‘No, no, of course not – I quite understand. But in the circumstances, I feel that if Mr Blount repeats his offer, or comes anywhere near to repeating it, there should be no unnecessary delay. His offer is, or rather was, an outstanding one. Miss Graham could not expect as much from any other quarter. Even if he were to make a much lower offer, I think she would do well to consider it.’
Miss Silver surprised him. She gave a bright sideways look which reminded him of a bird, and said,
‘You expect the price to come down, not so much on account of Mrs Graham’s tragic death and its possible effect on Mr Blount as because Mr Worple is no longer competing.’
Mr Martin repeated the second of the two names.
‘Mr Worple?’
Miss Silver inclined her head.
‘Yes. I happened to meet him when he called to inquire after Miss Graham.’
Mr Martin frowned. Every time Fred Worple’s name was mentioned it gave him the idea that there was something shady going on. Where had Fred got the money to go bidding a house up to something quite above its market value? A lucky win on an outsider – that was Fred’s answer. But why sink the money in buying a house in Grove Hill where he would be nothing but a fish out of water? He wished with all his heart that Fred would clear out. Mr Martin’s suspicions about him had a nasty way of spreading to his own client Mr Blount. The more he thought about any of it, the less he liked it. And here was this Miss Silver saying,
‘Mr Worple is a relation of yours, is he not?’
Practice had perfected Mr Martin in a formula which set Fred Worple at as great a distance as possible. He produced it now.
‘He is my step-mother’s son by a former marriage. I really know very little about him.’
‘I see. I understand from Miss Graham that your family has a long connexion with Grove Hill.’
Mr Martin smiled for the first time.
‘My grandfather started the business, but we had connexions here before that.’
Miss Silver beamed.
‘Then you are probably an authority on the local associations. I have come across an interesting book on the subject whilst staying at The Lodge – a history of the neighbourhood by the Reverend Thomas Jenkinson.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember my father had a copy, but I don’t know what has become of it. Curious how things disappear, isn’t it? Of course my stepmother may have it knocking about somewhere. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had. Curious your mentioning it now – I haven’t thought about that book for years. Rather a prosy old gentleman Mr Jenkinson, but there was a piece about the Gordon Riots… Now let me see, my father thought there might be something in that – some story his grandmother used to tell. She was from these parts, and came back again as a widow. She remembered the old Grove Hill House being burned down by the rioters. She had some kind of post there, I don’t know what, and my father could remember her telling him about the mob breaking in and Mr Warren losing his life – a very nasty business, and a lot of property destroyed. A good job we don’t have that sort of thing now!’
There was a little more talk during which Mr Martin kept the conversation firmly away from Mr Worple. In the course of doing so he dwelt on the recent growth of the suburb and said that his father remembered the High Street as very little more than a row of village shops.
‘Those houses in Belview Road, they were the first to be built somewhere in the nineties – ninety-six, ninety-seven or thereabouts. That was when the Lesters began to sell off parts of the old Grove Hill Estate. The house had been rebuilt, you understand, after the Riots – but I think not for some time after, and they kept that and the garden, but most of the park land was sold and built over. Land was getting expensive to keep up, and of course once we were into this century and Lloyd George came along with his land duties and his death duties all these estates started to break up. Wonderful to think of income tax ninepence in the pound on earned income and one-and-three on unearned! Well, we shall never see that again, shall we?’
Still discoursing in this safe strain, he escorted Miss Silver to the street door, produced a final message for Althea Graham, and was just about to step back into the outer office, when he changed his mind and hurried after her.
‘Miss Silver – if you’ll excuse me – you might perhaps be interested. That is Mrs Blount just getting off the bus.’
THIRTY-FOUR
MISS SILVER WAS very much interested. The woman whom Mr Martin had pointed out as Mrs Blount did not at all correspond with his description of her as the spoiled delicate woman so much indulged by her husband that he was willing to pay an extravagant price for her fancies. Mrs Blount really did not look like that at all. She had unmistakably the air of a woman who has lost interest in everything. Her hair and skin quite obviously received no attention. Her clothes, originally of a fair quality, had a neglected look. There were wisps of hair on the collar of the coat, and the hem of the skirt sagged lamentably. Her stockings were twisted, and her shoes had not been cleaned for at least a week. But above and beyond all these things it was her face which fixed Miss Silver’s attention. Under the limp felt hat, it had a lost and hopeless expression. Someone past emotion, beyond any expectation of relief, might look like that. In the course of her experience, Miss Silver had seen a great deal of trouble, suffering, fear, and guilt, but even against this background there was something about Mrs Blount which gave her a feeling of dismay. Moving slowly towards her, she saw that she remained standing at the bus stop. The other passengers were dispersing, but Mrs Blount just stood as if the effort that had brought her there had petered out. Miss Silver was reminded of a child’s clockwork toy that has run down. She came up close and said in her pleasant voice,
‘You are a stranger here. Can I help you at all?’
Mrs Blount looked at her vaguely. She picked out one word from what Miss Silver had said and echoed it.
‘Help…’
Miss Silver put a hand on her arm.
‘I think you are not very well. Can I help you?’
The vague look persisted. The dry lips said,
‘No one – can – help me.’
Miss Silver regarded her with compassion.
‘There is a very nice café at the corner. If you can walk as far as that, we could have some tea or coffee together. A hot cup of tea is very refreshing.’ She kept her hand on Mrs Blount’s arm and took a step in the direction of the café.
Mrs Blount moved too. She did not seem to be either faint or giddy. In Miss Silver’s opinion she was suffering from shock. She was certainly in no fit state to find her way alone in a strange town. It would do her good to sit down quietly in one of the shaded alcoves at the Sefton Café and have a nice cup of tea. She guided her kindly and firmly in that direction and met with no resistance.
The time being now a little after twelve, the midmorning rush was over and it was as yet too early for anybody to be thinking of lunch. Miss Silver ordered a pot of tea and conducted Mrs Blount to the end alcove at the back of the room. Since there were four empty spaces screened off from one another by curtains in a vivid shade of emerald green between this alcove and the one in which an aggressive lady appeared to be laying down the law to a meek friend over coffee-cups whose dregs had long since congealed, Miss Silver could feel assured of privacy. She had not at that time any idea of how valuable this might be.
The waitress brought the tea on a green tray and departed. Mrs Blount leaned back in one of the ornamental wicker chairs, her eyes fixed as if upon some image of despair. Miss Silver poured her out a cup of tea and inquired whether she took milk and sugar.
The stiff lips moved, but they did not relax. They said first ‘No,’ and then ‘Yes’, and then ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Miss Silver added milk and sugar and set the cup before her. Mrs Blount put out a hand to take it, lifted it as an automaton might have done, and drank from it in a series of spasmodic gulps. When the cup was empty she put it down. Miss Silver filled it again. The l
ifting and the gulping were repeated.
When the cup had been put down for a second time Mrs Blount leaned back again and closed her eyes. She had not slept since midnight. She had not been able to swallow any breakfast. Mr Blount had gone out early, upon what business she did not know. By half past eleven she could no longer bear the solitude of her room, nor could she face the lounge. She had dressed and gone out. The bus happening to stop at the corner just as she came to it, she had got in and allowed it to take her down into the town. Once there, she had no idea what to do next. At the first sip of the hot tea she had realized how parched her mouth was. She drank eagerly, and was a little more aware of her surroundings. Her eyes opened and she looked at Miss Silver and said,
‘You are – very kind.’
‘I do not think you are well enough to be out alone.’
‘I am – quite well.’
‘You have had a shock.’
‘Yes – a great shock. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Is there any way in which I could help you?’
Mrs Blount’s head moved in a slow negative gesture.
‘I don’t think so. You see – he is my husband…’
Miss Silver said nothing. The slow, heavy voice went on,
‘Perhaps he will kill me – I don’t know. If he thinks I heard what he was saying, I think he will. I don’t think I mind – not really. It’s just not knowing when it will happen or how he will do it. It’s dreadful not to know, but I haven’t got – anything to live for.’
Miss Silver said firmly,
‘There is always something to live for.’
Mrs Blount made that slow movement of the head again.
‘Not for me…’
Miss Silver took one of the hands which lay ungloved in the shabby lap. It felt cold and slack.
‘Have you no family of your own – no relations?’
‘They didn’t want me to marry him. I would do it. They said I would be sorry.’
‘Mrs Blount, why are you so much afraid of your husband?’
She pulled her hand away and stared with eyes that were definitely frightened now.
‘I don’t know you! How do you know my name?’
‘I am staying at The Lodge with Miss Althea Graham. Your husband is trying to buy the house. You were pointed out to me.’
The frightened eyes shifted, looked away.
‘I shouldn’t have said – anything. He doesn’t like me to talk about his business.’
‘Why are you afraid of him?’
Mrs Blount stiffened.
‘There isn’t anything – to be afraid of. He is – very good to me. He is buying the house because I like it so much.’
Miss Silver felt a deep compassion. The poor thing was repeating what she had learned by rote. It was a lesson in which she had been drilled. She said,
‘That is what you have been told to say, is it not?’
Mrs Blount looked at her, and suddenly she broke down. That large flat face of hers began to crumple and quiver. Her hands went up to cover it and she said in a shaking whisper,
‘Oh, I can’t go and live there – I can’t – I can’t – I can’t! I’d rather he killed me – I would – I would!’
Miss Silver looked anxiously about her. The dogmatic lady and her acquiescent friend had gone. There really was no one within hearing, and fortunately Mrs Blount had her back to the shop. She leaned forward and said,
‘Are you not perhaps being a little fanciful? Is there any reason why your husband should want to harm you?’
Mrs Blount’s hands dropped back into her lap. Her tears were running down without restraint. She said in that whispering voice,
‘Oh, there’s reason enough – reason enough and to spare. He always said to keep out of his business, and reason enough for that. I’ve known for a long time there was reason enough and I’ve kept out. I’ve always known I’d do better to keep out, and I’ve done it. Only last night… last night…’ She choked on a sob and began to grope for a handkerchief.
Miss Silver said,
‘What happened last night?’
Through the folds of a large crumpled handkerchief Mrs Blount’s voice came in a succession of gasps.
‘It’s not – my fault – if he talked – in his sleep – but he’ll kill me for it. I wish I was dead – before he does it! Oh, God, I wish I was dead! And he’ll kill me – as sure as death he’ll kill me – if he ever comes to know what he said!’
Miss Silver said in a calm, even voice,
‘Why should he know, Mrs Blount?’
Mrs Blount stared at her.
‘He’s got ways,’ she said.
THIRTY-FIVE
LOOKING BACK UPON the interview, Miss Silver could not feel any satisfaction. It provided much food for thought, aroused both suspicion as to the past and anxiety as to the future, yet supplied none of the answers which these speculations and doubts demanded. After Mrs Blount’s burst of crying she had pulled herself together and would say no more. Like so many people who are threatened, the mere fact that she had spoken of her fears had to some extent dissipated them. As Miss Silver had said, how was Sid to know that he had called out in his sleep and said… Her thought shuddered away from what he had said. The hot tea had done her good. Things are always worse on an empty stomach. She ought to have eaten some breakfast, but her throat had closed up against it. She caught the bus back and got out at Miss Madison’s guest house, which was about halfway up the hill. Lunch was just going in – a really good stew with dumplings in it like her mother used to make, and an apple pie. The people down here called them tarts, but that was nonsense. A tart was an open pastry case filled in with fruit or jam, and with maybe a criss-cross of pastry on the top, but a thing that had the fruit in the middle and was all covered in was a pie, whether it had apples in it, or plums, or anything else you liked. Her mother came from the north, and people in the north gave things their proper names.
She ate some of the apple pie and then went up and lay on her bed and slept for a while. It wasn’t a very quiet sleep, because it was full of rushing dreams. In one of them Sid was angry with her because she had baked an apple pie and the pastry had gone sad. He took the helping she had given him and threw it at her plate and all, and the edge of the plate cut her like a knife, so that the blood soaked through her dress and she knew that she was going to die. And then it was all different and she was in a dark cave that wound and turned and she couldn’t see where she was going, but there was a footstep that followed her all the way. She began to run, but she couldn’t get away from it. It was Sid’s footstep, and Sid’s voice calling after her to stop, only she knew that if she did he would kill her, and she knew how. Those two strong hands of his would come round her neck and wring the life out of her. In her dream they touched her and she screamed. And woke up screaming.
Mr Blount shut the door behind him and clapped his hand over her mouth.
‘Crazy – that’s what you are!’ he said in a low furious voice. ‘You don’t want everyone to think I’m doing you in, do you?’
She pushed at his hand, and he took it away from her mouth.
‘Oh…’ she said on a long-drawn sob. And then, ‘I was dreaming.’
‘Overate yourself at lunch I shouldn’t wonder! What were you dreaming about?’
She said faintly,
‘Someone – running after me…’
He stood over her with a frowning look. No one would have thought him jovial now. After a moment he turned away.
‘Well, get up! I want to talk to you!’
She hadn’t undressed, only loosened her stays and pulled the eiderdown over her. She got up now, laying everything straight on the bed and putting back the pink coverlet. When she had finished he came back from the window where he had stood tapping on the glass and dropped a hand on her shoulder.
‘What’s all this about last night?’ he said.
He could have asked no more terrifying question. Her face went blank with
fear.
‘Last night…’
He swore under his breath.
‘You heard. When I came in just now, there was Miss Madison wanting to see me – very nicely spoken and all that, but the first and the last of it was there had been a disturbance in the night and it had waked those two women down the passage – Mrs Doyle and Miss What’s-her-name.’
‘Miss Moxon.’
‘I’m not bothering with her name – I want to know what they heard! All I could tell Miss Madison was that I slept all night, and that if there was any disturbance it must have been you! Anyone say anything to you about it?’
‘No, Sid.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘I didn’t get up.’
‘Breakfast in bed – they’ll charge extra for that!’
‘I didn’t have – breakfast. I had some coffee in the town.’
‘No one spoke to you at lunch?’
He kept staring at her, and she couldn’t look away. She was beginning to feel confused. She tried not to speak, but she heard herself say,
‘Only Miss Moxon.’
‘Did she say she had been disturbed?’
‘Something like that.’
He said, ‘I’ll have what she said, or I’ll cut it out of you!’
The knife – that was her terror. His hand moved towards the pocket where he kept it. ‘Oh, God – any way but that!’ Words were jerked out of her.
‘She only – said – someone called out – and waked her.’
‘What did you say?’
She had never found it easy to tell lies. They just don’t come to you if you haven’t been brought up that way. She stared helplessly.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said – you – called out.’
He took her by the other shoulder too, held her face right up to his, and cursed her under his breath. Even if someone had been just outside the door they wouldn’t have heard what he said, but she had to hear it. She had to hear it. What it led up to was,
‘You told her I called out?’
She was sick with fear. It was no use trying to hold anything back. She got out two words on a gasping breath.
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