Read Online The Goose Girl and Other Stories by Eric Linklater - Free Book Online

bodies.
    Investigation of a practical kind came to an end. There was no one to question and nothing to find. Even the spiritualistic mediums who offered their services were of no real assistance, though some of them claimed to have established communication with Miss Joan Pomfret, who told them that everything was for the best in the best of all possible Beyonds. Mrs Pomfret, it was reported, had said, ‘Sometimes it is light here and sometimes it is dark. I have not seen Bulmer, but I am happy’. There was a little discussion on the significance of
Bulmer,
till a personal friend suggested that it was a mis-tapping for the name of Mrs Pomfret’s favourite author; but the general mystery was in danger of being forgotten, dismissed as insoluble.
    It was about this time that Mr Harold Pinto left Kirkwall in the Orkneys for Leith, sailing on the S.S.
St Giles
. Mr Pinto was a commercial traveller, more silent than many of his class, a student of human nature, and in his way an amateur of life.
    When the
St Giles
was some four hours out of Kirkwall he stepped into the small deckhouse which served as a smoking-room, and, pressing a bell, presently ordered a bottle of beer. There were, in the smoking-room, two other commercial travellers with whom he wasslightly acquainted, the reporter of the provincial newspaper which had first heard of the Pomfret case, an elderly farmer who said he was going to South Africa, and a young, bright-eyed man, carelessly dressed, distinguished by a short, stubbly beard. He looked, thought Mr Pinto, as though he might be a gentleman. His nails were clean; but his soft collar was disgustingly dirty and his clothes had evidently been slept in. He asked for Bass, at the same time as Mr Pinto, in an educated and pleasant voice, but when the beer came he merely tasted it, and an expression of disgust passed over his face. He took no part in the general conversation, though Mr Pinto noticed that he followed the talk actively with his eyes—very expressive eyes they were, full, at times, of an almost impish merriment.
    The conversation naturally centred on the Pomfret Mystery, and the reporter very graphically told the story from the beginning, embellished with certain details which had not been published. ‘There are some things,’ he said, ‘which I wouldn’t willingly tell outside this company. It’s my private belief that old Pomfret took drugs. Don’t ask me for proof, because I’m not going to tell you. And there’s another thing. Joan Pomfret once asked the gardener at Swandale—he’s a local man—whether he knew of any really lonely places near by. The sort of places where there were likely to be no casual passers-by. I didn’t send that piece of news to my paper because I’m still waiting for the psychological moment at which to make it public. But you’ll admit that it’s significant.’
    The other commercial travellers both contributed theories, at which the reporter scoffed, but Mr Pinto was almost as silent as the young man with the beard.
    â€˜Mass suicide won’t do,’ said the reporter, ‘however much you talk about crowd psychology; and mass murder, followed by the suicide of the murderer, won’t do either. None of them was likely to run amok. And where are the bodies? One at least would have been washed up before now. No, it’s my opinion that there’s an international gang at the bottom of it, and one of the party—at least one—was either a confederate or a fugitive from the justice of the gang.’
    The man who was going to South Africa said that he had a cousin who had once disappeared in Mashonaland. He was about to tell the story more fully when the two commercial travellers and the reporter discovered that they were sleepy—it was nearly midnight—and went hurriedly below. And after a minute or two the man with the cousin in Mashonaland followed them.
    The young man