All the time she had lived at Ten Pollitt Place she had made a point of never gossiping with her staff about the neighbours. Let them bring her up what tit-bits of news they liked—she would swallow them and digest them at leisure—but she would never ask for information or lend herself to any form of espionage other than that undertaken by her own sharp eyes. This explains, in part, why she had been so ‘cagey’—as Mrs Muller put it—about the night when she had her little attack,—that September night when Miss Varioli and her boy-friend with the car disgraced themselves outside the door of Number Seven.
But Miss Tredennick had been very far from dismissing Miss Varioli from her mind, and could now give you a number of precise facts about her which would have earned a private detective a handsome fee. It is true that most of these facts were very dull.
‘Wednesday, 12th October, 9.30 a.m. Y.V. left the house wearing . . . (Full details followed.) Carried a small grey plastic bag. Turned to the left when she came to the Crescent.’
5.35 p.m. Turned in from the Crescent, carrying a large parcel done up in mauve paper.
6.47 p.m. A small green Morris car parked outside Number 11,—no room opposite Number 7—and a youngish-man not the man—got out and went to No. 7. Admitted by Mrs O’Blahoney.
7.50 p.m. Y. V. and the man came out together. Y. V. had changed into . . . Walked down Pollitt Place towards Lampstone Lane.
Some of the entries, however, had more meat about them and were underlined in red pencil. One of these, for example, came under the heading Saturday the 15th October:
3.25 p.m. A taxi dropped Y. V. and a good-looking young man in American Air Force uniform at No. 7. Y. V. and the man went in together.
5.18 p.m. The American came out alone and stood on the doorstep, counting the notes in his note-case. Then he walked towards the Crescent. Y. V. stood at her window watching him.
And there were other entries, even more striking by reason of peculiar interpolations, which added nothing to their factual basis, but might have shed light on the compiler’s state of mind. Take Tuesday, the 18th October:
9.22 a.m. Y. V. came out, wearing a very small bright red felt hat. Red hat and no drawers! She walked more slowly than usual down the Place towards Lampstone Lane.
Red hat and no drawers! The phrase startled Miss Tredennick when she re-read her Journal. How on earth had she ever come to learn it? If she had heard it from someone—and she must have done—it was probably from the Cockney charwoman who came to Polvannion during the war. But what had induced her to put it in writing? Her first impulse was to scratch it out, but on second thoughts she decided to let it stand. If ever she submitted her ‘evidence’—and she was confident that some day she would—to the authorities, the sensational passage should be suppressed. Till then it might as well remain to stimulate her zeal for further research. Much the same could be said for an outburst of poetry which followed the entry for Friday, the 21st October:
4.13 p.m. Y.V. turned in from the Crescent. She carried a bouquet that looked like the cheaper kind of orchid—cypripediums?
Swing the buttocks, heave the hips,
Brace the bubs and pout the lips.
That remarkable couplet, Miss Tredennick knew, was a legacy from her father, who, in his declining years, when—to put it politely—his mind was clouded, had developed a gift, hitherto unsuspected, for such improvisations. (Alas, that they should always have turned upon the same theme!) Filial piety was hardly a justification for quoting the lines. None the less, she didn’t expunge them; for she now enjoyed being reminded of the white hot anger and disgust which the sight of that self-advertising body aroused in her.
She was savouring it yet again, when there was a tap on her door. She covered the Journal with a piece of blotting-paper and said, ‘Come in.’ It was Mrs Muller, looking slightly excited, though she did her best to appear unconcerned, and made one or two routine domestic inquiries before coming to the point. Then she said, ‘I don’t suppose you see the local paper, Madam, but there’s something in it that might interest you, as it’s about this neighbourhood—Number Fifteen in the Rise, to be exact. What times we live in!’ As she spoke, she produced the paper from the pocket of her house-coat, and laid it on Miss Tredennick’s table.
‘There’s the article, Madam. Husband and wife in Court. It really makes you ashamed, doesn’t it? You expect that kind of thing north of the Park, but this side, it’s too bad. Still, I’m not altogether surprised. I’ve seen some very odd-looking characters even in this street. I’ll leave it with you, Madam.’
Miss Tredennick said quietly, ‘Thank you, Gwen. I shall be interested to read it,’ and began to do so as soon as Mrs Muller had gone out. It was a story such as those who read a certain type of Sunday newspaper would find commonplace. A Mr and Mrs Thucydides had been convicted of knowingly letting rooms to six habitual prostitutes. The police, acting on information received, had kept watch from the windows of a house opposite. One of the girls was seen going in with a different man seven times in three hours. The defence was very thin, and the fine—according to Miss Tredennick’s ideas—disgracefully inadequate. (If she had her way, the strumpets should be whipped at the cart’s tail, and those who organised these filthy practices should be branded and pilloried. On the other hand, she regarded the clients merely as innocent victims, who should be saved from their weakness by the removal of temptation.)
The police kept watch at a house opposite. Most important. So far as Miss Tredennick remembered, from the days when she used to struggle out for little walks, Number Fifteen was a house with an ugly blue door containing two panes of frosted glass. The opposite house would be Number Four, which had been turned into two maisonettes. The lower one was used as offices, and two maiden ladies—yes, their name was Brett—lived in the upper one. Well done, the Misses Brett! She would have liked to send them a note of congratulation on their public spirit, but feared it might give her own game away. Meanwhile, the first thing to do was to copy the article into her Journal,—a task which kept her happily occupied for half an hour, since her arthritic hands found writing laborious.
When Mrs Muller next came in, Miss Tredennick gave her back the paper with an air of indifference, and said, ‘What very unpleasant reading, isn’t it? I think you’ll have to warn Hugo—at any rate when he’s a little older. I should hate to think of him getting into the clutches of such awful creatures.’
Mrs Muller smiled confidently. ‘Oh, I’m not worried about him on that score. He doesn’t like that kind of woman at all. He says the sight of them makes him want to spit.’ Miss Tredennick did her best to restrain her applause and said, ‘Really, Gwen!’, to signify that the conversation was closed.
Mrs Muller went out and Miss Tredennick resumed her observation of Number Seven. It had been a dull morning, except for Mrs Muller’s news, and so far the enemy hadn’t made her sortie, or Miss Tredennick had somehow failed to spot it. Still, one never knew. There had been days when Y.V. hadn’t stirred out till quite late, though she had never been so late as this before.
It was a quarter past twelve. The street was full of cars, parked there for the day, while their suburban owners did their shopping at Garrows or the cheaper stores near by. Miss Tredennick hated these cars, which reminded her of her own immobility. At times she had thought of buying an old Rolls-Royce and having it permanently stationed outside her front door to keep intruders at bay. No doubt she could get a man to clean the coach-work. The car might be old—it needn’t even have an engine inside it—but it must be spotless.
Ah, there was Hugo, coming back from Mr Middleton’s. Wasn’t he early—or was her clock slow? He seemed to be hurrying. It was wonderful how he managed with his poor leg. She heard the click of the area-gate as he climbed down the iron steps leading to the basement. Sometimes she had qualms about forcing him to make such a perilous descent and thought of allowing him to use the front door and the easier flight of stairs leading down from the hall. But it wouldn’t be wise. If s
he gave him this privilege, she would have to extend it to Gwen and Magda and destroy all distinction between her staff and her tenants. The Fawleys might not mind, but Mr Bray would—and he’d be quite right.
The dust-van turned into the far end of the street, manœuvring with difficulty among the closely packed cars, while the two dustmen—if one was still allowed to give them such a familiar name—dived through the spaces between them, fetching and replacing dust-bins and sacks and bags of waste-paper. What a fine strapping fellow the red-headed one was, and he seemed so cheerful. What would it be like to spend your day hauling other people’s refuse up and down steps, your clothes and your body impregnated with filth and vile smells? But no doubt, if one was trained young enough to such an employment, it might seem quite agreeable. There was no sense in wasting pity there. Besides, how would they like to be seventy-six and shut up in one room, hardly able to move and very rarely quite free from pain? Old people were often reproached for being selfish. Perhaps they were selfish, but hadn’t they every excuse, leading monotonous lives that every day became more like mere bodily processes,—teeth, eyes, ears, muscles, digestion all slowly crumbling into a decay that nothing could arrest? The selfishness of the young was much uglier.
Then all at once she ceased to philosophise; for the shabby yellow door of Number Seven swung open, and Y.V. came out, stood on the cracked threshold and looked to her left towards Lampstone Lane, tapping the tiles impatiently with her toes. (What common shoes she wore, and how oilily her black hair shone in the late October sunshine!) Then she stepped back inside and shut the door with a bang. The vision had only lasted for thirty seconds, but every detail of it was safely recorded in Miss Tredennick’s brain and was soon to be recorded in her Journal. But while she was jerkily busy with her pencil, she was presented with yet more material. The front door of Number Seven opened again, and Y.V. appeared, this time wearing her red hat and carrying her small grey plastic bag. She didn’t hesitate, but crossed straight over the road, behind the dust-van, which had now drawn up as near Number Ten as it could, and walked westward along the north side of the street.
[2]
Hugo was talking in the area to Bert, the red-headed dustman, as Miss Varioli passed. He saw his friend raise his head at the whiff of scent that she exhaled, and noticed that his eyes gazed up her skirt. The dustman said, ‘My word, she’s a nice bit of goods. Friend of yours, eh?’ Hugo’s face became quite bloodless as he answered, ‘No, she isn’t. And I don’t like the smell she leaves behind.’ The dustman laughed and said, ‘Maybe you’ll like it better when you’re older. At present, I dare say you’d rather have one of these.’ He took a small bag of caramels from his pocket and offered it to Hugo, who replied angrily, ‘No, I don’t want one.’ Bert drew back in surprise and Hugo instantly changed his mind and said, ‘Oh, but I do! How very kind of you! Please, may I have one?’ The dustman laughed again and said, ‘Well, you are a funny kid. Here—take the lot. I haven’t any kids of my own to give them to.’ Hugo said, ‘I wish you were my father,’ then blushed and offered his gift of a cigarette. Then the other dustman, who was only too glad to let Bert do most of the carrying, leant over the area railings and shouted, ‘Come on, Bert, or we shan’t get the street finished to-day.’ ‘Coming, Joe. So long, sonny! See you on Monday, I hope.’
And the peculiar little idyll was over.
[3]
It was the morning for turning out the hall. In the normal course the work would have been finished long before, but Magda prolonged it deliberately so that she might be on hand to catch Justin when he came out of his sitting-room to go to his luncheon. He did so a good deal later than usual and in her impatience she almost barred his way to the front door.
‘Would it be convenient for me to speak to you, Sir?’
‘Of course, Magda. Would you like to come in for a moment?’
‘If you don’t mind, Sir.’
As they went into his sitting-room, he thought, ‘Oh dear, what can it be? Do I need fresh net curtains in the windows? Have the covers got to be cleaned? Or is she going to ask for higher wages?’ She had had a rise in April, but he supposed that if she asked for another, he’d have to give it to her.
He shut the door and tried to look sympathetic.
‘Well, Magda, what is it?’
She seemed to find it difficult to begin—always a bad sign. Then, after swallowing nervously, she said, ‘It’s about your cigarettes, Sir.’
‘My cigarettes?’ (Did she think he’d burnt a hole in one of the rugs?) ‘But I don’t smoke. I only keep them for visitors.’
‘That’s the point, Sir. I don’t want you to think I’ve been spying or that I’m what they call “nosey”, but when I polish that lovely cigarette-box of yours, I have to lift the lid to do it properly. During the last few weeks I couldn’t help noticing that the fat cigarettes in one compartment remained more or less the same, but the smaller ones, in the other compartment, if you understand me——’
‘Yes, the Virginians. The fat ones are Turkish. It’s rather old-fashioned to smoke them nowadays, but I keep them in case they’re needed.’
‘Yes, Sir,—but who smokes the Virginian ones?’
‘Let me see. I think the very last time anyone smoked a cigarette in this room was when I had Lady Beatrice Lurcher to tea. Yes, I remember. There were only two Virginian cigarettes in the box when I offered it to her. She smoked one, and I believe Lady Farless took one of the Turkish. I refilled the Virginian compartment the next day with two packets of twenty.’
‘So there should now be forty-one of them, Sir.’
‘Really, Magda, I hope you don’t think I count them!’
‘I’m sure you don’t, Sir. But—I don’t like telling you this—I have been counting them lately. When I began there were thirty-eight. Now there are twenty-six,—or there were this morning, when I did the room. And I haven’t seen a single cigarette-stub in the ash-trays. Now, Sir, apart from my mother and myself, there’s only one person who could have taken them.’
‘You must mean Bath.’ (Bath was the ex-naval man who came in at eight for two hours every morning, to call Justin, get him his breakfast, clean his shoes and look after his clothes.) ‘But Bath only smokes a pipe. Besides, I’ve known him so many years, I’m quite certain he——’
‘Oh no, Sir. I wasn’t thinking of Mr Bath. I’m sure he wouldn’t dream of taking anything. It’s—it’s Hugo I’m worried about. I know he prowls about the house sometimes, though he’s been told not to.’
Justin’s mind moved with a sudden speed, as a scene from Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables flashed into it,—though it was forty years since he had read the book. He remembered how, when the police found the stolen candlesticks in Jean Valjean’s bag, the priest, to whom they belonged, declared he had made a present of them to the culprit. (Was it a trick of verbal association? Victor Hugo—Hugo Muller?) At all events, as a literary man is apt to do, when he finds himself in a literary situation, he felt impelled to live up to his prototype, and said, ‘Oh, I’d quite forgotten. He has at times asked me for one or two—I don’t think he smokes—they were probably for a friend—and I’ve given him just a few.’
‘He had no right whatever to do that!’
‘No, I suppose he hadn’t, but don’t be hard on him. Don’t tell him anything about our talk, or he’d be bound to think you suspected him—and your mother might blame me for giving him cigarettes at his age. I would much rather you let the whole matter drop. I’m sorry for Hugo.’
She answered bitterly, ‘Yes, everybody is. It makes me rather jealous of him sometimes.’
Justin smiled and said, ‘Well, you don’t look as if you need much sympathy.’
She blushed deeply, feeling ashamed of having let herself go and reading an unintentional irony into Justin’s remark. So she didn’t look as if she needed sympathy? And what of the hopeless, irresistible, guilty passion to which she had yielded, and to which she would yield again, if occasion offered?
Wasn’t it branded indelibly on her face? Didn’t her movements and her voice betray it to the whole world?
Without saying any more, or even thanking Justin for his forbearance, she went into the hall and down the basement stairs.
[4]
Hugo had been for a lonely walk in Kensington Gardens. He had wandered slowly along the Serpentine to the fountains at the end of it, and then, circuitously to the Round Pond, and through the trees beyond it to the Albert Memorial. Then he crossed the road into Hyde Park and continued eastwards along Rotten Row. Both his legs were very tired, and the left one ached, but he hardly noticed it. He had noticed nothing during his long walk—neither the waterfowl on the Serpentine, nor the thinning trees, nor the drifts of fallen leaves on the grass, nor the dull red clouds hanging over Kensington Palace, nor the boys by the pond, nor the riders cantering along the Row, nor the dusk, nor the time. He was composing a poem, and thought the first three lines above all praise.
Love, like a healing wave,
My twisted form doth lave
Making it strong and brave.
He was less satisfied with the continuation and found it difficult to sustain the threefold rhyme, but he was resolved upon doing so, and there is no knowing how long he might have stayed in the park, if he hadn’t run into Justin near Albert Gate.
Justin was on his way home from an exhibition of modern pictures in Bond Street, and was not in one of his happiest moods. The pictures, most of which had already been sold for enormous prices, seemed to him to be the daubs of an unintelligent child,—overlapping rectangles and circles (none drawn with any accuracy), in crudely contrasting colours, with here and there a diseased travesty of a human eye surrounded by eyelashes like small wriggling snakes. And yet, not one of his friends would agree that the whole thing was a tiresome imposture. On the contrary they vied with one another in producing new epithets of admiration. Was the whole world mad, or was he alone in his madness? Or was he simply hopelessly out of touch,—hopelessly old?
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