The Echoing Strangers (Mrs Bradley) Page 2

‘Oh, most of them only let for about three months in the summer, madam. The first one this way, that’s let permanent, though. A deaf and dumb young fellow and a lady named Higgs that look after him, they have it. He come from a very good family, so I hear, but his friends don’t want him.’

  ‘How long have they been there?’

  ‘A matter of ten year or more.’

  ‘Do you see them about much?’

  ‘Pretty fairly. She shop in the village mostly, and sometimes they drop in here for lunch or tea. And the boy, he’s solitary. That do go about by himself a good deal.’

  ‘Is the boy a mental case?’

  ‘No. That seem intelligent enough, except he can’t hear or talk proper.’

  ‘Oh? We met them. The woman fell into the river and my man got her out.’

  ‘Wasn’t this young Mr. Caux handy, then? Fine swimmer, he is. We have a regatta and swimming races on the Broad here, and that win every race he go in for.’

  ‘Interesting. How does he know when to start if he’s as deaf as you say?’

  ‘He watch Miss Higgs. She drop a handkerchief.’

  ‘I see. She’s fond of him, I take it? Apart from just looking after him, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Proud of him, too. They get on a treat together.’

  ‘What do you make of it, George?’ asked Mrs. Bradley, for her man had been standing within earshot. George shook his head.

  ‘Extremely odd, madam. The young fellow certainly pushed her in. Maybe something she did exasperated him and he acted hastily.’

  ‘That seems to be the most reasonable explanation. But I don’t like it much, because he certainly wasn’t going to attempt to get her out.’

  ‘He may not have realized how great an encumbrance a lady’s skirt can be, madam.’

  ‘True. Oh, well, we can’t do anything more.’

  She was wrong about that, however. She told the story at dinner to her host.

  ‘Caux? Caux? Oh, yes, there was a shocking scandal about fourteen years ago. I forget the details, but the father was had up for manslaughter. He was lucky not to have been charged with murder, I believe.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I remember now. It was something to do with one of the women servants, and a manservant got to know about it. He tried to blackmail Caux, and Caux lost his temper and banged him over the head with a decanter of port. It was a very heavy cut-glass thing and it smashed the fellow’s skull. It was proved by the defence that the skull was thin and that the blow wouldn’t have killed the average person.’

  ‘So Mr. Caux went to prison, I take it?’

  ‘Only for a year. Then he was killed in a car crash three or four years later. His wife, too. He left two boys, one of whom, I believe, was in the car at the time of the accident. I heard some rumour that the shock had left him deaf and dumb. Anyway, the grandfather got rid of this poor lad and is bringing up the other to be his heir. The property is entailed and the boys are twins, and there are dark rumours that the thrown-out one, Francis, is the older twin, but I know nothing about that.’

  ‘How do you come to know what you do know?’

  ‘Oh, the estate is in Hampshire. I used to live in the next village and we shared the pub. You get lots of gossip in a pub, some of it fact, some not. And, of course, we used to play them at cricket.’

  ‘It is such a coincidence that you used to live in that village, and such another coincidence that I should have witnessed what certainly looked like an attempt at murder, that I don’t feel inclined to leave matters as they are,’ said Mrs. Bradley thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how I can manage to …’

  Her host caught his wife’s eye, and winked at her.

  ‘You’d better rent the bungalow next door,’ he suggested facetiously; but Mrs. Bradley, who had intercepted the wink, nodded vigoously.

  ‘The very thing!’ she said. ‘I wonder who the agents are? Oh, well, the people at the hotel are certain to know. I’ll go over there to-morrow and enquire. I don’t remember seeing a board out, though.’

  Her luck, as usual, was in. The people who had hired a bungalow for July had been prevented from coming, and Mrs. Bradley made a satisfactory bargain for tenancy. She moved in on the Saturday. Rather to her surprise the woman in the first bungalow welcomed her warmly, made her a cup of tea and suddenly unburdened herself.

  ‘I know you saw what Francis did the other day. It wasn’t a bit like him. There’s something on his mind. It’s to do with the river, but, of course, he can’t tell me what it is. He can’t speak properly, you see.’

  ‘Can’t he read and write?’

  The woman’s face darkened.

  ‘That old brute, his grandfather, wouldn’t have anything done for him at all, and I can’t afford to, on the money I’m paid. I’ve tried to teach him, but I haven’t the knack. All I can do is to love him and try to understand him.’

  ‘He looks remarkably intelligent.’

  ‘Oh, he is. I’m sure he is. But it’s so difficult, you know, when there’s no communication in words and when he can’t hear anything, either. I’ve tried to teach him to lip-read, but it means nothing to him at all.’

  ‘I should be interested to get to know him. Is he very shy?’

  ‘I think he knows he’s under some serious disability, and of course he knows he wasn’t wanted at home. It makes him a bit … queer. I don’t know what or how he thinks. But do make friends with him. If only you or somebody … anybody … could manage to find out what’s troubling him. I know it must be the river, because he won’t take out the dinghy and he won’t go swimming any more.’

  ‘I’m a psychiatrist. I should be most interested to make his acquaintance. Was he born deaf and dumb?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. He had a terrible shock when he was a little boy. He saw his father and mother both killed. It dates from then. I’m always hoping something may put things right, but he’s almost a man, and, so far …’

  ‘So far nothing has happened … or, rather, no miracle has happened. He is in a state of trauma. It should be possible …’ She pursed up her beaky little mouth. ‘Tell me more about him.’

  ‘There isn’t much more to tell. He’s moody, of course, and his appetite varies very much. For days at a time he’ll hardly eat a thing, and then he becomes quite hungry. Sometimes … I’m speaking of the time before all this worry began about the boat and the river … he won’t be persuaded to swim at all, and at other times he revels in the water. It’s most peculiar.’

  ‘Does he take any other form of exercise?’

  ‘He played cricket one year for the village, and did very well, but they couldn’t get him to play again, not even in the return match. He just turned completely obstinate.’

  ‘Does he show any sign of being interested in girls?’

  ‘No girl would want him, would she? There was trouble once, though, about a year ago. The father came here and wanted to thrash him. I threatened to call the police. I was terribly frightened, and so was Francis. He ran away and hid, and I had great difficulty in getting him to come back when the man had gone. I believe he did behave disgracefully, but fortunately there were no consequences, and the girl got married a month ago and went to live in Norwich, so that was a very good thing. I think Francis learnt his lesson, but I was terribly worried for a long time. I’d never thought of him as a bad boy, and it doesn’t seem as though he is. He just forgot himself, I suppose, or perhaps the girl tempted him. She was nineteen to his sixteen, and ought to have known better, but she complained that he was violent and took her by surprise. Of course, some boys are lustful. It’s nature coming out, I suppose, but it’s very inconvenient. I wrote to Sir Adrian … that’s his grandfather, you know … about it, not mincing my words, and suggested that perhaps it was time a man took Francis over, but I got no reply except an addition to my usual cheque. It was welcome, but I’d rather have had it for some other reason.’

  ‘What about pocket-money? Does the boy’s grandfather supply any?’r />
  ‘Oh, yes. Sometimes I’ve wondered …’ she hesitated, and then added, ‘I might as well say it, as I’ve begun … sometimes I’ve wondered how Francis gets as much money as he seems to possess. Sir Adrian sends it to him once a quarter, and he always hands me the cheque to cash for him, so I know how much he has. Yet sometimes I’ve suspected that he must have some other source of supply.’

  ‘His twin brother, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, no. The envelope containing the cheque is the only one he ever receives, and the cheque is always signed Adrian Caux. There is no letter inside … at least, I don’t think there can be because he would have to give it to me to read if there were, and, in any case, he wouldn’t be able to learn the contents, as he can’t hear.’

  ‘You have a difficult task. I don’t envy you.’

  ‘It’s a living,’ said Miss Higgs, ‘and I’m fond of the boy, you know.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Amateur Status

  *

  ‘They are depicted as the eye of imagination sees them.’

  Nilsson

  *

  A FEW DAYS after Mrs. Bradley had gone to live in the village of Wetwode, a young schoolmaster named Tom Donagh was glancing at the advertisements in an educational weekly when he chanced to read one which interested him very much.

  ‘I say, Bishop,’ he said to the only other master in the Common Room, ‘what do you make of this? Holiday Tutor required for one boy, slightly backward, during Mede Cricket Week. Opening batsman and slip fielder preferred. Public school and University essential. Give last season’s batting average, state whether Blue, bring pyjamas and black tie if called for interview. Apply Sir Adrian Caux, Mede, Hants.

  ‘Questionable way of getting a bit more class into a village team,’ said Bishop.

  ‘I shall apply, I think.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind being paid for a week’s cricket, and that’s obviously what it comes to.’

  ‘It doesn’t give the date, and we’ve still a week of term.’

  ‘Don’t I know it! I haven’t finished my reports yet and the Old Man has still to sign the beastly things. I’ve done Masters’ three times. What can you say about a harmless half-wit without giving offence to his parents?’

  ‘I always put Tries for Masters, and leave it at that. After all, he may try. We’ve no evidence that he doesn’t. The boy who worries me is Gregory. He’s a brilliant mathematician but not a word of English literature will enter his head, let alone stay there long enough for the examiners to rake it out again. I’m afraid he’ll fail Common Entrance.’

  ‘I’d better make a special study of both lads if I’m to take on tutoring a backward boy. I wonder what the pay will be?’

  ‘Dash it, you haven’t got the job yet!’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling I’m going to apply for it, anyway. There’s a smack of bare-faced jiggery-pokery about it which fascinates me. I’m very anxious to meet this shifty and snobbish baronet. I’m not sure I won’t apply to-night, as soon as I get to my digs. This paper only came out to-day, and I might be first in the field.’

  He did apply and received a telegram in the following week which read: Waterloo four-thirty Saturday meet car Brockenhurst the very man Caux.

  The train was packed, but Donagh had booked a corner seat and the journey was not a long one. Waiting for him at Brockenhurst were a large car and a small, ferrety-looking chauffeur.

  ‘Mr. Donagh, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any other luggage, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Matter of nine miles, sir.’ And with this they drove through an open stretch of the New Forest, through a village, past inviting lanes and so to a short, squat, gloomy house.

  Tom’s first sensation was one of slight deflation. The place certainly did not give an impression of the wealth that he had anticipated. There was no suggestion of ease and comfort about it, and his entry into a dim hall lighted only by a hideous stained-glass window at the further end through which a defeated late-afternoon sun seemed disinclined to attempt to penetrate, gave no more promise of what he had expected than had the unimposing first sight of the house itself.

  A manservant had opened the door. He led Tom through the hall and up to the stained-glass window. This he put down Tom’s bag to open. The scene changed with some abruptness. The unprepossessing window looked on to an enormous green field golden with the late afternoon light. It was bounded by heavy elm trees on one side and on the other three by a tall fence painted primrose colour and broken only by a large pavilion which backed on to the house. Batting screens, a motor mower, an enormous roller and a stretch of tarpaulin laid in the centre of the ground left nothing to Tom’s imagination.

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s our cricket field,’ remarked the manservant. ‘We thought you’d like to see it before you went to your room, as that does not overlook the back of the house.’

  ‘We? Then you’re in the team?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. We’re all in the team, sir. That’s how we keep our positions here, and obtain our gratuities.’

  ‘All amateurs, I take it?’ said Tom, ironically.

  ‘Oh, yes, but keen, sir. Very keen indeed, if I may say so. Oh, we shan’t disgrace you with our company.’

  He turned away from the window, leaving it open, and picked up Tom’s suitcase. Tom, carrying his cricket bag, followed him to the left and up a dark staircase. At the top was an equally gloomy landing. The bedroom doors were named. The man stopped at one marked Neville Cardus, opened the door and stood aside to let Tom pass.

  The window was heavily curtained, giving the impression of a death in the house. The man put Tom’s suitcase on a wide wooden stool, went across to the window and disclosed it.

  ‘The sun can do little harm now, sir.’

  ‘I shouldn’t suppose so.’

  ‘The master has a theory, sir, that a cricketer’s eyes should not be unnecessarily exposed to a bright light. You will, in consequence, discover this to be a restful house, sir.’

  Tom had already come to the conclusion that it would probably drive him mad, but both courtesy and policy made him disinclined to say this, so he nodded and asked:

  ‘Where do I aim for when I’ve changed?’

  ‘I will personally conduct you, sir. Should you care to give me your clothes, sir, I will press them whilst you bathe.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be all right. I’m a careful packer.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Would you be so good as to ring bell number four when you require me? Bell number one is for drinks, bell number two is connected with the garage, bell number three is for the housemaid and bell number four is my own personal bell, sir.’

  He departed, closing the door noiselessly. Tom looked at his watch, gave the man a couple of minutes, and then experimented with bell number one. It was answered immediately by a tall young fellow who carried a slate and chalk.

  ‘Something after your journey, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Brandy and splash, sir?’

  ‘No. A longer drink than that.’

  ‘John Collins, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ It came in five minutes’ time. ‘Where’s the bathroom? I forgot to ask.’

  By the time he was ready to ring bell number four it was half-past seven and he was extremely hungry. The manservant, whose name turned out to be Walters, conducted him downstairs and to the right and so to a large, depressing dining-room. It was decorated in sage green, and the portraits on the walls were all of cricketers. Tom had no difficulty in recognizing Hutton, Hendren, Sutcliffe and Hobbs, but was defeated, until he appealed to his host, by one or two others whom he felt he should have known by sight but did not.

  His host turned out to be a man in what appeared to be the middle of middle age, although it turned out later that he was sixty-three. He was stoutish and florid, w
ith the profile of a cruel man and the full face of a self-indulgent one. Tom immediately took a deep dislike to him.

  ‘I see you’re looking at our family portraits,’ said Sir Adrian. Tom agreed, and added that he was sorry not to see Larwood among them. ‘Oh, but he is,’ Sir Adrian declared. ‘You haven’t looked in the window alcove.’

  Tom repaired this omission and then asked, ‘Does your cricket week begin on Monday, sir?’

  ‘Here, here! None of that Sir business! I’m not as old as all that! How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Correct. I’ve looked you up, you know.’

  ‘I should hardly have thought you’d had time.’

  ‘Oh, I keep the tabs on you fellows. You’re the T. P. St. X. Donagh who scored fifty-seven not out in the Winchester match in 1945 and had a batting average of forty-three point nought six recurring in the season of 1948. Not all that good, mind you. You should never have attempted to hook Chaveley. Chaveley should never be rashly handled. His length is perfect.’

  ‘It pays to take a chance sometimes.’

  ‘Ha! You can take chances, young fellow, but you can’t take criticism, eh?’

  ‘Not when I know I did the only thing I could.’

  ‘Good. Splendid. Well, our week begins on Monday, a friendly against Lord Averdon’s team. That doesn’t matter a bit. On Tuesday—well, more about that later. Just two innings apiece on Monday, you understand. If the second innings by any chance shouldn’t be concluded, we draw, of course. Now Thursday really is important. On Thursday and Saturday we play the next village, Bruke. Last year they beat us. That’s why I advertised. There’s no residence qualification or any nonsense of that sort. It’s like professional soccer. What you can get hold of is what you play in your eleven. Well, I’ve got hold of you, and God help you if you don’t earn your keep!’

  ‘What is my keep, by the way?’

  ‘Oh, as to that, yes. You’d better meet Derek. We are a strictly amateur side, Mr. Donagh. I want no question raised about that. You are here to tutor my grandson. The cricket is by the way … officially, I mean, of course. You will like Derry.’