"I see," said Holden, who didn't see in the least
Had he experienced, ever since he first entered this house tonight, a vague feeling of disquiet? A subconscious sense that something was wrong? Nonsense! Yet there it was: an instinct of black waters swirling, of dangerous images just out of view, and—what was worst and most irrational—the feeling that Celia was involved in it
"I see," he repeated. "And is that all you have to tell me?"
"Yes. Except that poor Margot was buried in the new family vault in Caswall churchyard. It was two days after Christmas. We . . ."
Some strange note in Holden's voice, faintly jarring, had caught Thorley's attention in the midst of his absorption. Thorley stopped jingling coins in his pocket and turned around from the window.
"What exactly do you mean, is that all I have to tell you?"
Holden made a despairing gesture. "Thorley, I don't know! It's only ... I never had any idea Margot's health was as bad as that!"
"She wasn't in bad health. She was in good health. The thing might have happened to anybody. Shepton said so."
"Death from overexcitement at a party?"
"Look here, Don. Have you any reason to doubt Dr. Shepton's ability, or his good faith?"
"No, no, of course not! It's only that. . . that. . ."
"You're shocked, old chap," said Thorley in a commiserating voice. "Of course you are. So were all of us, at first. It was sudden. It was tragic. It made us remember that," there was almost a blink of tears in his eyes, "that in the midst of life we are in death, and all that sort of business."
Thorley shifted, as though hesitating to approach some fact that must be approached.
"And there's another thing, Don," he went on, "I've arranged to go down to Caswall tomorrow. Only for a short visit, of course. This will be the first time any of us has been there since it happened. As a matter of fact, my boy, I'm thinking of selling the place."
Holden stared at him.
"Selling Caswall? When you've got the money to keep it up?"
"Why not?" Thorley demanded.
"There are four hundred years of reasons why not."
"That's just the point," said Thorley in a different voice. "The place is unhealthy. It's unhealthy with age. All those portraits in the Long Gallery—they're unhealthy." He did not explain the reason for this last extraordinary statement "Besides, it can't be staffed properly. And we'll never get as good a price for the place as we'll get now."
"How does Celia feel about it?"
Thorley ignored this.
"So, as I say," he persisted, "Celia and I are going down to Caswall tomorrow." He took a deep breath. "Under any other circumstances, my dear fellow, I'd be only too delighted to invite you to go along with us . . ."
There was a long silence.
"Under any other circumstances?"
"Yes."
"Then I gather," Holden said with great politeness, "I am not invited to Caswall."
"Don, for heaven's sake don't misunderstand!"
"What is there to misunderstand? But if Celia's going with you ..."
"Don, that's Just it!" Thorley paused. "The fact is, I'd rather you didn't meet Celia." "Oh? Why not?"
"Not just at the moment, anyway. Afterward, maybe—"
"Thorley," said Holden, putting his hands in his pockets, "I'm quite aware that for the past few minutes, in your highly diplomatic way, you've been trying to tell me something. What are you trying to tell me? Why don't you want me to meet Celia?"
"If s nothing, really. If s only . . ."
"Answer me! Why don't you want me to meet Celia?"
"Well, if you must know," Thorley replied calmly, "we're a little disturbed about the balance of her mind."
Now the silence stretched out unendurably.
Outside the circle of light thrown by the table lamp, the radiance across white-covered sofa and edges of rugs on a polished floor, the rest of the big drawing room had retreated into darkness. The mirror brought back from Italy by a seventeenth-century Devereux, the Sevres porcelain cabinet from the palace of Versailles, the little First Empire settee against another wall, had all faded into shadows. Up over the garden outside, seen through long door-windows, were a few bright stars and the hint of a rising moon.
Donald Holden turned away and walked slowly round the room, inspecting each article without seeing it. His footsteps sounded with great distinctness. Thorley watched him. Still without speaking, Holden circled around until he faced Thorley from beside the lamp.
"Are you trying to tell me," he said, "that Celia is insane?"
"No, no, no!" scoffed Thorley, with cheery, false heartiness. "Not as serious as that, of course. Nothing, I'm sure, that a good psychiatrist couldn't cure; that is, if she'd only go to one. At least," he hesitated, "I hope it's no more serious than that."
Then Holden did what Thorley perhaps least expected. He started to laugh. Thorley was shocked.
"If you see anything funny in this!" Thorley said reproachfully.
"Yes. I do see something funny in it."
"Oh?"
"In the first place," said Holden, "I don't believe a word of it" The idea of the gentle, gray-eyed Celia as mentally incompetent was so grotesque that he laughed again. "In the second place . . ."
"Well?"
"When you started all these devious cat-footed tactics of approach, I thought you were trying to get rid of me so as to leave a clear field for the excellent Mr. Derek Hurst-Gore."
"I never had any such idea!" cried Thorley, in obviously genuine astonishment "Though, mind you," he added on reflection, "Celia might do worse if—if she were in a state to marry anybody. He kept his seat when the Conservatives went out and he's going to go far. Whereas (if you'll excuse my saying so, old man) you're not much of a catch; now are you?"
"Agreed," said Holden. A cold shock had gone through him at those words, "if she were in a state to marry anybody." The shock cleared his wits; it stung him alert, and made him very steady. "But never mind Mr. Derek Hurst-Gore. Let's get back to this question of Celia's insanity."
Thorley made a fussed gesture.
"Don't say that word! I don't like it!"
"Well, lef s call it her mental disturbance. What form does that disturbance take?"
Thorley let his glance stray away; as though he were trying, without turning around, to look out of the window behind him.
"She's—saying things." "Saying what things?"
"Things that are impossible. And crazy. And—well, pretty horrible," muttered Thorley. Suddenly he looked back at Holden, his face whitish in gloom. "I'm very fond of Celia, Don. More so than you'll ever guess, if you only knew the whole facts of this business. There mustn't be any scandal.
There must never be any scandal. But, if she keeps on talking as she's been talking .. ." "Saying what?"
"Sorry, old chap. I haven't got time to go into it now."
"Then shall I tell you?"
"What’s that?"
"Has she by any chance been saying," asked Holden, "that Margot's death wasn't a natural death?"
The stars, hitherto bright over a dark garden, were paling with the rising moon. Neither Thorley nor Holden moved.
"You see," continued the latter, "even if Celia were completely out of her mind"—Holden could not help a shudder going through him—"why are you so anxious I shouldn't meet her? After all, I'm an old friend. I couldn't hurt her. Is it because you knew very well she's as sane as you are, and she's got at the truth that Margot didn't die a natural death; and you're afraid I'd back her up?"
Holden took a few steps forward: short, shuffling steps.
"Listen, Thorley," he said, gently. "You're quite right I will back her up. And if you're trying any games against Celia, or even thinking of trying any games against Celia"—his hands opened and shut—"then God help you. That’s just a little warning."