Ngaio Marsh

Dead Water


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at Jenny and said it was an uncommon brave afternoon and he hoped she was feeling pretty clever herself. Jenny at once embarked on the disappearance of the warts and found that Trehern had just become aware of it. Wally had shown him his hands.

      ‘Isn’t it amazing, Mr Trehern?’

      ‘Proper flabbergasting,’ he agreed without enthusiasm.

      ‘When did it happen exactly, do you know? Was it yesterday, after school? Or when? Was it – sudden? – I mean his hands were in such a state, weren’t they? I’ve asked him, of course, and he says – he says it’s because of a lady. And something about washing his hands in the spring up there. I’m sorry to pester you like this but I felt I just had to know.’

      It was obvious that he thought she was making an unnecessary to-do about the whole affair, but he stared at her with a sort of covert intensity that was extremely disagreeable. A gust of wind snatched at her dress and she tried to pin it between her knees. Trehern’s mouth widened. Mrs Trehern advanced uncertainly from the interior.

      Jenny said quickly: ‘Well, never mind, anyway. It’s grand that they’ve gone, isn’t it? I mustn’t keep you. Good evening.’

      Mrs Trehern made an ambiguous sound and extended her clenched hand. ‘See yurr,’ she said. She opened her hand. A cascade of soft black shells dropped on the step.

      ‘Them’s our Wally’s,’ she said. ‘In ‘is bed.’

      ‘All gone,’ said Wally.

      He had come up from the foreshore. When Jenny turned to him, he offered her a real shell. It was broken and discoloured but it was pink. Jenny knelt down to take it. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘That’s just what I wanted.’

      It seemed awful to go away and leave him there. When she looked back he waved to her.

      III

      That evening in the private tap at The Boy-and-Lobster Wally Trehern’s warts were the principal topic of conversation. It was a fine evening and low-tide fell at eight o’clock. In addition to the regular Islanders, there were patrons who had strolled across the causeway from the village: Dr Maine of the Portcarrow Convalescent Home; the Rector, the Rev. Mr Adrian Carstairs, who liked to show, as was no more than the case, that he was human; and a visitor to the village, a large pale young man with a restless manner and a general air of being on the look-out for something. He was having a drink with Patrick Ferrier, the step-son of the landlord, down from Oxford for the long vacation. Patrick was an engaging fellow with a sensitive mouth, pleasant manners and a quick eye which dwelt pretty often upon Jenny Williams. There was only one other woman in the private beside Jenny. This was Miss Elspeth Cost, a lady with vague hair and a tentative smile who, like Jenny, was staying at The Boy-and-Lobster and was understood to have a shop somewhere and to be interested in handicrafts and the drama.

      The landlord, Major Keith Barrimore, stationed between two bars, served both the public and the private taps: the former being used exclusively by local fishermen. Major Barrimore was well-setup and of florid complexion. He shouted rather than spoke, had any amount of professional bonhomie and harmonized perfectly with his background of horse-brasses, bottles, glasses, tankards and sporting prints. He wore a check coat, a yellow waistcoat and a signet ring and kept his hair very smooth.

      ‘Look at it whichever way you choose,’ Miss Cost said, ‘it’s astounding. Poor little fellow! To think!’

      ‘Very dramatic,’ said Patrick Ferrier, smiling at Jenny.

      ‘Well it was,’ she said. ‘Just that.’

      ‘One hears of these cases,’ said the restless young man, ‘Gipsies and charms and so on.’

      ‘Yes, I know one does,’ Jenny said. ‘One hears of them but I’ve never met one before. And who, for heaven’s sake, was the green lady?’

      There was a brief silence.

      ‘Ah,’ said Miss Cost. ‘Now that is the really rather wonderful part. The green lady!’ She tipped her head to one side and looked at the rector. ‘M-m –?’ she invited.

      ‘Poor Wally!’ Mr Carstairs rejoined. ‘All a fairytale, I daresay. It’s a sad case.’

      ‘The cure isn’t a fairytale,’ Jenny pointed out.

      ‘No, no, no. Surely not. Surely not,’ he said in a hurry.

      ‘A fairytale. I wonder. Still pixies in these yurr parts, Rector, d’y’m reckon?’ asked Miss Cost essaying a roughish burr.

      Everyone looked extremely uncomfortable.

      ‘All in the poor kid’s imagination, I should have thought,’ said Major Barrimore and poured himself a double Scotch. ‘Still: damn’ good show, anyway.’

      ‘What’s the medical opinion?’ Patrick asked.

      ‘Don’t ask me!’ Dr Maine ejaculated, throwing up his beautifully kept hands. ‘There is no medical opinion as far as I know.’ But seeing perhaps that they all expected more than this from him, he went on half-impatiently. ‘You do, of course, hear of these cases. They’re quite well-established. I’ve heard of an eminent skin-specialist who actually mugged up an incantation or spell or what have-you and used it on his patients with marked success.’

      ‘There! You see!’ Miss Cost cried out, gently clapping her hands. She became mysterious. ‘You wait!’ she said. ‘You jolly well wait!’

      Dr Maine glanced at her distastefully.

      ‘The cause of warts is not known,’ he said. ‘Probably viral. The boy’s an epileptic,’ he added. ‘Petit mal.’

      ‘Would that predispose him to this sort of cure?’ Patrick asked.

      ‘Might,’ Dr Maine said shortly. ‘Might predispose him to the right kind of suggestibility.’ Without looking at the Rector, he added: ‘There’s one feature that sticks out all through the literature of reputed cures by some allegedly supernatural agency. The authentic cases have emotional or nervous connotations.’

      ‘Not all, surely,’ the Rector suggested.

      Dr Maine shot a glance at him. ‘I shouldn’t talk,’ he said. ‘I really know nothing about such matters. The other half, if you please.’

      Jenny thought: ‘The Rector feels he ought to nip in and speak up for miracles and he doesn’t like to because he doesn’t want to be parsonic. How tricky it is for them! Dr Maine’s the same, in his way. He doesn’t like talking shop for fear of showing off. English reticence,’ thought Jenny, resolving to make the point in her next letter home. ‘Incorrigible amateurs.’

      The restless young man suddenly said: ‘The next round’s on me,’ and astonished everybody.

      ‘Handsome offer!’ said Major Barrimore. ‘Thank you, sir.’

      ‘Tell me,’ said the young man expansively and at large. ‘Where is this spring or pool or whatever it is?’

      Patrick explained. ‘Up the hill above the jetty.’

      ‘And the kid’s story is that some lady in green told him to wash his hands in it? And the warts fell off in the night. Is that it?’

      ‘As far as I could make out,’ Jenny agreed. ‘He’s not at all eloquent, poor Wally.’

      ‘Wally Trehern, did you say? Local boy?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Were they bad? The warts?’

      ‘Frightful.’

      ‘Mightn’t have been just kind of ripe to fall off? Coincidence?’

      ‘Most unlikely, I’d have thought,’ said Jenny.

      ‘I