‘“Anyone could.”
‘“It was locked,” I said. “Harry always kept it locked.”
‘“A little deal cupboard that any key would open, that a lady could unlock with one of her own hairpins. I take it you all knew the contents of that little cupboard your brother kept locked in his dark-room?”
‘I hesitated.
‘“Mrs Sheridan knew,” I said. “Because, when she first married Papa, she used to help Harry quite a lot with his photography.”
‘“Indeed?” He sounded surprised. “Your brother was on good terms with her then?”
‘I stared.
‘“Of course. Why shouldn’t he be? They — they got on very well together.”
‘“It was your brother who told me they hated each other.”
‘I opened my mouth and then closed it again without saying anything. If that was the way Harry wanted it ...
‘What I had forgotten was Sophia’s aunt, Mrs Livingstone, who lived in the neighbourhood, you may remember. I suppose somebody should have done something about her and seen to it that the news was tactfully broken to old Mrs Falk too. Yet no one had thought of it. With the head of the house immured in his chamber, the enterprise of the rest of us seemed to have flagged and dwindled. We had nothing to do and were fretted with restlessness, and yet we seemed caught in a web of lethargy, which I suppose was caused by the shock of this violent act in the middle of our lives.
‘I was dreadfully ashamed when I saw them; old Mrs Falk and Mrs Livingstone, I mean. I was standing by the window, the Venetian blinds were still drawn but “open” to let in a certain amount of light, and through the dusty slats I could see an appallingly decrepit hackney carriage rattle up the drive and draw up at the steps. It stood there, and nothing happened. As if it was empty. As if it had come to fetch one of us away, I thought, with a little shiver of fascination that people describe as someone walking over one’s grave. And then the whole vehicle heeled over like a sailing-ship caught by the wind amidships, and there cautiously prodded out a weird old head that I recognised with a sinking heart.
‘Out she stumped, the malevolent witch, and behind her came the little twittering figure of Mrs Livingstone. I uttered an exclamation of dismay to see them climbing the steps, old Mrs Falk as black as a crow, humping herself up each one with immense difficulty and pressing all her weight, I could see, on little Mrs Livingstone’s shoulder.
‘Oliver said languidly, “What is it?” and Lucy came, pushing against my arm to see: “Gracious!” she cried. “What horrors! Whoever are they? Why, it’s Mrs Livingstone!”
‘“The other is Stepmama’s mother,” I said.
‘Oliver sprang up, pale as a ghost.
‘“What’s the matter?” I exclaimed.
‘“I can’t see her! You must say I’m out. Please, Blanche!”
‘“And, pray, how am I to — ” I began in protest, but at that moment Beulah came in with Mrs Livingstone’s card on a salver.
‘“They arse to see the Master, M’m, but I did say ’ow ’e cooden’ see anyone.”
‘Before I could even tell Beulah to show them into the morning-room, an ebony cane came wagging dangerously round the door unmindfully ready to put out an eye or strike a breast, and a cracked unpleasant voice I had heard before followed it:
‘“No such thing! No such thing! Don’t yer go to Chapel, girl? Don’t you fear yer Maker? I never asked to see yer master. I told yer to tell him that his mother-in-law was here. Here!” she repeated, striking the floor with her cane. “Well?” she said, staring round at us. “Well? Ain’t any of yer got a word to say for yerselves? Don’t any of you know what to do when an old woman that’s just lost her only child comes into the room?”
‘“Amelia!” said Mrs Livingstone in shamed protest.
‘“I don’t need you hitching round me with your everlasting Amelia, Amelia!” she mimicked irritably.
‘“Beulah, you may go,” I said in a low aside. I glanced at Lucy and she sprang forward.
‘“Won’t you please come and sit down?” she said prettily, drawing out a chair. “You must be tired after your journey.”
‘“How d’yer know where I’ve come from?” she countered. “D’yer think I had ter walk all the way?” she cackled. But she heaved herself up on to the chair with a wriggle, and stared round at us again like an evil child.
‘I was in terror every moment that she would turn and address me in a way that would show we had met before. Yet although she stared round at us so, she did not appear to recognise us — perhaps she was immersed in the role she was playing, or perhaps the stroke of grief had made havoc of her memory.
‘I said nervously to Mrs Livingstone:
‘“Won’t you have something to take? A glass of wine? Or some tea?”
‘The old woman immediately struck her cane on the floor to command silence. The scene, it was at once evident, was to be played how she wished. We were to be intimidated.
‘She said:
‘“Which of you killed my daughter?”
‘Said so unemphatically that the meaning of the words struck one like a piece of ice slithering down one’s back, the same gasp of incredulous shock. The room moved round me, slowly, but with an effect of rushing. There was no untainted air to breathe. I clutched surreptitiously at the brocade curtains to support myself.
‘I heard myself saying in a high-pitched unnatural voice:
‘“Why, Mrs Falk, what are you talking about?”
‘Hunched in her chair like a toad, she said, with a sharp glance at me:
‘“One of you is responsible for my girl’s death. One of you drove her to it. I know my girl, she wouldn’t have killed herself for nothing; she had courage. But someone got at her. Someone made her think life was no longer worth living. Was it you?” she snapped, glittering at Oliver as though she had never seen him before.
‘Oliver began to stammer wildly, as pale as a schoolboy caught by a master.
‘Mrs Falk rapped Lucy’s calves smartly with her cane.
‘“Tell him to hold his tongue,” she commanded. “Come! Do as I say.”
‘“Amelia, don’t!” prayed Mrs Livingstone. “You’re frightening the poor child!”
‘“I’ll thank you to keep yer mouth shut, Fanny; this is my affair! Come here, my pretty,” she said, pulling Lucy to her, “You ain’t afraid of me, are yer?” She stroked the long fair hair lovingly, her hand rasping the glittering tresses. “Eh, Goldilocks?” she said fondly.
‘“No, Mrs Falk,” said Lucy, holding still with stoical endurance while the hand like a puddock heavily caressed her hair.
‘“Pretty enough in a silver-gilt way for a doll-faced niminy miss like yourself,” she conceded, holding a bunch of it to the light, “but didjer ever see my Sophie’s hair let loose?” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Like amber it was,” she gloated. “Red amber! Wasn’t it, Oliver? How it used to shine against her white skin! Didn’t it, Oliver? Well, I daresay Mr Sheridan’s thinking of it this minute, even if you've forgotten. Faithless fellow!” she chided. “Oh, it drew ’em, it drew ’em, like amber draws tissue,” she chuckled. “Didn’t it, Oliver? She knew the power of it. Didn’t she, Oliver? I can see her now-younger than you by a long way,” she said, gripping Lucy by the wrist, “shaking out her hair in the sunlight with such a knowing little look over her shoulder, and sure enough someone’s heart would be caught in it like a fish is caught in a net. Oh, the little rascal! She learnt it all as greedily as she sucked my milk. Never give, I said to her, never give! Keep your thoughts, keep your heart, to yourself. Tell nothing! Trust nobody, not even yer old Ma, I said. Be proud, I said. Be hard. Make ’em pay for what they want; make ’em pay, every one of ’em, without mercy. The higher the price, the greater the value. People think it’s the other way round, the fools; that price follows value: it don’t. I taught her that. I taught her how to use her power. Oh,
I taught her, I taught her to get her dues from life. It won’t be for long that life will give you what you’re after, don’t waste yer time, my lass, I said; yer chance is only while yer young and pretty and can turn men’s heads, once you become an ugly old wretch like yer Ma yer done for — remember that! Yes, I told her the truth about life. She could never reproach me for not telling her how to make the most of herself. And I showed her how she could enjoy herself at the same time; didn’t I, Oliver, my pet? Ah, she was well satisfied, my Sophie!”
‘“Was that why she took her own life?” I interrupted harshly, sickened by this half-insane monologue of debauchery.
‘The head quivered and appeared to withdraw into the shoulders, the feathers trembling on its monstrous hat. But almost immediately the brown old face turned towards me and thrust out its square jaw:
‘“Took her own life, did she? And what do you know about it, pray, miss? Were yer there? Were yer spying on her again like the — ”
‘“Oliver,” I said clearly across this, “please fetch Papa!”
‘“Oliver, don’t budge!” she countermanded, with a wicked grin twisting her long, loose, purple lips. “Yer might hear something to yer advantage.”
‘“What have you come here for, Mrs Falk?” I said coldly. “I don’t believe you’ve come to mourn your daughter at all; I believe you’ve only come to make trouble.”
‘She hitched herself forward in her chair like an angry dwarf. Her eyes blinked out fire like the dusty jewels on her bosom and fingers. Her head shook with the force of feeling contained in it, and the plumes on her hat nodded. She stretched out her raddled neck and exclaimed hoarsely, spittle foaming at the corners of her toad-lipped mouth:
‘“I’ve come for revenge!”
‘The curious thing was that nobody laughed at this absurd remark. I don’t think anyone thought it in the least funny even. It was somehow horribly impressive. You see, we all believed her. Even Oliver did, I could see.
‘I made a great effort and said:
‘“Revenge won’t help your daughter, Mrs Falk.”
‘She moved her head round slowly to where I stood against the light dauntlessly facing her. Her eyes were filmed. She looked ancient beyond humanity, with the ancientness of a stone, without heart, without feeling, that has but to endure the heat and rain and snow that falls on it impartially.
‘She said dully:
‘“My daughter is dead. She is not concerned with any of you now. I am the one who calls for revenge. It will give me something to live for.”
‘“Oh, hush, Amelia!” said Mrs Livingstone pitifully again. “You should have more respect for these good people in their sorrow. You shouldn’t speak so to them, dear.”
‘“Then take me away, Fanny; I’m tired,” she said on a sigh. “I’ll come back another day.”
‘She clambered out of her chair and stumped away on her cane, ignoring us all equally.
‘She descended the steps; hunched, hideous, and dreadfully pathetic.’
CHAPTER NINE
RENDEZVOUS
The afternoon sun pressed its red light against the figured apertures wrought in the brass lattice. It had been hot before; now it passed description. Mr Jones wondered how the indomitable old lady could talk so unflaggingly on and on in this blazing air. She sat there as placidly as a Buddha on a lotus, her knees spread a little apart and her hands on her thighs, a distant look dreaming on her fine, broad, old face. Perhaps she was so wrapt in the past that she was only conscious of the keen salted winds of Essex blowing about her. Himself wilted pitiably in the heat, he felt as though the marrow was melting in his bones. He tried to think of cool green things, of limpid becks and waterfalls spraying out rainbows as they tumbled.
But wherever her thoughts were, she was too good a hostess to neglect her guest’s comfort. Or, at least, not for long.
‘My poor friend, you look like an expiring fish panting on a slab,’ she said, without malice, smiling across at him. ‘Are you hot?’
‘A trifle warm,’ he admitted.
She struck a bell. And presently a servant shuffled in with a beaker of pressed limes foaming in sherbet. It was tart and delicious and blessedly grateful to the tongue. He would have liked to pour it over his burning head, but at that moment another domestic entered with a brazen vessel full of steaming towels which, kneeling down, he proceeded to wring out and fling scalding on Mr Jones’s flesh. Just for a minute he was going to scream and then he was suddenly aware that it was remarkably pleasant.
‘But I must, I really must, try a Turkish Bath when I get home,’ he said to himself as he closed his eyes.
When he was refreshed she continued as though there had been no interruption.
‘It was a few days after Mrs Falk’s visit that I was obliged to go up to London to see my dentist. Harry went with me as escort. When we reached Liverpool Street Station we had nearly twenty minutes to wait.
‘We sat in the waiting-room hardly speaking. Once Harry took my ungloved hand in his and said, “Why, Blanche, you’re frozen!” I smiled at him faintly. “Funk,” I murmured.
‘“Let me stay with you, Blanche.”
‘I shook my head.
‘“You must let me do this my own way, Harry dear. Please. I shall be all right. Come back for me in an hour. There’s a good boy.”
‘“Papa wouldn’t like it, if he knew, he said obstinately.
‘“Gracious, if Papa knew!” I said with a little laugh that had a tremor of fear in it.
‘Harry went away. And I walked slowly to the great white dial of the station clock, and as I went I fastened more securely the white rose I was wearing on my mantle.
‘He was there waiting.
‘I knew him at once — and I had been afraid I should not recognise him! I did not call him for a moment. I had just a minute before he should turn and see me in which to watch him while he was quite unconscious of being observed, in which to judge him.
‘Then he caught sight of me and an astonished smile spread over his face and he held out his hands gladly.
‘“Blanche Rose!” he cried.
‘“Robert!” I said, smiling.
‘“I just can’t believe it! My little sister quite grown-up!”
‘“Did you think you were going to meet a little girl?” I laughed.
‘“Gee, I don’t know what I thought,” he laughed. “Oh, this is simply great!” he said, squeezing my arm. “Listen, we’ve got the deuce of a lot to talk over. Where can we go?”
‘“Could we go to the buffet? We might have a cup of tea.”
‘“Oh, tea!” he said, and laughed again. “This terrible tea all the time, it’s driving me crazy! But come on, sis, we’ll manage one more cup for auld lang syne.”
‘“Now!” he said, when he had given the order. “I want to know all about everything.”
‘I rolled up my gloves carefully, not looking at him.
‘“What do you want to know?” I said.
‘“Well, to begin with, how the dickens did you find out it was me?” he said, and his eyes were watchful and not smiling any more.
‘“I suppose I guessed,” I said.
‘Suddenly he noticed my fingers playing with my balled gloves and he exclaimed: “Why, sis, you’re married!”
‘“Good gracious, Robert, I should hope so. I’m going to have a baby!”
‘“You are! By all that’s wonderful!” he marvelled. He looked at my face, and said: “Happy, kid?”
‘“Why, what an extraordinary question, Bob! Why ever shouldn’t I be?”
‘The waitress brought the tea and I was able to busy myself with pouring it out.
‘“Tell me about yourself, Robert,” I said.
‘“Me? The old rolling stone! Nothing worth telling. Been in Canada most of the time.”
‘“So I gathered. Not married yet?”
‘�
�Do I look that mossy?” he grinned. “Rolling stones don’t marry, you know. Too busy negotiating the bumps.”
‘“Have you made a success of life, would you say? Are you happy?”
‘“I’m still alive, ain’t I?” he said comically. “But let’s talk seriously, sis. The old man still hasn’t forgiven me, eh?”
‘“No,” I said uncomfortably.
‘“Shall you tell him you’ve seen me?”
‘“Heavens, no!”
‘“Won’t have my name mentioned, is that it?” he said wryly.
‘I bowed my head. I crumbled my bath bun on the plate. I said nervously:
‘“Robert, what made you come back?”
‘He gave a sour laugh.
‘“I thought I’d see if I could screw out of the old man the shilling he cut me off with.”
‘“Do you need money?” I asked.
‘He looked at me thoughtfully with Lucy’s light blue eyes that I now saw were colder than hers and less transparent.
‘“We’ll talk of that another time. You haven’t told me a word about Mama yet. How is she? Does she know you’re here?”
‘I stared.
‘“Don’t you know?” I said softly. “She’s dead. She’s been dead nearly six years.” He went pale and I hesitated. Then I added in a whisper: “Papa married again.” But when I raised my eyes I saw that he wasn’t listening.
‘He said quite casually:
‘“Don’t turn round, Blanche; someone is watching us. An oldish guy at a table about four rows back to the left.”
‘As he spoke, I took out a little pocket mirror from my vanity-bag and feigned to tidy my hair under the brim of my bonnet, moving the little mirror this way and that looking for the person Robert described. When I saw him I uttered an exclamation and half-rose from my seat.
‘“Don’t move!” said Robert between his teeth. “Who is it?”
‘I looked at him in fear. But before I could speak to warn him, Mr Pierce was standing at our table. He put a hand on Robert’s arm.
‘“Mr Sheridan, alias Dunstable,” he said, “I arrest you in connection with the death of Mrs Sheridan, and I am bound to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence.”
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