The Man Who Loved Lions E-Book

Ethel Lina White

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The Wheel Spins will make you think well. The plot revolves around Iris Carr, which takes the train to the Balkans. She managed to make friends with Miss Froy. Carr falls asleep. After she wakes up, she no longer notices Miss Froy. She starts asking the train passengers about her. However, passengers deny that she ever existed at all.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. REUNION

II. "SULLIED SOULS"

III. A SAGACIOUS BEAST

IV. A LOST HAND

V. "TIGER BURNING BRIGHT"

VI. A MAN WHO WASN'T THERE

VII. SEEING SNAKES

VIII. AMBUSH

IX. THE MONKEY AND THE SNAKE

X. ONE CAME BACK

XI. TWELVE GOOD MEN AND TRUE

I. REUNION

I.

ANN SHERBORNE gazed at the ringed date in her pocket-diary. It was the fourteenth of November, 1941.

“After all these years,” she thought, “it has come at last. I can’t believe it. It’s to-night...”

Seven years ago, on a wild November evening, high up in a turret-room which seemed to sway in the wind, this reunion had been arranged. Richard–their host–handed to each guest a card of typed instructions, reflecting his peculiar humour which specialised in insult.

Reunion of THE SULLIED SOULS at Ganges, November the fourteenth, 1941. According to custom, the tower-door will be left open–trustfully and without prejudice to character–from eight to twelve. Bring this card for purpose of identification. In seven years we shall all be changed and inevitably for the worst. Do not fail to keep this appointment, dead or alive, but preferably if dead. You will be livelier company.”

At the time of their last meeting, Ann only anticipated a temporary separation from her companions. Within forty-eight hours, however, she was on her way to Burma, with her parents. Her father was a brilliant engineer–as well as an intermittent drunkard–so that his wife had to work overtime to keep him anywhere near dry-level.

The quiet little woman was responsible–indirectly–for some fine constructional work. When she died, she kept the contract in the family by passing on her job to Ann.

During the weeks and months spent in exile, Ann never forgot the reunion. At the beginning of each fresh year, she drew a circle round the date in her pocket-diary. She used to stare at the enchanted numeral in a passion of longing. Richard’s card of admission grew grimed and limp from being read in many a different scene and climate–high up in boulder-blocked mountains and besides sliding brown tropical rivers; above the snow-line and in the glare of the desert.

As the years passed, her first doubts began to sharpen into fear. War broke out and her father decided not to return to England. When he signed a contract with a water corporation in Florida, she gave up hope of keeping her appointment in the flesh.

“There’s only one way,” she told herself. “Get a monkey’s paw, mail it to Richard and pass out. He’ll attend to the rest.”

Near the end of October, 1941, her father died suddenly. At the time it seemed too late for her to return as all the odds were against her...But on the evening of the fourteenth, she was in a hotel in the heart of London, waiting for the minutes to pass before she set out for the place of reunion.

II.

She sat at a small table in the crowded lounge, wedged in her place by a pack of occupied seats, while a continuous procession of people streamed past in search of a vacancy. Beside her was an elderly man who had come down from Lancashire on business. A keen judge of values, he had noticed her at breakfast and was struck by the force of character evident in her steadfast eyes and resolute lips.

He was engaged in reading through his list of future engagements and he snapped the band around his book at the same moment as Ann closed her diary. Their eyes met and they smiled at the duplicated action. He had noticed previously that to her, a stranger was just another human-being and not a possible plague-contact, so he risked speaking to her.

“We both seem to be checking-up on our dates. Are you in business?”

She hesitated because the reunion was her secret; but since the shadow of the tremendous event was beginning to sag over her, she looked at his shrewd kindly face and was tempted to talk.

“My date isn’t business. I’m meeting people I’ve not seen for ages.”

“Friends?” he asked.

“No...It’s queer, but really I know nothing about their private lives. I can’t think how we ever got together. We were students at a college in London and we attended the same biology lectures.”

“Did you form a club?”

His interest was so kindly that it redeemed his questions from curiosity and Ann was encouraged to expand.

“It was more like a cult. Richard wanted devil-worship but no one would back him up. So we used to meet secretly and discuss world affairs. Richard was always planning purges and he kept a list of victims. He called us ‘THE SEVEN SULLIED SOULS.’”

“And were you sullied?” asked the Manchester man, smiling at the pompous title.

“I can only speak for myself,” Ann told him. “I was sixteen and very pure. But I kept quiet about my age and all that. As a matter of fact, I can’t believe that anything could happen to either James or Victoria. James was one of those vague people you forget and Victoria was wrapped up in her work. But John and Isabella were so glamorous that I don’t think they could stop affairs...And I could believe anything of Richard.”

Even in the heat of the lounge, she shivered at the recollection of his face–intermittently revealed in the leaping firelight–as they sat in the darkened tower-room. Deep lines gashed it from his extravagantly-arched nostrils to his mouth. She remembered too the corpse-like pallor of his skin, the shining black hair and the sinister upward slant of his brows.

“We were all of us rather afraid of Richard,” she confessed. “He was older than the rest of us and not a regular student. He was just rubbing up biology and he used to sneer at the lecturer. He thought it funny to say hurtful things.”

“Why didn’t you kick him out?”

“Because, in a way, he helped to make the thrill. He seemed a sort of distorted genius. Besides, to be honest, we wanted to meet at his house. He lived with a wealthy uncle and there were always refreshments and drinks.”

The marble pillars and gilded walls of the hotel lounge faded out as Ann thought of the last session in the tower-room. She remembered the roaring wind and the trails of ivy which tapped on the window-panes.

“We’ll hold a reunion here, seven years from to-night,” declared Richard. “By then, my old uncle should be hanged and I shall be lord of the manor. Possibly one of you may be successful, and damned, but I promise the rest of you jobs. Something in the Hercules tradition.”

“I bar elephant-stables,” said one of them. “Otherwise, count me in. Already I feel a man with a future.”

Of course it was Stephen who spoke–Stephen who was merely amused by Richard and whose laughter could extract the sting from the most envenomed remark.

III.

As Ann lapsed into silence, the Manchester man’s interest deepened into a vague sense of responsibility. The hotel was large, central, and gave excellent value. It was termed “cheap and popular,” so it attracted a mixed collection of guests, among whom were some cheap and popular gentlemen. The Manchester man had noticed that while some of these had tried to get acquainted with Ann, she seemed unaware of them, as though she were preoccupied with an exclusive interest.

“Have you kept in touch with any of ‘THE SULLIED SOULS’?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “I’ve been abroad and lost touch. My father died at the end of October.”

“How very sad,” he said, shocked by so recent a loss.

“Not for him.” Her voice was level. “It was one of those illnesses you’re thankful to be out of...At the time, it seemed impossible to keep my date. Every one told me so. But I went on trying and haunting agencies and bribing people. And then, almost at the last moment, I got a cancellation in an air-liner. A palmist had told the man there would be a terrible accident.”

“So you’re not superstitious?”

“But I am. I was expecting the crash, all the way, but I just hoped I might be lucky.”

“Used to flying, I suppose?”

“No, it was my first trip. It was awful. Whenever we dropped, I left my stomach behind me, up in the air...But it was worth it for it was quick. I made London with time in hand.”

Again the Manchester man wondered what object had exacted such furious drive and fixity of purpose. Then he calculated the girl’s age as twenty-three while he counted the number of the “Sullied Souls.”

“You’ve mentioned five names,” he said casually. “You make six. Wasn’t there a seventh member of your club?”

“Yes. Stephen.”

The radiance of her face told the Manchester man why she had flown to England.

“Stephen was wonderful,” she declared. “He had everything. And he gave out all he had.”

Then she looked at her watch, pressed out her cigarette and began to collect her belongings.

“Nearly time to dress,” she said in a different voice. “I’ve been boring you but you asked for it. I thought talking about it would help me to realise it, but I can’t. I can’t believe that in a short time we shall all be together again, after seven years.”

“Don’t go,” urged the Manchester man. “Wait for the postscript.”

His kindly face had grown grave as he fumbled for words.

“Suppose–Are you sure the others will remember the date?”

“Of course.” Her voice was confident. “They couldn’t forget.”

“Well, my dear, I’m John Blunt. And I’m a grandfather. Will you take some advice from an old-stager? Just ring up this Richard and make sure that it is a date. Remember, you’re not used to the black-out.”

Ann’s face was thoughtful as she considered the advice.

“I can’t ring up,” she said. “It’s unlikely that Richard would answer the phone and I can’t leave a message. No one must know of our meetings. Secrecy was one of our vows.”

“Hum. What’s the address?”

“Ganges, Yellow-forge, Surrey. The house is right out in the country, at the end of the Tube. A local bus passes the gates.”

While the Manchester man was jotting down the details, he asked another question.

“What time do you expect to be back?”

“Not much later than one-thirty. We used to catch the last train.”

“Well, I warn you, if you don’t show up, I shall make inquiries about you. I don’t like to see a young girl running risks.”

“What risk?”

“The risk of a big disappointment, to begin with. You’ve not seen these folks for years. They’re bound to be changed and you may be disillusioned.”

“I know...But it’s my chance. I’ve got to get in touch with someone again. This is the only way.”

Pushing back her chair, Ann rose from the table.

“Good-bye,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

The Manchester man watched her progress through the lounge. She seemed to steer a way amid the crowd by instinct, for she looked ahead as though she were seeing one face only, smiling at her at the end of a long road.

He grunted and then slumped back in his chair as he began to revise his engagement list. Presently he was joined by his wife–a massive woman with a pleasant face. She had accompanied him to London for the trip and also to keep an eye upon him.

According to custom, he told her dutifully about his promise to Ann. His story got the usual reception, while she hid her pride in his unselfish character.

“Just like you, Will. Even more daft than usual. I’ve no patience with headstrong girls who run into scrapes and expect other people to get them out. You’ve a heavy day to-morrow and you need the sleep you can get. You might consider you owe your loyalty to me and the girls. Besides what you propose is utterly useless.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because if she runs into danger, by the time you could take any sort of action, it would be too late to save her.”

IV.

Ann’s heart beat fast as she rose in the lift up to the fifth floor. It was difficult to believe that somewhere in the blackness of the countryside was the dark pile of Ganges–the focal point for six sentimental pilgrims. Her search through a postal directory had established its existence and also the fact that its owner was still Sir Benjamin Watson.

“No stable jobs for us,” she chuckled. “I’m glad Richard has not cashed-in.”

When she reached her room, it was still too early to start, so she lay on her bed and smoked while she recalled the journey out to Ganges. The Sullied Souls always met at Piccadilly Circus Underground Station, where–after a race down the escalators–they crowded into the first train. Every one talked and nobody listened as they shouted across the carriage, swaying from straphangers and treading on the toes of other passengers.

Afterwards came the interlude of the bus ride through dark lonely country lanes–so dimly visible in the rush of light from their window, that they seemed to be on a ship, ploughing through cold still waters in search of adventure.

High up in her hotel room, Ann watched the smoke curling from her cigarette as she thought of her companions. All had one thing in common–the name of an English king or queen. Isabella was doubly royal, since her first name was “Mary.”

“Stephen, Richard, Victoria, Ann, Isabella, James and John,” recited Ann.

James was pale, rather fleshy and smooth-haired. He wore thick glasses and in spite of his youth, his clothes suggested a prosperous professional man. Victoria had an oval expressionless face, black almond eyes and a straight fringe. Her hands were strong with square-tipped fingers which repelled Ann because of Victoria’s passion for dissection.

These were the two students who always got the highest marks in examinations, but Ann credited them only with brains which could register degrees like a gas-cooker. Their useful glow was incomparable with the brilliant fire of other Souls. She regarded Isabella as a genius, even while she chose perversely to concentrate on the development of her personality.

She reminded Ann of a picture she had seen of a fatal light which lured benighted travellers into a bog. Behind the flame was lightly sketched a face of unearthly beauty and allure. Isabella had similar delicate features–the same fastidious lips and elfin gleam in her eyes. She was provocative, impersonal and elusive–attracting masculine homage only to reject it.

John was her opposite number–an arrogant golden youth, fair, fascinating and unstable. He assumed the devilry of a Mayfair playboy and dissipated his talents in versatility; but Ann was too dazzled by his personality to be critical. In her deep humility, she worshipped both John and Isabella with the gaping admiration of a tourist in a hall of immortal statues. She expected no notice from them and she received none, but their indifference could not hurt her because she was deeply in love with Stephen.

At the age of sixteen, she concentrated upon him the force of a strong and steadfast nature. Sitting silent at the meetings, she used to watch his face and treasure his words. She retained vivid memories of the way his hair grew and the clean-cut corners of his mouth. Unhappily, she felt so sure that he must be in her life forever, that she never dreamed of any parting.

The news of the family departure to Burma left her stunned with shock. At the time, she was too bewildered with the rush and too modest and doubtful of his interest in her, even to write him a note of farewell. Her only consolation was the prospect of her return to England and the hope of meeting him again.

As years passed and she remained in exile, she tried to obtain his address, only to meet with repeated disappointments. Letter after letter returned to her with a faithful instinct which rivalled her own loyalty. But whenever she felt loneliest, she looked at the ringed figures in her calendar...Every thought and every action led up to a date.

And that date was to-night.

V.

She jumped off her bed, drew a fur coat over her suit and pulled a discouraging little hat–sold to her as the latest fashion–over one eye. A few minutes later she was on her way to the reunion, sinking downward in the lift and pushing through the crowded vestibule. She carried a gas-mask and a pocket-torch, but in spite of their reminds of war conditions, she had not realised the completeness of the black-out.

When she had passed through the revolving-doors, the light gradually dimmed until she swung round to face a wall of darkness. While her eyes were still dazzled from the illumination of the lounge, it seemed an absolute eclipse. Presently, however, she distinguished faint gleams from passing traffic and circles mottling the pavement, thrown downward by electric torches. She could see no pedestrians while she heard voices and footsteps, as though the city were inhabited by an invisible race; but as she lingered in the entrance, she collided with a solid body.

Someone wished to enter the hotel. Stepping aside, she stared before her, when she became aware gradually of blurred shapes passing by. They were so dim and formless that they suggested survivors from a prehistoric race, groping in their eternal midnight. But as her eyes adapted themselves to the black-out the scene became more normal.

As she watched it she had a sense of being cheated. When she had looked forward to this moment, she had visualised a pre-war London–the brilliant street lights, the changing colours of advertisement signs and the glowing façades of theatres and cinemas. It was a keen disappointment and made her apprehensive of the future.

“I expect they are all waiting for me in the Underground,” she thought hopefully.

The station was only a few yards from the hotel and she crossed the narrow street in a reckless rush. As she was stumbling down the steps of the nearest entrance she saw the light of the booking-hall around the corner, as though in fulfilment of her dreams. Instantly the years were forgotten and it seemed only yesterday that she hurried down the subway in her eagerness to meet her companions.

Breaking into a run, she burst into the hall, expecting to hear her name called by a familiar voice. When no one claimed her, she paused to look around her. After years spent in solitude, she got an impression of confusion and haste. Every one appeared to be in a hurry to get home. On that evening, there were only a few loiterers and there seemed to be no friendly reunions.

Standing in their usual place she looked at the clock.

“It’s the time we always met,” she reflected. “I’d better stay put.”

As the minutes passed, she grew too impatient to stand and watch the constant stream of passengers, so she went in search of the others. After she had completed the round of the booking-hall without meeting any one who resembled a Sullied Soul, she felt chilled with fresh disappointment.

“Perhaps we’ve passed without recognising each other,” she thought. “I wonder if I’ve changed much.”

She tried to stare impersonally into a strip of mirror at the back of a shop window. It reflected a tall slender girl, wearing a closely-fitting nigger-brown suit under an open fur coat. Her dark hair waved to her shoulders and her eyes glowed with excitement in a pale anxious face.

“Actually I look younger,” she decided. “It’s the short skirt and the kid hair style. I’ve lost weight too. But really there’s nothing to it. I ought to recognise them.”

She told herself that in the course of seven years, no one would grow bald or acquire a stomach of the first magnitude. A girl might change the colour of her hair or a man might grow a beard, but the salient features would remain. She was trying to pierce problematic disguises when she noticed that the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to seven.

It was the accustomed signal to wait no longer for stragglers but to dash down to the train. Since she had committed herself to a time-table which covered the hours of eight to twelve, it was important to keep to schedule.

Her face dulled as she stood on the descending escalator, since there was no rival Atlanta to race down the steps. Boarding a train in dignity, she managed to procure a seat. In spite of these improved conditions, the carriage appeared a dull place minus Genius and Beauty, to proclaim their opinions, without deference to the corns or ear-drums of the Public.

As she looked around her, the various uniforms reminded her that she intended to get into one of the Services as soon as possible. Crediting her companions with her own patriotism, she considered an ominous explanation for their absence.

“Of course, they’ve all joined up and can’t get leave. Actually I’d forgotten the war. And the war’s too big for me to fight. What’s the good of going on?”

Even as she weakened, she recalled her dominant purpose.

“I must go on or I’ll never see Stephen again. It’s my only chance. Ganges is all that matters. If Richard isn’t there to open the door. I must get inside the tower-room somehow. I must stay there from eight to twelve, on the chance that Stephen might come to the reunion. If he doesn’t come, someone else must remember the date. That person may tell me where to find Stephen.”

Then the light returned to her eyes at a further reflection.

“What a mug. I expected them to meet at Piccadilly Circus, when they are all scattered. They will be coming from different stations. One of them might even be coming on this train.”

She thought of them set at various points in a circle and gradually drawing together, like the spokes of a wheel, until they met at Ganges. As she smiled, a man–hatless and wearing a belted camel-coat–stared at her as though he interpreted her smile as an overture, but lacked energy to follow it up. He was tall and heavily-built, with a gross handsome face and dull eyes devoid of a spark of spirit.

Ann could not understand her instinctive recoil, until she got a clue from his hair, gleaming under a light. It was very fair and had a strong natural wave. She knew that she disliked him because it was too easy to imagine him as a slender blond youth with a clear-cut arrogant face and sparkling blue eyes–a golden youth who might resemble John.

VI.

She fought the suggestion.

“No. I won’t believe it. It’s not John. He couldn’t have changed so much in seven years...Besides, he doesn’t know me. That proves he is a stranger.”

She was grateful when the train ran into the open and the reduced lighting of the carriage made it impossible for her to see him clearly; but she was vaguely disturbed by the fact that–while the train grew emptier at every station–he did not leave his seat. When the terminus was reached, as she climbed the stairs, she could distinguish the blur of his light coat in front of her.

After she passed through the screens of the booking-hall, she came out in what appeared to be total blackness. With the exception of some stars, the night was clouded and unusually dark. As she waited, she saw moving lights, rather like the coals of a dying fire, and realised they were the dimmed lamps of motor traffic.

She felt both bewildered and nervous as she remembered that she had to cross the road to reach the bus stop. She was further worried by the recollection that the buses to Yellow-forge ran infrequently and that the Souls used to sprint to make their connection. Although she knew that the timetable was probably altered, she dared not linger outside the tube station.

When she tried to reach the other side, she found that she had lost her traffic-sense completely. After deciding that some feeble oncoming lights were still safely distant, she was about to dash in front of them, when she was arrested by the finding of brakes and a burst of profanity from the driver. At the same time, someone gripped her arm and dragged her back to the pavement. She thought instinctively of the man with the debased face, so it was a relief to hear a woman’s voice.

“Don’t you know better than to cross against the lights?” it asked.

“No,” replied Ann frankly, “I don’t.”

When she explained the circumstances, her rescuer grew friendly.

“I’m from the Dominions myself,” she said. “Australia.”

“How lovely,” said Ann enviously. “It’s daylight there.”

“And real sunshine. I’m in the A.T.S. I’ll see you across Jordan. Look, there’s the amber. The lights are going to change. Now.”

Armed by the friendly Australian, Ann crossed the road safely and was steered to a darkened vehicle which was on the point of starting.

“Yellow-forge bus,” said the uniformed girl, pushing Ann up the steps. “Good-bye. Happy landing.”

As the bus moved on, Ann congratulated herself on her progress. The most difficult part of her journey was over as she would alight just outside the gates of Ganges. When the conductress came to collect her fare, she remembered the name of the stage–King William the Fourth–a small public-house.

After she received her ticket she was able to relax. Her watch told her that she had time in hand, even if she had some difficulty in locating the tower-door in the black-out. She could see nothing of the countryside, but there was the old sense of adventure–of being on a mystery cruise over some fabulous sea–as the darkness flowed past.

“Every yard, every second is taking me nearer to Stephen,” she thought.

Conscious that she was growing sleepy from the strain of peering through the gummed muslin which protected the window, she looked down the dimly-lit vehicle.

To her dismay, the seat in front of her was occupied by the big fat man who was a caricature of a mature John. She stared at the roll of fat on his neck and his thick wavy hair while she tried to subdue her panic.

“It’s not John. He’s not going to Ganges. It’s just coincidence he’s on the Yellow-forge bus.”

Unfortunately the shock of seeing him had awakened all the latent fears which the kindly Manchester man had sown in her mind. She began to wonder whether Ganges existed only within the pages of the telephone directory. After every blitz, houses remained listed, although they were reduced to rubble. Presently she could endure the suspense no longer and appealed to the conductress.

“I want to get out at Ganges. Will you please tell me when we come to it.”

“Ganges?” repeated the girl doubtfully. “Do you mean the Zoo?”

A submerged memory returned to Ann. Although she had never seen Ganges by daylight, Richard had boasted about his uncle’s collection of wild animals. It was a modest one, comprising varieties of deer, a small cat house, a monkey colony and a penguin pool, yet it was a source of heavy expenditure.

“Big Ben’s spending a fortune on the blighters,” grumbled Richard. “He’s trying to reproduce their natural surroundings, to kid them they’re not in captivity. It suits me as I’ve got my hoof well in. There’s a tribe of relatives–pedigree and mongrels–but I’m the only blighter that’s up in zoology. The idea is I’m Big Ben’s heir, on condition I keep on the Zoo.”

As she remembered the explanation, Ann accepted the existence of the Zoo as comforting proof of the survival of Ganges.

“So the Zoo’s still there?” she remarked as a feeler.

She realised that she had introduced a controversial subject when a big shapeless woman who resembled Mrs. Noah, spoke sharply.

“Yes, still here, but it wouldn’t be if it wasn’t a rich man’s hobby. It’s a proper scandal and it didn’t ought to be winked at.”

“Hush, Ma,” said a girl’s voice. “It’s no business of ours.”

“Maybe not, but I speak for others. What about young Perce?”

An invisible man, sitting further down the bus, defended the Zoo.

“Sir Benjamin’s all right. Hasn’t he promised to give a Spitfire? He can spend his money as he likes. Young Perce had no business to climb railings. He was trespassing.”

“The poor lad said he lost his way in the dark–and he had to deliver.”

“He should have delivered his groceries by daylight. He was a darn fool to go wandering about the grounds in the black-out.”

“You’re telling me,” agreed the matron. “You wouldn’t catch me in there, not if the king asked me to meet him. You might stumble against anything in the dark.”

The conductress interrupted the discussion by ringing her bell.

“Ganges,” she announced. “Take care, miss.”

As she got up Ann glanced apprehensively at the back of the big fair man, but to her great relief, he did not rise from his seat. Evidently Ganges meant nothing to him. He was still motionless when she looked after the bus, rolling again on its way.

“Thank goodness,” she muttered. “That’s the end of him.”

Snapping on her torch, she saw before her the familiar entrance to Ganges, where stone pillars were crowned with roughly-carved elephants. On one post a notice was displayed–“WARNING. PRIVATE ZOO. KEEP TO PATH.”

She felt a thrill when she pushed open one heavy wrought-iron gate, Stephen was only just around the bend. But even as she exulted, she started at a low noise. It was distant–yet it seemed to stir the air–a heavy sawing sound with a shattering quality–like a snarl imprisoned in a roll of thunder. For a moment she thought it was a train coughing in a tunnel, but as it was repeated she recognised it.

It was the roar of a lion.

VII.

In that moment, her courage died and she turned to run. The gossip in the bus acquired a double-edge as she realised that the Zoo was no longer the Garden of Eden of seven years before. It contained savage beasts which were controlled by human agency...And it was admitted that the personal element is fallible.

A few steps across the road would bring her flush with the little public house which was a fare stage. Common sense urged her to catch the next bus back to the tube terminus. It would stop by the station entrance and from there, it was almost a straight run back into her bedroom at the hotel.

As she hesitated, she remembered one of the rare occasions in the past when Stephen had seemed aware of her existence.

“Promise me you’ll never meet Richard alone, or go to Ganges without the gang,” he said earnestly.

“But you’re pally with him,” she reminded him.

“Different for me. I cultivate him because he’s such a clever devil. He’s a sadist and he talks a lot of smut, but when I’ve chucked out the husks, I can usually get a grain of something useful from him.”

He added abruptly, “Don’t be impressed by the parrot-talk you hear at Ganges. There’s nothing to it. The monkeys at the Zoo can put on a better show.”

At that moment she felt the force of his warning. But the memory had reminded her too vividly of Stephen. After waiting seven years for this evening, it would be contemptible cowardice to turn back. All she had to do was to obey instructions–“KEEP TO PATH”–and she would be safe.

When she flashed her torch before her, she was relieved to see that the way was marked with whitened stones. She was surprised to find it unchanged–going uphill and into hollows–because the gossip in the bus had led her to expect altered conditions. When she left England, Sir Benjamin Watson was not only wealthy but he had expectations from a millionaire uncle who was being kept alive, in spite of the total loss of his faculties from senile decay.

The fact that Sir Benjamin had given a Spitfire to the nation seemed to prove that he had come into his inheritance and was now a very rich man. In the circumstances, it seemed strange to find no improvements in the property. Ganges was built on rough rising ground and its natural features were preserved without any attempt at landscape-gardening. There was a ravine, a wood, a lake and a hillock, while the house was reached by a path which climbed a humpy pasture.

Soon Ann began to regret the absence of a properly-made drive. Whoever was responsible for blazing out the trail had apparently assumed that strangers were as familiar with the scene as himself. In places the number of stones was skimped and the white paint had worn off so many that it became difficult to keep to the path. She felt ruts underfoot and blundered into a bush which blocked her way, only to find on the other side a field of coarse grass, unbroken by any track.

As she stopped to plot her course she thought of the unlucky errand-boy who had lost his way also. Her presence was unauthorised–even as his–and she must accept any consequence of trespassing on forbidden territory.

“Go on?” she asked herself. “Or go back and try to find where I went wrong? But Perce climbed palings, so the big idea would be to avoid short-cuts...I’ll go on.”

She had hardly made the decision when she found her way blocked by a strong stockade.

“Palings,” she said. “Definitely this is where I go back.”

While she stood there she heard voices on the other side of the enclosure. They were too far away for successful listening-in, but she got the impression of an argument. One voice sounded so blurred and stupid as to be unhuman; it seemed to protest against some course while the other voice urged encouragement.

Suddenly she managed to distinguish words. “All right...Come on, old man...Sleep it off...Soon be all right.”

“Well,” she reflected, “if one of them is Caliban, the other appears to be civilised. If I could make him hear he might direct me to the tower door.”

Before she could cup her mouth something blotted out the stars in the patch of sky before her–something long and sinuous that writhed in the air like a serpent.

She recognised it as an elephant’s trunk and turned to run. Had it been daylight, she would have felt no fear, but the darkness turned any encounter into a risk of being crushed. Mrs. Noah, in the bus, had declared that you might stumble upon anything. She realised that the country people were strongly opposed to the Zoo and that probably they had good reason for their indignation.

Although the monster was on the other side of the palings, those blurred voices had destroyed her confidence. If a keeper were drunk, he might leave a gate open, so that the animals could wander over the pasture. Flashing her torch before her she stumbled wildly down a slope, until the light shone on a line of uneven white stones.

In her fright she had forgotten the reunion and the tower-room. With a shock of surprise she found herself in a small paved courtyard which seemed familiar. There was a sundial in the centre and a damp flagged path led up to a small lancet-shaped wooden door.

It was the entrance to the tower-room. When she turned the handle she discovered that it was unlocked, as though in expectation of guests. She entered a dark lobby and stood at the foot of the winding stone stair, listening for the sound of voices from above. In the old days one always heard the excited hum, like grasshoppers on a hot day. But now the only sound was a distant elephant’s trumpet–high and thin as though it were calling a retreat.

A rush of questions hurtled in her mind. Was any one waiting up in the tower? Who would it be? Stephen–or Richard, against whom she had been warned? When she remembered the myriad times she had looked forward to that moment, it seemed ironic that she actually feared to mount the steps. At last she found the courage and crept upwards, straining her ears for any sound that might warn her of danger.

As she reached the last spiral she saw a beam of electric light shining from the tower-room. This was contrary to precedent, for their meetings were lit only by the flames from a coal fire. As she saw the place distinctly for the first time, its glamour was destroyed with its loss of mystery. It was smaller than she had imagined, with blacked-out windows set high in the walls. There were the same shabby divan and chairs which were never occupied, since they preferred to sprawl upon cushions piled before the fire. The table at the back which used to be crowded with bottles and heaped plates now held only a decanter. The grate was empty and its coals replaced with electric-current.

Someone was sitting slumped in one of the deep chairs. He rose as she entered and held out an unsteady hand. It was a big fair man–her fellow-passenger in the train and bus.

“Hallo,” he said. “Who are you? I am John.”