said Eugenie, and slithered to a halt as she reached the road and bumped into a very large motor car.
Its door was open and an amused voice said, ‘An angel from heaven. You are not hurt?’
A very large arm had steadied her and a moment later its owner was beside her. He had taken his arm away but she had the impression that he towered over her even though she could not see him at all clearly.
She said, ‘No, I’m not hurt. You’re lost?’
‘Yes. I was steeling myself to spending a long night in the car. Now I’m hopeful of rescue. Unless you are lost also?’
‘No, no, I live here. Well, not far away. The village is close by. Where do you want to go to?’
‘Babeny …’
‘Tom Riley’s place. You’ll never get there until this mist lifts. You had better come with me. Mother will put you up for the night and you can phone him from our house.’
‘Your house?’ he asked. ‘But perhaps there is a hotel or a pub?’
‘A pub, but no beds. The nearest inn is miles away at Hexworthy and you’ve passed that—I doubt if you even saw it.’ She added in a motherly voice, ‘You know, you really shouldn’t drive around Dartmoor in this weather unless you know your way around.’
‘No, no, very foolish of me. Could you get into the car from this side?’
She wriggled her splendid person past the driver’s seat without more ado. Only when she was settled did she say, ‘Is it a Rolls or a Bentley?’
‘A Bentley.’ He had got in beside her and she turned to look at him under the car’s light. A very large man, bare-headed—his fair hair could be silver, it was hard to see. She could see though that he was good-looking with a high-bridged nose, a thin firm mouth and a strong chin. She wished she could see the colour of his eyes. He was wearing the kind of casual tweeds which, while well cut, looked suitably worn too. Well, she reflected, that stood to reason, didn’t it, if he drove a Bentley?
He said nothing, only smiled a little and then said, ‘I must rely on you, Miss …?’
‘Eugenie Spencer. My father’s the team rector.’
He offered a large cool hand. ‘Aderik Rijnma ter Salis.’
She shook the hand. ‘Not English—Swedish? Norwegian? Dutch?’
‘Dutch.’
He sounded amused again and she said quickly, ‘The road goes downhill for a hundred yards or so and then levels out as you reach the village. Look out for the sheep. There’s a steep bank on your right. Keep as close as you can to it—you can just make it out …’
They began their cautious journey and he asked, ‘You walked to wherever you came from?’
‘I’ve lived here all my life. The Reverend Mr Watts, who’s taken over the parish until my father is well, phoned for lemons and things. He’s got a bad cold.’
‘Lemons—and you came out in this weather to bring lemons?’
‘And aspirins. He’s from Birmingham and hasn’t got adjusted to the way we live here.’
‘That I can well understand.’
‘The road curves to the right. Will you open the window, please?’
When he did she stuck her head out into the mist for a moment. ‘There’s a tree stump right on the corner. Here it is, go a bit to the right—straighten out now, here’s the village.’
The lights were shining dimly through the cottage windows and the neon light from the village post office welcomed them, but they were quickly back in the gloom. ‘Not far now,’ encouraged Eugenie. ‘I must say you drive very well.’
Her companion thanked her meekly.
Her mother had the door open before the car stopped in front of the house.
‘Eugenie, is that you? However did you get a car …?’
Eugenie had got out of the car, surprised to find her companion waiting for her as she did so, shutting the door for her too. Nice manners, she thought, and plucked at his sleeve. ‘Let’s get inside. The car will be safe here.’ She raised her voice. ‘It’s me,’ she called ungrammatically. ‘I’ve got someone with me; he got lost.’
‘Come in.’ Mrs Spencer peered towards them. ‘You poor man, you must be tired and hungry.’
She held out a welcoming hand as the pair of them reached the door.
‘I’m Eugenie’s mother.’ She beamed up at him. ‘You’re more than welcome to stay until the mist lifts. The weather forecast is gales from the west, so there’s a good chance it will be clearing by morning.’
They were in the hall and Eugenie took off her parka and kicked off her wellies. ‘We waited for you to have tea, so come along in and meet my husband.’
‘You’re very kind. May I get my bag from the car first?’
‘Of course—bring in anything you may need for the night. We have more than enough beds in the house and you can borrow anything …’
He went away and Mrs Spencer took the opportunity to say, ‘What an enormous man—wherever did you find him, darling?’
‘Just below the Reverend Mr Watts’s house. Which room shall I put him in, Mother?’
‘The comer bedroom at the back, I think. He’s not English, is he?’
‘Dutch. Going to Babeny.’
He came back as she spoke. ‘You’ll want to phone,’ said Mrs Spencer. ‘It’s in my husband’s study.’ She opened a door. ‘Do come into the sitting-room when you’re ready.’
There was time to tell Mr Spencer about him before he joined them to be introduced to the rector. Eugenie perceived that the two men were going to get on well together; a chance remark of her father’s about the Bronze Age, still strongly evident on the moor, received a reply from their visitor which demonstrated not only a knowledge of that but a lively interest as well. Tea, taken round the fire, was a leisurely meal while the Reverend Mr Spencer expounded his theories about the stone huts, the tors and the very long history of the moors.
It was nice to see her father showing such interest, reflected Eugenie, getting supper ready in the kitchen. Over that meal, presently, the talk turned to just about every subject under the sun. It was only as she was getting ready for bed that she realised that their guest had told them almost nothing about himself. He came from Holland, he was a doctor, he had told them, but more than that they knew nothing. Did he live in England now? Was he on holiday? Why was he going to Babeny? Did he work at one of the hospitals in London perhaps? And just before she dropped off to sleep she wondered, was he married?
By morning the mist had thinned sufficiently for careful driving to be safe enough. Their visitor, eating a hearty breakfast, reiterated his thanks and declared his intention of leaving as soon as possible.
‘Well, don’t take any short cuts,’ said Eugenie matter-of-factly. ‘There’s a lot of boggy ground.’
He assured her that he would be careful.
Her father didn’t come down to breakfast and presently their visitor went upstairs to say his goodbyes, collect his bag and go out to the car. He stowed it in the boot and came back to where Eugenie and her mother were standing at the door.
‘I am in your debt,’ he told Mrs Spencer, ‘and I can never thank you enough for your kindness.’ He shook her hand and turned to Eugenie.
‘Goodbye—you were an angel just when I needed one—a sensible angel. I am greatly in your debt.’
She offered a hand. ‘I’m glad I could help.