Grey Mask

by Patricia Wentworth

  They walked the short distance to the show Archie had insisted upon. The fog was still heavy. Charles found himself thinking curiously and angrily about Margaret. Where was she? What was she thinking? What was she doing? He had a furious desire to know, to break away from Archie and to walk to the address which Freddy Pelham had given him.

  At intervals during the evening that desire to know what Margaret was doing swept over him again. If he could have looked into Margaret’s room, he would have seen nothing, because the room was dark. It was very dark and very cold, because there was no light and no fire.

  Margaret Langton lay face downwards in front of the cold hearth; her forehead rested upon her crossed arms. The fire had gone out a long time ago. It was hours since she had moved at all, but the hot, slow tears went on soaking into the black stuff of her sleeve. Her right arm was crossed over her left arm; her forehead rested upon it. The stuff of her sleeve was quite wet through.

  CHAPTER XI

  Charles sat in Miss Maud Silver’s waiting-room. He was not one of those who wait patiently. Having arrived at ten o’clock, he was exasperated to find that he was not the first upon the scene; a murmur of female voices stimulated his annoyance. “Probably talking millinery,” was his embittered comment.

  Then all of a sudden through the thin partition came a sharp little cry of “I can’t!” The cry had a quality which did not suggest millinery. There was a silence; and then the murmur of voices went on again.

  It was almost half past ten before the inner door opened and a woman came out. She kept her head turned away and passed quickly out on to the landing.

  Charles entered Miss Silver’s office with a good deal of curiosity, and found himself in a small, light room, very bare-furnished, to the first glance at any rate, by a chair, a writing-table and Miss Silver herself. The writing-table was immense, of the large old-fashioned flat kind with drawers all round it; the top was piled high with exercise-books of different colours very neatly stacked.

  Miss Silver sat in front of a pad of pink blotting-paper. She was a little person with no features, no complexion, and a great deal of tidy mouse-coloured hair done in a large bun at the back of her head. She inclined her head slightly, but did not offer to shake hands.

  Charles introduced himself, mentioned Archie’s name, mentioned Emmeline Foster’s name, and received no indication that Miss Silver had any recollection of either of them.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Moray?” The voice was rather a hesitating one; a quiet voice without tone.

  Charles began to feel sorry he had come.

  “Well-I wanted some information.”

  Miss Silver picked up a brown copy-book, wrote Charles’ name at the head of a page, asked for and added his address, and then inquired what sort of information he wanted.

  Charles did not mean to tell her very much-not at first anyhow. He said,

  “I want information about a man who is lodging at 5 Gladys Villas, Chiswick. He’s a middle-aged man with a fresh colour. I don’t know his name. I want to know anything you can find out about him; and I most particularly want to know whether he is really deaf.”

  Miss Silver wrote in the copy-book. Then she asked,

  “Anything more?”

  “Yes,” said Charles frowning. “I want to know something about Mr. Standing’s family affairs. You know the man I mean-he’s been in all the papers.”

  “His affairs,” said Miss Silver, “are largely public property. I can tell you a good deal about them now. He was washed overboard whilst he was yachting off Majorca, and he didn’t leave any will. His immense fortune will therefore be inherited by his only child. Her name is Margot. She is just eighteen, and until a week ago was at school in Switzerland. Was that what you wanted to know?”

  Charles shook his head.

  “Everyone knows that. I want news from day to day of what is happening. I want to know who is in the house with the girl-what she does-who her friends are. I want to be told at once if she goes away, or if there is any sudden development in her affairs. I’m afraid it’s all rather indefinite; but I expect you can see the sort of thing I want.”

  Miss Silver had been using the right-hand page of the brown copy-book; she now wrote something quickly on the left. Then she said;

  “I see what you want. But you haven’t told me why you want it.”

  “No.”

  Miss Silver smiled suddenly. The smile had the most extraordinary effect upon her face; it was just as if an expressionless mask had been lifted and a friendly, pleasant face had looked out from behind it.

  “It’s no good, Mr. Moray.”

  Charles said, “I beg your pardon?”

  The smile was still there.

  “I can’t take your case unless you’re going to trust me. I can’t work for a client who only tells me snippets and odds and ends. ‘Trust me all in all, or not at all,’ is my motto. Tennyson is out of fashion, but I admire him very much, and that is my motto.”

  Charles looked at her with the suspicion of a twinkle. What a Victorian little person! He became aware of a half-knitted stocking on her lap, still needles bristling. It seemed to him very appropriate. He twinkled, and replied to her quotation with another:

  “The Taran-Tula Indians say that you may catch a snake by the tail, but you should never trust a woman.”

  Miss Silver looked sorry for the Taran-Tula Indians.

  “Poor ignorant heathens!” she said; and then, “Of course, if one has been very badly treated, it makes one cautious. But I can’t take your case unless you are frank with me. Frankness on your part-discretion on mine.”

  She picked up the stocking and began to knit, holding the needles in the German way. After one round she looked at Charles and smiled again.

  “Well, Mr. Moray?”

  Charles told her everything that he had told Archie Millar, and came away wondering whether he had made a fool of himself.

  CHAPTER XII

  At a quarter to seven that same evening Charles Moray rang the bell of Miss Langton’s tiny flat. Margaret opened the door and stood facing him across the threshold.

  “Charles!” Her voice betrayed no pleasure.

  She had left the sitting-room door open behind her. At the first glance the effect was one of colour-dark red curtains; bright coloured cushions; Margaret a silhouette, in her black dress with the light behind her. She kept her hand on the door and did not move to let him in.

  “Well?” said Charles. “Now that you’re quite sure it’s me, couldn’t we come in?”

  Margaret dropped her hand, turned, and walked past the table to the hearth. A handful of sticks just lighted crackled there. She bent and put a lump of coal on them.

  Charles came in behind her and shut the door. He was in a fever of impatience to look at her, to see her face. And then she rose suddenly from the fire and swung round; the light shone on her. She was pale-clear, and pale, and fine; the only colour was in her eyes-brown sombre colour with a dark fire behind the brown. She had changed; sorrow had gone over her and changed her. But under the change there was still Margaret, a Margaret who was so familiar that his heart jumped.

  She spoke quickly:

  “I’m afraid I can’t ask you to stop. I’ve only just got in, and I have to get my supper.”

  “The soul of hospitality!” said Charles. “As a matter of fact I came to propose that we should dine somewhere and dance or do a show-whichever you like best.”

  She had changed-he supposed that he himself had changed; but Margaret ought not to have changed so much as this. The strong lines of cheek and jaw showed too plainly. Her eyes were too large; they looked darker. That was because she was so pale, and because of her black dress. Something welled up through his anger.

  “Freddy told me you were here. Margaret, I want to say I’m so sorry about-her. Archie told me. I hadn’t heard.”

  Margaret moved quickly.

  “Yes-I can’t talk about it. Where did you see Freddy?”

&
nbsp; “He was dining with some people at The Luxe. I haven’t gone down to Thornhill Square yet. The Luxe is-more sociable. I thought we might dine there tonight.”

  “No,” said Margaret.

  “Now look here! Just be a reasonable creature for once in a way. The change will do you good. I propose that we strew a little decent dust over the hatchet just for to-night. We needn’t really bury it, you know-quite without prejudice, as the lawyers say. After all, one must dine.”

  Margaret looked at him out of those big dark eyes. He thought they mocked him.

  “My dear Charles, I don’t dine-I sup. When I’m very affluent I have an egg or a sardine. When I’m not-”

  “Revolting!” said Charles. “Come and dine-real dinner.”

  “No,” said Margaret. Her tone was a little fainter. Last night’s bitter weeping had left her weary and cold. Now her mood began to change; there came over her an impatience of all this dreary round into which her life had fallen. Charles standing there brought back the old days; his voice, his teasing, smiling eyes, his air of cheerful vigour, all brought with them a longing for the old life, the old natural enjoyment in a hundred things which had slipped away from her.

  “Come along,” said Charles. He let his voice soften and his eyes look into hers.

  She stopped resisting the turn of her mood. Why shouldn’t she go back for an hour like a ghost, eat, drink and be merry, dance through an evening, and leave to-morrow to take care of itself?

  “Well?” said Charles. “You’ve just time to dress.”

  He looked over her shoulder at the clock on the mantelpiece, a pretty trifle of bright green china with wreaths of gold and painted flowers. He and Margaret had bought it together in an old shop in Chelsea; he had given it to her on her nineteenth birthday, a month before they became engaged. The hands pointed to a quarter to seven.

  He said, “Well? You’re coming?” and saw the colour come into her face.

  She laughed unexpectedly and picked up the clock. He watched with surprise and amusement. What was she going to do?

  What she did was to open the clock and turn the hands. They went round with a little whirr; she was turning them backwards-once-twice-three-four-five times; and as they turned, she became the glowing, young, live Margaret of that nineteenth birthday.

  “What are you doing?” asked Charles smiling.

  “I’m putting back the clock five years,” said Margaret. There was a shade of defiance in her tone. Five years took them back to the days before what Charles had called the “episode”; it took them back to the time when they were just neighbours and friends, seeing one another every day, full of common interest, engagements, diversions, quarrels.

  Charles lifted his eyebrows.

  “Five years?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, five. Is it a bargain?”

  “Go and dress,” he said.

  Charles made himself very agreeable over dinner. Incidentally he began to learn something of Margaret’s life during the past four years. To his surprise he found that she had been working during the whole of the time, though she had gone on living in George Street until her mother’s death.

  “Freddy was very anxious I shouldn’t think you had quarrelled with him.” He laughed. “How would one set about quarrelling with Freddy? Has anyone ever done it?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “My dear Charles!”

  “No-but did you?”

  “Would it be your business if I had?”

  Charles considered.

  “You’re not playing the game. This is five years ago and I am thinking of asking you to marry me. Yes, I think it’s my business, because you see, if a girl has quarrelled with her step-father and left home, one might want to know why before one took the fatal plunge.”

  Margaret put down her left hand and clenched it on the sharp edges of the chair on which she sat. Just for a moment all the lights in the long room seemed to swing, and the room itself was full of a grey mist. She looked steadily into the mist until it lifted and showed her Charles leaning towards her across the table with his charming malicious smile.

  “Are you playing the game? You can’t have it both ways, you know. If it’s now, it’s not your business; and if it’s five years ago”-her voice broke in a sudden laugh-“why, if it’s five years ago, I haven’t left home at all.”

  “Your trick!” said Charles. But he had seen her colour go, and just for one horrid moment he had thought that she might be going faint.

  After dinner they danced in the famous Gold Room. Margaret was a beautiful dancer, and for a time they did not talk at all. Perhaps they were both remembering the last time they had danced together, a week before the wedding day which had never come.

  Charles broke the silence. Memories are too dangerous sometimes.

  “All the old tunes are as dead as door-nails. I don’t know the name of anything. Do you?”

  “The last one,” said Margaret, “is called I don’t mind being all alone when I’m all alone with you.”

  “And this one?”

  They were close to the orchestra, and a young man with a piercing tenor uplifted his voice and sang through his nose: “Oh, baby! Don’t we get along?”

  “Ripping!” said Charles. “I like the way these fellows burst into song.”

  “I’m happy! You’re happy!” sang the young man in the band.

  “In fact,” said Charles, “the libretto has been specially written for us. I must thank the management. You wouldn’t like to come with me, I suppose?”

  Margaret laughed.

  “No, I wouldn’t. And you needn’t think you can get a rise out of me by saying things like that, because you can’t.”

  “Sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then let’s talk about swimming the channel, or flying to Tierra del Fuego, or something nice and safe like that.”

  Margaret laughed again; and when she laughed, the dark fire sparkled in her eyes.

  “My charwoman-I have her once a week when I feel rich enough-doesn’t think flying at all nice-not for a lady ‘as calls herself a lady.’ She said to me this morning that days and nights alone with a ‘pirate’ was what she didn’t call respectable. She’s a priceless treasure, and if I could afford to have her every day, it would cheer me up quite a lot.”

  “Do you need cheering? And if you do, must it be a charwoman?”

  Another dance had begun. They glided into it. Margaret did not perhaps think that Charles’s last remark called for an answer. The young man in the band broke forth once more: “Can’t we be sweethearts now?”

  “This song and dance business is very amusing,” said Charles. “Not a dull moment anywhere. What’s that step the fellow over there’s doing? It looks tricky. Do you know it? You do? Then we’ll practise it together.”

  He saw her home, and it was on the dark doorstep that he said,

  “The clock’s turned back again, and I want to ask you a question?”

  “It’s too late-I must go in.”

  “Yes, it’s too late; but I want to ask you all the same. You wouldn’t give me the chance four years ago, you know. Why did you do it, Margaret?”

  He heard her take her breath; felt, rather than saw, that she stepped back.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I can’t. It’s all over and done with, and dead and buried.” Her rather deep voice sank deeper. “It’s all over.”

  “I wonder,” said Charles.

  Margaret pushed her latch-key into the lock with a fierce thrust.

  “It’s over,” she said.

  The door shut between them heavily.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Margot Standing wrote again to her friend Stephanie at the pension.

  Oh, Stephanie, I do wish you were here! I haven’t got anyone to talk to, and it’s so frightfully dull.You can’t call Mr. Hale a person to talk to, be
cause he does all the talking himself, and everything he says is simply deadly. He says I shan’t have any money at all unless there’s a will, or those certificates turn up. And he says he’s sure there isn’t a will because of what poor Papa said to his father. And yesterday he said he was sure there weren’t any certificates, because there was a letter from Papa to say so. And he said not to worry, because perhaps Egbert and I could come to some arrangement, and that that would be much the best thing. But I’ve made up my mind to go out and earn my living. I think it’s rather romantic to earn one’s living and to be a penniless orphan instead of a great heiress. I think it’s frightfully romantic to be a penniless orphan, and in books they always have a frightfully exciting time. But great heiresses get married for their money, so I think it’s much better not to be one. Don’t tell anyone, but I answered an advertisement, and I got an answer, and I’m going to someone who wants a nice-looking girl for a secretary. I was afraid I might be too young, but he wrote and said he liked them young and wanted to know what colour my hair was and a lot of things like that. So I sent him the little snap-shot Mademoiselle took last term, and he said he was sure I should suit him, and I’m going there tomorrow. I haven’t told anyone. And-this is the most secret part of all, and what you’re most particularly not to tell anyone. And please tear this up, because you know you do leave letters about, and it’s most frightfully secret. I’m not calling myself Margot Standing, because I don’t want anyone to know where I am-Egbert, I mean, or Mr. Hale, or anyone. So I’m calling myself Esther Brandon. Don’t you think it’s a frightfully good name and very romantic? I didn’t make it up-I found it. I was really looking to see if I could find those certificates or anything about my mother. There is a big box full of old things in one of the attics. I wanted to use the things for dressing-up on holidays, and when I asked Papa, he said “No” in a most frightful voice, and Mrs. Beauchamp said I oughtn’t to have asked, and she expected the things belonged to my mother. So I thought I’d look and see if I could find anything. But there were only dresses-awfully funny and long, with frills and huge sleeves and lots and lots of little bones. I can’t think how they breathed. And right at the bottom there was an old green desk. It had M.E.B. on the lid in gold letters, and I thought it was going to be frightfully exciting. But it wasn’t, because it was empty. The only thing that was in it was a twisted screw of paper that had got wedged in under a little drawer at the side. I got it out, and it had Esther Brandon written on it like you sign your name. It looked like a little bit torn off the end of a letter. I thought it was a frightfully romantic name, and I expect it must have been my mother’s name because of E.B. on the lid of the desk. When I wanted a name to go and earn my living with, I thought I’d be Esther Brandon. But you’re not to tell anyone at all. And mind you tear this letter up at once, and tear it up small-not like the people in books who leave bits about, and the villain puts them together and finds out all the things they don’t want him to know.