28

After lunch, Wales told him that Mrs Shakeshaft wanted to see him. (He’d not seen her since breakfast.)

Pellerin was writing a letter to Gladys at the time, a confused letter—he was in no mood to write to Gladys; he couldn’t get Beatrice out of his mind. (He told her about Beatrice, about trudging back with the local police to the pool, and being interviewed by them.) As for Christmas—well, he’d come and spend Boxing Day with her, thank you very much. Sorry I didn’t reply to your letter before the last, but I’ve had a lot of things on my mind. And I still have, he thought.

“If only,” he said to himself out loud, “she had spoken to me. She was on the point of doing so; she had almost opened her lips . . .” He wondered if there was anything in his face which had prevented her from telling him all, seeking his aid. He got up from the table and went to the mirror on the wall.

At that moment, Wales knocked on the door.

“She’s in the Blue Room,” he added, after he had told him that Mrs Shakeshaft wished to see him.

As Pellerin went down the staircase to confront Mrs Shakeshaft in the Blue Room, his face was set with a grim, determined expression. He said to himself, Don’t parley with her. Leave at once.

He expected her to upbraid him for tearing the cushion away from Gayfere—had he torn it away?—and of blaming him, perhaps, for Beatrice’s suicide. To the first accusation, he would reply with bitter laughter. And why does he need an air cushion? Tell me that. He foresaw the colour in Mrs Shakeshaft’s face draining away at this remark. He expected words, arguments, dismissal.

“Come in,” he heard her say immediately after he had tapped on the door of the room she used as her private sitting-­room, as if she had been anxiously waiting for him.

He turned the handle and went in. She was standing, white-­faced and worried, beside the chimney-­piece.

He had already told her that he’d seen Beatrice, her maid, rotting in a sinister pool beside an unruffled swan—until he had plunged into the water and ruffled it—and she was not, he felt, going to reveal to him any anxiety on that score by asking further questions.

“I’ve decided after all that it would be a good thing if you took Herbert away to the Continent on the educational tour. When do you want to leave?”

He was pleased to hear her use his phrase—educational tour.

“Whenever it is convenient,” he replied.

“As far as I am concerned, as soon as possible.”

“But how about the inquest?”

“Don’t worry about that. The coroner may be cross, but I don’t care.”

“I’m surprised that you’ve changed your mind,” he said with a little forced laugh.

“Why shouldn’t I change my mind? Don’t you?”

He stared at her, amazed at her composure, at a loss for words.

“Go to Cook’s in London. Take Herbert with you, and make all the arrangements. Put up at Brown’s Hotel. I always stay at Brown’s. My bank will supply you with all the money you need.” She paused, then added. “How long do you want to stay away?”

“I don’t know,” said Pellerin, a little dismayed.

“Don’t come back under two months at least. If you run out of money, let me know in time, and I will see that you get more. I don’t want you to stint yourselves.”

He heard himself murmuring, “Thank you, Mrs Shakeshaft.”

He found Herbert amid the trees in the park, seated on the trunk of a fallen beech. He was throwing a ball for Charlie to catch.

“We’re going abroad,” he said.

“I know,” said Herbert.

There was a short silence.

“But aren’t you glad?” asked Herbert. “I am.”

Pellerin was not glad. He didn’t want to go away now; he wanted, more than anything else, to talk to Mrs Shakeshaft, to talk to her for days, weeks, to tell her that she was leading an absurd life, and that if she had any sense she would consider him as a prospective candidate for her hand. Et cetera. Yes, et cetera.

“I’m glad,” said Pellerin, not wishing to undermine Herbert’s enthusiasm. “I’m very glad.”

“It’s marvellous!” said Herbert.

“I was suddenly summoned to the Blue Room . . . but there’s one thing that I can’t understand.” Pellerin hesitated.

Herbert took the ball from Charlie’s mouth and threw it far; then he returned his attention to his tutor.

“She seemed in a hurry to get rid of me—of us!”

Herbert had no comment to make on this, especially as Charlie had returned with the ball.

It was growing dark. The breeze knocked one branch against another of a nearby tree. Signal to depart.

“Let’s go,” said Pellerin. “The sooner we get away, the better.”

They walked in silence towards the house.