The Stratton Story

by Elizabeth Cadell

  It was unfortunate that the meal did not end as well as it had begun. Having knitted the party together with skill and tact and even a kind of heavy charm, Mrs. Westerby at the end behaved in a manner that made Sir Hugo’s diagnosis seem only too accurate.

  It was his mention of a current success that brought up the subject of the theatre and broke the spell that had held them all through the meal. Mrs. Westerby told him that she had not seen the play—but now that he had spoken of drama, she would tell them all something she had seldom mentioned to anybody. She paused and looked round the company as though to heighten the suspense, and then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I once—oh, a hundred years ago—I once dreamed of being a dancer!”

  The diners at the other tables fell suddenly silent. An uncontrollable giggle came from Sharon Cotter.

  “You danced?” Tag Junior’s amazed, incredulous question, spoken across the room in a high squeak, made the general amusement spill over. There was a loud, prolonged burst of laughter which Mrs. Westerby, smiling and nodding, received as applause.

  “I tried to dance,” she corrected, when the gale of mirth had died down. “I know what you’re all laughing at, but you mustn’t suppose that I always looked as large as I do now. I longed to be an acrobatic dancer. In my youth, I was really very supple.”

  There was no more laughter; there was only acute embarrassment on every face but young Tag’s; his expressed stark disbelief.

  “It was really that,” Mrs. Westerby told Sir Hugo, “that made me feel so sympathetic towards Anita from the beginning—I knew that she had worked as a designer for the theatre. We had other tastes in common, too—a love of good furniture, for example. We are going—has she told you?—to look at some furniture in a little cottage my parents built when they sold their house—the house is the very hotel to which you are going, and in which you and Anita are going to stay. We are going to look over the furniture in the cottage, and I hope she is going to let me help her to arrange it in her house—that is, if she decides to have any of it sent to England. I think she will. Anita —it is very good. Even perhaps valuable —but at any rate, beautiful. My mother would never have anything ugly near her, and I know that you feel as she did. When you get to your house in London—it is going to be in London, isn’t it?—I shall be able to pop up frequently and see you. It was difficult to get down to Cornwall, but London!” She snapped her fingers. “I can be there in an hour. And you will be able to come down to me for weekends. I shall insist on that; it will do you good to get away from town sometimes. And if Sir Hugo is nearby, I am sure he will come to Shern too—Sir Hugo, I should so love to show you my miniatures. One is a Samuel Cooper—so lovely, so delicate that I can’t describe it. You must see it. You remember what Walpole said of Cooper’s work, don’t you?—that it was like a life-sized Van Dyck seen through the small end of a telescope. A perfect description. Then I have a Richard Cosway—it’s exquisite, but I’ve never liked it as well as the others because the ancestor of mine that he painted was famous for her ugliness —and he tried to make her pretty and in my opinion robbed her of most of her character. But the gems are the pair painted on lapis lazuli; these at one time belonged to my brother, but they came to me, and they’re hanging in my room today. You must—” She stopped as her glance fell on Mrs. Stratton.

  “Anita, you’re tired. I’ve talked and talked, and look at you—tired to death.”

  Gail thought the words scarcely exaggerated. Mrs. Stratton’s face was the colour of the white, starched cloth that was spread over the long table. Her eyes looked wide and fixed.

  With a sudden movement, Julian pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “It’s too hot in here,” he said, looking across at Mrs. Stratton. “Would you like to come out on the terrace?”

  She rose without a word and moved towards him, but Sir Hugo rose as she passed him, and took her arm and drew her outside. Mrs. Wester by stared after them and spoke in a regretful voice.

  “I’m very, very foolish,” she said, leaning confidentially towards Gail. “I quite forgot that the pair of miniatures I mentioned had belonged to my brother after his marriage — and had been sold. I bought them but it was devastatingly tactless to refer to them just now without remembering how sorry she must have been to part with them.” She rose. “Will you excuse me? I want to go to the kitchen to see that they use my special coffee.”

  Julian and Gail followed her out of the room, making their way between the tables at which the other diners were still seated. They wandered on to the terrace and out of the circle of light, avoiding the two silent figures Sir Hugo and Mrs. Stratton—seated at one of the little tin tables. In the half-darkness, Gail could discern the fork of a tree; they walked up to it and she settled herself on it and addressed Julian.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  “I don’t know—” Julian began.

  “Oh, for goodness sake!” Irritation made her raise her voice. “You came out with your godmother, on your own admission to keep an eye on her. We’ve both sat through dinner just now watching her prove that she’s just as acrobatic as she says she was when she was young. She jumped from topic to topic, and in between, she jumped on Mrs. Stratton. Why? If you say you don’t know, I’ll scream out loud and show you that Mrs. Westerby isn’t the only one who can make a scene any time she feels like it. And don’t tell me it isn’t my business. It wasn’t, but it is now. I’ve got a feeling that Mrs. Stratton needs protection.”

  “I’ve got a feeling she’s getting it. Who the hell does that fellow think he is, intimating that my godmother was off her head? She’s perfectly sane.”

  “So you keep saying. She was getting at Mrs. Stratton when she mentioned those miniatures. Why?”

  “Because she thought they shouldn’t have been sold, that’s why.”

  “Not even to provide money to nurse a sick husband?”

  “They had money enough when they married.”

  “Illness is expensive, and he was ill for a long time. And even without illness, money can evaporate. My grandmother’s did. It wasn’t her fault; her income dropped and dropped, and the things she tried to sell—stocks — had no sale value. If Mrs. Stratton wanted to sell her furniture and effects, what was to stop her? They were hers—hers and her husband’s.”

  “They were family things. They’d been in the family for generations. My godmother thought they shouldn’t have been sold without giving her a chance to buy them. But nothing was ever said to her; it was only when she went down to stay with them in Cornwall that she found out.”

  “Was she angry because they didn’t tell her, or because she wanted to keep them in the family, or because they wouldn’t accept money from her?”

  "All three, I suppose.”

  "When did you get into this? You must have been fond of her to appoint yourself—”

  “I came with her because my parents asked me to. I’d be glad if you’d stop talking about my godmother, and mind your own business.”

  She spoke in a tone she strove to keep reasonable and calm.

  “Take it from my angle for a moment. I was going to meet my brother. I was asked to make a detour and deposit Mrs. Stratton at this cottage that my-mother-kept- when-our-house-was-sold-it-is-now-an-hotel. I met Mrs. Stratton at Bordeaux, and found her with an admirer in tow, which made me feel de trop, which is French for two’s company. Then we got stuck here, and there was a very fishy episode relating to a scarf. Something’s going on, and I’d like to know what it is, even if it isn’t strictly my business. I’m not used to undercurrents. I like everything to be out in the open—and now I’m caught up with people who all appear to be nursing dark secrets. One half of me likes Mrs. Westerby. The other half tells me she’s a crazy old woman with a grievance, and so potentially dangerous. You only had to look at Mrs. Stratton’s face at the dinner table just now, to know that she’s getting scared too. I came out for a holiday. I don’t want to get mixed up i
n a family feud.”

  “This is my holiday, too. It isn’t the way I thought I’d be spending it.”

  She looked at his moody, worried expression, and felt a sudden uprush of sympathy.

  “What were you going to do, before your parents put you on policeman duty?” she asked him.

  “I was going to Scotland.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  "The Gairloch district.”

  “That part of Scotland depresses me. It’s sad.”

  “It’s evocative. Which means, as you probably know, calling up spirits from the dead.”

  “I didn’t know—but if that’s it, you’re right; that part of the coast is full of spirits of the dead. I’m sorry you evoked them; you brought me back to Edward again.”

  “You can’t always expect things to be straightforward,” he pointed out. “Some facts can’t be pinned down and labelled.”

  “I know that. But this is the first time in my life I’ve had to disentangle people’s motives and behaviour, and I’m not enjoying it. I know that outsiders can’t judge family quarrels. I’m an outsider—but you’re not. You’ve known Mrs. Westerby all your life, and I think you’re in a position to tell me what she’s up to—but you won’t. And what’s beginning to scare me is that I think you’re scared yourself. I’d rather share your fears than invent ghastly ones of my own.”

  “If I had any fears of the kind you mean, I’d share them,” he said.

  “You’re honestly not frightened?”

  “Of course not. I’m worried, simply because it’s quite clear that my godmother and Mrs. Stratton have an unfortunate effect on one another.”

  “And you don’t think Mrs. Stratton is scared?”

  “If she is, it’s because she’s been listening to that blasted baronet. Are you going to let him influence you too?”

  She made no reply; she was watching Mrs. Westerby on the terrace, directing the landlord to put the coffee tray on to a table. She noticed once again the easy air of command, the regal gestures, the spreading body, the large, ugly face which nevertheless, seen from this distance, could be softened and shadowed, lending credibility to the thought that once it had been handsome.

  She raised her loud voice to call Gail and Julian, and they walked over to join her. Before they reached the terrace, Mrs. Stratton had risen and, without a word, gone quietly away. Mrs. Westerby stared after her in dismay.

  “Without trying my beautiful coffee,” she said regretfully. “Is she feeling unwell, Sir Hugo? Shall I go up to her?”

  “No,” he said at once. His tone was abrupt. “I should keep away if I were you. If I may speak frankly, it was your unfortunate references to the past at dinner that upset Mrs. Stratton. You have gone out of your way, it seems to me, to . . . harry her ever since you arrived.”

  Mrs. Westerby stared at him in the greatest astonishment. Her hand lowered the cup she was holding, and put it fumblingly on to the tray. Her voice, when she spoke, was almost quiet.

  “Really, Sir Hugo ... May I say that I find that remark most offensive, coming as it does from one who is almost a complete stranger both to myself and to my sister-in-law?”

  “Mrs. Stratton is not a person who can defend herself against the kind of ... I might almost say persecution she has been subjected to. Therefore, I feel it — ”

  He stopped. Mrs. Westerby’s manner had changed- and for the worse; her features had twisted themselves into a sly, knowing look —almost a leer. Her words turned him purple with fury.

  “Oh dear, oh dear!” She chuckled. “Now I can see the position. Never fear, my dear Sir Hugo; I know when I am in the way. You must forgive me for having been so obtuse as to make a third where no third was welcome. You must — ”

  He had gone inside, striding angrily away without another word. Mrs. Westerby stood looking after him—and then she sank into a chair and, her face expressionless, glanced at Julian.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, almost humbly, “I’m afraid I’m making things difficult for you.”

  “For me?” His tone was bitter. “Not only for me. I wish to God I’d never agreed to come with you.”

  She said nothing. Without another glance at him or at Gail she went slowly into the inn and up the stairs. They heard her door close.

  Gail sat down suddenly; her legs were trembling. Not only her legs, she noticed with a kind of dull surprise—her hands, too. Her medical knowledge was small, but she thought this must be an evidence of her strong desire for flight. She wanted to get away—from strangers, from obscure and uneasy relationships, above all from Mrs. Westerby and Mrs. Stratton. Between the two was something that was beginning to frighten her.

  She remembered Miss Teller’s words of warning, and looked back with a kind of wonder at the ease with which she had allowed herself to be drawn into this situation. Refusal would have been so easy; there had been no reason on earth why she should drive Mrs. Stratton. There was money enough, Mrs. Stratton was old enough, independent enough to have arranged her journey alone. She need not have gone to lunch with Mrs. Westerby the reason for the invitation had seemed thin then, and seemed thinner now.

  She made an effort to pull herself together. One more night. Only one more night followed by a morning drive and then she would be free.

  She heard Julian speaking gently.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “No?”

  She had meant to sound sardonic, but the monosyllable came out as a quaver.

  “I shouldn’t have spoken like that to my godmother,” he said quietly. “It was just that I felt, for a moment, that she was a heavier responsibility than I’d bargained for.”

  She stared up at him.

  “She . . . hates her, doesn’t she?” she said. “She hates Mrs. Stratton.”

  Julian was so long in replying that she repeated the question angrily.

  “Well, doesn’t she? She hates her.”

  “Yes,” Julian said evenly. “Yes, she does.”

  Chapter 7

  Gail went to bed that night with her mind full of uneasiness. She undressed, brushed her teeth, and went through all the routine actions that were usually the preliminary to settling down to sleep, but tonight, sleep did not come.

  She lay staring into the darkness, trying to make herself believe that Mrs. Westerby was nothing more than a harmless and eccentric old woman. But the evidence against this comforting solution was mounting — and the more she thought, the more certain she became that Mrs. Westerby had tied her scarf round the warning notice—why, she could not begin to guess.

  She felt sorry for Mrs. Stratton — sorry was scarcely the word to express her feeling that something evil threatened her. There was something lurking behind Mrs. Westerby’s unaccountable actions — but as the night wore on Gail decided that she did not, after all, want to know what it was. All she wanted was to get away. She could not go away because there was nobody to whom she could consign Mrs. Stratton.

  It was almost dawn when, with a sense of relief flooding her mind, she remembered Sir Hugo.

  Sir Hugo. She drew a deep breath of thankfulness. He was the obvious answer. He admired Mrs. Stratton. He had come out of his way, booked a room at the hotel in Chandon, in proof of the fact. He felt protective towards Mrs. Stratton; he had said so tonight, on the terrace.

  Sir Hugo. She would go to him first thing tomorrow morning. She would seek him out, draw him aside and appeal to him frankly.

  Her cares fell away. Good old Sir Hugo. In the right place at the right time. She punched the pillows and settled back contentedly, hearing the quiet exchange that would take place between them in the morning.

  Sir Hugo, could I have a word with you?

  Certainly, Gail. What is it?

  (Better to go straight to the point, even if it wasn’t the real point.)

  I promised to drive Mrs. Stratton to Chandon, but this hold-up has made things difficult for me.

  Of course, Gail �
�� I remember now. You were to meet your brother at San Sebastian. And this irritating delay means that you might miss him?

  I could get a message to my brother—I know the people he’s with, and I know where I could get in touch with them, but—

  Look here; how would it be if I took Mrs. Stratton the rest of the way?

  Oh . . . would you? Would you mind?

  I should be delighted. But it’s for her to decide. You must ask her if she would consent to the change-over from your car to mine.

  I’ll do that. You’re very kind, and I’m very grateful. But. . .

  But what?

  I’d like to be honest with you. One of the reasons I’m asking you to do this is because I think someone ought to . . . well, keep an eye on Mrs. Stratton. Not on Mrs. Stratton. On . . . on . . .

  My dear Gail, you can say it frankly. On Mrs. Westerby. I have been uneasy; more than uneasy. Didn’t you hear what I told her godson last night? You are doing the best thing possible in going away. It would be madness for you to get mixed up in any unpleasantness. You can do nothing but what you are doing; go away and join your brother.

  Thank you. But you —

  My dear Gail, I shall see to it that no unpleasantness arises. I shall drive Mrs. Stratton to Chandon. She is not staying at Mrs. Westerby’s cottage; she has a room at the hotel, as I myself have. I shall see to it that her meetings with Mrs. Westerby are confined to the business which has brought them out here. You may put your mind at rest.