Four Days' Wonder

by A. A. Milne

  A poster outside the bookstall said:

  WHERE IS

  JENNY?

  STARTLING DEVELOPMENTS

  ‘So it’s like that,’ said Derek to himself. ‘What fun we’re going to have.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Miss Pitman at the Wells

  I

  In Lovely Lady, the novel of which he was ashamed, Mr. Archibald Fenton describes his heroine, Barbara Wilmot, in what he thought at the time were a few well-chosen words. She was at the threshold of life, standing with reluctant feet, as Mr. Fenton pointed out, where the brook and river meet, and already the slender lines of her figure indicated the gentle promise of womanhood. One could hardly put it more delicately. She had a vivacious, mobile face which lit up when she talked, and on one occasion, but fortunately only in the first rough copy, it went so far as to make a delicious little moue at Leslie Brand, the hero. This face was framed in a mass of unruly hair, stray tendrils of which escaped from time to time, and had to be pushed back beneath the hat where customarily they nestled. Whenever Leslie Brand let fall an epigram, and he seemed unable to let fall anything else, she either trilled or else bubbled with happy laughter. Altogether she seemed to be a delightful creature, and Archibald’s engagement to Fanny a few days after publication came as a surprise to his friends.

  It may have been because she reminded him of Barbara Wilmot that Mr. Fenton chose Miss Fairbrother, rather than one of the stouter and less mobile applicants, as his private secretary. Nancy hoped that this was so, because, in order to obtain the post, she had, in fact, modelled herself on Miss Wilmot. In the game which she played with life it was almost a necessity for her to model herself on somebody; so that, hearing of Mr. Fenton’s need, it was natural for her first to wonder what sort of applicant would most appeal to him. Obviously one who had read all his books. She read them, and, as she read, looked out for further clues. The heroine of A Flock of Sheep was fair, and, in a nice sort of way, generously proportioned, but this was outside Nancy’s range. The heroines of the two intermediate books (omitting, of course, the essays and the critical studies) were, in her opinion, much better left there. One of them had a pimple on her chin, which Mr. Fenton had described so lovingly and so often that he would certainly miss it; the other had a horselike face, which had so stamped itself on the man’s mind, that nothing short of a horse (or, rather, a mare) could expect to awaken the necessary tender memories. Nancy made her personal application, therefore, as Barbara Wilmot, hoping that the sight of his first love would strike a chord in the Great Man’s heart. Apparently it struck it, for she was engaged at once.

  The post obtained, she dropped Barbara Wilmot, and became the Complete Private Secretary. This was a disappointment to Mr. Archibald Fenton. Gone were the trills, the bubbles of happy laughter when he let fall an epigram; Miss Fairbrother had nothing for him now but a prim ‘Yes, Mr. Fenton’. If moues were still made, they were made behind his back, and, in any case, were no longer delicious. But the tendrils still escaped, the hair still was unruly. The face remained mobile, though its vivacity seemed to be gone. It may be that there is no vivacious way of taking down shorthand or clacking on a typewriter; it may have been that the poor girl had troubles at home which she hid from him. In any case no possible fault could be found with her work—nor with the slender lines of her figure. These, as Mr. Fenton noted from time to time, indicated the gentle promise of womanhood . . .

  On this Thursday morning Mr. Fenton (thank the Lord) was out of the way, and Nancy was going to ‘do something’. What it was she would do was not yet certain, but she had decided that it was Alice Pitman who would do it. Miss Pitman, it may be remembered, was good, earnest and slightly perspiring; half governess, half matron at a large kindergarten in South Kensington. What else? A little fuller in the figure than Nancy, which would mean padding of some sort. That would be uncomfortably hot in this sort of weather, but then Miss Pitman was always uncomfortably hot in this sort of weather, which would make it just right. Glasses? Glasses undoubtedly. And probably a white, full, silk petticoat, which showed a little . . .

  At ten o’clock Miss Nancy Fairbrother entered Mr. Fenton’s Bank, and cashed her cheque.

  At 11.15 Miss Fairbrother returned to her flat with several brown-paper parcels.

  At 12 Miss Alice Pitman looked at herself in Nancy’s glass with a satisfaction which the real Miss Pitman could never have felt.

  At 12.30 Miss Pitman left London for Tunbridge Wells. She was going to find Jenny.

  ‘Now,’ said Nancy to herself in the corner of a third-class carriage, ‘let’s think it out.’

  Whatever Jenny was doing, she couldn’t go on doing it without money. If she had had Nancy’s letter, she would have written to give an address to which the money could be sent. Therefore, up to yesterday evening she had not had Nancy’s letter. But she might have got it this morning. Obviously the first thing to do was to find out about this. If Miss Gloria Harris’s letter was still waiting for her in the Tunbridge Wells post office, and if she did not come for it to-day, then Jenny was not in the Tunbridge Wells district, and would have to be tracked.

  How?

  As far as her studies had gone, Nancy had learnt of only three ways of tracking. The first way was by following the spoor of the wanted person; which could really only be done over snow or sands, or (if one was an Indian) through trackless forests. Tunbridge Wells was obviously unfavourable ground for this. The second way was by showing a bloodhound some garment belonging to the fugitive; but even if she had had the garment with her, and could have bought a bloodhound in Tunbridge Wells, Nancy felt that this method was too public for her purposes. It did happen sometimes that, owing to the fact that the fugitive had accidentally stepped into some aniseed before starting out, the pursuit could be made with a less noticeable dog, but Nancy felt that it was unlikely that Jenny had done this. The third method was by asking questions in a roundabout way in the bars of public-houses. This method was clearly unsuited to Miss Pitman.

  What was left?

  ‘Well,’ said Nancy to herself, ‘let’s see when we get there.’

  ‘Care to look at the paper, miss?’ said the young man opposite, seeing that she was now disengaged.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Miss Pitman, instinctively gushing a little. ‘That is kind of you. I quite forgot to look at it this morning.’

  ‘Queer business this Auburn Lodge murder.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it queer?’

  ‘There.’ He folded back the paper and handed it to her. ‘See that? That’s funny, isn’t it?’

  Nancy took the paper eagerly. Her heart beat a little more quickly under its padding. She was looking at a reproduction of her letter-card, and feeling as so many authors have felt when they first saw their own work in the press.

  ‘What does it mean?’ she asked. ‘Renton Frers?’

  ‘It tells you down below. Name of a boot-shop. French, you know, for Renton Brothers. It tells you there.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Frères.’

  ‘That’s right. Brothers. Tell you what I think?’

  ‘Oh yes, do, please.’

  ‘I’ll tell you. All this about White Slave Traffic—if you don’t mind my mentioning it to a lady——’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ said Miss Pitman earnestly. ‘I’ve just come back from Geneva as secretary to a gentleman——’

  ‘That so? Well, you can take it from me that most of the talk you hear is just bunk. Bunk,’ said the young man, making a discarding movement with his two hands. ‘Nothing in it. D’you know the first thing I say, when I read about a murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I say, who’s this going to do a bit of good to? See what I mean?’

  ‘You mean who’s going to profit by it?’

  ‘That’s right. And the answer’s plain. Jenny.’ ‘Oh, do you think so?’

&nbs
p; ‘Well, she’s Jane Latour’s niece, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but——’

  ‘And only relation?’

  ‘Yes, but——’

  ‘Well, it really isn’t quite fair of me talking like this, because I happen to be a bit in the know. But you can take it from me——’

  ‘Oh, are you a detective? How exciting!’

  ‘Well, yes and no. More in an amateur way, if you see what I mean. I’ve studied this sort of thing a lot. But it just happens that a friend of mine happens to be in with the Scotland Yard people, and he told me for a fact that they know in Scotland Yard that it was the niece who did it. That doesn’t mean that they can prove it, mind you. But they know.’

  ‘Oh, but how awful to think of a young girl like that being a murderess! I still can’t quite believe it.’

  ‘Fact, I assure you.’

  ‘Then does that mean she wrote this letter-card herself?’

  ‘That’s right. Put ’em off the scent.’

  ‘Yes, but wouldn’t it have been better if she hadn’t said anything at all, and then everybody would have thought she was dead?’

  ‘Well,’ said the young man, after thinking this over, and finding that it was too much for him, ‘you’ve got to look at it all round. See what I mean? I’m only telling you what they say at the Yard. Well, I get out here. Sevenoaks. Good-morning, miss. No, that’s all right, thanks, I’ve finished with it.’

  Left alone, Nancy went back to the paper. She read her own contribution again, and then passed on to the inferior work of other contributors. Well, no; not so inferior. Suddenly the paper dropped out of her fingers, and she gave a whistle of dismayed astonishment, quite outside Miss Pitman’s range. ‘Lordy!’ cried Miss Fairbrother. ‘What do you know about that?’ She had just discovered that they were looking for Jenny’s watch . . .

  What would happen? They would find the pawnbroker. The pawnbroker would reveal Mr. Fenton. Well, no need for that. Fenton would read the papers and recognize for himself that ‘J’ in diamonds. He would go to the police. The police would go to Elm Park Mansions . . . and in twenty-four hours the papers would be saying ‘Where is Nancy?’

  ‘Well, after all,’ said Miss Pitman complacently, ‘where is she?’

  II

  At Tunbridge Wells Nancy got out of the train, and put her bag in the cloak-room. Then she walked down to the post office.

  So that was the post office.

  It was half-past one. Should she go in and ask about Gloria Harris?

  Yes . . .

  No . . .

  Obviously no. If Jenny had not called for her letter, then there was just the one chance of finding her. Hang about the post office until Jenny came. Sooner or later she was bound to come. But if Nancy asked about the letter now, and went away and had lunch, and came back again, then all through the afternoon while she was waiting, she would have the uneasy feeling that perhaps Jenny had come and gone in that luncheon interval, and that now she was waiting for nothing. For it would be quite impossible to make a second innocent inquiry about the letter.

  She walked up to the High Street and lunched. She came back to the post office and went in.

  ‘Good-afternoon,’ said Miss Pitman, with a nervous but friendly smile. ‘Is there a letter for me? Pitman. Miss Alice Pitman. You see, I’m camping, and I didn’t quite—oh, thank you so much.’

  The clerk had gone away to look. He came back to say that he was sorry, there was no letter for Miss Pitman. Miss Pitman looked disappointed.

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh, thank you.’ She hesitated; and then, taking courage, gave the clerk another nervous smile, and said: ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you would mind telling me if there are any letters for my friend Miss Harris? We’re camping together, you see, and she——’

  ‘Have you an authority from Miss Harris to——’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ interrupted Miss Pitman quickly. ‘I didn’t mean that! How silly of me! No, all I meant was, she’s coming into the Wells to tea, but it’s right the other side of the town, you see, and I know she talked of seeing if there were any letters for her, and I thought if I could tell her there weren’t any, then it would save her all that walk, you see, and if there were any, then of course she would come for them herself. I knew I couldn’t take them without an authority, of course, but I thought if I could just tell her, you see—oh, thank you so much.’

  The clerk had gone away to look. With his back to her, he said: ‘Any name or initials?’

  ‘Gloria,’ said Miss Pitman eagerly. ‘Miss Gloria Harris. It is kind of you. It will save her all that long walk, and——’

  ‘Miss Gloria Harris,’ read out the clerk. ‘Yes. There is.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much, then he has written. I’ll tell her. Unless of course she may have started to walk in earlier than she said, but then I expect she’d come anyhow, but of course she may have changed her mind and not be coming in this afternoon at all, but it is nice to know, isn’t it? Thank you so much, good-afternoon.’

  So far, thought Nancy, so good. Now all she had to do was to hang about the post office until Jenny came.

  All! It was enough. Up to now the adventure had been exciting, but there was nothing exciting in walking up and down outside a post office, lingering a moment here and a moment there, pretending to look in at this shop-window and at that. In books the hero always engaged a room opposite the house he was watching, and so gave himself a chance of sitting down, but in real life there was no reason why the owner of any house opposite any house which anybody happened to suspect should want to take in lodgers of a suspicious nature. It might be worth trying, of course; she would have to sleep somewhere; but she dare not begin to make inquiries until her vigil for the day was over. Three o’clock. She must not leave before six at the earliest. Six would be fairly safe. She continued to walk up and down . . .

  With the idea of increasing the amenities of an attractive town the authorities have had the vision to place a demobilized Tank just outside the post office, where it serves equally as an inspiration to the young, a tender memory to the middle-aged, and a token of their faith to the elderly. After nearly an hour in its company, Nancy, a little capriciously, began to feel that Tunbridge Wells was practically all Tank (all of it, that is, which was not post office) and she wished that Jenny had chosen some other town to escape to, one, for instance, which had been content to decorate itself with an odd howitzer here and there, or a handful of bombs. Then she felt ashamed of herself for thinking this, because, of course, a Tank was really a very beautiful thing, and it wasn’t meant to be next to the post office at all, it only just happened to be there because they wanted to have it opposite the Wesleyan Methodist Church . . .

  Next to the church were two hotels. At six o’clock, she would get her bag from the station, and take a bedroom in one of the hotels, and then to-morrow she would be able to sit down . . .

  The bother was that she was now cut off from London. She had meant to send her address to Mrs. Featherstone, who ‘came in’ every morning, so that if Jenny wrote from some other town, the letter could be forwarded; but now it was impossible. WHERE IS NANCY? Definitely not giving the police an address at Tunbridge Wells. Let them find her there if they could.

  She came to the post office again, looked idly in through the swing doors, and came out.

  Bump!

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Miss Pitman, confused and earnest.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ smiled the young man, taking off his hat.

  For a moment they looked at each other, and with a sudden pleasurable shock Nancy recognized him.

  His face was not very familiar, but to one who, hour after hour, as it seemed, had been eagerly looking out for a friend, and had seen nothing more responsive than a Tank, even the sight of a recognizable stranger was in some way reassuring. Sh
e had seen him in Bloomsbury once—twice, wasn’t it?—he had called for Mr. Fenton and they had gone out to lunch together. She wasn’t introduced. Secretaries weren’t. He had just walked in, so she didn’t hear his name. Archibald had been rather annoyed about it, and the other man had said, ‘My dear Hippo, I assure you——’, and had been hurried out, leaving Nancy to wonder whether Hippo was short for Hippolytus or Hippopotamus. Either way Archibald hadn’t liked it. The other time was in the hall, as she was going out, and he had smiled and said ‘Good-afternoon’.

  There was no reason why he should have anything to do with Jenny, but on an impulse she followed him into the post office . . .

  Nothing like being impulsive.

  She heard him say: ‘Have you any letters for Miss Gloria Harris?’ She saw him hand over a piece of paper to the clerk . . . She followed him out.

  He walked to the station. He looked at the posters outside the bookstall. He bought all the papers. He put five under his arm and stood reading the sixth. He went back to the car-park below the Tank, still reading. He dropped the papers into a blue coupé, and walked up to the High Street . . .

  What did it mean?

  The simple explanation (always the best, said the books) was that Jenny had settled down somewhere as Gloria Harris, and being unable, or afraid, to come into Tunbridge Wells herself, had asked some newly met acquaintance to call for her letter. By one of those odd coincidences he happened already to be an acquaintance of Nancy’s. That was all.

  Should she wait until he came back and then say ‘I think we have met—’ But they hadn’t. She was Alice Pitman. Bother! Yet somehow she must get a message to Jenny. How?

  In the days when Gloria Harris and Acetylene Pitt had been drummer-boys together in Wellington’s army, it had been necessary for them to communicate with each other (or with Wellington) in code, in case, as Nancy pointed out to Jenny, their communications fell into the enemy’s hands and gave away the position of the British forces. The code had been invented by Nancy, and would certainly have baffled Napoleon. Indeed, for a moment it had seemed as if it would baffle Jenny.