Murder by Reflection

by H. F. Heard

  “Yes,” said their hostess with demure assurance. “They said they felt that cultured American families looked forward as well as back. A motto meaning ‘You will go’ is, I think, a charming message of good will from the Old World to the New.”

  Then all the silver was inspected. It had always been good; Miss Ibis had collected with cost and taste. Though the true collector might have been hurt to see a jejune crest cut into a fine old piece, Miss Ibis’ taste was not so impractical as all that. Mrs. Maligni was even more interested than Miss Kesson. Miss Kesson, after making quite a good amateur effort to describe the crest in herald’s language, went on to ask about the escutcheon and then to talk of similar cases where fine old American families had, quite casually, pursuing selfless archaeology, come upon their own ancestral roots far away in medieval Europe, so they could rightly style themselves the cousin of a French marquis or a German prince.

  “As Saul, seeking his father’s asses, found a kingdom,” cut in Dr. Lang, the dry literary member of the group. The rest weren’t quite sure whether Dr. Lang, in bringing in that particular allusion, had not perhaps let the hollow-ground razor of satire inflict a slight cut. Certainly Miss Kesson was checked. Everyone was therefore quite pleased when, in the little pause which showed, like the epicenter of an earthquake, that there had been a subsurface jar, Mrs. Maligni broke in enthusiastically. Mrs. Maligni was not the most popular member of the group—far from it. But it was clear now that her un-English lack of restraint was just the right balm, thick and sweet, for their hostess’ half-alarmed feelings.

  “I don’t know a thing about all the details. But I do see it’s just right. It kind of brings out what one always knew was there—like looking up a reference and finding you had quoted correctly after all.” Everyone smiled, except Dr. Lang. “It puts the cap on it all.”

  “I think that is quite a happy way of describing a crest,” graciously conceded Miss Kesson, who felt that momentary liking we always have for anyone who has just extricated us from a slight awkwardness. Everyone smiled audibly—that physical amiability which, spreading so far as to part the lips, actually causes, in males, a chuckle. Mrs. Maligni felt that she was a success—a feeling to which, as she was unfamiliar with it, she yielded. “Dear Miss Ibis, do you think I might some day bring round my nephew to see your wonderful silver? Now that it’s properly”—she paused to get the proper word, and decided—“enhanced, I feel he really mustn’t miss such a wonderful experience.” She sensed that her audience regarded her as pushing; so she hurried on, “He’s so deeply interested in art and history.” Then, feeling that she had gone too far, she ended weakly, “Of course, I know, perhaps it would be too much trouble.”

  Irene Ibis was kind in the normal female way. That is to say, she was frightened of, and defensive with, her female friends; fond of them, really and of course; more, she needed them and they her, but that need is something like that which a rabbit’s lower and upper teeth have of each other—of something to grind against—a neat and necessary balance of resistances. And, besides that, the normal female kindness between women who feel themselves equals, she had the normal female kindness which women have, as naturally, toward anything or anyone who is not equal, who is “down.” Mrs. Maligni had begun by pretending that she was an equal—one who could make requests which couldn’t be refused, one who could stand up to the exacting pressures of balanced equality. She had ended by owning that she was not. Irene Ibis switched over, was switched over by her nature, from defensiveness to protectiveness.

  “Why, Mrs. Maligni, of course you may.”

  She let her eye flicker round the other faces, feeling—she almost remembered the exact context—something like Ahasuerus when, to the surprise of his court, he extended his scepter to the intruding suppliant Esther.

  A week after, therefore, Mrs. Maligni presented herself at the Ibis home. Irene had been, right down in her mind, not at all unwilling to see the nephew. Of course if Gabrielle Maligni had asked in an offhand way she would have had to refuse. But when her maternal instinct made her able to feel a wish to be kind to the woman who was “not really, my dear, quite one of ourselves,” another aspect of that broad-belted instinct was glad of the possibility of seeing a little further into the Italian woman’s family. She found that she had wanted to see this nephew for some little while. She had several times heard his aunt talking of him, how intelligent, cultured, handsome he was. She had overheard the remarks because to whomsoever Mrs. Maligni made them they were received in a silence which threw them into relief. Moreover, Mrs. Maligni had not a soft voice and her use of polysyllabic superlatives was certainly “Low Latin.” Yet there is no smoke without fire, and now she was to see the lambent young spark.

  Her first impression was one of agreeable surprise. His aunt was properly bashful; the nephew, on the other hand, was unexpectedly, quietly at his ease. “You might almost say,” she said to herself, “that he had savoir-faire.” Certainly, whether or not he knew how to carry things off in general, in that particular environment he was well able to take a courteous lead. His knowledge gave him plenty of openings. Without seeming to lecture—indeed, mainly by asking her questions, and seeming to defer to her information—he kept on adding to her knowledge. She was interested in all that he could tell her of silver and its styles: of how this piece was a particular joy to see, for he suspected (though, of course, he was only an amateur) that it must be an early Jacobean piece, originally from Oxford, which had escaped the great melting down when the University lost its “plate” and gained its title of the City of Lost Causes, by backing Charles I to the extent of all its silver; that piece—yes, it was really Elizabethan—a little treasure. Well, he was glad to see the ibis on it—a properly “exemplified coat” instead of that vulgar piece of eighteenth-century stage-scenery emblazoning which some ignoramus had stuck on the other side of it. He called the Ibis addition “a rightful completion of an otherwise unfinished work of art.”

  Irene’s worst doubt was laid: she wasn’t marring beauty by linking her new-found “tree” with these silver fruits of the past. The nephew could not have said anything more welcome, more quintessentially tactful. Her heart opened, warmed.

  And when he went on to tell her all about her name, linking her not merely with medievalism but with mysterious ancient Egypt—told her of Thoth, the ibis bird-god of wisdom—she was thrilled, sat listening to him as a student to a teacher. Therefore when he became less formal, more light, hinted at a queer, humorous passage in Herodotus—“so interesting, but really he couldn’t repeat it; not, at least, on a first visit, which anyhow he had prolonged unconscionably long, for when again could one hope to be with such loveliness so appreciated”—she felt that she would like to hear more, that he might mean the silver and her care of it, but might—at least as an overtone—mean …?

  Well, her mind was made up on one point; she asked him to call again. When he was gone she recalled that he was undoubtedly good-looking; a little more sensitive than she had expected, and not so dark. Lombards, she remembered from a school lesson, are often not dark, sometimes quite light. His hair was auburn. What else had she read about Lombards? That they were very able businessmen sometimes—that was it Men who made admirable secretaries.

  Chapter III

  She found that she was looking forward to the next visit. And when it arrived it began with a pleasant surprise. Mr. Signorli—that was the nephew’s not unpleasing name—said that he was so sorry, his aunt could not come, she was indisposed. She was so very sorry she was prevented. Miss Ibis was not. Mr. Signorli hoped she would forgive his coming alone. Miss Ibis said, with the proper accent which conveys that it is only an assurance of courtesy, that she would have been very sorry if he had stayed away. But she had no doubts in her own mind that she meant it. He showed no sign that he took her literally.

  They settled down to talk art and archaeology. He was certainly very intelligent, she felt, and certainly her first impression had not overrated his loo
ks. Miss Ibis decided that he had married, but found herself wandering-wondering whether he might not be a widower. Italian women are so often delicate and die young, especially in the hard North. He was, however, never so self-centered as to refer to himself. Nor did he ask even the most indirect questions about herself. They were simply two keen appreciators of beauty exchanging impressions—though she had to own that his knowledge was greater, as she was sure her possessions exceeded his. Though his suit was of good cut and cloth, she noticed that it was a “best suit.” He had come in the same one each time and it was clear it had often been to the cleaners. Once he did inquire whether she often “ran up” to visit the Metropolitan Museum and casually remarked that he would like to hear her opinion of a “steeple-cup” which he thought was a peculiar piece.

  “If it isn’t a forgery it is a beauty, and if it is, it’s fun.”

  They laughed the laugh of “insiders” able to enjoy even a fraud if well done. Humor having broken through, he told her stories—a number of them—of the big “put-overs,” as he called them: “The Miter of Tissaphernes” at the Louvre; that all-too-vivacious “Etruscan” figure-tomb in the British Museum.

  Then, as he rose to leave, he remarked smilingly, “And, by the way, here’s the Herodotus with the story why—an ultra-modern reason—the ibis is the wisest of birds, the very body of wisdom. The old boy may have been wrong about the bird but he was right in saying that had it done as he was told, then few people could teach it much.”

  “Tell me what was its secret?” she said, as she accompanied him to the drawing-room door.

  “No,” he laughed. “You must learn that from the book.”

  “Well, when I have learned it will you come and hear me repeat the lesson?”

  “I’ll come gladly,” he said. “But you must choose quite freely whether you wish to repeat it or go on to the next.”

  “Well, it sounds a riddle and quite intriguing. Anyhow, come again in a fortnight to retrieve your volume.”

  He gladly agreed. She was busy, however, and it was the thirteenth day before she had opened the Herodotus. Reading she had never found easy, and an old Greek author was an additional obstacle. She preferred to hear history discussed and with plenty of artistic objects as examples and helps to keep your attention when it wandered.

  She wished that Mr. Signorli had not been so noncommittal. She herself was, however, noncommittal at her fortnightly club-at-home. Mrs. Maligni was there and apologized for her inability to come with her nephew last time. Miss Ibis was glad that the others, who were all over at the window at that moment looking at a miniature which Miss Kesson had brought, did not hear that there had been a second visit. She nodded and smiled equally resolved that if Mrs. Maligni did not know that another visit had been arranged, she should remain in ignorance. With the famous feminine intuition she suspected that the aunt did not know but might discreetly hope. Yes, Irene Ibis was safe. She knew the elder woman would say nothing, even had she been on gossiping equality with the other women, which she was not.

  As the last of the member-guests left she decided she was tired enough not to go out that evening and that she would doze over a book. As the pillow-book Herodotus would serve admirably. After her dinner she picked it up. She found that it opened at a certain page and her eye, running down it, saw her attention-arresting name. Yes, it was the passage saying why the ibis is wise. She was amused, and a little shocked; and she decided that she certainly would not “repeat her lesson” the next day.

  Next morning, though, she reread the passage and laughed a little. First a common interest and then a private joke: it is a well-worn path, perhaps the commonest of the short ones, to intimacy. She recognized that; for, in personal relationships, she was far from a fool, and, like many persons who have lived by themselves, carrying on a campaign to get the world to accept them at their own valuation, she knew herself pretty shrewdly. She knew she had to sell herself, not in the melodramatic sense but in the business way; she had to persuade people to give a slightly higher price (not much, but still something more) than they would give if the goods were not neatly made up to look expensive—hence the Ibis blazonry.

  When Mr. Signorli called, therefore, she was amused, cheerful, honestly pleased to see him, and entertained by the risqué jest nicely glossed in a Helleno-Egyptian patina. And behind the cheerfulness she was vigilant. The step beyond the private joke, she knew, is the personal confidence. She certainly did not know this learned but still very young man well enough for that, and she was not quite certain that she yet wanted to. She wanted, then, to see whether he would hurry on to the Herodotus. No; he didn’t. He seemed grave—not at all sad, but seriously interested in what he was discussing, so seriously that he seemed to be treating her as a male colleague. The subject was a small Battersea-enamel snuffbox. Was he treating her as a taken-for-granted equal, or could it be that he was just a careful salesman carefully building up a connection? The thought relieved the other pressure—the feeling that he might be treating her with a shadow less of respect than he owed—but it was, she found, the less pleasant of the two. He had brought the box out of his pocket almost as soon as he sat down, un-wrapped it from its soft paper, and put it on the tea-table in front of her.

  “Silver, after all,” he said, “is the ‘setting’ par excellence. Diamonds should, and used always, be held not by gold but by silver claws. This piece is so distinguished just for that reason. See the way the box itself is mainly gold-plated, but the frame around the enamel—a charming picture of a moonlight effect (I’ve never seen another) is silver, taking up the silvery effects in the jewel-like enamels themselves.”

  She looked at it. It was a lovely object, and perhaps her taste could be extended beyond silver pure and simple, and the furniture necessary as a backing. Her purse would not refuse to stretch. But there her suspicions stirred again. She was thinking of the bringer far more than of the brought on which her eyes rested.

  “I can see you are taking it in. And, if you will forgive me, that is a true reaction. So many people say ‘How lovely’ at once. They cannot really see a new beauty so quickly. The tongue disturbs the eye.”

  She went on gazing, wondering what to say, whether to say, “I’m sure it’s worth a small fortune, and I could never afford to have a piece like that. I’ll have to keep what I have to spare to add to what I know.”

  As she changed the sentence about to get it definite but not crude, he spoke again: “I’d like to leave it with you. I’m sorry it has to be only a loan; but I can, if you will, let it rest in this house for a fortnight so that you may get to know it. It will repay the keeping. It belongs to a friend of mine. He does not want to part with it or I would have tried to purchase it long ago.” This was the only part of his description in which the decoration exceeded the substructure of truth. “But he lets me take it out now and then as we take out books from a library.”

  She thought that would be a good opening for returning the Herodotus. It was ready on a side table. Still abstracted—for this fresh turn had now convinced her that he was not aiming at a sale—she took it and handed it to him.

  “Oh, thank you for this loan.”

  He took it as abstractedly.

  “I’m glad it interested you,” he said perfunctorily, as though he had forgotten why he had offered it. He was still gazing at the small box and put the book beside him without looking at it. “That little moonlit scene—of course it’s quite unrealistic, but the convention is perfect, as perfect in its way as Wordsworth’s sonnet on Westminster Bridge at dawn. That, in fourteen formal lines, makes you feel that boundless hush which he felt a century ago on the Thames. And this hard little painting, as one looks through its small box-lid frame, it, too, is a magic casement opening not on fairy seas forlorn but on that same river which has flowed for centuries through such immortal verse.”

  A little rhetorical, she thought, but the Wordsworth and the Keats were brought in neatly enough. She could just, without moving her
head, raise her eyes enough to watch his. Yes, they were fixed on the enamel miniature. She looked at it. It was lovely. He did love beautiful things and the past from which they came.

  “Yes,” she spoke aloud. “I’d like, if I might, to study it, to ‘read’ it for the fortnight. Then perhaps it will tell me something of the beauty it has conveyed to you.”

  They had tea and he talked of these prized Battersea enamels, of a second-rate one he had himself, but always his eyes wandered to the perfect example itself. And, when he left, his last look was at it. She remembered, when he had gone, that he had said he would call again for it in two weeks.

  From that time on—she no longer hid it from herself—it was friendship, yes, and a sort of trust. She knew well enough that friendship and trust are not the same thing. You can have plenty of friends—because you like them—whom you don’t strain with trust; and your trustees are not infrequently (good, conscientious persons) not among your friends. A steel girder is always the better for being in the background, where it has an invaluable service to fulfill, but its very capacity and unbending strength make it unsuited for more casual and softer contacts. You like your friends to have a little give, even a little weakness, about them. But as far as their friendship went, Irene Ibis couldn’t doubt that she had also a slight sense of trust in Arnoldo Signorli. He seemed sincere about beauty, and though she was not such a fool as to imagine herself a belle, she felt now fairly sure that he honestly liked to have a place where he could come and be among beautiful things; talk of the beauty he had seen; and—as with the Battersea-enamel box—bring around a small fragment of artificial loveliness in order to appreciate it in another’s company.

  And this sincerity about beauty made him, she felt sure, want to go on with their friendship and so be quietly determined to keep it quiet. The fortnightly club-at-homes, one by one, assured her that Mrs. Maligni was being kept in ignorance now. Once she mentioned her nephew in regard to some art criticism that had arisen and remarked that she had not seen him for “an age.” He had told her that he was going away on business for some time. Miss Ibis had better knowledge.