A Caribbean Mystery

  He followed her, a cunning look in his eyes. His hands were shaking. ‘It’s – it’s all right, eh?’ he said again. ‘I burnt them myself.’

  ‘Oh!’

  She went on into the study, sinking into a big armchair. Her face was dead white and her whole body drooped with fatigue. She thought to herself: ‘If only I could go to sleep now and never, never wake up again!’

  Richard was watching her. His glance, shy, furtive, kept coming and going. She noticed nothing. She was beyond noticing.

  ‘It went off quite all right, eh?’

  ‘I’ve told you so.’

  ‘You’re sure they were the right papers? Did you look?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But then –’

  ‘I’m sure, I tell you. Don’t bother me, Richard. I can’t bear any more tonight.’

  Richard shifted nervously.

  ‘No, no. I see.’

  He fidgeted about the room. Presently he came over to her, laid a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.

  ‘Don’t touch me.’ She tried to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. My nerves are on edge. I feel I can’t bear to be touched.’

  ‘I know. I understand.’

  Again he wandered up and down.

  ‘Theo,’ he burst out suddenly. ‘I’m damned sorry.’

  ‘What?’ She looked up, vaguely startled. ‘I oughtn’t to have let you go there at this time of night. I never dreamed that you’d be subjected to any – unpleasantness.’

  ‘Unpleasantness?’ She laughed. The word seemed to amuse her. ‘You don’t know! Oh, Richard, you don’t know!’

  ‘I don’t know what?’

  She said very gravely, looking straight in front of her: ‘What this night has cost me.’

  ‘My God! Theo! I never meant – You – you did that, for me? The swine! Theo – Theo – I couldn’t have known. I couldn’t have guessed. My God!’

  He was kneeling by her now stammering, his arms round her, and she turned and looked at him with faint surprise, as though his words had at last really penetrated to her attention.

  ‘I – I never meant –’

  ‘You never meant what, Richard?’

  Her voice startled him.

  ‘Tell me. What was it that you never meant?’

  ‘Theo, don’t let us speak of it. I don’t want to know. I want never to think of it.’

  She was staring at him, wide awake now, with every faculty alert. Her words came clear and distinct:

  ‘You never meant – What do you think happened?’

  ‘It didn’t happen, Theo. Let’s say it didn’t happen.’

  And still she stared, till the truth began to come to her.

  ‘You think that –’

  ‘I don’t want –’

  She interrupted him: ‘You think that Vincent Easton asked a price for those letters? You think that I – paid him?’

  Richard said weakly and unconvincingly: ‘I – I never dreamed he was that kind of man.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ She looked at him searchingly. His eyes fell before hers. ‘Why did you ask me to put on this dress this evening? Why did you send me there alone at this time of night? You guessed he – cared for me. You wanted to save your skin – save it at any cost – even at the cost of my honour.’ She got up.

  ‘I see now. You meant that from the beginning – or at least you saw it as a possibility, and it didn’t deter you.’

  ‘Theo –’

  ‘You can’t deny it. Richard, I thought I knew all there was to know about you years ago. I’ve known almost from the first that you weren’t straight as regards the world. But I thought you were straight with me.’

  ‘Theo –’

  ‘Can you deny what I’ve just been saying?’

  He was silent, in spite of himself. ‘Listen, Richard. There is something I must tell you. Three days ago when this blow fell on you, the servants told you I was away – gone to the country. That was only partly true. I had gone away with Vincent Easton –’

  Richard made an inarticulate sound. She held out a hand to stop him. ‘Wait. We were at Dover. I saw a paper – I realized what had happened. Then, as you know, I came back.’

  She paused.

  Richard caught her by the wrist. His eyes burnt into hers. ‘You came back – in time?’

  Theo gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Yes, I came back, as you say, “in time”, Richard.’

  Her husband relinquished his hold on her arm. He stood by the mantelpiece, his head thrown back. He looked handsome and rather noble.

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I can forgive.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  The two words came crisply. They had the semblance and the effect of a bomb in the quiet room. Richard started forward, staring, his jaw dropped with an almost ludicrous effect.

  ‘You – er – what did you say, Theo?’

  ‘I said I cannot forgive! In leaving you for another man. I sinned – not technically, perhaps, but in intention, which is the same thing. But if I sinned, I sinned through love. You, too, have not been faithful to me since our marriage. Oh, yes, I know. That I forgave, because I really believed in your love for me. But the thing you have done tonight is different. It is an ugly thing, Richard – a thing no woman should forgive. You sold me, your own wife, to purchase safety!’

  She picked up her wrap and turned towards the door. ‘Theo,’ he stammered out, ‘where are you going?’

  She looked back over her shoulder at him.

  ‘We all have to pay in this life, Richard. For my sin I must pay in loneliness. For yours – well, you gambled with the thing you love, and you have lost it!’

  ‘You are going?’

  She drew a long breath.

  ‘To freedom. There is nothing to bind me here.’

  He heard the door shut. Ages passed, or was it a few minutes? Something fluttered down outside the window – the last of the magnolia petals, soft, fragrant.

  Chapter 18

  The Lonely God

  ‘The Lonely God’ was first published in Royal Magazine, July 1926.

  He stood on a shelf in the British Museum, alone and forlorn amongst a company of obviously more important deities. Ranged round the four walls, these greater personages all seemed to display an overwhelming sense of their own superiority. The pedestal of each was duly inscribed with the land and race that had been proud to possess him. There was no doubt of their position; they were divinities of importance and recognized as such.

  Only the little god in the corner was aloof and remote from their company. Roughly hewn out of grey stone, his features almost totally obliterated by time and exposure, he sat there in isolation, his elbows on his knees, and his head buried in his hands; a lonely little god in a strange country.

  There was no inscription to tell the land whence he came. He was indeed lost, without honour or renown, a pathetic little figure very far from home. No one noticed him, no one stopped to look at him. Why should they? He was so insignificant, a block of grey stone in a corner. On either side of him were two Mexican gods worn smooth with age, placid idols with folded hands, and cruel mouths curved in a smile that showed openly their contempt of humanity. There was also a rotund, violently self-assertive little god, with a clenched fist, who evidently suffered from a swollen sense of his own importance, but passers-by stopped to give him a glance sometimes, even if it was only to laugh at the contrast of his absurd pomposity with the smiling indifference of his Mexican companions.

  And the little lost god sat on there hopelessly, his head in his hands, as he had sat year in and year out, till one day the impossible happened, and he found – a worshipper.

  * * *

  ‘Any letters for me?’

  The hall porter removed a packet of letters from a pigeon-hole, gave a cursory glance through them, and said in a wooden voice:

  ‘Nothing for you, sir.’

  Frank Oliver sighed as he walked out of the club again. There was no particular reason why th
ere should have been anything for him. Very few people wrote to him. Ever since he had returned from Burma in the spring, he had become conscious of a growing and increasing loneliness.

  Frank Oliver was a man just over forty, and the last eighteen years of his life had been spent in various parts of the globe, with brief furloughs in England. Now that he had retired and come home to live for good, he realized for the first time how very much alone in the world he was.

  True, there was his sister Greta, married to a Yorkshire clergyman, very busy with parochial duties and the bringing up of a family of small children. Greta was naturally very fond of her only brother, but equally naturally she had very little time to give him. Then there was his old friend Tom Hurley. Tom was married to a nice, bright, cheerful girl, very energetic and practical, of whom Frank was secretly afraid. She told him brightly that he must not be a crabbed old bachelor, and was always producing ‘nice girls’. Frank Oliver found that he never had anything to say to these ‘nice girls’; they persevered with him for a while, then gave him up as hopeless.

  And yet he was not really unsociable. He had a great longing for companionship and sympathy, and ever since he had been back in England he had become aware of a growing discouragement. He had been away too long, he was out of tune with the times. He spent long, aimless days wandering about, wondering what on earth he was to do with himself next.

  It was on one of these days that he strolled into the British Museum. He was interested in Asiatic curiosities, and so it was that he chanced upon the lonely god. Its charm held him at once. Here was something vaguely akin to himself; here, too, was someone lost and astray in a strange land. He became in the habit of paying frequent visits to the Museum, just to glance in on the little grey stone figure, in its obscure place on the high shelf.

  ‘Rough luck on the little chap,’ he thought to himself. ‘Probably had a lot of fuss made about him once, kow-towing and offerings and all the rest of it.’

  He had begun to feel such a proprietary right in his little friend (it really almost amounted to a sense of actual ownership) that he was inclined to be resentful when he found that the little god had made a second conquest. He had discovered the lonely god; nobody else, he felt, had a right to interfere.

  But after the first flash of indignation, he was forced to smile at himself. For this second worshipper was such a little bit of a thing, such a ridiculous, pathetic creature, in a shabby black coat and skirt that had seen its best days. She was young, a little over twenty he should judge, with fair hair and blue eyes, and a wistful droop to her mouth.

  Her hat especially appealed to his chivalry. She had evidently trimmed it herself, and it made such a brave attempt to be smart that its failure was pathetic. She was obviously a lady, though a poverty-stricken one, and he immediately decided in his own mind that she was a governess and alone in the world.

  He soon found out that her days for visiting the god were Tuesdays and Fridays, and she always arrived at ten o’clock, as soon as the Museum was open. At first he disliked her intrusion, but little by little it began to form one of the principal interests of his monotonous life. Indeed, the fellow devotee was fast ousting the object of devotion from his position of pre-eminence. The days that he did not see the ‘Little Lonely Lady’, as he called her to himself, were blank.

  Perhaps she, too, was equally interested in him, though she endeavoured to conceal the fact with studious unconcern. But little by little a sense of fellowship was slowly growing between them, though as yet they had exchanged no spoken word. The truth of the matter was, the man was too shy! He argued to himself that very likely she had not even noticed him (some inner sense gave the lie to that instantly), that she would consider it a great impertinence, and, finally, that he had not the least idea what to say.

  But Fate, or the little god, was kind and sent him an inspiration – or what he regarded as such. With infinite delight in his own cunning, he purchased a woman’s handkerchief, a frail little affair of cambric and lace which he almost feared to touch, and, thus armed, he followed her as she departed and stopped her in the Egyptian room.

  ‘Excuse me, but is this yours?’ He tried to speak with airy unconcern, and signally failed.

  The Lonely Lady took it, and made a pretence of examining it with minute care.

  ‘No, it is not mine.’ She handed it back, and added, with what he felt guiltily was a suspicious glance: ‘It’s quite a new one. The price is still on it.’

  But he was unwilling to admit that he had been found out. He started on an over-plausible flow of explanation.

  ‘You see, I picked it up under that big case. It was just by the farthest leg of it.’ He derived great relief from this detailed account. ‘So, as you had been standing there, I thought it must be yours and came after you with it.’

  She said again: ‘No, it isn’t mine,’ and added, as if with a sense of ungraciousness, ‘thank you.’

  The conversation came to an awkward standstill. The girl stood there, pink and embarrassed, evidently uncertain how to retreat with dignity.

  He made a desperate effort to take advantage of his opportunity.

  ‘I – I didn’t know there was anyone else in London who cared for our little lonely god till you came.’

  She answered eagerly, forgetting her reserve:

  ‘Do you call him that too?’

  Apparently, if she had noticed his pronoun, she did not resent it. She had been startled into sympathy, and his quiet ‘Of course!’ seemed the most natural rejoinder in the world.

  Again there was a silence, but this time it was a silence born of understanding.

  It was the Lonely Lady who broke it in a sudden remembrance of the conventionalities.

  She drew herself up to her full height, and with an almost ridiculous assumption of dignity for so small a person, she observed in chilling accents:

  ‘I must be going now. Good morning.’ And with a slight, stiff inclination of her head, she walked away, holding herself very erect.

  By all acknowledged standards Frank Oliver ought to have felt rebuffed, but it is a regrettable sign of his rapid advance in depravity that he merely murmured to himself: ‘Little darling!’

  He was soon to repent of his temerity, however. For ten days his little lady never came near the Museum. He was in despair! He had frightened her away! She would never come back! He was a brute, a villain! He would never see her again!

  In his distress he haunted the British Museum all day long. She might merely have changed her time of coming. He soon began to know the adjacent rooms by heart, and he contracted a lasting hatred of mummies. The guardian policeman observed him with suspicion when he spent three hours poring over Assyrian hieroglyphics, and the contemplation of endless vases of all ages nearly drove him mad with boredom.

  But one day his patience was rewarded. She came again, rather pinker than usual, and trying hard to appear self-possessed.

  He greeted her with cheerful friendliness.

  ‘Good morning. It is ages since you’ve been here.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  She let the words slip out with icy frigidity, and coldly ignored the end part of his sentence.

  But he was desperate.

  ‘Look here!’ He stood confronting her with pleading eyes that reminded her irresistibly of a large, faithful dog. ‘Won’t you be friends? I’m all alone in London – all alone in the world, and I believe you are, too. We ought to be friends. Besides, our little god has introduced us.’

  She looked up half doubtfully, but there was a faint smile quivering at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Of course!’

  It was the second time he had used this extremely positive form of assurance, and now, as before, it did not fail of its effect, for after a minute or two the girl said, in that slightly royal manner of hers:

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘That’s splendid,’ he replied gruffly, but there was something in his voice as
he said it that made the girl glance at him swiftly, with a sharp impulse of pity.

  And so the queer friendship began. Twice a week they met, at the shrine of a little heathen idol. At first they confined their conversation solely to him. He was, as it were, at once a palliation of, and an excuse for, their friendship. The question of his origin was widely discussed. The man insisted on attributing to him the most bloodthirsty characteristics. He depicted him as the terror and dread of his native land, insatiable for human sacrifice, and bowed down to by his people in fear and trembling. In the contrast between his former greatness and his present insignificance there lay, according to the man, all the pathos of the situation.

  The Lonely Lady would have none of this theory. He was essentially a kind little god, she insisted. She doubted whether he had ever been very powerful. If he had been so, she argued, he would not now be lost and friendless, and, anyway, he was a dear little god, and she loved him, and she hated to think of him sitting there day after day with all those other horrid, supercilious things jeering at him, because you could see they did! After this vehement outburst the little lady was quite out of breath.

  That topic exhausted, they naturally began to talk of themselves. He found out that his surmise was correct. She was a nursery governess to a family of children who lived at Hampstead. He conceived an instant dislike of these children; of Ted, who was five and really not naughty, only mischievous; of the twins who were rather trying, and of Molly, who wouldn’t do anything she was told, but was such a dear you couldn’t be cross with her!

  ‘Those children bully you,’ he said grimly and accusingly to her.

  ‘They do not,’ she retorted with spirit. ‘I am extremely stern with them.’

  ‘Oh! Ye gods!’ he laughed. But she made him apologize humbly for his scepticism.

  She was an orphan she told him, quite alone in the world.

  Gradually he told her something of his own life: of his official life, which had been painstaking and mildly successful; and of his unofficial pastime, which was the spoiling of yards of canvas.

  ‘Of course, I don’t know anything about it,’ he explained. ‘But I have always felt I could paint something some day. I can sketch pretty decently, but I’d like to do a real picture of something. A chap who knew once told me that my technique wasn’t bad.’