The Christmas Egg

by Mary Kelly

  “How did you know it was mine?”

  “Oh well, it was obvious. I mean, I recognized it. I remembered what your gloves looked like as they lay on the case. Anyway I just knew it was yours.”

  “What about the address?”

  “I watched you write it on the back of the check.”

  “Upside down . . ”

  “But you wrote in capitals. It was quite easy.”

  “Only for someone making a special effort to read. Were you?”

  “Yes, I was rather.”

  “Why?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “But why the whole thing?” he persisted. “Why not have given this miserable glove to the lost-and-found or Mr. Emmanuel? Doesn’t Majendie’s have security officers on the premises? Yes, of course. Suppose one of them had seen you whipping up this article belonging to a customer? How did you do it? Wrapped it in your duster, I imagine, and took it out to hide in your handbag. What could look more suspicious? Suppose I’d come back swearing and insisting I’d lost the glove in the shop? How were you to know I wouldn’t notice for some time that it was gone? Yes, I know it sounds implausible, but Majendie’s would do anything to placate a customer who threatened to make a fuss. There are such people, and I might have been one of them. Don’t you see what risks you took? And for what? Why did you do it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “Well—suddenly it was there in front of me, and just even while I was seeing what it was, I saw I had a chance to do something—oh—different, quite exciting really; no, not the getting the glove to the locker, that was just something that had to be done, but coming here. That is, somewhere new, where I hadn’t been before.”

  Brett was silent. Then how was it that she’d taken such pains to read his address before finding the glove?

  “It’s so boring usually,” she added.

  “What is?”

  She heaved a great sigh and leaned back against the wall. “Everything. I want—I don’t know.”

  Brett looked at her, particularly at that long creamy curve of neck. He recalled the knitted blouse at present concealed by the coat, and in that connection, one of Beddoes’ succinct dicta: every neckline tells a story. He thought he knew what Stephanie wanted. Unfortunately, as she said, and with truth he was quite sure, she didn’t know herself. He reflected with a wry smile how calamitous it would be if he were to transgress his own law of the permissible, even to utter any of several suggestions.

  “Well, that train 1” he said innocuously. “I suppose you have to work as usual tomorrow?”

  “Only the morning,” she said, following him to the kitchen without question. “We close at twelve-thirty, so we can all go then.”

  He stopped. “I didn’t put the guard around the fire. I think I’d better. Wait here a moment.” He slipped back to the living room. As he attended to the fire, he observed that he was still wearing Truffaldino’s slippers; but he couldn’t be bothered with going upstairs to find a pair of shoes. He returned to the kitchen, opened the broom closet door, and pulled out a pair of dusty galoshes.

  “It’s not wet out,” said Stephanie, watching him struggle into the boots, which were stiff from disuse. “Still, they’re warm, I suppose. They’re like what my uncle wears—the one on the farm.”

  “Are you going down tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Straight from work.”

  “Then you’ll have all your packing to do tonight,” he said.

  “Oh no/’ she said. “My parents are going on ahead in the car. Mummy takes all my things for me.”

  “The car,” he said, remembering that he was supposed to be making for his own. “Do you mind coming down the fire escape and across the garden? It’s rather dark, but much quicker, and as you say, it’s not wet . . .”

  “That’s fine,” she assured him.

  He picked up his flashlight and switched it on. They went down the iron stairs, across the grass hardened into the likeness of an unmade road by the severe cold. The wind skewered their arms to their sides.

  “You’re going by train tomorrow?” Brett asked, opening the back door into the garage.

  “Yes. The ‘Man of Kent.’ So’s Mr. Majendie.”

  “He doesn’t drive?” Brett held the door of the car for her.

  “Not all the way. He keeps his car in a garage at Folkestone and just takes it to and from his house. He told me all this the other morning. You know.”

  “When he asked you to come and see the collection.”

  “Do you see anything funny in that?” she asked haughtily, as he came and sat beside her in the car.

  “No, not at all,” he lied.

  “Oh. Good. Neither did Geoffrey. Daddy laughed for hours.”

  “So Geoffrey doesn’t have it all his own way in the lunch-hour conversation!”

  She tossed her head, causing the switch of hair to flick from side to side. Brett started the car.

  “I never thought I’d actually sit in this car,” she said.

  “You mean in a car of this kind?”

  “No. In this actual one.”

  “How did you know I had a car?”

  “I’ve seen you in it.” She sounded surprised that he hadn’t understood the obvious. “I noticed you first one day last summer. You drove down Fitch Street and went into the private recording studio. I’ve often seen you since. Sometimes you go in Kellett’s, too. This is a new car, isn’t it, though it’s the same make and color as the other. I noticed the different license plates.”

  “I see.”

  “No,” she said blithely. “I did the seeing—from my little garden. The bomb site, I mean, the one next door to the shop. It’s lovely and warm and sunny, and there’s a lot of that pink flower—well, it’s a weed really, but it’s very pretty.”

  “Rose bay willow herb. Did you know a florist’s used to be there?”

  “Yes, Geoffrey told me. It’s not much of a site for a shop, is it? No way out to the back alley and no cellars. Ours and Kellett’s meet in the middle, I think. At least, ours goes under an awfully long way. Yes, I think they must meet, because you can see the patching up they had to do when the bomb fell, and it was only a little one, they say, a fire bomb.”

  “And now Kellett’s owns the site. What on earth do they want it for? I should have thought they were big enough already.”

  “I know. Actually,” she hesitated and flicked her hair rapidly, “that’s one reason why I feel it would be rather silly to cut Geoffrey. You see, I used to sit on that bomb site after lunch in the fine weather. It was so nice and sheltered. Then when Kellett’s took over, they complained to Mr. Majendie that I was trespassing.”

  “Rather petty. They haven’t started to build even now. You wouldn’t have been in the way.”

  “Mr. Majendie was furious, Mrs. Millet said, not with me but with Kellett’s for sending the message across so rudely. Anyway, I can’t sit there any more. And you see, Geoffrey used to come back and sit there too, once or twice, so I’m sure he must have gotten into trouble over it, though he never said so. And it would be on my account.”

  He drew up at a red light and glanced at her. He saw her slide back her sleeve with one finger and look down at her watch.

  “You want to catch a particular train?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She moved her hand guiltily.

  “Do your parents know where you are?” he asked, as the car went forward.

  She gave her head an extra violent toss. “I don’t have to tell them everything I do. Actually, they were out,” she admitted.

  “And you’re hoping to be home before they are, so that you needn’t explain that you trailed twice across London to return a glove to a strange man.”

  “You’re not strange,” she said rather sulkily.

  “How so? Not strange, and you heard me speak for the first time this morning?”

  “Oh, you can tell by what people look like.”

  “Fatal error. You’re heading for
disaster.”

  “Well, voices . . .”

  “Worse still. Don’t you know the old song? Do not trust him, gentle maiden. Though his voice be—whatever it goes on with.”

  She laughed. “How odd you should say that. Your voice isn’t in the least what I expected. I thought it would be all incisive and arresting.”

  “Arrest . . .”

  “You know, commanding and that. And instead it’s all lazy and drawly. You’re not American, are you?”

  “No. My mother was, from the South, too.”

  “Ah, then that accounts for it.”

  “I don’t see how it can. And on the other hand my father came from Yorkshire.”

  “Oh.” She was silent for a moment or two. “Have you any children?”

  “No.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “One elder brother. And you?”

  “One elder sister. That’s where they’ve gone this evening. Usually we all go down to Pettinge, but this year she can’t because the baby’s too young, so they were taking over the Christmas presents.”

  “First baby? How old?”

  “Two months.”

  The tone of her voice made him look sharply at her. “You’re not fond of babies?” he asked.

  “They’re all right, in moderation. Actually he’s rather sweet. But it makes me tired, the way people go on about it.”

  “Who do? Your parents?”

  “Yes. And everyone.”

  Neither of them spoke for a while.

  “I love this car,” said Stephanie eventually. “You are lucky.”

  “Your father has a car, I think you said.”

  “Not what I call a car. A family saloon. Oh, boredom, boredom! Boredom ineffable!”

  “There’s a big word,” Brett murmured, swinging into the forecourt of Charing Cross. “Poor Father. That’s a nice coat he bought you all the same.” He slid the car up to the curb. “Well, I’m sorry you didn’t see my wife. But perhaps it’s just as well she was out. Can you think why I bought that cameo?”

  “To give to her, I suppose.”

  “Yes, as a Christmas present. But if she’d heard you talking about Majendie’s and brooches and dropped gloves, she wouldn’t have had much of a surprise on Christmas morning.”

  “I never thought/’ said Stephanie looking very chastened. “I suppose it was really rather silly, the whole thing. I’m sorry.” She paused. “But would you mind terribly not saying anything about it to Mr. Emmanuel?”

  “Why on earth should I say anything to him? I doubt if I’ll ever speak to him again.”

  “I thought he must be a friend of yours,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because he knocked thirty-five pounds off that cameo for you.”

  Brett felt as if he’d stepped down from a curb in a dozing dream and had been jerked awake. “What?” he said stupidly.

  “Well, of course, I know prices are often altered for special people, so I didn’t think anything of it. I only happened to know the real value because I’d been dusting the office while the consignment was sorted. That’s how I knew where to look for it too. Is anything the matter?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you all right?” Her voice had risen in pitch and trembled slightly.

  He heard the unmistakable note of alarm and pulled himself together. He must look as ghastly as he felt. “Quite all right, thank you,” he said, “just rather taken by surprise. What about your train?”

  “There’s one in four minutes.”

  “Good. Out you get then.”

  With evident reluctance she stepped out on the pavement, slammed the door, and stood dejectedly beside the car. It was plain that she wanted to stave off for as long as possible the dissolution of the Great Adventure. Brett realized that the end had been accelerated by his sudden withdrawal of interest, the sudden upsurge of his separate life bringing home to her the sad truth that their contact was temporary and superficial. He felt sorry for her. “Good-bye, Stephanie,” he said. “Thank you for bringing back the glove.”

  “How do you know my name?” she asked.

  “I saw it in your coat when I hung it up.”

  “What a lot you do notice.” She sighed. “Geoffrey’s eyes and this . . .”

  For a moment Brett thought she was going to ask him his Christian name, but she didn’t.

  “I must go,” she said abruptly. “Good-bye.”

  She turned and ran. Brett pushed the starter.

  He drove home rather faster than he had driven to the station. He put the car to bed with a speed that would have lost no marks at a rally, crunched across the lawn, and thudded up the iron stairs. The flat was still in darkness; Christina had not yet come home. He let himself into the kitchen, padded through to the living room, and dropped heavily into an armchair.

  The situation in which he found himself could no longer be pushed to one side. He had bought for Christina a cameo brooch the price of which had been deliberately cut. At best he could thank Majendie’s desire to get him out of the shop, the blessed sanctuary. The old man, while his back was turned, must have sent Mr. Emmanuel a warning look—this is someone I want buttered up, so give him whatever he wants at a third its price and sweep the sordid creature out of our premises. He reflected sourly that Majendie, even in thought, would not have used the words buttered up. At worst the Diana cameo was the beginning of blandishment, the first part of a bribe, tentative, not yet crudely offered, a persuasion not to investigate what Majendie might have to conceal.

  But thirty-five pounds! he said to himself. In the context of his earned income alone and of Majendie’s lucrative trade it seemed a ludicrous sum to take as proof of a serious intent to bribe. But to his certain knowledge, disastrous, ramifying scandals had sprung from tinier seeds. To return the brooch and tell them what he had learned was out of the question. It was better that Majendie’s, or Majendie, should believe him lulled into complaisance, at least, for a time. Besides, he didn’t want to get Stephanie Cole in trouble. He wondered why he should bother with her. Stephanie Cole! Yet he couldn’t think of her harshly. Poor Stephanie, victim of a hazy, half-comprehended infatuation, chafing at the security that had coddled her, perversely but inevitably resenting her displacement from the position of spoiled family baby; he would have forgiven her a lot. And it would be too hypocritical not to acknowledge sympathy with the mainsprings, as he defined them, of her behavior with the glove—sex, curiosity, and a desire for attention.

  The telephone rang. He picked it up. “Primrose,” he began.

  A thick voice cut him short. “Vat you, me ol cock sparrer? ‘Ow you doin’? Eh? Eh? I said, ’ow you doin’, sparrer, eh?”

  Brett’s mind reeled, adjusting itself to work he had forgotten. He felt his heart give a mighty, thankful bound. “Pink! All right,” he said, transferring the phone to his right hand and reaching for a pencil and message pad.

  “I bin keepin’ all right. Change me job. Nice little job at ’Ampstead. Eh? I said ‘Ampstead. Ain’t seen you since yer ’oliday. Dear ol’ Ramsgit. I like it all rairn Pegwell Bay. Eh? I said Pegwell Bay. Nice. Quiet-like. Get ve jets ’ese days, ’overin’ abairt. Eh? I said ’overin’. One come daim ve ower week, crash-like, near ve ol’ fort. Eh? I said near ve ol’ fort. Ol’ Roman place. You know. Ah well, wodger doin’ Chrissmas? I’m packin’ up Chrissmas Eve. Eh? I said Chrissmas Eve. Ain’t clockin’ airt midday, rotten ol’ barfs. I wonarf knock off sharp six-firty. Eh? I said six-firty. Well, might be seen you sometime, sparrer, eh? Dropper ve ol; usual sometime, eh?”

  “Certainly,” said Brett. “Same place?”

  “Ass me ol’ sparrer! Ah well, pushin’ off. ’Appy Chrissmas! Tooraloo!”

  Brett put down the phone and studied the lines scribbled on the pad.

  Hampstead. Pegwell Bay. Hovering near the old fort. Christmas Eve. Six-thirty.

  Pink. He was in the Pink. Good, useful, but not priceless, Pink. How had Pink tuned in to
the Hampstead lot? But it didn’t matter, as long as this proved as sound as Pink’s previous offerings. And why shouldn’t it? The old fort, the old Roman place. That would be Richborough, Rutupiae, the legions’ depot. Pink was revealing unsuspected erudition. Richborough, Kent. The county would have to be asked to co-operate. And hovering—that sounded as if they would have to deal with a helicopter. He couldn’t think what other meaning to put on the word. Manston was close by, but there would be technical, legal difficulty in getting help from there. He would have to keep it a purely police occasion; and it was obviously going to be complicated. He blanched. Leave stopped over a large area the day before Christmas!

  He picked up the phone, called for a taxi in five minutes, and raced upstairs, peeling off his bright silk clothes as he ran.

  Part Three

  Christmas Eve

  “THEY say no one’s seen feather nor bone of Wacey,” said Beddoes. “That right?”

  Nightingale wearily pulled out a chair and sat down. “Beddoes, your searing zeal is ghastly. Yes. I rang when I woke. How did I manage to wake, I wonder, after about three hours’ sleep.” He stared out of the window of his office at the menacing midwinter dawn. The sky bore a dirty flush, like the face of a child with measles.

  “Not surprising. About Wacey, I mean,” Beddoes added hastily. “By the way, after you put me down yesterday I thought as I was right on top of Vanbrugh Street I’d ring up and find out which bar Wacey had been seen in, then go and look around—I know you said go home. But it was dead easy. I don’t call that work. Just dropped in and started chatting.”

  “About Wacey?”

  “I may have had a tap on the loaf,” said Beddoes, “but it’s not hollow up there yet. I wafted out a description of Ivan the Terrible and, sure enough, they knew him. New customer, but he’s shown up quite often in the past two months or so. Never any trouble, never started shouting. May have spoken to other customers on the quiet, of course . . .”

  “But no unbosoming?”