The Silent Speaker

by Noel Streatfeild

  Mrs. Simpson’s conversation with Mr. Andrews had already been detailed, so Field felt that the subject of Mrs. Wragge was closed.

  “None of us can do any good, we don’t know why Madam did it. Myself I don’t see the reason is anyone’s business, but speaking just on our own you must say it’s a proper mystery. While I was laying and clearing the lunch, and laying for dinner to-night, I thought ever so hard to try and remember if there was anything, but there wasn’t, ever so ordinary Madam was, very cheerful as always, laughed a lot she did last night.”

  Mrs. Simpson passed Field his cup.

  “I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, Mr. Field, but you know Madam was a strange lady.”

  Field was so surprised he stopped eating in the middle of a mouthful.

  “Well, I never expected to hear you say that! Of all my ladies I should have said she was the easiest, always the same so to speak.”

  Mrs. Simpson helped herself to salad and vinegar and passed both to Field.

  “That’s because when you saw her there was something on, but she was different when nothing special was happening.”

  “In what way?”

  Mrs. Simpson tried to make herself clear, though she was by no means sure herself what she meant.

  “Restless. She was always busy at something, but once in a way she’d have time for a nice sit down to read the paper or that, and most of us would be glad to have it, and maybe I’d say: ‘Shall I bring tea or the drink tray?’ and she’d say ‘Yes,’ sounding ever so pleased. ‘What a good idea, Mrs. Simpson,’ or something like that. Then I’d bring it and often as not meet her just going out, or going up to fetch her things to go out—‘Oh, don’t bother about that,’ she’d say looking at the tray, ‘I’m going to the post,’ or ‘another time, I’m just going for a walk,’ seemed like she couldn’t ever just sit quiet on her own.”

  Field tried to match up this picture with his own of the Helen he had known.

  “Fancy! I thought the way she ran around when I was there was just because there were people coming and she liked everything just so. I suppose that was what kept her so thin.”

  Mrs. Simpson folded her mouth grimly.

  “It was the only thing she and me had words about. Always wanting to do somebody else’s work. ‘Why keep a dog and bark?’ I’d say. ‘There’s Mrs. Wragge to do the rough and me to see to the rest, so there’s no need, madam, for you to lift a hand.’ But she did the moment my back was turned, scrubbing this, cleaning that—something that was clean already, mind you.”

  Field knew how annoying that must have been.

  “I do hate interference in my work. Some places they can’t leave you alone. I suppose she wanted a hobby like, hadn’t she one?”

  Mrs. Simpson put down her knife and fork and leant across the table to Field.

  “One! She had dozens. The things I saw her take up. Languages, bridge, pottery; why, up in the boxroom there’s boxes of what she started and never finished. Have you never noticed the seat of Mr. Blair’s chair, petit point it is? All the chairs were to be like that but there’s another one half finished and the canvas and wool for the lot in the boxroom. Tried to get me to work with her but I quickly let her see I wasn’t having that. ‘I’ve got plenty to do with my free time, madam,’ I said, for if there’s one thing I hate it is people you work for coming into your place, or you being expected to go into theirs.”

  “Quite so, Mrs. Simpson,” Field agreed. “But I suppose ladies in Madam’s position do find time hanging heavy in the term time with the children away at school.”

  Mrs. Simpson looked at Field to see if what he had said was to try and draw her out, but Field was eating again and clearly did not expect an answer. He’s not one to gossip, she thought, or he would have talked before now about the others he works for. Maybe it would be all right to say to him the things I’m thinking, it’s hard worrying alone. But before she could speak the back-door bell rang. Both she and Field looked at each other in surprise, for it was too late for a tradesman to call, then Mrs. Simpson got up and went to answer it.

  Selina was on the doorstep. Her face beneath the stored-apple look which was a fixture was pale and swollen with crying. She was wearing a brown felt hat out of which her sandy turning-white hair hung in wisps. She looked as if she had slept in her tweed coat and skirt and blouse, and as if she had not had time to do more than put her arms into her overcoat. Her voice suggested that she was not far off having hysterics.

  “Oh, Mrs. Simpson, I do hope you don’t mind my coming to see you—I don’t want to bother Mr. Blair—I must know how he is . . .”

  Mrs. Simpson was amazed. All day she had been expecting Miss Grierson, for she had known Lord Worn had not meant her when he had said no visitors, for she was like one of the family. It was a pity she had turned up now, just when she and Mr. Field were having a sit down, but she knew she could trust Mr. Field to have recognized Miss Grierson’s voice and made himself scarce. But how odd Miss Grierson should be in such a state, for it had been Mrs. Simpson’s opinion that, pleasant though they always were to each other, there was no love lost between her and Mrs. Blair.

  “Come in, miss, I’ve just made some tea, a cup will do you good.”

  Field had escaped with his plate and his cup so there was no sign he had been sitting at the table, though, had Selina been more herself, she would have noticed that Mrs. Simpson had cut an unusually large plate of bread and butter, and though much of it had been eaten there was still a lot of meat laid out for one person. But Selina was so far from herself that, still wearing her overcoat, she sank into Field’s chair and, without shame, allowed tears to pour down her face.

  Mrs. Simpson fetched a clean cup and hurriedly filled it. Oh dear, she thought, fancy her carrying on like this. A nice thing if we all lost control of ourselves. However, being as a rule fond of Selina, she made clucking, sympathetic noises.

  “Now, now, miss, this won’t do. You’ll never help poor Mr. Blair if you let yourself go. Now, drink this up, I’ve put plenty of sugar in, for it’s the shock, that’s what it is.”

  Selina took the cup in both hands and sipped the tea, but tears still ran down her cheeks.

  “I seem to have been drinking tea with plenty of sugar ever since it happened—how is he, Mrs. Simpson?”

  Mrs. Simpson scarcely knew what to say. It seemed so odd someone as close as Miss Grierson asking her how Mr. Blair was, why not see for herself?

  “I’ve hardly seen him, miss. He had lunch in his study, Mr. Field took it in, he’s here to help me. I can call him if you like.”

  Selina put down her cup and fumbled in first one pocket of her overcoat and then in the other. She laid on the table a dirty purse, and a dog-eared notecase before she found her large handkerchief into which, from its appearance, she might have been crying all day.

  “Please get him. I know I look awful but Field won’t mind.”

  Mrs. Simpson thought that Mr. Field minding was not the point, Miss Grierson should know better than to let herself down in front of staff, but even she could scarcely say this, so unwillingly she went to the door and called Field, who, as she had supposed, was finishing his tea in the pantry.

  Field came in wiping his mouth on a table napkin. He was glad of this otherwise he was afraid Miss Grierson would have seen from his face how dismayed he was at her appearance, and how surprised. Waiting at table for all Mrs. Blair’s dinners he could not help picking things up, and though Mrs. Blair and Miss Grierson were pleasant enough he had never thought Miss Grierson cared much for Mrs. Blair, and this had not surprised him for, being as close as a sister, he had supposed her nose had been put out of joint when Mrs. Blair married Mr. Blair. But now it looked as if he had been wrong for he had not seen a woman in such a state since he had seen his dear Rosy’s face on the day their little girl died. But, trained to disguise his feelings, it was a polite
though sympathetic mask he turned to Selina.

  Selina had stumbled out of her chair and come to meet him.

  “I hear you took in Mr. Blair’s lunch. How did he seem?”

  Field focused his mind on the study. Mr. Blair had not heard him come in so he had caught him with his head on his arms, bowed across his desk. Of course he had made a clatter with the dishes so that Mr. Blair would think he had seen nothing. And sure enough Mr. Blair had jerked upright and swung round. “Oh, it’s you, Field,” he had said. “I’m glad you’re here to help Mrs. Simpson.” Field could see again Mr. Blair’s face and it was not nice to remember. Usually he was such a placid gentleman, maybe that was why sorrow showed up so. Sorrow walking on two legs, that was how Field had described him to himself, but only to himself, even Mrs. Simpson would not hear that.

  “It’s been a terrible shock, of course, miss, but he’s bearing up wonderfully.”

  But Selina would not accept that.

  “Don’t say what you think you ought to say but be honest, he was in an awful state, wasn’t he?”

  Field, before those swollen eyes, could no longer lie.

  “Yes, miss.”

  Selina put a hand over her mouth to hold back a moan.

  “I knew he would be, he couldn’t be anything else. Field, will you be taking up his dinner?”

  “I don’t know, miss, his Lordship is staying the night and I understand Mr. Cale—he slept here last night—is coming back as soon as he gets out of court, but whether Mr. Blair will dine with them I couldn’t say.”

  Selina was fumbling down the front of her blouse. She brought out a crumpled envelope. She held it out to Field.

  “Whether he eats by himself or not you can see him. I want him to have this when he’s alone.”

  Field took the envelope and put it in his pocket. He could not see how, unless Mr. Blair dined alone, he was to carry out Selina’s order, but, looking as she did, he could no more tell her so than he could have kicked a cat.

  “Very good, miss.”

  Selina left after that, blundering out into the night as if she could not see properly. Alone again Field and Mrs. Simpson looked at each other in embarrassment. It was the wish of neither to pry into their employer’s affairs, but Miss Grierson’s behaviour had been so odd it was hard not to talk about it. It was Mrs. Simpson who first got control of her tongue. She said briskly:

  “If you fetch back your plate and cup we’ll finish our tea, Mr. Field.”

  * * *

  In his study Bernard Task was typing. It had not been his idea that he should write an article on Helen but it had not surprised him when his editor asked for it. “It’s the mystery angle that will get people, we’ll slap that the front page and put your feature inside. Make it as intimate as you can, one of your pen portrait affairs.”

  Bernard had started to work right away. In capitals he wrote as a heading “My Friend Helen Blair.” Then he wrote: “I dined with Helen Blair last night. As I looked round the exquisitely appointed table I thought how radiant she looked.” He began a new paragraph.

  “None of us who knew Helen Blair could deny that hers was an exceptionally vivid personality . . .”

  And there Bernard stuck. Was Helen’s a particularly vivid personality? Now that she was gone what sort of impression had she left behind? He did not believe Shakespeare had been right when he had said that it was evil that lived after you and that the good got interred with your bones. It was surprising, he thought, how invariably something pleasant was dug up to be written about people for whom nobody had a good word to say while they were alive. There must be any amount that was pleasant to say about Helen, but to write the sort of article his editor wanted he had to have some solid facts to dress up. He fiddled with the words “vivid” and “personality.” They weren’t right somehow, gayness was what Helen had exuded. He typed:

  “Everyone who came in contact with Helen Blair was affected by her gayness.” And that isn’t right either, he thought. She was deliciously gay, nobody made a party go better than she did, but it wasn’t, now he came to think of it, true bubbling gaiety from a light heart, it was gaiety that was put on as she would put on a dress. Well, a pen portrait was deadly unless it was critical, though as a rule he preferred to keep his criticising until well on in an article. He started again. “Those of us who knew Helen Blair were conscious that a gay exterior covered a . . .” Well, what the Hell did it cover? He got up and walked over to the window. His flat looked across roofs to the tower of Westminster Cathedral. A bit of an eye-sore he thought it, but how glorious inside. Queer how this affair of Helen shook you up. He had sometimes puzzled why he and Helen were friends, or rather why she liked him, for he was not her type, at least that was what he had thought. Now he wondered if perhaps they had had something in common. A shared lack of security, a desperate need of something to lean on and cling to. Was it a final unbearable loneliness that had fallen on Helen so that she felt she could not go on? In her case it would be somebody, not something which had collapsed. Staring out across the broken line of roofs and chimneys he found his vision blurred by tears. Poor lovely Helen, turning laughing into her house to what? Did someone telephone one of those devastating “so this is the end” conversations or was someone who knew the ways of the house waiting outside until she was alone, and then said whatever it was he had waited to say? It must have been something like that to rock that soignée creature off her balance to such an extent that she made that sordid end. He looked again at the cathedral. There was his lifeline. If ever life ganged up on him so that it was insupportable alone he knew where help lay, but she had not had that to fall back on, and so the gas oven. He returned to the typewriter. “Those of us who knew Helen Blair were conscious that under her gay exterior there was a different Helen, a lonely, suffering Helen.” God, he thought, Tom’s going to hate this, but then he’d hate whatever I wrote about her. He’ll probably think it’s excruciatingly bad taste to write an article at all, and so will George Worn, which I suppose it is. But then they don’t understand that if you kill yourself you automatically become news, and they don’t know my editor when he doesn’t get what he wants.

  * * *

  Tom did join Edward and George in the dining-room. In his pocket was Selina’s letter, which Field had given him in the downstairs cloakroom when he went to wash for dinner.

  The three men were alone.

  “Put the coffee in the study,” Tom said when Field had brought in the pudding. “We’ll move in there in a few minutes so you can get cleared.”

  As the door shut Edward had an almost uncontrollable urge to produce the time-worn joke about not keeping Field from Mrs. Simpson. He succeeded in stifling it, thinking wryly that he must have a bias towards bad taste.

  George turned to Tom.

  “I’ve got several things to ask you but they can wait, for Edward wants to get home, and he’s some advice for you about the inquest.”

  Edward accepted the helping of apple tart George passed to him.

  “I imagine all of us who dined here last night, plus Mrs. Simpson and Field and possibly Mrs. Wragge, will have to attend. With luck it shouldn’t take long, for none of us know why Helen did what she did, so the coroner will make the usual statement about the balance of her mind being disturbed.”

  Tom was not eating. One elbow was on the table, his head rested on his hand as if, without support, it would drop. Now he looked up.

  “He can’t say that. Helen was as sane as we are. You all saw her last night so you know that’s true.”

  “When we saw her, yes,” Edward agreed. “But obviously something happened after that; it’s nobody’s business what it was, all we need is to give the coroner a chance to state that if she had been in her right mind Helen could not have done it.”

  Tom’s head was back on his hand but again he raised it.

  “If he says th
at it’s a lie. Helen was in her right mind, she knew what she was doing.”

  George spoke urgently.

  “Edward’s right, Tom. What we want is to get the whole horrible business finished as quickly and tidily as possible.”

  Tom seemed to force himself to speak.

  “I won’t be a party to a lie. Helen’s act was deliberate.”

  Edward, sorry though he was for Tom, had to snap at that.

  “Talk sense, old man. You can’t want a verdict of felo de se.”

  George, whose talk to the bishop had been based on the certain verdict that Helen’s mind was disturbed, was shattered and showed it.

  “Of course you don’t. This is a case where the least said the better. After all, what was in Helen’s mind concerns nobody but yourself.”

  Tom got up; both men noticed he seemed to have aged many years since last night, he now walked with an old man’s stoop.

  “When you’ve finished join me in the study.”

  Alone George and Edward exchanged dismayed glances. Edward let out an expressive whistle.

  “Apart from felo de se, if Tom sticks to this she-was-in-her-right-mind line we’ll be a gift to the Press. Can’t you see the headlines—MYSTERY SUICIDE and GAS OVEN MYSTERY.”

  “And I don’t know what’s to happen about the funeral,” said George. “I told the bishop what I sincerely believed, which is that she wasn’t in her right mind. Felo de se is a different kettle of fish altogether. If Tom sticks to this I’ll have to see the bishop again.”

  Edward got up.

  “Shall we both tackle Tom, or shall I try on my own?”

  “You. I’ve got to telephone Miriam, give me a call before you leave.” He too got up. “The police thought Thursday would be all right for the funeral, it seems we don’t have to wait until after the inquest, so we were planning two o’clock on Thursday, but of course everything may be changed with Tom in this mood.”