Reflected Glory. John Russell Fearn

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СКАЧАТЬ “It extends for about five square miles, and unless you know it thoroughly—as I do—it’s a death trap. There are two paths across it, one of them true—which I use sometimes myself as a short cut to my home—and the other false, which leads right into the mire. Get on that, and you never get out!”

      “Charming thought,” Clive murmured, with a little shiver. “And where’s your place? Can we see it yet?”

      “In a moment, when we’ve rounded the next bend.”

      He looked ahead with interest and after a little while there came into view, well back from the road and completely isolated, a detached house in perfect replica of Tudor style, low-gabled, slanting-roofed in red tiles, with—he noticed as they came nearer—diamond-shaped window panes. It was evident, however, that the gardens needed attention. Cultivated flowers were foundering in a choking wilderness of weeds.

      “I’ve no time to bother with gardening,” Elsa said, seeing Clive’s look. “And I don’t like a gardener prowling about the place when I’m all alone.”

      The cab stopped and Clive sat looking at the house pensively. “Nice place,” he said approvingly. “Once it’s tidied up.”

      Elsa stirred as he opened the door for her. As he alighted beside her in the road he asked a question.

      “Do you want the cab to wait for us, or what?”

      “No; that won’t be necessary. We can walk back to the village when we’re ready. At the same time I’ll call on the estate agent. He’s a sort of jack-of-all-trades who’ll handle everything.”

      Clive nodded, paid off the driver, then followed the girl along the front path to a portico of rustic-faced stone. She removed a key from her big, chrome-topped handbag and opened the front door.

      Clive walked behind her into a square, tastefully furnished hall and then into a lounge leading from it. There was nothing unique about the room. It was light and sunny, windows at each end looking on to the back and front gardens, and comfortably furnished.

      “Sit down, Clive,” Elsa said. “I’ll fix up some tea and sandwiches for us—”

      “But surely I can help you?”

      “There’s no need. Really.”

      But since he was insistent, she said no more and he wandered after her into the kitchen. He stood against the doorway, watching her make preparations, unable to help her because he did not know where to find anything. Then he frowned a little as he caught sight of the big cupboard doors over the stove. They were firmly closed and secured with six shiny-headed screws down the sides.

      “That’s a queer idea, isn’t it?” he asked, and Elsa glanced above her head.

      “Oh, you mean the doors? That was my father’s idea. They used to keep swinging out a lot and he was always banging his head on them. One day he got really mad and screwed them up.”

      “And you’ve left them like that? They only want new catches. Think of the cupboard room you’re losing.”

      “I’m not bothered. One person doesn’t need a lot of cupboard room, anyway.”

      Elsa completed the sandwiches and made tea without explaining matters any further. As she and Clive drank it in the lounge Clive glanced about him.

      “Seems a pity to have to sell this place up,” he mused. “So quiet and restful. I believe I really could paint masterpieces here. So much better than in that rather squalid studio of mine.”

      “My only wish,” Elsa answered quietly, “now I’ve got the oppor­tunity is to get away from this place. I know every stick and stone of it. As I told you, I was born in it. I must get away from it, Clive. To settle down here to married life would be just too much for me.”

      He smiled. “Okay. We’ll use my London flat until we can find something larger. Now, what things do you want to keep, and what to sell? You’d better make an inventory, then the estate agent will know what he’s doing.”

      Elsa nodded and reached out to the bureau near her elbow. Drawing a sheet of paper from it she began to jot down items as they occurred to her. Clive watched her for a moment, then with a sandwich halfway to his mouth he paused, looking at a door in a corner of the room. He had noticed it when he had first entered the room, but at that time the angle of sunlight had cast it somewhat in shadow. Now it was perfectly clear, and the brilliant sunshine was playing on eight shiny-headed screws, similar to those in the kitchen cupboard, four driven home on each side.

      “Great Scott, don’t tell me that door swings too!” he exclaimed.

      “Door?” Elsa looked at him, rousing herself from meditation; then she turned her head. “That? There’s a cellar beyond that. It used to be for coal, then my father had an outhouse made for it. In consequence that door, on the other side, drops down into a dangerous well—so it’s sealed up. You may have noticed how the house juts on one side. That’s the empty area behind that door.”

      “Oh, I get it,” Clive acknowledged, resuming eating—but he rather wondered, deep down, if he really did. The passion Elsa Farraday’s father seemed to have had for screwing up doors had had something of the quality of a mania.

      “There, I think that’s everything,” Elsa said finally, con­sidering the list she had made and tapping her teeth with the pen­cil. “Typewriter, manuscripts, blank paper, clothes and other necessities, of course— Yes, that’s the lot.”

      Clive looked at her and then glanced sideways at the list.

      “There’s far more on that sheet than just those items,” he remarked in surprise. “What else is there?”

      “Oh, just odds and ends.” For some reason she coloured hotly and a defensive light glinted in her grey eyes. With a quiet pos­sessiveness Clive ignored her obvious emotion and took the list from her.

      “What’s this?” he asked, frowning. “The entire contents of the small room over the hall to be kept intact and stored until you give further instructions....”

      “It’s private,” she said, her mouth very firm.

      “Okay, I don’t want to pry, but it’s hard to find flats these days and a whole extra room full of stuff is going to be a tough proposition. What’s in the room?”

      “Oh, things. Personal.”

      “Furniture, you mean?”

      “Well, yes,” Elsa admitted.

      Clive got to his feet. “We’d better see,” he decided. “I want to be knowing what I’m doing. Lead the way.”

      She rose, shaking her head.

      “I don’t want you to see those things,” she said earnestly. “In that room is something which is very dear to me. You’d just call it junk and probably laugh at me too. Please, Clive—don’t ask me to explain. If it comes to it I’ll find an extra room somewhere myself for them. I don’t want it to be your responsibility.”

      He hesitated, driven by the masculine urge to demand a better reaction from his wife-to-be; then his good nature settled the issue.

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