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  Outrageous Fortune

  Patricia Wentworth

  I

  The August sun shone down upon the Elston cottage hospital. After a week of every possible kind of bad weather the English summer smiled its brief enchanting smile, charming away the memory of fog, cloud-burst, and storm. A handsbreadth of hyacinth-blue sea showed where a green cliff dipped and rose again. It was a blue halcyon sea. Impossible to believe that only four days ago it had flung its angry spray against that green hillside, had battered a ship to matchwood, and engulfed the wreck in the deep treacherous quicksands which lay beneath the sparkle and the ripple of its waters. After the storm, fog. And then, on a sudden, this exquisite perfect day.

  The men’s ward was on the ground floor, with a verandah that looked upon the garden. At two o’clock in the afternoon the day sister was getting the convalescent cases out, the light beds were being pushed along, and there was a good deal of chaff and banter.

  “Sister—can’t I have the place by the wall? Billy Button’s a-going to grow up it like a creeper if he ’as it much longer.”

  “Sister—my ’air wants cutting something crool. What’s the young lady visitors going to say when they sees me on the verandah looking like this?”

  “You can have an umbrella,” said the day sister. She had a pleasant voice with a north country accent. She turned back to an old man with a merry wrinkled face. “Now, Mr Giles, you’d better have that shawl your wife brought.”

  “Don’t want no shawl,” said Mr Giles obstinately. “Hot as hot it is.” He jerked his elbow towards the next bed. It had two red screens about it. A monotonous muttering sound came from behind them. “Keeps on—doesn’t he?” he said.

  “Has he been saying anything?” said the day sister.

  Mr Giles screwed up his face.

  “He’ve said ‘Jimmy Riddell’ twicet, and Jimmy ’tis, sure as ’taters are ’taters. D’you think there’ll be anybody a-coming to identify him?”

  “I hope so,” said the day sister. “Now, Mr Giles—if you’re ready—”

  “I ain’t,” said Mr Giles. “I want to tell you something first.”

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “It wasn’t ’arf funny listening to that there radio message last night, and him in the next bed. But Matron shouldn’t ’ave put no more than just Jimmy Riddell—those other names was all nonsense. It’s Jimmy Riddell he keeps saying, and I’ll take my Bible oath to it.”

  “Now, Mr Giles, I can’t stop talking here.”

  Mr Giles screwed up his face until it was all wrinkles.

  “And I’ll tell you something else he said too.”

  “Something else?”

  “Um—” said Mr Giles. “Something most uncommon queer, sister.”

  “Well—what was it?”

  Mr Giles chuckled.

  “First he said, ‘Jimmy Riddell,’ and then there was something about being clever, and then he said, ‘Green—like a kid’s beads.’ Plain as plain that was. And then off he goes muttering again.”

  “Oh well—” said the sister. “I can’t stop talking here. I believe you’re just trying to keep me, because you don’t want to go out. You’re a crafty old man, that’s what you are—but out you go.”

  She pulled the bed away from the wall as she spoke, and taking it by the head, pushed it briskly down the ward.

  Behind the two red screens the muttering voice went on. Outside, the sun streamed down.

  Nesta Riddell got out of the car a little way down the road and stood for a moment with her hand on the door.

  “Now, Tom, you’ll wait here, and if it’s Jimmy, and if they’ll let him come, I’ll come out and tell you.”

  “And if it isn’t?” said the man at the wheel.

  He was so like Nesta Riddell that strangers took them for twins. As a matter of fact, she was three years the elder and very much the better man. Tom Williams did as he was told, and with no more than sometimes a sulky look, and sometimes a jerk of the shoulders.

  Nesta slammed the door and walked up the road towards the gate. It was going to be really hot. She had been in two minds about wearing her new blue voile, but in the end she had chanced it. For all she knew, it might be the last opportunity she would have, because if this man who had been picked up in the fog wasn’t Jimmy, then it was a hundred to one that Jimmy was drowned; and if Jimmy was drowned, she would have to go into black.

  She lifted the latch of the gate, pushing it open with a brisk jerky movement, and walked up the gravel path. The garden was bright with autumn flowers. Big heads of pink, and white, and purple phlox sunned themselves, but the cornflowers and Shirley poppies had been beaten down by the heavy rain and sprawled untidily on the drenched earth.

  Mrs Riddell did not look at the flowers. She walked straight up to the front door, rang the bell, and then waited, with her hands clasped rather tightly upon the red handbag which matched her beret. She was rather a handsome young woman, with a high colour and dark hair that curled naturally. Her grey eyes were a little too small and a little too closely set, and there were lines between them, and other lines about her mouth which might spell temper. She wore large pearl earrings and the latest choker necklet, also of pearls—enormous white ones. They made her throat look brown and rather stringy.

  She had rung the bell, but the door stood open. She could see across the small lobby and down a long white-walled corridor. Two other passages went off to the right and left, and in a moment a fat, rosy-cheeked girl of eighteen, with a white cap and blue print sleeves rolled up, came flying round the left-hand corner.

  Nesta Riddell began at once.

  “I’ve come about the message on the radio.”

  The girl opened blank round eyes.

  Mrs Riddell’s brows met in a straight line, a dark line like a frown.

  “There was a radio message to say that a man had been picked up in the fog—”

  The rosy girl became rosier, and her eyes rounder. She was desperately interested and very nearly inarticulate.

  She said, “I’ll tell sister,” and bolted like a rabbit.

  Nesta opened her bag, took out a sheet of paper, and waited. When the sister came, she would know whether Jimmy had been drowned or not. What did it matter if he had been drowned? She didn’t care. There wasn’t any manner of reason why she should care, only she wished that the sister would come and get it over. That girl was next door to a half-wit; she looked as if she didn’t understand a word you said to her. She wondered at their keeping a girl like that—but then of course it was just a cottage hospital.

  The day sister came round the corner—dark blue, and an apron, and a much more becoming cap—not young, but rather good-looking.

  Nesta Riddell said her piece again.

  “I’ve come about my husband. There was a radio message to say that a man had been picked up in the fog.”

  “Oh yes. And you think he is your husband?”

  “My brother wrote the message down,” said Nesta Riddell. “I haven’t got a radio myself, but my brother wrote it down, and I’ve brought it along.”

  She raised the sheet of paper and read from it:

  “‘Will the friends or relatives of Jimmy Riddell, Reddell, or Randal communicate with the Cottage Hospital, Elston, Sussex. This man was found unconscious near Elston and is believed to be a survivor of the wrecked coastal steamer Alice Arden. He appears to be suffering from loss of memory.’ That’s what my brother wrote down. Well, I’m Mrs Riddell, and I want to know whether it was my husband that was picked up, or whether it wasn’t.”r />
  “Well, Mrs Riddell—”

  Mrs Riddell took her up sharply.

  “That’s the point, Nurse. Riddell—that’s my name, and that’s my husband’s name—Jim Riddell—Jimmy to his friends. And what I want to know is, what’s all this about Reddell and Randal? Didn’t he say who he was?”

  “Well—no.”

  Mrs Riddell took her up again.

  “Well, if he didn’t say, who did? I mean, why Riddell, or Reddell, or Randal? I mean, where do you get any of the names from?”

  The day sister frowned. This was a pushing young woman.

  “Was your husband on the Alice Arden?”

  “He might have been. I don’t say he was, and I don’t say he wasn’t. What I want to know is, how did you get hold of those three names?”

  The day sister wasn’t going to be hurried. North country people take their own way and their own time.

  “Well, he was found on a ledge on that cliff just to the left of the gap over there. That’s where the Alice Arden broke up. She was driven in with the gale, and there the current got her and she smashed on the rocks. You must have read about it. It’s a very bad bit of coast because of the quicksands. The lifeboat people picked up a few of the passengers, but this man wasn’t found for getting on thirty-six hours. The gale went down very suddenly, and then there was a fog, one of the worst fogs I’ve ever seen. You couldn’t see your hand before your face on the cliffs, and it wasn’t till it lifted that they found him. He must have crawled up on to the ledge and then lost consciousness. Dr Sutherland thinks he’s had a knock on the head. When he came round he didn’t seem to know who he was or where he came from.”

  “Then I don’t see—”

  The day sister just went on as if there had not been any interruption.

  “But when he is asleep he keeps muttering, and one of the things he keeps saying is that name. The Jimmy is plain enough. That is to say, Matron says it is Jim—and she made out the message that was broadcast—but when it came to the surname, Dr Sutherland said it was Randal, and I thought Riddell—but Matron said Reddell, so she put in all the three. Anyway his linen’s marked J.R.”

  Mrs Riddell was folding the piece of paper with the broadcast message on it. She stopped for a moment, pinching the edge of the paper hard. Then all at once she asked what some women would have asked before.

  “Is he bad?”

  The day sister hesitated.

  “He’s not ill,” she said—“it’s just that he doesn’t remember anything.”

  Nesta folded up the paper with the radio message on it. She folded it quite small. Then she said,

  “He hadn’t any letters or papers on him, I suppose?”

  “A note-case with some money in it—pound notes—seven or eight, I think.”

  “Nothing else?”

  The day sister hesitated. Then after a moment she asked in her slow voice,

  “Do you know anyone called Caroline?”

  “I might,” said Nesta Riddell. “Why?”

  The name went round in her mind. The only Caroline she knew was old Caroline Bussell. Had she written? What had she written?

  “Why?” she said sharply.

  The sister hesitated again. She didn’t want to make trouble between husband and wife. Then she gave way before the pressure of Nesta’s will.

  “Oh, it was nothing really—just the torn-off end of a letter with the signature.”

  “Caroline?”

  The day sister nodded.

  “Nothing else?”

  “No.”

  “Anything the other side?”

  “No. It was really only the smallest scrap.”

  Nesta slipped the paper she was holding into her red bag and snapped down the catch.

  “I’d like to see him,” she said.

  As she walked beside the sister along the left-hand passage, she was wondering about that marked linen. What would Jimmy be doing with his initials on his shirt and pants? Why, the last thing on earth he’d want when he was out on a job would be anything like that—and this had been the biggest job yet. If his things were marked, it wasn’t any of her marking; and that was certain. All her muscles tightened up a little as they came into a light airy room with a row of windows down one side and a wide verandah at the far end.

  The ward was rather empty. Half a dozen beds were out on the verandah, and the sound of cheerful conversation came back into the empty space and echoed there. Between two of the windows there was a bed with a couple of screens about it. The day sister pulled the nearer one back, and Nesta Riddell went past her and stood at the foot of the bed.

  There was a man in the bed, and he was lying on his side with one arm thrown up across his face. She could see the line of his limbs, the hump of his shoulder, and the crook of the arm. Her heart began to beat very fast.

  “Is it your husband?”

  Nesta Riddell turned slowly round. The sister was behind her, with a hand on the screen.

  And then all at once the rosy girl who had opened the door was there, full of hurry and importance.

  “Oh, sister—Dr Sutherland wants you on the ’phone. There’s been an accident.”

  The day sister was gone before the girl stopped speaking.

  Nesta Riddell put up her hand and closed the screens. They made a sort of red twilight about the bed. She went past the foot and stood above the sleeping man. His head was not bandaged. She could see rumpled brown hair, and a bit of brown forehead, and a bit of brown unshaven chin. Her heart went on beating very fast.

  She bent down and touched the arm that was hiding the man’s face, and at once he said, quite clearly and distinctly,

  “The finest emeralds in the world.”

  Nesta drew back her hand with a jerk. A look of terror passed over her face. To lie here in an open ward and talk about emeralds! The man’s voice lost its distinctness and fell to a mutter, but she could hear what he was saying well enough:

  “Like a lot of green glass..… like a kid’s green beads.… funny to think you’d kill a man for a thing like that..… kid’s beads … green …… Jimmy Riddell..…”

  Nesta took hold of his arm and dragged it down.

  The man’s face was brown and haggard against the coarse white pillow. A two days’ stubble made him uncouth. His eyes were half open. He seemed between sleeping and waking.

  “Jimmy Riddell?” said Nesta harshly.

  His eyes opened—dark grey eyes with black lashes. He gave her back the name like an echo:

  “Jimmy Riddell.”

  Nesta shook him.

  “Yes—Jimmy Riddell?”

  “I don’t know … no one knows … nobody knows but me..… and they’re the finest emeralds in the world..… the Van Berg emeralds … and nobody knows where they are but me..…”

  His eyes began to close again. He pulled his arm away and flung it up across his face. She heard him mutter:

  “Green … like a kid’s beads..… Jimmy Riddell..…”

  She straightened herself and stood looking down at him—the long limbs, the rough brown hair, the sunburn, the arm thrown up to shield his eyes. Her face worked for a minute, then muscle by muscle it hardened. When she turned at the sound of hurrying steps, those short dark brows of hers made one straight line and her lips another.

  The day sister had her question on her lips.

  “Well? Is it your husband?”

  Nesta Riddell nodded. It seemed as if her lips were set too close to speak.

  II

  “Tom!”

  Tom Williams had been staring idly at that blue hands-breadth of sea and thinking that it was just the day for a dip. He hadn’t had a proper swim this year, what with the weather and Nesta’s affairs. That bit of blue water was just about right.

  “Tom!”

  He turned with a start. Nesta had the door of the car open. She was very much flushed, and her eyes were bright and hard.

  “We’re taking him back with us,” she said.

 
; “Then it’s Jimmy?”

  Nesta frowned and went on speaking in a hurried, jerky voice.

  “Of course it’s Jimmy. We’re taking him back with us, and you’ll have to drive right in, because he’s pretty dicky. They wouldn’t let me take him away, only there’s been a charabanc smash at the cross-roads and the doctor’s just run up to say they’ve got to take in six whether they’ve got room for them or not.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” said Tom Williams.

  “Crack on the head. Now look here, Tom—I’ve had to fight to get him away. If it hadn’t been for this charabanc business, I wouldn’t have got him. Even as it is, they wouldn’t have let him come if they’d known it was the best part of sixty miles, so I’ve told them we’ve come from Marley.”

  “Marley?” said Tom. “Why Marley?”

  “Because I remembered the name, and it’s only about eight miles from here—and don’t start asking questions or I shall scream.”

  She stepped back from the car, but kept her hand upon it. Tom Williams looked at her curiously. The flush which had covered her face had now drawn together into a brilliant patch high up on either cheek, leaving the rest of the skin white and wet.

  “What is it?” he said. “What’s the matter?”

  That something was the matter was very certain. Nesta didn’t look like that for nothing. Not for the first time, he felt as if her affairs were a sort of trap in which he was caught and from which he had no hope of ever getting free. If it wasn’t for Nesta’s affairs, he and Min might be as happy as the day was long. Yet for the life of him he couldn’t keep out of Nesta’s affairs. What had been happening to make her look like that? He felt a horrid pang of apprehension, and his voice shook.

  “Nesta—what’s the matter?”

  Nesta Riddell’s hand tightened on the side of the car. Just for a moment she had felt as if she were going to faint—“And a nice thing that would be!” she said to herself furiously.

  “Nesta—”

  She straightened up, leaning on the car, and said in a voice that was as low as a whisper but much harder.

  “He’s talking about the Van Berg affair.”