‘Miss Atkinson—you know, she’s small…slight, the one they brought in the day—where will she be? Is she in a cell?’
The policeman looked down at the counter and wrote something on a pad before saying, ‘She’s all right.’
‘But is she in a cell?’
‘They’re not as bad as you think.’ The policeman smiled.
Rooney rubbed his mouth, then turned his back on the counter and the policeman. This fellow was likely a Shields bloke, they were all likely Shields blokes, but they were all as foreign as men from another planet. He’d go barmy if this went on much longer. He could understand now why fellows made jail breaks…there was something constricting even in the look of this policeman, although he seemed civil enough.
‘Will you come in here a moment?’
‘What?…Oh.’ Rubbing his lips, one over the other, he went once again into the inspector’s office. And now Mr Bailey-Crawford did recognise him, and his friendly tone when he said, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ somehow lightened Rooney’s burden.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, we didn’t expect to meet here, did we?’ His manner was light, almost jovial.
‘No, sir.’
‘Mr Bailey-Crawford recognises these toys, Mr Smith,’ said the inspector.
Rooney’s muscles relaxed and the tightness left his jaws.
‘But we haven’t as yet ascertained when they were thrown away.’
‘Oh.’
The little man’s head went back and his beard wagged. ‘My mother will undoubtedly remember that. In fact, I could almost name the day myself. It would be when she received my letter saying that I was positively not coming to England again until she made up her mind finally to leave the house and go into a flat, or home or something. Last year she had me over here five times on stupid pretexts…maids leaving, the odd-job man dismantling the greenhouse and making off with it.’
The inspector checked the jovial flow with a laugh. ‘I remember that. But now, if we may see her, and the date tallies with that given by Mr Smith, we can then dispense with him.’ The inspector looked at Rooney.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Can we see her tonight?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. And I can well believe now that the necklace was thrown out with these things—she has never valued it. It belonged to my grandmother, and it was because I had seen her wearing it so often that I recognised it when I saw…the person wearing it. That’s a point.’ Mr Bailey-Crawford turned to Rooney. ‘Why didn’t she say you had given it to her?’
‘We have been into that, Mr Crawford,’ said the inspector quietly, rising.
‘Oh.’ The little man’s eyebrows moved upwards.
‘Sir.’
‘Yes?’ The inspector’s mild eyes appeared kindly as they rested on Rooney. ‘About Miss Atkinson. If the dates tally, can she come out?’
‘Yes, if the dates tally.’
There seemed to be still some doubt in the inspector’s mind, and his mild tone brought a sickness into the pit of Rooney’s stomach, as he went on, ‘There is a point that needs clearing. Perhaps, you, being a friend of hers, can throw some light on it. Miss Atkinson has recently been spending quite a bit of money. She has no known income and she has left her employment, so her aunt, Mrs Howlett, tells me. When Miss Atkinson was asked where she got the money, all the information she would proffer was that it had been left to her.’
‘Yes. Yes, it had.’
‘Oh.’
‘By her grandfather. Well, not her real grandfather…Mrs Howlett’s father-in-law…He thought the world of her, and she him. I read the letter myself.’
‘Well, why didn’t she say that?’
‘She wouldn’t want Ma, that’s Mrs Howlett, to know. They never hit it off. But you can easily tell if she’s speaking the truth there by the solicitors who did the job for the old man. Before he died he went to them and got them to send her all he had.’
‘Who was the solicitor?’
‘Pomphrey & Mears…Mr Pomphrey.’
‘Oh well, we can easily check on that in the morning.’
‘In the morning!’ Rooney both sounded and looked aghast. ‘Do you mean you’re going to keep her here all night?’
‘Now, now, Mr Smith, this isn’t the Dark Ages.’
‘No. No, I know, sir, but if you knew what she’s gone through all these years living with Ma…Mrs Howlett. I’ve only been there four weeks, and it’s nearly turned me white. Nellie’s good, she’s a good woman, she’s—’
‘All right, Mr Smith. Now don’t you worry. Would you like to come along with us now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come on then.’
Outside, Rooney got into the back of the police car with the sergeant, while the inspector sat next to the driver. Mr Bailey-Crawford had driven off in his own car, and within five minutes they were on the drive of Honeycroft, and, as he stepped in through the front door, Rooney could not help but ponder on the strangeness of life, for who would have thought this morning when he moved the bin that this evening he would be going in by the front door with the police?
‘Come in here,’ said Mr Bailey-Crawford, ushering them into a large room that reminded Rooney of Grandpa’s, so crammed was it with furniture.
‘We would like to see your mother alone for a moment,’ said the inspector.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
Left alone in the room, Rooney stood by a massive, deeply carved table, and glanced about him. It was evident that the whole place was in need of a duster, yet it looked lived in, for a large coal fire was blazing in the grate and a small table holding a tray with a tarnished silver coffee jug and two cups on it stood by a much-worn leather chair. At another time the furniture would have caught his interest, but now it brought up no comment in his mind other than that it might be grand stuff but it was much too big. How long, he wondered, would it take the old girl to remember? What if she couldn’t remember, or if she swore she hadn’t thrown it away?
There was a commotion in the hall, and the door was thrust open.
‘All this fuss about nothing! Why couldn’t you come to me at first?’
‘Now, Mama.’
‘Be quiet! You treat me like a halfwit…Why couldn’t you find the people who stole my Sevres and my Georgian silver?’
As the old lady stamped across the room, Rooney thought that she looked a bit different from when he had seen her last, for her hair was not hanging about her face but was now in looped strands, neatly coiled on her head, and she was dressed in blue velvet. It looked an old-fashioned dress, the skirt trailing on the ground, but she no longer looked the poor old wife he had felt sorry for, but a noble old woman, and much more awe-inspiring.
She stopped for a moment at the sight of him, and, as her son had done earlier, she exclaimed, ‘Oh! it’s you.’
‘Yes, mam.’
‘And it was you who picked up the necklace from out of the dustbin?’
‘Yes, mam.’
‘You were a fool. That necklace has caused more trouble in this family than enough. It belonged to my husband’s mother—she was a hateful old harridan. That’s all she left me, and she put a curse on it.’
‘Mama!’
‘Be quiet!’ She rounded on her son. ‘She did. Doesn’t this prove it, getting this man into trouble and locking up a woman? I did not throw it away by mistake, I threw it away to get rid of it…as I threw away all your things that I’d cherished for years, because you don’t know your duty as a son. Sit down!’ This was to Rooney.
Slowly, and with his eye on the inspector who was standing in the doorway, Rooney slid into a chair.
‘And don’t stand in that door. Come in or go out, I hate draughts!’
Much to Rooney’s amazement, the inspector did as he was ordered, and was followed by the sergeant, who closed the door gently after him. The old lady seated herself by the fire. Then after allowing a pause, she looked straight at the inspector and said, ‘Now that this
stupid mistake has been rectified I feel that there is an apology owing to this man.’ With a somewhat theatrical gesture, she indicated Rooney with a sweep of her arm.
Rooney, not daring to look at any one of them, said, ‘That’s all right, mam.’
‘It isn’t all right. Hasn’t this woman, this friend of yours, been put in jail? It’s Freda they should have put in jail. But you can’t find Freda, can you?’
When the inspector did not answer, she went on, ‘Freda was too clever for you…she planned her work. She must have had every piece in this house worth anything checked. And now she’s most probably in somebody else’s house, busily checking there. All she had to do was to dye her hair again.’
‘Mama, be quiet.’
Rooney glanced covertly at the inspector. He was smiling; he even seemed to be enjoying the old girl. But when he spoke, there was no trace of amusement in his voice, only a certain deference. ‘You’re likely right, mam, but we do our poor best.’
‘That’s a very good word for it.’
The inspector cleared his throat. ‘We must go now. Goodnight, mam. Are you coming, Mr Smith?’
‘Yes. Yes, sir.’ He rose hastily, then turning to the old lady, said, ‘Goodnight, mam.’
‘Goodnight, and don’t let them frighten you.’
‘No, mam. Goodnight.’
In the porch and out of hearing of his mother, and between a laugh and a sigh, Mr Bailey-Crawford said, ‘I wish I was back in France.’
The inspector smiled. ‘I can see you’ve got your work cut out. When are you returning?’
‘As soon as I can find somebody to look after her. She just flatly refused to leave this house, and I can’t get anyone to live in. I’ve even offered the old coachman’s house rent-free with added baits in return for some small services for her. But can I get a couple? No. They all want the rooms, in fact offer rent for them, but as for doing anything in the way of domestic help, it seems to horrify most of them.’
‘Yes, it is a problem. But at least we’ve solved one tonight. Yours, Mr Smith.’
The inspector had a way of turning a conversation, and Rooney was brought back from a startling prospect that had suddenly been conjured up in his mind by Mr Bailey-Crawford’s remarks.
‘Yes, sir. Is everything all right now?’
‘Well, we’ll go back to the station and then we’ll be able to tell you. Goodnight, sir. I’m sorry we’ve put you to so much trouble.’
‘Oh that’s all right. I’m glad it’s been cleared up. Well, goodnight…Goodnight, Smith. Sorry about everything.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
In the car once more, the inspector began to laugh, and to no-one in particular he said, ‘I bet that old girl leads him a life. His garret in Paris must appear like paradise after a weekend at home.’
‘He’s a painter, sir, isn’t he?’ said the sergeant.
‘Yes. Becoming quite well known too, in more ways than one…divorced three times.’
‘Oh yes? Well.’ They both laughed. And Rooney thought, That’s it. I couldn’t place him, with him being so free and easy, and chatty. But if he’s an artist…
Once more they went through the main room and into the inspector’s office. And there the officer behind the desk rose and handed the inspector a typewritten paper.
Rooney watched him as he read. He watched the slow movement of his hands as he folded the sheet in two and put it on his desk, saying, ‘There, then, that’s that.’
Rooney waited.
The inspector sat down and joined his hands, resting them on the desk.
‘Well, everything seems in order now, Mr Smith. Mr Pomphrey has vouched for Miss Atkinson as to where she got her money. I may want her to meet Mr Pomphrey tomorrow, just a matter of mutual recognition, but I think we can safely say that everything is all right. I’ll just have a word with her before she goes.’
Relief made Rooney giddy. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Go with the sergeant now and you’ll see Miss Atkinson in a minute. And if I may advise you, close your eyes when you see a ruby necklace in future.’
Rooney smiled sheepishly. ‘You bet, sir. If I see the Crown Jewels in a bin, I’ll cover them up. Goodnight, sir.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Smith.’
He felt almost gay as he went into the main office, but as the sergeant left him with, ‘I won’t keep you a minute,’ a wave of shyness filled him with painful confusion. What would he say to her? How could he thank her for trying to shield him? Would she feel bitter?
But whatever her reactions would be, there was one thing he knew for certain: for him, life was changed, nothing would ever be on the old humdrum level again after all this set-to. Sitting before strange fireplaces, surrounded by his bits was going to be devoid of even comfort now, for his furniture had suddenly become meaningless. It was most disturbing, but he really didn’t care if he never saw it again, unless…
There she was, looking more like a child than ever against the blue largeness of the sergeant. Her face was white like it had been when he first saw her, and although her expression was strained her eyes held no bitterness. He moved slowly towards her.
‘Hallo, Nellie.’
‘Hallo.’
He could hardly hear her voice.
The inspector appeared behind her in the doorway. He looked jovial; the sergeant looked jovial; the policeman behind the counter looked jovial; the man and woman standing before the counter looked interested. Rooney buttoned up his coat, stretched his neck out of his collar, and said, ‘We’d better be getting along.’
Nellie’s eyes drooped as she moved from the shelter of the sergeant to his side.
‘Goodnight.’ It was Rooney’s final word.
‘Goodnight,’ they all said together.
He opened the door, and Nellie passed out before him into the corridor. In the lobby there was a maze of doors and corridors, but without hesitation or touching her he led her to the main entrance. Only let them get outside of here and they would talk…he would talk. Never before could he remember such an overwhelming desire to talk.
He opened the outer door, and there, at the foot of the steps, was the street. And for a moment it looked wonderful, until from out of the shadow of the lamp-post moved two figures, Danny and Bill.
Swearing had never been a form of expression with Rooney—he had always told himself he left that to Bill—but now he was in a good way to outdoing even Bill. Why had they to be here at this particular moment? This was the time for him to say what he had to say: he was full of words and his mouth appeared oiled for their flow.
‘By, mate, we thought they’d pushed you along the line. Evening, Miss.’ This from Bill.
‘We had to come back, lad. Just a bit worried. How do you do?’ Danny inclined his head towards Nellie. ‘You’ve had a bit of a nasty do, Miss.’
‘It was an experience.’ There was a little smile in Nellie’s eyes.
‘I’d say,’ said Bill. ‘And how did you come off?’ he asked of Rooney.
And Rooney, feeling all churned up inside and wishing Bill in the warmest region he knew of, answered, ‘Oh, it’s a long story. And…and she’s tired, she wants to get home.’
Nellie looked up at him. And in her eyes he saw a touch of anxiety that had once been their permanent expression. ‘I can’t go back there tonight…I couldn’t face them tonight. Tomorrow I’ll have to go and see to Grandpa, but tonight I’ll get a room somewhere.’
Rooney looked down into her face. ‘Come back to Danny’s place with us. She can, can’t she, Danny?’
‘Yes. Aye, the wife’s expectin’ us.’
As if Danny and Bill were not there, Rooney held her eyes and entreated softly, ‘Mrs D’s nice, you’ll like her.’
‘It’s kind of you.’ She meant this for Danny, but her eyes stayed on Rooney’s until she turned and moved away.
Rooney walked by her side, with Danny and Bill behind, and without further words they cut up a side street and into the mark
et place, and from there took a tram. And when they alighted in Eldon Street, Rooney did something that surprised himself still further. Pulling Bill to one side, he said, ‘Will you mind, man, not coming along with us now? She’s gone through a bit the day, you understand?’
Bill’s look did not convey his understanding, but it showed how deeply he was offended. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel. I only came because I didn’t want to see you in a mess.’
‘Yes, I know, man. And it was good of you, and I’ll not forget it, and I’ll tell you about things the morrow.’
‘To hell with the morrow!’
‘Goodnight, Danny.’ It was Bill’s only salute, and showed the extent of his pique.
Blast! thought Rooney, as Bill marched off. Yet it was far better that he should take the pip than be given the chance to start his wisecracking in front of her the night. Somehow it had become a matter of importance that the folks she met who were connected with him should be nice, and a bit refined like: and, to his mind, there was nobody further removed from this description than Bill, or better fitted for it than Mrs D. But, had he been allowed to get going, Bill’s patter would have swamped Mrs D’s refinement.
Mrs D greeted Nellie as if she were an old friend, and straight away offered her her solace for all ills, a cup of tea. And although she talked as she trotted back and forth, setting the table for a meal, her patter did not seem to put Nellie at her ease. There she sat, in the armchair at one side of the fireplace, relieved of her hat and coat and looking, to Rooney’s eyes, more lost than ever. Guilt weighed heavily upon him. It was being shut up in that place that had done this…pushed her back to where she was before she had got the money.
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