The Decayed Gentlewoman

by E. X. Ferrars

  “Perhaps Ginny didn’t mean it.” He said it less to comfort Harriet than to defend Ginny, as if that had become his responsibility.

  He saw her give her head a slight shake. Lowering the handkerchief from her face, she twisted it into a tight rope between her hands.

  “I never know what she means,” she said. “She’s too complicated for me. I’m a simple sort of soul—a bit of a nitwit, I expect you think—but at least you know where you are with me. Don’t you think so, Colin? Don’t you think I’m really quite easy to get along with?”

  “Of course you are.”

  He had not the heart to say anything else. But he said it with a sort of bewilderment, thinking that here was a woman who had connived at his being held up in his car, knocked out, and left unconscious by the roadside, while her friends made off with a valuable picture that belonged to the women who had once befriended her and her daughter. And yet she was anxious to hear him say that she was easy to get along with. And somehow she had made him feel that not to say it would have been shockingly brutal.

  “Often I can’t understand at all what gets into Ginny,” she went on. “She’ll be as sweet as anything for a little while and we’ll have a wonderful time together—have real fun, you know —not doing anything special but just laughing a lot at the same sort of things and enjoying ourselves. And then all of a sudden she’s miles away. She’s not in my world any longer. She might be on the other side of the moon. And I never know what I’ve said or done to make it happen and I don’t know what to say or do to bring her back. I just have to wait… What ever are you doing, Colin?”

  He had stooped suddenly and was peering closely at her face. Even by the light of the fire he could see that there was more the matter with it than the ravages of tears.

  As his hand went out to the switch of a table lamp near her, she gave a cry of protest and hid her face again, eyes and all, in the handkerchief.

  “Put it out!” she cried. “I don’t like it!”

  Taking her hands in his, he gently forced them down from her face.

  Down one side of it were some long scratches with blood drying along them. There were smears of blood on her cheek and some more on the handkerchief.

  “Who did that to you?” he asked.

  “Nobody,” she said. “I fell.”

  He shook his head. “Who was it? Tell me.”

  “Nobody!” She wrenched her hands away from him and covered her face again. “Why can’t you put that bloody light out?”

  He switched it off.

  “Mrs. Winter, it wasn’t Ginny… ?”

  She gave a shriek of laughter into her handkerchief. “God, that’s funny! Ginny’ll never use her nails on you, Colin. She’ll use words—wicked, wicked words! And sometimes not even that, just blank, horrible silence.”

  “Who did use their nails on you, Mrs. Winter?”

  “Nobody, I told you. I fell. I—I caught my heels in the cobbles out there and I fell.”

  “But Ginny saw it when you came in.”

  “No, she didn’t. I had my handkerchief up over it. But I was crying. She could see I was crying and all she did was say, ‘I’m just going,’ and grab my handbag from me and take my keys and go, as if—as if she couldn’t care less what had happened to me.”

  “Your keys—what keys?” Colin asked swiftly.

  “The car keys, of course. She’s always taking them.”

  “You didn’t say anything about that before.”

  “Didn’t I? I told you what she said, though. I told you how all she said—”

  He broke in, “So she’s taken your car. Are you absolutely certain she didn’t say where she was going?”

  “I keep telling you, she didn’t say a word.”

  “Well, I think I know. And I think I’d better go after her as fast as I can.”

  She blew her nose, mopped at her eyes, and gave a sigh. “Well, I hope you find her. But listen—don’t tell her anything about my—my fall. You won’t, will you? I didn’t really want her to stay and find out about it. I don’t want to worry her. It’s just that I’ve never been any good at standing up to things by myself and yet I always seem to have to do such a lot of it.”

  He gave her a touch on the shoulder. “You ought to look after those scratches,” he said. “Have you washed them?”

  “Been bathing them in my tears for the last half hour, darling!”

  “Disinfectant might be better.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, tears are wonderful things,” she said. “They blot out time and every other damned thing. Only it’s bad to have someone looking on. Good-bye, darling.”

  As Colin went to the door, she was reaching for the bottle on the floor at her feet.

  He went upstairs quickly. Going to the counter behind which a Miss Heavens was filling cups of tea from a tea urn, he asked, “D’you know if there’s a car-hire place anywhere near here?”

  “Just across the square,” she said, “the other side of the car park. Was she still… ? I mean, is she all right?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” he answered. “Is she often like this?”

  “Well, she’s one of those who’s up one minute, down the next,” said the old woman. “She may be bright as a bird tomorrow.”

  “Then it may be nothing much. All the same, she seems to have hurt herself. A fall, she says. It might be a good idea to look in on her presently.”

  “Reckon I could do that.”

  “Thanks.”

  He crossed the café to the door, went out and walked quickly across the quiet market-place, between the empty stalls, to the garage beyond the car park.

  He found the man in charge and said that he wanted a car to take him to Hopewood. The man said that it could be managed, disappeared into the office and came out again, putting a greasy blue chauffeur’s cap on his head. Calling out to an invisible figure at the back of the garage to take over, he went to a very old Rolls that was standing at the curb and got into the driver’s seat.

  As they started off, Colin took out his wallet, went through his pockets and carefully counted his money. It was lucky, he thought, that he had decided against paying for that sleeper to Edinburgh. It was lucky also that the Royal Society made a habit of paying your travelling expenses on the spot. All the same, he was getting uncomfortably low. He would have to see about getting someone to cash a cheque next day. And if for some reason he did not see himself getting back to Edinburgh tomorrow, it would be as well to telephone the department and do a little explaining, or he might find himself becoming unpopular in certain quarters.

  Not that he had the faintest idea how to explain what had been happening. Could he call it family trouble? Say that he had had to have legal advice?

  His mind clung to this relatively minor problem as the car carried him through the lamplit outskirts of the town and out on to the dark highway.

  He had a faint hope that he might have been wrong when he guessed that Ginny had borrowed her mother’s car to take her to Hopewood. But as the old Rolls circled the village green and took the turning that led past the wall of Greer’s garden, he saw the red Mini-Minor driven off the road on to the grass verge about twenty yards from the big wrought-iron gates. It looked as if Ginny had left it there so that her arrival should not be seen from the house.

  “Want me to wait for you?” the driver of the hired car asked as Colin got out and paid him.

  “No thanks,” Colin said. “I think I can get a lift back.”

  “Good night then.”

  “Good night.”

  The car drove off.

  When it had gone, its lights disappearing round the bend in the road, Colin suddenly became aware that the night was very black and wild. The sky was covered with low, scurrying cloud. A wind with the sting of rain in it made the tree-tops fret and mutter.

  Standing at the gate, he could not see the lights of the village and the only light from the house came dimly through a chink in the heavy curtains that covered the wind
ows of Greer’s drawing-room. The room where the Decayed Gentlewoman hung. The garden, with its high, enclosing wall, was a pit of shadow.

  Colin put out a hand to one of the heavy gates to push it open.

  Just then a light shone out down the drive. Someone had thrown open the door of the house. As he stood still, he saw a slight figure, awkwardly carrying something, appear for an instant in the doorway, then the door swung shut again. The garden returned to darkness.

  But stumbling, uneven footsteps were hurrying over the gravel towards him. Carrying the picture, holding it before her like a shield, Ginny was almost upon him before she saw him. She gave a gasp of fear, then gasped, “Colin! Thank God it’s you! Here—you take this and let’s get out of here fast.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  « ^ »

  She went running towards the little red car before Colin had had time to answer.

  Not that he had anything to say just then. For a moment he remained staring at the house, expecting to see the door burst open again, to hear shouts and pounding footsteps. But the dark front of the house remained as it was. Only the one chink of light showed between the curtains of the upstairs room, like a mocking little smile on an otherwise expressionless face.

  The darkness and emptiness of the place sent a chill through Colin. He swung away from the gate and went running after Ginny.

  She was tumbling into the driving seat. He heard her quick, sobbing breath as she leant across the car, pushed the farther door open, tipped forward the seat beside her and helped him to slide the picture on to a pile of rugs and coats in the back of the car.

  As soon as he was in it himself, before he had even slammed the door shut, she sent it bouncing off the verge into the road and back towards the village.

  Colin waited until they had circled the green and shot out on to the main road before he said, “Ginny, what in God’s name—?”

  “Don’t!” she cried in a high-pitched voice. “Don’t talk to me!”

  “But I’ve got to know—”

  “Wait! I’ll tell you all about it presently. I can’t now. I just can’t talk or think. Wait a little.”

  He slid down lower in his seat, looking at the pallor of her face, then at the road ahead.

  She was driving too fast. The rain was growing heavier and the road was greasy. He could feel the car swerve and skid as she took a corner. He thought of suggesting that he should take over the driving, but guessed that nothing would make her stop yet to change places.

  Near the crest of a small hill she had to jam on the brakes, because she had been trying to pass a lorry when another car, appearing over the hill, came bearing down on them. The other car braked, swerved almost into the ditch, and passed with the driver mouthing curses at her.

  “Sorry,” she said to Colin, whose head had almost hit the windscreen. “Sorry, that was bad.”

  After that she was more careful, but the way that she crouched over the wheel and the tension of her jaw told Colin that it was not yet time to start talking.

  Suddenly she left the Oldersfield road, taking a sharp turning to the left into a narrow road with a bad surface and high hedges on both sides.

  He asked, “Where does this take us?”

  “It’s a short cut on to A 22,” she answered.

  “And where does that go?”

  “Croydon.”

  “Why are we going to Croydon?”

  “Because I think the easiest way to get on to A 1 from here is to go slap through London. Don’t worry, I know the way.”

  “That’s fine,” said Colin, “even if that little matter is quite the least of my worries. But just in case you’re heading for Scotland, Ginny, I’m almost sure we have an extradition treaty with the English.”

  “Don’t!” she cried again. “Please don’t talk to me. I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can— Oh God!” She jammed the brakes on again. “I’m sorry, I think I’m going to be sick.” She flung open the door, plunged across the road, and disappeared through the hedge.

  It was several minutes before she reappeared. When she did, she came back to the car with dragging feet. Her mad need for speed had gone.

  “Shall I drive for a bit now?” Colin suggested. “You can take over again when we get to London.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “Would you? I’m awfully sorry about this. I’ve a terribly nervous stomach. It gets upset by the least bit of excitement.”

  She walked round to the other side of the car as Colin changed seats inside.

  “Actually I feel better now,” she said as they started again. “Things don’t seem quite so swimmy.”

  “Good, then perhaps you’ll feel like doing this talking you promised,” he said. “We seem to have shed the pursuit, so you needn’t worry about that any more.”

  “There wasn’t any pursuit,” she answered. “I knew there wouldn’t be, I wasn’t worrying about that.”

  “You knew there wouldn’t be any… ?” Something heaved uncomfortably inside Colin, though he was not sure what he feared.

  “There wasn’t anyone there,” Ginny explained. “The house was empty. So they don’t know we’ve got the thing yet.”

  “I see. The house was empty. You walked in, walked out again. Simple. Why all the hurry then?”

  He was keeping his eyes on the road, but he was aware that she turned her head to give him a long look.

  “The house was empty,” she said. “And I did walk in and walk out again. And I was in a hurry because I felt so awful. I nearly passed out with terror. You may not believe me, but this is positively my first burglary.”

  “I thought,” he said, “you’d probably claim it wasn’t a burglary.”

  “Well, it wasn’t, of course, in a technical sense. I was simply acting as your agent, recovering what I honestly believe to be your property.”

  “A self-appointed agent,” he said grimly.

  “Anyhow, I know it felt just like a burglary,” she said. “Quite an ordinary burglary. It wasn’t too bad till I actually got the picture down from the wall, but from the moment I did that I felt certain I was going to walk into Greer and that he’d instantly be dialling 999 and screaming blue murder.”

  “He might have done something worse than that,” said Colin.

  She did not answer.

  “Didn’t you see him at all?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Nor that man of his?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand it.”

  “Well, the man was in London, wasn’t he?”

  “No, I’m afraid he wasn’t,” Colin said. “He followed me to Oldersfield, then dropped me at the station, got into a car and drove off. I assumed he was going to Hopewood.”

  “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is how you ever got to Hopewood yourself. I thought you were going back to Edinburgh.”

  “I’ll tell you about that presently. Tell me the rest of your burglary story. How did you get into the house?”

  “I just walked in. The door wasn’t locked.”

  “You walked straight in without even looking round beforehand?”

  “Oh, I rang up first. You see, it suddenly struck me when I saw the man following us in London that perhaps—just perhaps—the house in Hopewood might be empty. After all, Greer must go out sometimes, mustn’t he? So as soon as I got back to the café, I telephoned and there wasn’t any answer. I waited a little while, then I tried again. I let the bell ring for ages and there still wasn’t any answer. As it happened, I had to wait a bit longer then, because I needed the car keys and unluckily Mother was out, but she came in quite soon and I got the keys from her and took the car and left.”

  “I saw your mother,” Colin said.

  “Did you? Then I suppose she told you all that. Well, I drove over to Hopewood. I hadn’t really any plan, except that if the house was empty, I was going to have a shot at getting in. To be on the safe side, I rang up once more from the call box i
n the village and again didn’t get any answer. So then I went ahead. I left the car a little way from the gates and went in. But then I had a shock, because there were lights on in the house. There were lights in that upstairs room, where the picture was, and there was light coming out at the front door.”

  “You mean the door was open?” Colin said.

  “Yes. Only a little way open. All the same, I could see light round the edge of it. It blazed at me all the way from the gate. I didn’t know what to make of it. So I rang the bell. Actually I rang several times and then I knocked and then I called. And there wasn’t a sound inside the place. So I thought Greer must be one of those people who leave lights on in a house whenever they go out to keep burglars away, and I went in. I went on calling all the way up the stairs, ‘Mr. Greer, Mr. Greer!’— because I’d some idea that if he did suddenly pounce out on me from somewhere, he couldn’t possibly say I was breaking and entering, or whatever it was I was really doing, so long as I was making enough noise about it. And as I told you, it didn’t feel too bad until I’d got the picture down from the wall. But after that, if he’d come in, I don’t know what I could have said. So I just ran for it. And I’ve never in my life been as frightened as I was during those few moments. And then seeing someone at the gate… !” She gave a shudder at the memory. “Realizing it was you was one of the wonderful moments of my life.”

  “I was quite glad to see you too,” Colin said drily. “But there’s something very peculiar about this story of yours, Ginny.”

  “It’s true, every word of it,” she said quickly.

  “I still don’t understand it and I don’t like it. That open door… Who left it open and why?”

  “Don’t you think it was just an accident? Someone thought they’d shut it, but the latch hadn’t quite caught.”

  “That doesn’t sound to me the sort of accident that would ever happen to Greer. And what about the other man? Where’s he got to? If he drove to Hopewood when he dropped me at the station, he’d have got there long before I did—before you did too.”

  “He could have got there, found Greer was out, and decided to go to the pub. He could have been the one who left the door open.”