you
know, and as far as Rosaleen knows, Underhay died in Africa. Very good, and
if
Underhay is alive, he doesn't know his wife has married again, he hasn't the least idea of it. Because, of course, if he
did
know he would have come forward…Rosaleen, you see, has inherited a good deal of money from her second husband—well, then, of course she isn't entitled to any of that money…Underhay is a man with a very sensitive sense of honour. He wouldn't like her inheriting money under false pretences.” He paused. “But of course it's possible that Underhay doesn't know anything about her second marriage. He's in a bad way, poor fellow—in a very bad way.”

“What do you mean by in a bad way?”

Arden shook his head solemnly.

“Broken down in health. He needs medical attention—special treatments—all unfortunately rather
expensive.
”

The last word dropped delicately as though into a category of its own. It was the word for which David Hunter had been unconsciously waiting.

He said:

“Expensive?”

“Yes—unfortunately everything costs money. Underhay, poor devil, is practically destitute.” He added: “He's got practically nothing but what he stands up in….”

Just for a moment David's eyes wandered round the room. He noted the pack slung on a chair. There was no suitcase to be seen.

“I wonder,” said David, and his voice was not pleasant, “if Robert Underhay is quite the chivalrous gentleman you make him out to be.”

“He was once,” the other assured him. “But life, you know, is inclined to make a fellow cynical.” He paused and added softly: “Gordon Cloade was really an incredibly wealthy fellow. The spectacle of too much wealth arouses one's baser instincts.”

David Hunter got up.

“I've got an answer for you. Go to the devil.”

Unperturbed, Arden said, smiling:

“Yes, I thought you'd say that.”

“You're a damned blackmailer, neither more nor less. I've a good mind to call your bluff.”

“Publish and be damned? An admirable sentiment. But you
wouldn't like it if I did ‘publish.' Not that I shall. If you won't buy, I've another market.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Cloades. Suppose I go to them. ‘Excuse me, but would you be interested to learn that the late Robert Underhay is very much alive?' Why, man, they'll jump at it!”

David said scornfully:

“You won't get anything out of them. They're broke, every one of them.”

“Ah, but there's such a thing as a working arrangement. So much in cash on the day it's proved that Underhay is alive, that Mrs. Gordon Cloade is still Mrs. Robert Underhay and that consequently Gordon Cloade's will, made before his marriage, is good in law….”

For some few minutes David sat silent, then he asked bluntly:

“How much?”

The answer came as bluntly:

“Twenty thousand.”

“Out of the question! My sister can't touch the capital, she's only got a life interest.”