I did not turn round. My heart gave a jump and a skip, for the laugh had been a man's laugh—it even reminded me of Tunstall's sneering confidential chuckle.

  I did not turn round. I disciplined myself. It was as though I spoke aloud: 'You must remember that from now on it will be very natural for you to imagine that you hear sounds or see suspicious things. You must be especially sceptical about what you fancy you SEE. Why, already this morning you imagined that Eve was looking at you in some peculiar way. Of course she was not. You must remember that. You have some knowledge now that nobody else has got and that nobody else must have. Remember that the only real enemy you had in the whole world is gone.'

  It was at that point that again I fancied I heard the laugh. I stood there, my whole body strung up, my heart stiffened.

  'Who's there?' my heart seemed to whisper.

  'Turn round and see,' something seemed to answer.

  At last—and it was as though my body acted against its will—I did turn round. There was, of course, nobody there. The room was quite empty. The sun that had been shining over the sea was filmed now and so the room also was less bright—it was dimmed as though a thin mist pervaded it. But there was nobody there. Of course there was nobody there.

  I sat down to my table and began to concentrate on my work. In this novel of 'Mr. Porter' I was trying to draw the full–length character, personality of a really wicked man.

  I can see now that I had Tunstall for my sitter, although I would violently have denied it had I been accused. Mr. Porter had the physical properties of Cheeseman, the Rat, but he was laughing, speaking, moving like Tunstall.

  I remember that I looked at the page of manuscript, half scribbled on, and felt a sort of disgust for it. What a second–hand thing was this writing of stories when, with your own strong fingers, you could push a big heavy man into the sea! There was a sensuous pleasure in the recollection of that moment when that body had yielded, falling backwards. There had been the cry, the pounding of the waves below…. My blood thickened as it does when in recollection one recovers the detail of some past sensuality.

  Then, for the second time, I was sure that someone was in the room with me and, for the second time, I refused to turn round. But now I was expecting a touch on my shoulder. Crazy, as I was telling myself, to expect a touch on the shoulder when you know that there is no one there. But so it was. My shoulders were bent a little waiting for the touch. I straightened myself. I turned round.

  Archie was there, bringing me the cup of coffee that I always have in the middle of the morning when I am working. He looked at me with that half–nervous, half–doubting look that always exasperated me. I hated that the boy should be afraid of me. 'Come along. What's the matter?'

  'Nothing,' Archie said, putting the cup down very gingerly on the table.

  'Don't look at me as though I'd eat you.'

  'I'm not, Daddy.'

  'Come here.' I smiled. I drew him in between my knees. I remembered how readily he had gone to Tunstall. I drew his slight, slender body close to mine.

  'Well, have we been working hard this morning?'

  'Yes, Daddy.'

  'What have we been doing?'

  'History, Daddy. Mary Queen of Scots.'

  Then he added, looking at me with wide–open eyes: 'I hate her.'

  'Hate her. Why?'

  'Because she killed people.'

  'They were cruel to her. Her husband was a bad man.'

  'I don't care how bad he was.' I felt his body slipping away from mine, eager to go.

  I gave him what was almost a push. 'All right. Run along. Daddy's working.'

  He ran eagerly away.

  On the following morning at the top of the road that leads down to the Lower Town, I came quite suddenly upon Bella Scorfield. There are, at this spot, some villas with neat gardens and compact little garages. It was a sunny morning with a light breeze. The leaves of the elms were shivering with delicate pleasure. There was no one about, but I could hear the engine of some invisible car like a dynamo at the heart of the world. 'While I go on,' it seemed to say, 'everything is all right. But let me stop—'

  We almost ran into one another.

  'Oh, Mr. Talbot!' she said.

  'Good morning, Miss Scorfield.'

  'I wanted to see you. That is—' She looked about her in a distracted kind of way. I could see that she was greatly disturbed. A strong scent of crushed violets came from her in the breeze—(I would repeat here that no detail in my story, however small, is insignificant).

  'There is no news of Mr. Tunstall?'

  'I believe, none.'

  She looked at me searchingly.

  'Walk with me a little. This way, where there are no houses. Do you mind? I am in great trouble.'

  'I am most awfully sorry—'

  'No. No. I'll tell you the truth. You are, strangely enough, the only person I can tell it to.'

  'I don't understand—'

  'Of course you do. You know as well as I do that it was to me he was coming the night before last.'

  'Really, Miss Scorfield—'

  She turned on me indignantly.

  'Oh, don't pretend! It's too serious. Jimmie has told me often that you know all about us. I'm afraid he's amused me sometimes by the way he's shocked you. But that doesn't matter now. Tell me, Mr. Talbot—' She put her hand on my arm, looking up into my face. 'What has happened to him? Where has he gone to?'

  'I assure you, Miss Scorfield,' I answered, looking at her very steadily, 'I don't know a thing.'

  'Oh, but you must! He told you everything.'

  'Indeed he did not!'

  'Yes, yes. He has the strangest relations with you. He often talked about it. He says that you are inseparables, that even when you aren't together you are together. Oh, I know that it sounds nonsense, but he really believes it.'

  'If you want to know the truth, Miss Scorfield, he despises and patronizes me and I dislike him. I dislike him very much. I always have.'

  'Yes. That's on the surface. But I'm sure it isn't so underneath. I know him too well.'

  'We are opposite in everything,' I said.

  'Yes, that's why you attract one another. But we're wasting time. Where is he, Mr. Talbot? Where is he? What has happened?'

  'I don't know, Miss Scorfield. I really don't. I didn't see him that evening. I was at the cinema—at a revival of David Copperfield.'

  She went on impatiently, her breath catching her words. 'No. No. I'm sure you didn't see him. Leila Tunstall says that he left the house, said goodbye to her, told her not to wait up. He was coming to me. Well, what happened after that? WHAT happened?'

  'I'm afraid I don't know any more—'

  'No, but guess, man! Guess! Have some ideas! He was sober, because he always is when he is coming to me. It was wet, a sort of misty rain. But he wouldn't slip or fall into the sea or anything. I KNOW he wouldn't. When he's sober he can look after himself perfectly. The funny thing is—at one moment I thought I heard him cry out. Of course I didn't. It was only imagination, but I sat up in bed listening—'

  (Yes, I could see her—I knew just how she would do that!) I saw that she wanted me to say something, so I replied quietly:

  'He may have gone somewhere else. He did deceive people, you know. He may have deceived you.'

  I took great pleasure in saying this, for certainly I hated her. She was part of him. Against my will I knew much more about her and her horridness than I ought to know. I hated her and her violet scent and everything about her.

  'That's why I wanted to speak to you,' she cried. 'Is there someone else? Did he ever tell you there was someone else? He has always sworn there wasn't, but then he is an awful liar. I know that well enough. Perhaps he's gone off to someone else. That's what's torturing me.'

  I was suddenly sorry for her, although I hated her. You can be sorry for people you hate. She looked miserable, forlorn, lost.

  'I don't think there is anyone else. He'd have told me,' I added. 'Shall I tell you what I think?' (For I wanted to console her.)

  'Oh, do, do! Please do!'

  'I think he set off meaning to go to you. Then, seeing it was early, went in somewhere for a drink, drank too much and did go off with someone—just anyone. And he's staying away for a bit. Too ashamed to come back at once. He'll turn up suddenly with a story.'

  I could see the relief, the flaming, wonderful relief, that I gave her.

  'Oh, do you think so? I believe you're right. It's the only explanation, isn't it?'

  'The only one,' I assured her, solemnly. 'Meanwhile, Miss Scorfield, if I may say something—'

  'Please do.'

  'Don't show other people that you care. It's much wiser not. They might talk.'

  'Yes, you're right. How right you are! Thanks ever so much.'

  She smiled and walked quickly away.

  It was at that moment, just as I watched her disappearing round a bend of the road, that I thought I heard Tunstall's chuckle close behind me.

  Very clearly I remember how I stood, stiffly, without moving, and listening. I can see as though it were now before me that quiet country road, the houses neat, tidy, like toy houses, bright and shining, and each house with its gay–tinted toy garden in front of it. There was not a single soul in the road and the only sound was the distant hush–hush of the sea and the delicate shivering of the trees.

  I turned round. There was no one there. I had known of course that there would not be.

  Then I spoke to myself something like this: 'You must accept for the moment as part of the condition of things these hallucinations. You must not be surprised at them nor distressed at them. You have done something that you wanted to do and that you are pleased to have done, but naturally such an act must have its mental consequences. Further than that, you were under this man's influence since you were a small boy. You hated him: you detested, and still detest, everything that he did, thought, and was. You were always thinking of his voice, his laugh, his physical body. Naturally you will still be thinking of these things and for a long while to come. You must not mind this. He is dead. You know that he is dead and that nothing can ever bring him back. Even if you fancied that you saw him with your eyes, it would be sheer hallucination, for you know that the dead do not return. Remember the old proverb—dead men tell no tales. You must face this and master it. If you do not, you will be disturbed.'

  I looked resolutely about me. There was no one at all in sight. I went home.

  I discovered, however, that facing the possibility of hallucinations made me conscious of them. That night as I lay beside my wife, who was quietly sleeping, I even encouraged them.

  'Now, Tunstall,' I said almost aloud, 'come out and let me see you.'

  We always slept with our blinds up and our windows open. We liked the fresh air and the reassuring murmur of the sea. On this night there was a shadowed, creamy moonlight. Lying on my side I stared into the room. 'Come on, Tunstall,' I said. 'Let me see you.' I imagined him as he would be or as I had last in full light seen him. He was wearing purple corduroys and was fresh and strong and confident. 'Hullo, Jacko,' he said, 'I can come now whenever you want me.'

  But he was not there, of course. However hard I might stare, he was not there. His voice was there rather than his body. I even spoke to him aloud. 'You're not there really, Tunstall,' I said. 'You can't come back, you know, however hard you try.'

  But I woke Eve, which was very stupid of me.

  'Who's there?' she said.

  And I did another silly thing, for I pretended to be asleep.

  She jogged my shoulder. I pretended to wake with a start.

  'What is it?' I asked.

  'You were talking to somebody.'

  'In my sleep, I suppose. What a thing to wake me for!'

  'No. It wasn't in your sleep. You weren't asleep.'

  'I ought to know whether I was asleep or not,' I said angrily.

  'You said: "You can't come back, Tunstall, however hard you try."'

  'Did I? As a matter of fact, I was dreaming of Tunstall. I suppose it's because everyone's been talking about him all day.'

  She said: 'I'm sure you weren't asleep. I know when you're talking in your sleep.' With a little yawn she added: 'What do you think HAS happened to him?'

  'I haven't the least idea,' I said, and turned over on my other side.

  On Monday morning I was in the shop alone. Eve had some shopping that she must do and I was in charge. I liked the shop. When I had worked with my father every item had been of personal interest and importance to me. Now as I moved about arranging things, dusting a little, moving furniture to its better advantage, I wondered whether in my absorption in my own work I had not allowed Eve to take everything over too completely. I felt a new energy in myself. I had a talent for these things, not Eve's business talent, but a taste that was all my own. I picked up a Waterford glass and held it against the light and thrilled at its solid independent beauty. My fingers lay about it with love and appreciation.

  The bell on the shop door tinkled. Someone entered. It was, I saw to my disgust, Basil Cheeseman.

  I have already said something about Cheeseman before, but I must now speak of him with more particularity, for it is at this point that he comes into my story. I loathed him, but with no obsession about him because he had no power over me.

  Physically he looked what people called him—the Rat. His body was small and delicately, even effeminately, made. His face was pale and his hair a reddish brown. On the back of his hands there were reddish–brown hairs, and he had a little reddish–brown moustache. His eyes were mean and pale. He was as false as hell. He was all smiles and urbanity, a most friendly soul. But while he smiled his little eyes darted about taking in everything that might be useful.

  He smoked for ever a pipe and, while he rammed the tobacco down into it, he would look at you with the eye of an adder over the top of it. He loved to tempt you into unguarded talk, and months after would say: 'You're a one to charge me with spreading stories. All your friends know the things YOU say! Remember what you said to me that day in your shop about—?'

  But his profession, beyond that of journalism, was quiet, genteel blackmailing. I don't know how many of the more important people in our town were terrified of him. There was our Vicar, Mr. Thomas, for one. A fat, white, oozy, kindly man with not a grain of vice in him. But he did like his choir–boys and his Boy Scouts, although most innocently. Cheeseman had the whip–hand of him. There was old Miss Chamberlain, a rich virgin with a figure like a battle–horse. A good–natured, generous soul with a liking for young men, shop–assistants, public–house young men, ANY young man who wasn't of her class.

  Here again I am certain that there was nothing more than amiable, generous good–nature, but the filthy Cheeseman had a horrible hold over her all the same.

  Then there was fat, greasy Bob Steele of the cinema, already mentioned by me. The less said about HIS morals the better, and Cheeseman held him in a steel trap.

  Cheeseman was not only no fool: he was really clever about some things: quite an authority on gardening, for example. He worked in his garden all hours and loved it.

  He was sitting now on a nice eighteenth–century chair, sitting forward, his little body held together as though he were about to spring. His russet hair had a strange glowing quality against the pallor of his skin. His eyes were everywhere. He saw me treasuring the Waterford glass. 'You like beautiful things, don't you, Talbot?' (He had tried once to call me Jacko and I very quickly stopped it.) He was smiling in a would–be friendly fashion and his prominent white teeth stuck out over his thin lower lip.

  'Yes, I do.'

  'Of course. One can tell that from your books. But now, for instance, what is there about that piece of glass you're holding so carefully? To me it's just a piece of old glass.'

  'It would be,' I answered scornfully. Shy though I was by nature, I never attempted to disguise my contempt for him. 'It's of no use explaining to you if you can't feel it.'

  'No,' he said, still smiling, 'I suppose it isn't. Flowers, now. A really fine rose—there's a lovely thing. And it doesn't stay alive so long that it bores you. Now all that old furniture, those cabinets and tables, I call that junk.'

  'Do you call THAT junk?' I said, standing beside a little inlaid escritoire. 'Can't you SEE its delicacy, the loveliness of its lines, the richness of its colour?'

  'Yes,' he said, 'and when you sit down to try and write on it, it wobbles and there's no room for your elbows. I call it silly.'

  'I'm sure you do,' I said.

  'Never mind,' he said quietly. 'We all have our own tastes—and very peculiar some people's are.'

  He added in the same casual tone: 'You know Tunstall's body has been found?'

  His flickering whisky–coloured eyes were on me. My heart stopped a beat. I put down the piece of Waterford glass carefully on the table. I decided that it would be quite natural for me to be interested and even astonished.

  'No!' I cried. 'Where?'

  'On Rotherston Beach—five miles away.'

  'Well, I'm damned!'

  'Not a shred of clothing on it. The body badly knocked about but the face scarcely damaged.'

  'When was it found?'

  'Yesterday evening by some fishermen. Leila Tunstall went at once to identify it.'

  'That settles THAT!' I said almost to myself.

  'Poor Jimmie!' Cheeseman went on. 'I was fond of him and he was fond of me.'

  There was a pause. I was wiping some plates with a duster.

  'You hated him, didn't you?'

  'Yes, I did.'

  'And yet he was fond of you.'

  'Oh, no, he wasn't. He pretended to be because it amused him.'

  'Maybe.' He leaned forward a little.

  'What is odd to me is how it happened. He was going to see Bella Scorfield. Everyone knows that.'

 

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