Dorothy murmured affectedly, ‘What eloquence!’ and gave him a look intended to convey a tolerant contempt. Neither of them spoke during the rest of the journey.
When they reached home, she lay down and rested her foot. Robert brought her some tea and set about preparing for their evening meal. When they came to eat it, they were not unlike two strangers who have been asked to share a table in a crowded restaurant. None the less, when Robert had made the coffee and washed up, he came and sat with her in the drawing-room, reading a technical magazine. Dorothy was looking through a volume of Oscar Wilde’s plays, which Susan had sent her for Christmas, and couldn’t refrain from reading aloud a provocative titbit every few minutes.
‘MRS CHEVELEY: Science can never grapple with the irrational. That is why it has no future before it, in this world. SIR ROBERT CHILTERN: And women represent the irrational. MRS CHEVELEY: Well-dressed women do.’
She laughed to herself and turned over some of the pages, while Robert remained glumly silent.
‘Really, if the lower orders don’t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them? They seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of responsibility.’
Robert looked up and asked, ‘Is that supposed to be clever or funny?’ She said drily, ‘Yes, very clever and very funny,’ and read on to herself, though it wasn’t long before she gave him another sample.
Robert kept up a show of indifference as long as he could, but when she read out somewhat pointedly, ‘Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Algernon. Only people who can’t get into it do that’, he was goaded into retaliation, and quoted the specification of a new electronic device. Dorothy put down her book, looked at him and asked, ‘Why exactly do you suppose that rigmarole should interest me?’ Robert blushed angrily and said, ‘Don’t you think I might ask you the same question about all that stuff you’ve been boring me with?’ She replied dogmatically, ‘No, I don’t. The two things are quite different. What you’ve just read to me is meaningless except to people who have had a narrow, specialised form of training. What I gave you was something which ought to appeal to anyone who has any taste or general intelligence. I wish I could get you to realise that literature is a part of every gentleman’s equipment. It’s not just a thing which you may or may not take up, like biology or metallurgy. It’s universal. It’s no use saying you didn’t do it at school. I happened to at mine, but at really good boys’ schools the clever boys read classics, not English. They get their knowledge of English literature spontaneously. Can’t you understand that science doesn’t educate the mind? It may equip people for menial jobs, but it doesn’t begin to touch their higher faculties. You might at least give yourself the chance of becoming more of a——’
He got up and, deliberately turning his back on her, threw his magazine on to a chair and walked towards the door of his workshop. It was then that she said, ‘Very well. For goodness sake go and repair that musical-box, if that’s your idea of a happy Christmas-night. But please don’t pretend you’re doing something useful. Nobody’ll want to hear it when it is mended. As I’ve told you before, all this show of using your hands is simply an excuse for not using your brain. But go along. I’m too tired to argue with you.’
As she heard his furious slamming of the door, the full hatefulness of her own behaviour throughout the day as well as the evening came home to her. She had picked a quarrel, in spite of all the good resolutions she had made on her return from Brighton. What was the matter with her? Could it be because, the previous evening, when they’d got back from their tour of the West End, she had been unusually affectionate to him, making it clear that, if he wanted it—— Oh, the thought was hateful! She didn’t want it, of course. There was nothing she wanted less. But his complete lack of response had hurt her pride and upset her nerves.
Still, that was no excuse for her. Ever since they had set out for Hackfield that morning, she had been nothing but a nuisance to him. If their Christmas Day had been spoilt—and it had been, for both of them,—the fault was hers. She had made the worst, not the best, of the luncheon-party and made the most of her trifling mishap. She had been insulting about Robert’s old friends and had been deliberately offensive to him when he was kind enough to sit with her after a meal which he had cooked for her. If she went on in this way, she would wear through the last shreds of his patience.
She looked round the room, and thought how pretty it was with its ingenious Christmas decorations. The ideas might have been hers—not without some indebtedness to the shop-fronts in Parkwell Road,—but the skill had been Robert’s. She hadn’t stuck in a pin or cut a ribbon or applied a single dab of gum or silver paint. The Christmas-tree, that twinkled at that moment on the balcony with a splendour unique in the Pollitts, had been set in position, decked and illuminated by Robert alone. She had merely done the shopping, paid the bills and given him orders. What would she do, if when next Christmas came, she had to fend for herself?
How could she bear to get up in the morning alone, spend the day alone and go to bed alone? Some people, like Miss Tredennick and Mr Bray, passed their lives like that,—but though they’d never known anything else, you could see they weren’t really happy. It wasn’t a question of sex—it was that intimate companionship which marriage, of all social relationships, brings the most easily—if not necessarily the most fully. For those who have tasted that nectar, no other drinks, however brightly they bubble with romance, can slake the thirst of the soul. ‘O Robert, Robert,—my husband—with all your faults—and still more, with all mine,—I want you, I want you!’ Hysterical tears suddenly streamed down her face, and forgetting about her ankle, she ran to the door of his workshop, paused, wiped her eyes and knocked gently.
She was only just in time. Since Robert had left her, he had been too angry to mend the musical-box or anything else. He walked up and down the little room—three strides at the most, either way,—telling himself that this was the moment he’d been waiting for, and rehearsing the words with which he would take his final leave of her. ‘You’ve made it clear to me several times to-day that I and my friends aren’t good enough for you. You’ve told me I’m not educated and not a gentleman. You knew that when we married,—though then you said these things didn’t matter. I can’t alter myself—even if I wanted to, which I don’t. You’re sick of me and you’ll probably get much sicker. Very well, I can take it. I’m clearing out here and now, and I shan’t come back. I’ll give you all the evidence you want for a divorce. I can only hope we shall both be happier without one another than we’ve been together.’
He was almost shouting the last words, but Dorothy was so intent on what she had to say that she didn’t hear. She knocked again, timidly. When he opened the door and she saw his furious face, she put her hand to her head, as if she feared he were going to hit her. Then, looking at the floor, she said, ‘Robert—forgive me. I’ve behaved like a—like a cad. I can’t expect you to love me—because I’m not a lovable person—but I do ask you to bear with me and to be kind to me, if you can. You’re naturally kind and I’m not. A sort of devil gets into me and makes me say awful things—things I don’t mean. O Robert, I love you and I can’t do without you.’
In spite of himself, he opened his arms mechanically, let her body rest against his, and putting his hands behind her head, drew her face towards his lips. Then, after giving her a light kiss on the cheek, he held her by the shoulders at arms’ length and said, ‘Go to bed, old woman. You’re far too strung up, to-night. Sleep it off. We’ve somehow rubbed through this Christmas Day, and I’ve no doubt we shall rub through a good many others together, before we’ve done.’
She kissed him on the forehead and went to the bedroom. As he watched her go, and realised what he had said to her, his expression changed to one of hopeless dismay, and he thought, ‘This has been my great chance. I shan’t ever have another. O Magda, darling, what would you say, if you knew!’
XVI
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF DE
CEMBER
‘Routine inquiries—a distasteful task. . . .’
The Inspector was like a large, well-groomed tabby cat,—a ‘doctored’ cat, Miss Tredennick thought to herself, and thus immune to the temptations inherent in his peculiar calling. It was half-past eleven, and they were sitting together by her bedroom window, Miss Tredennick in her favourite arm-chair, and the Inspector on an upright Sheraton chair, the seat of which was a little too narrow for him. A small round table, bearing a decanter of pale sherry, two glasses, a seed-cake and a box of cigarettes, stood between them. Although it was cold in the street outside, the sun seemed to strike the glass panes with tropical force, and the Inspector, who sweated readily, mopped his brow more than once during the interview.
‘Those, of course, were her windows,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘What a splendid observation-post this would have made, if we’d been keeping watch.’ Then with a glance at his hostess, he added, ‘I suppose, if she had the light on and forgot, or didn’t bother, to draw the curtains, one might almost see right into her room?’
Miss Tredennick thought for a moment, and then said, with an assumption of nervousness which she was far from feeling, ‘I don’t want to lose your good opinion, Inspector—and still less to shock you——’
‘Shock me, Madam? If you knew the type of case I’ve had to handle for the last twenty-five years, that wouldn’t worry you!’
Miss Tredennick said airily, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that kind of shock at all. The shock I was thinking of is aesthetic, rather than moral. So as to save your time, I may as well be frank with you. I know you’ve come to find out what I’ve seen, during all the many hours I’ve spent sitting up here alone. My fear is that when you find out that I’ve seen quite a lot, you may put me down as a dirty-minded old woman. But I don’t think I am. They say there’s a streak of obscenity in all of us. I’m told that the language of nuns on the operating-table is quite appalling. I make no pretence to being a saint and I’ve never slobbered over virginal purity like a Victorian poet or novelist. On the other hand, I don’t think I get the vicarious satisfaction out of sex-crimes and nameless orgies that apparently titillate the readers of some of the cheaper newspapers. Till this unfortunate woman came to live here, I ignored such things. It was only in self-defence that I—took the notice I did.’
‘In self-defence, Madam?’
‘Yes. I have an old-fashioned, perhaps snobbish, regard for this house, this street and this neighbourhood. It grieves me to think that almost all the houses opposite are lodging-houses. However, that’s the so-called march of progress and I can’t stand in its way, much as I should like to. But the thought that some of these houses were becoming mere brothels, and this once highly-respected, residential district was sinking to the level of Paddington or Bayswater, was too much to bear, and I determined to do everything in my power to root out this new evil that was creeping amongst us. Did I use the word evil? That’s describing it far too sanctimoniously. This nuisance, I should have said,—this disgusting nuisance. I’m not intolerant. I shouldn’t mind in the least if some minor royalty, or even some captain of industry took the house next door and kept his mistress there in a gilded cage. But the sight of these shameless harlots at their trade—— Yes, Inspector?’
‘I must say, Madam, I find what you’re telling me of the greatest interest. It sheds quite a new light on my investigations.’
His sentence amazed her—or was it ironical? ‘A new light?’ she said. ‘But surely—tell me this. Some weeks ago, Mrs Muller, my housekeeper, informed me that the police had raided a house in Pollitt Rise for the very reason we are now discussing. You must know that?’
‘Yes, Madam, indeed I do. In fact, I was in charge of the operation.’
‘Well then?’
‘But, Madam, we’re talking of Seven Pollitt Place, which is quite another matter. We know a certain amount about the residents,—Mrs O’Blahoney, who’s the lessee of the house, Miss Wheeler, who has the post of secretary to a charitable organisation, Mrs Casey, an elderly Irishwoman and Miss Proudfoot, who is also somewhat advanced in years and not unlike yourself,—with certain obvious differences, of course. That only leaves us with Miss Varioli, whose death, as I told you, we are investigating.’
Miss Tredennick said smartly, ‘Quite so, Inspector. But I can’t help wondering why, if the authorities are merely concerned to ascertain the cause of her death, they didn’t entrust the task to a member of the Homicide Bureau—or is that purely an Americanism?—instead of the Vice-Squad, to which I gather you belong.’
He gave her a look of such frank admiration and such an agreeable smile, that he won her heart.
‘You’re too shrewd, Miss Tredennick. I must admit that the Homicide Bureau, to give it your title, has done most of the spade-work, and that I was simply called in as an extra,—just in case there should happen to be some other angle to consider. By the way, I understand that about two months ago, or rather less, perhaps, someone defaced the front door of Number Seven with a most offensive inscription. Did you hear about it?’
‘I not only heard about it, I saw the inscription. And, I may say, I was highly amused.’
‘Had you any kind of idea who might have been responsible?’
Miss Tredennick looked him calmly in the eyes and said, ‘Absolutely none! But I’d like to give the woman who did it—it must have been a woman, don’t you think?—a pound for her trouble.’
The Inspector said thoughtfully, ‘Is that so? Well, yes, I see your point of view.’ He paused, as if to encourage Miss Tredennick to say something more, but as she maintained an imperturbable silence, he went on, with a very slight shrug of his shoulders, ‘As I was going to tell you before this little digression, there seems, on the face of things, little doubt that this poor young woman killed herself in the old-fashioned way, by stopping up the cracks in the windows and under the door and turning on the gas. But why did she do it? She was perfectly healthy. She had about a hundred pounds in the bank and some savings-certificates. She had a good job as secretary to a business-man who was often called out of London, so that she had a good deal of free time. What’s your idea, Miss Tredennick? Did she strike you as the suicidal type? Was she morbid or worried?’
‘Far from it. She seemed full of life and much too pleased with herself,—until, perhaps, the last week or two.’
‘Yes? Do you think you could tell me when you first began to notice her existence, and how she came to arouse your—what shall I say?—I don’t mean curiosity, of course——’
‘Yes, you do, Inspector, but never mind. I think it was about the end of last July when it first struck me that she was a resident at Number Seven. There was something about her that demanded attention, an air of “sexiness”, shall I say? In fact, after I’d seen her with one or two men, I put her down as a bad lot.’
‘You mean, a professional? Not merely a woman who leads an immoral life for her own personal gratification, but to speak plainly——’
He paused, as though he found it difficult to speak quite as plainly as he had intended. But Miss Tredennick helped him out.
‘I couldn’t believe that any decent girl, whatever illicit intrigue she might be conducting, would behave in public like Miss Varioli. There was such a brazen, come-hither look about her. At first I suspended judgment, but the more I saw of her, the surer I felt that she was “in the racket”. Is that the phrase?’
He nodded and she went on, ‘Then one night in the middle of September, she came home in the small hours of the morning with a man who had a very noisy car. It woke me up. They turned on the radio and danced in the street. After that, I felt quite certain.’
The Inspector repressed a smile. ‘But, Miss Tredennick, professional prostitutes—you see, you’ve taught me at last to say what I mean,—aren’t in the habit of dancing on the pavement.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, quite sure. It would be a waste of time. I can understand your being furious
at having your night’s rest so rudely disturbed, but you jumped to a wrong conclusion. If she’d been what you took her for, there’d have been a stream of clients during working hours. Tell me, how many different men did you see her with, altogether?’
Miss Tredennick pondered. Of course, it had all been recorded in her Journal, but she had destroyed it on Christmas Day. What a pity! Though, in its unexpurgated form, enriched as it had been with her own poetic embellishments, it would hardly have been a suitable exhibit to parade before this pleasant, neuter tabby-cat. She said, ‘I think eight.’
‘In how many days,—or weeks?’
‘In these last four months.’
‘Really, Miss Tredennick! If the woman had been what you took her for, she’d have been broke.’
‘But it wasn’t only eight times in all. I’ve seen her with the same man more than once. Don’t these people ever have regulars?’
‘They may, sometimes,—but not so exclusively, if you know what I mean.’ He rose, and drawing himself up to his great height, he looked down at her with a humorous pity and said, ‘No, no, Miss Tredennick. I’ve no doubt whatever that you hoped you could collect sufficient evidence against her to turn her out of this street and hand Number Seven over to the National Trust. But I’m afraid your diagnosis was wrong. She was nothing more than a rather vulgar young woman with a strong fondness for the opposite sex. It’s common enough nowadays. Just one more question. I’m told that the last night but one before her death, a man drove her home in his car. Had you seen it before?’
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