Vanishing Point

by Patricia Wentworth

  Mrs. Merridew, who was doing her best to turn the conversation in some direction which would include Miss Silver, found herself unable to stem the steady flow of Miss Crewe’s strictures upon the behaviour of most of their mutual friends. She seemed to know everyone in the county, and to have very little that was good to say about any of them. Mrs. Merridew need not really have troubled herself, since her old schoolfellow was able to listen with some interest, and had no disposition to feel slighted. The tea was of the strength she preferred, Florrie’s scones were almost equal to those of her own devoted Emma, and there was a kind of tea biscuit just touched with a meringue mixture which was new to her and most agreeable to the taste. Really good recipes were not easy to come by. The fortunate owner cherished them and was not always willing to part, but in this case dear Marian was so perfectly amiable-She allowed herself to entertain the modest hope of being able to present Emma with what would be a decided addition to her repertory.

  Tea being over and the tray removed by Florrie, she produced a flowered chintz bag and, took out of it a pair of grey needles from which depended about two inches of knitting in a cheerful shade of cherry red. When presently Miss Crewe, fastening a derogatory look upon this employment, enquired what she was making, Miss Silver proceeded to furnish her with quite a detailed account of her niece Ethel Burkett and her family.

  “She has three boys of school age, and they grow so quickly that it is almost impossible to keep them in clothes. A good deal of my time is necessarily taken up with their stockings and socks, so it is a pleasant change to be able to turn to something pretty for the only girl, little Josephine-and I suppose I shall have to stop calling her that soon, for she will be six next birthday. I have just made her a twin set, and I thought this bright wool would make her a really charming hood and scarf. The spring winds are so treacherous. Do you knit, may I ask?”

  Miss Crewe’s “No” did not trouble itself to be polite, and Mrs. Merridew, colouring, interposed with the first thing that came into her head.

  “That nice-looking man who is staying at the Holly Tree, Mr. Lester-is he an old friend of yours, Lydia?”

  Miss Crewe’s eyebrows had a natural arch. Thirty years ago they had been very effective in conjunction with a pair of fine grey eyes. The lids were puckered now, and the eyes had sunk. They looked coldly as she said,

  “My dear Marian!”

  “Oh, isn’t he?”

  In her most disdainful voice Miss Crewe said,

  “Is he giving out that he is? If so-”

  “Oh, no-of course not! I haven’t really had any talk with him, but he was most polite when I dropped one of my parcels yesterday getting off the Melbury bus-such nice manners, and such a pleasant voice. And after hearing from Mrs. Stubbs that he was a nephew of old Dr. Lester’s and seeing him about with Rosamond-”

  She had blundered on, but at this point she could no longer be unaware that she was saying quite the wrong thing. It was not really possible for Lydia Crewe to draw herself up-her back was already as straight as a ramrod-but she did manage somehow to produce an effect of added rigidity.

  “What do you mean by ‘about with Rosamond’? Rather an odd expression, it seems to me. She has had one or two business conversations with him on Jenny’s behalf, I believe. The silly child scribbles. A lot of nonsense, I daresay, but it has helped to keep her amused. Mr. Lester belongs to a publishing firm, and it seems Jenny sent him some of her rubbish. I am told it has become the fashion to publish the writings of children and of uneducated persons. Another symptom of modern decadence!”

  Mrs. Merridew beamed.

  “Is Jenny really going to have something published? How exciting for her!”

  Miss Crewe had removed her gloves before partaking of Florrie’s scones. Her impatient gesture set the colours flashing in the crowded rings. Miss Silver reflected that it could not be good for the settings to be worn really jostling one another in such a manner. Such fine stones too-diamond, emerald, sapphire, ruby. And very much better kept than was often the case with the rings which elderly ladies wore.

  The impatience was not in gesture alone. It was in Miss Crewe’s voice as she said,

  “Certainly not! Even if it were proposed, I shouldn’t allow it! Mr. Lester appears to have enough sense to agree that she is too young, but he seems to think that there might be a prospect later on, and he has been advising her as to what she should read. She should, of course, be at school. Her education has been disastrously interrupted, and Rosamond spoils her in a ridiculous manner, but the very first moment she can be packed off I shall certainly see that it is done.”

  Mrs. Merridew gave a little gasp of dismay.

  “Rosamond won’t like that at all!” she said with more truth than tact.

  Miss Crewe began to put on her gloves-black kid, very old and rubbed. The flashing rings were swallowed up, the fingers stroked down over them.

  “Rosamond will do as she is told,” said Lydia Crewe.

  Mrs. Merridew evaded the issue. It was sometimes exceedingly difficult not to quarrel with Lydia, and it wasn’t any good, besides being so awkward in a village. She pulled down the old grey and black checked shirt which was rather too tight and had an embarrassing tendency to ride up and said,

  “Dr. Lester was always so kind, and very clever too. I was so glad to hear that he keeps well.”

  Lydia Crewe gave a short unpleasant laugh.

  “I thought you said you had no conversation with the nephew.” Tone and phrasing removed Craig to a distance quite beyond her own circle.

  “Well, it was really Mrs. Stubbs-”

  Miss Crewe’s eyebrows rose.

  “Village gossip? My dear Marian!”

  Mrs. Merridew flushed.

  “I was so glad to have news of him. Mr. Lester is most attentive to his uncle. It is not every young man who would take so much trouble. He tells Mrs. Stubbs that Dr. Lester is really wonderful- asking after everyone at Hazel Green and most interested.”

  Miss Crewe pushed back her chair with a jerk and got up.

  “I always thought him a very disagreeable and sarcastic old man,” she said, and made her farewells.

  When she had gone out under the arching yews, Mrs. Merridew told Miss Silver all about the engagement to Henry Cunningham and the breach which now existed.

  “Nobody really does know quite what happened, but he went away in a hurry and poor Lydia changed very much. There is no doubt that she was very fond of him, but I have always wondered how it would have turned out-if they hadn’t quarrelled, I mean, or whatever it was that happened. Because he was really very young. She must have been quite ten years older than he was, and not at all an adaptable person, if you know what I mean.”

  Miss Silver said that she knew perfectly.

  Mrs. Merridew gave a reminiscent sigh.

  “Well, there it was. She was quite handsome in those days, but never what you would call attractive to men-too much inclined to lay down the law, and always wanting her own way, and of course they don’t like that, do they? But she and Lucy Cunningham were the greatest friends, and she saw a lot of Henry. I don’t want to say anything unkind, but it always seemed to me that he didn’t have much chance. He was only just down from Cambridge and rather at a loose end-and then there was this silly scandal-”

  Miss Silver was brightly attentive.

  “I don’t think you told me about that, Marian.”

  Mrs. Merridew hesitated.

  “No-no-I don’t suppose I did. It was a very stupid affair. The Maberlys have left the neighbourhood, and it’s better forgotten-only of course these things never are-not really.”

  Miss Silver had added several inches to little Josephine’s hood. She looked across the bright wool with her head very slightly on one side and said,

  “You interest me extremely.”

  After being snubbed by Lydia Crewe this was balm to the feelings. Mrs. Merridew relaxed and gave herself up to what a rather startling poet has described as “th
e rapture of the tongue’s prolonged employ.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter with you, for you don’t know any of the people. The Maberlys were immensely rich. He was a company promoter or something like that, and they rather threw their money about. It was all a little ostentatious, but I think they meant to be kind. She certainly did, but you know how it is. Her clothes were much too new and too expensive, and she wore too much jewelry. And then she lost a very valuable diamond ring, and somehow it began to be put about that Henry Cunningham had taken it. I can’t remember all the ins and outs, and one never does know how that kind of rumour starts, but there it was. I didn’t believe it myself, because-well, one doesn’t, not about people you know, and Mrs. Maberly was the sort of woman who couldn’t even go out to tea without leaving her bag or a scarf, and she might have taken off the ring and left it simply anywhere. I remember they dined with us at the Grange, and she was showing us a very handsome bracelet which her husband had given her for Christmas. Well, after they had gone the butler found it behind the cushion in her chair. It had slipped down where the loose cover was tucked in, and really it might not have been found for a day or two, because we were short-handed even then-and as Lucas said at the time, it wouldn’t have been at all pleasant. So you see, Mrs. Maberly might have done anything with that ring.”

  “It was never found?”

  “I really don’t know. The Maberlys went away. He had business interests in the States, and they went over there for a time- I don’t think they stayed anywhere for very long. So she might have found the ring and never troubled to let us know-she was one of those good-natured, casual women. And meanwhile Henry Cunningham went away and never came back. Nobody knows whether it was the talk, or whether he just got into a panic about marrying Lydia. His sister Lucy did nothing but cry, and poor Lydia just turned to stone. Nobody dared ask her what had happened, and it wasn’t any good asking Lucy, because she obviously didn’t know. Oh, well, it’s all a long time ago.”

  Miss Silver pulled on her cherry-coloured ball.

  “But Mr. Cunningham came back in the end?”

  Mrs. Merridew nodded.

  “About three years ago. Such a surprise-and of course he was very much changed. But Lucy was so pleased. She went about telling everyone what an interesting life he had had, but I think he had really been one of those rolling stones, and I don’t believe she knows a great deal about it.”

  “And Miss Crewe?”

  “Oh, my dear, that is the embarrassing part of it. As far as Lydia is concerned, he hasn’t come back at all. Of course in a village they are bound to meet, and she just cuts him dead- stares straight at him and walks past as if he wasn’t there. Why, only this afternoon-”

  She went on talking about Lydia Crewe.

  CHAPTER 10

  Having seen Miss Crewe enter the White Cottage, Craig Lester walked briskly up the road and turned in at the gates of Crewe House. He was expected, for the door opened as he came up the steps. Rosamond stood back and shut it behind him. She had a little colour in her cheeks and her eyes were bright. There was no formal greeting. Her breath came rather quickly as she said,

  “Did you meet Aunt Lydia? She has only just gone.”

  “I didn’t expect to see her walking.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I did not. The time I saw her she looked as if she had been sitting in that chair of hers for the last fifty years or so.”

  She tried for a reproving look, but it turned into an appealing one.

  “Oh, yes, she walks when she wants to. She has only gone as far as Mrs. Merridew’s today-just opposite the Holly Tree.”

  “I know-I saw her go in. The wretched Cunningham came round the corner, and she cut him dead.”

  “She does,” said Rosamond in a distressed voice. “I don’t know how she can. Everybody else minds dreadfully. She just looks right through him and walks on.”

  “A very fine dead cut. He’s been back how long-three years? He must be getting used to it by now. By the way, what about Miss Cunningham-does she cut her too?”

  “Oh, no. They go on being friends, only Aunt Lydia won’t go to the house, because of meeting Henry. Lucy comes here, and so does Nicholas.”

  “So Jenny informed me. She said Nicholas was in love with you.”

  Her colour rose faintly.

  “Jenny talks too much.”

  “And it’s all nonsense-I know, I know. Are you in love with him?”

  “Craig!”

  He laughed.

  “Outrageous, isn’t it? Don’t hold it up against me. Everything in this house is either dead or half asleep, and I’ve got an idea that I’d like to wake things up. Don’t let’s talk about Nicholas any more. When am I going to see you alone?”

  The corners of her mouth tilted.

  “Well, you are seeing me alone, aren’t you?”

  He laughed derisively.

  “Not by a long chalk I’m not! Ancestors to the left of us, ancestors to the right! You have really some of the gloomiest family portraits I’ve ever seen in my life!”

  “They want cleaning.”

  “They might be worse if you could really see them. By the way, isn’t there one of Miss Crewe? I’d rather like to see it.”

  “Would you? It’s in the drawing-room. We can go there if you like.”

  They went. Rosamond was wondering. Perhaps he really wanted to see the portrait. It was by Amory, and considered to be very fine. Perhaps he wanted to spin out this time with her. Her colour brightened as she opened the door and took him into a well-proportioned room with windows to a terrace and all the furniture done up in dust-sheets. Craig was instantly and disagreeably reminded of a mortuary. The air was heavy and cold, the room full of dead things in their shrouds. There was a gilt clock on the mantelpiece, and some china figures. Above them the portrait of Lydia Crewe in a white satin dress. She held a black feather fan, and she looked out across the sheeted room. Her face was colourless, dominant. It had a kind of stiff beauty like a conventionalized flower-one of the heavy hot-house type, camellia or magnolia, carved in stone. There was a black velvet curtain behind her, and a diamond star at her breast. The shadows in the painted dress were a curious greenish grey.

  Craig looked, frowning.

  “How old was she when this was done?”

  “I don’t know-about thirty, I suppose. Not much more, because her father was ill after that, and there wasn’t any more money.”

  “You mean, she found out that there wasn’t. It must have been a shock.”

  He thought Lydia Crewe would have taken it hard. He said abruptly,

  “I suppose you have to dust this damned room too.”

  “A lot of the things in here have been put away.”

  He dropped his hands on her shoulders.

  “Do you want to stay here till you freeze to death like she did?”

  She let her eyes meet his, but only for a moment. There was trouble in them.

  “There’s Jenny. I’m not trained for anything. I’ve got to think of Jenny.”

  He said, “Think about me for a change. Start now and keep right on. I’m thirty-two and sound in wind and limb. I’m not rolling in money, but I’ve got a decent job, and my last book did quite well.”

  “Craig-” Her voice shook.

  “You’d better listen to what I’ve got to say. I’ve got a temper, and I can be a brute when it’s roused, but I don’t suppose I should beat you. You might do a lot better, but you might do a lot worse too. I wouldn’t actually knock you about, and I’d be good for Jenny. I’ve got a house-an old cousin left it to me last year. It’s not at all bad. In fact I think you’d like it. My old nurse keeps house for me. She’s a comfortable person. I don’t want you to say anything now-I’m not such a fool as to expect you to make up your mind before you’ve known me a week.”

  Rosamond had a quite extraordinary feeling that they had somehow got into one of those dreams in which you just say anything that comes into your head an
d it doesn’t matter. She said,

  “You’ve only known me for a week too.”

  His hands were warm and very strong. He laughed and said,

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my sweet. I’ve known you much longer than that. I don’t know whether Jenny did it on purpose or not, but there was a photograph of you with the manuscripts she sent us. It was a snapshot. You had on a white dress, and you were carrying a tray. Even in the photograph I could see it was too heavy for you.”

  “Nicholas said so too-he took the photograph. It was all nonsense really.”

  “And what was Nicholas doing that he was letting you carry trays like that?”

  His voice was too harsh for a dream. Something in her began to shake.

  “Craig, let me go!”

  “In a minute, when you’ve promised to think about what I’ve been saying.”

  “What am I to think about? It doesn’t seem real.”