Ordeal by Innocence Page 0,1

"It's entirely up to you, Dr. Calgary. You must, of course, do exactly as you feel you have to do."

The boat grounded on the beach. He had crossed the Rubicon.

The ferryman's soft West Country voice said: "That will be four-pence, sir, or do you want a return?"

"No," Calgary said. "There will be no return." (How fateful the words sounded!) He paid. Then he asked: "Do you know a house called Sunny Point?"

Immediately the curiosity ceased to be veiled. The interest in the old man's eyes leaped up avidly.

"Why, surely. 'Tis there, up along to your right - you can just see it through them trees. You go up the hill and along the road to the right, and then take the new road through the building estate. 'Tis the last house at the very end."

"Thank you."

"You did say Sunny Point, sir? Where Mrs. Argyle -"

"Yes, yes," Calgary cut him short. He didn't want to discuss the matter.

"Sunny Point."

A slow and rather peculiar smile twisted the ferryman's lips. He looked suddenly like an ancient sly faun.

"It was her called the house that - in the war. It were a new house, of course, only just been built - hadn't got a name. But the ground 'tis built on - that wooded spot - Viper's Point, that is! But Viper's Point wouldn't do for her - not

for the name of her house. Called it Sunny Point, she did. But Viper's Point's what we all us call it."

Calgary thanked him brusquely, said good evening, and started up the hill. Everyone seemed to be inside their houses, but he had the fancy that unseen eyes were peering through the windows of the cottages; all watching him with the knowledge of where he was going.

Saying to each other, "He's going to Viper's Point..." Viper's point. What a horribly apposite name that must have seemed...

For sharper than a serpent's tooth...

He checked his thoughts brusquely. He must pull himself together and make up his mind exactly what he was going to say...

Calgary came to the end of the nice new road with the nice new houses on either side of it, each with its eighth of an acre of garden; rock plants, chrysanthemums, roses, salvias, geraniums, each owner

displaying his or her individual garden taste. At the end of the road was a gate with Sunny Point in Gothic letters on it. He opened the gate, passed through, and went along a short drive. The house was there ahead of him, a well-built, characterless modern house, gabled and porched. It might have stood on any good-class suburban site, or a new development anywhere. It was unworthy, in Calgary's opinion, of its view. For the view was magnificent. The river here curved sharply round the point almost turning back on itself. Wooded hills rose opposite; up-stream to the left was a further bend of the river with meadows and orchards in the distance.

Calgary looked for a moment up and down the river.

One should have built a castle here, he thought, an impossible, ridiculous, fairy tale castle! The sort of castle that might be made of gingerbread or of frosted sugar.

Instead there was good taste, restraint, moderation, plenty of money and absolutely no imagination. For that, naturally, one did not blame the Argyles. They had only bought the house, not built it. Still, they, or one of them (Mrs. Argyle?) had chosen it...

He said to himself: "You can't put it off any longer -" and pressed the electric bell beside the door.

He stood there, waiting. After a decent interval he pressed the bell again.

He heard no footsteps inside but, without warning, the door swung suddenly open.

He moved back a step, startled. To his already overstimulated imagination, it seemed as though Tragedy herself stood there barring his way. It was a young face; indeed it was in the poignancy of its youth that tragedy had its very essence. The Tragic Mask, he thought, should always be a mask of youth Helpless, foreordained, with doom approaching... from the future...

Rallying himself, he thought, rationalizing: "Irish type."

The deep blue of the eyes, the dark shadow round them, the up- springing black hair, the mournful beauty of the bones of the skull and cheekbones -

The girl stood there, young, watchful and hostile. She said: "Yes? What do you want?"

He replied conventionally. "Is Mr. Argyle in?"

"Yes. But he doesn't see people. I mean, people he doesn't know. He doesn't know you, does he?"

"No. He doesn't know me, but -"

She began to close the door.

"Then you'd better