by Jane Arbor
He shrugged. “Oh—board and lodging for a while longer. I may even be here for—the wedding! And a little something more tangible when I need it.” He smiled cruelly at her sudden movement. “Don’t worry. There’s no need to be crude or obvious this afternoon! The horse I backed in the Leger knew what was expected of it, so I’m all right for the moment. But—there’s Newmarket next week. Perhaps you and Lysbet would be my—er—guests?” Behind him in the gathering twilight there was a sudden movement. The door was flung open and Lysbet stood there, her hand upon the switch ready to flood the room with light.
She came forward, bringing a fresh, sweet breath of the evening air with her. “Guests? What for, Eliot?” she demanded.
“Newmarket Autumn Meeting. Will you come?”
“Of course I will. We both will!” she cried gaily. “Imagine! I won the booby prize in the Michaelmas goose raffle at the Club. It’s only a celluloid duck for my bath, but my luck’s in! You watch me at Newmarket—I’ll make a mint of money for you both!”
For her, nothing had changed. But for Mrs. Tempest the light seemed suddenly dimmed and the cool refreshing air suddenly staled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As the days marched towards Christmas, life at Falcons appeared to go on as before. Lysbet was happy and Eliot, with ready money in his pocket and seemingly inexhaustible funds on which to call, was in the best of spirits. And Mrs. Tempest, able still to hide beneath skilled make-up the new lines of strain about her eyes and her mouth, endured her worst moments alone—at night, when sleep refused to come to her.
Occasionally she had thought that Lysbet was looking at her in a worried way, but when she feared this she always consciously brightened into gaiety. Eliot’s demands for money, modest at first, were becoming outrageous. But she knew that at least he was keeping his part of the bargain; until she could find another way out she must keep hers.
But what other way was there? To tell Lysbet? To consult solicitors? To go to the police? But any of such moves would mean confession of her own guilt, and for all her worldly savoir faire she was so frightened a woman that fear obscured her ability to act. Once, she had thought of throwing herself on the mercy of Richard Guyse. But there was no real sympathy between them. And to tell Richard would be, of course, to tell Lysbet ... There wasn’t any way out.
Eliot was enjoying himself enormously. Money had been the only source of worry for him, and he’d been able to square that. And now there was something else that he intended to put in train... The Tempest woman was behaving pretty handsomely on the whole, but there was no knowing when she might be driven to do some worm-turning. Better to get the whole thing on to a more secure footing. Then she could do what she pleased.
It would take some handling of course. But after the finesse with which he had managed the last affair, he didn’t suppose he’d have anything to fear. Besides, it would open up a pretty pleasant future—he’d be a fool to forego it.
One afternoon in early December Lysbet, going over to the Club for tea with Richard, found that he had not yet arrived but that Caroline, with her small son Ian, was ensconced in the lounge. Caroline was knitting one of the featherweight, intricately patterned jumpers which, as she knew well, showed off her tiny figure to perfection, while Ian, a sturdy bullet-headed youngster, was playing imaginary trains around and under the chairs.
“Hello,” said Caroline, as Lysbet dropped into a deep chair beside them. “Ian, say ‘Good afternoon’ to Miss Marlowe!”
To this Ian made no reply whatsoever and with a resigned shrug his mother went on: “Richard asked me to tell you that he’d probably be late—he had an urgent call to a case.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Lysbet, disappointed but happy that there were days in front on which she could have tea with Richard. “If he doesn’t come, let’s have tea together—or if he does,” she added generously.
Caroline smiled archly. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t want us. Besides, Ian’s too rude to deserve tea.”
Ian looked up with a scowl, including them both in his displeasure. Lysbet felt rather sorry for him. He had ignored her of course, but he had been very absorbed in his game, and it didn’t help matters for Caroline to harp on it.
“What stations does your train serve?” she asked pleasantly.
“Piccadilly Circus, Enfield, Cockyfosters,” he chanted. “Gracious! You are a long way from Fallsbridge!”
“He’s got an Underground electric railway at home, and it has the names of real stations,” explained Caroline. To Ian she said mechanically: “Cock-fosters, Ian!” Imperturbably Ian repeated: “Cockyfosters.”
Caroline showed signs of impatience. “Cockfosters! How many times have I to tell you?”
Ian stood up and came over to stand at her side. “Cockyfosters. Cockyfosters. Cockyfosters!” he shouted maddeningly.
Lysbet, who dreaded to see the rising flush of anger in Caroline’s cheeks, was about to intervene to suggest that Ian should call the place Cockyfosters if he wished, when she was started to see Caroline’s hand flash out to slap the child hard upon the face.
“Now!” Caroline said harshly, as if she had solved everything.
Ian thought otherwise. He had flinched at the blow, but now, his face as flushed with rage as hers, he snatched at the ball of snowy wool in her lap and turned to run across the room with it, while it unwound and caught tautly on the furniture between them.
Caroline was furious. “Ian! You little beast! You’ll break it—you’ll make it filthy!”
From his safe distance he defied her, pulling on the taut thread and dancing in triumph.
Lysbet sighed. It was time she took a hand. Otherwise they would only drive each other to a frenzy as she had seen happen before. She rose, and crossing over to Ian held out her hand in silence for the ball of wool.
He looked at her, made as if to pull on it again and then quietly gave in.
“Thanks, old chap,” she said courteously as if addressing a grown-up. “Help me to guide it back carefully so that it doesn’t break, there’s a good soul.”
The child hesitated, then began to loosen the taunt thread with care and concentration. From across the room Caroline glared at them and she snatched at the ball when it was handed to her. “I’ll never bring you out again—never!” she threatened darkly. But Ian had heard that before, and his manner was as of treating it with the contempt it deserved.
“He really is a poisonous little wretch,” thought Lysbet. “But it’s more than half Caroline’s fault—she goads him so!”
At that moment the door opened and Richard came in. She jumped up and ran to him, her heart beating with excitement as it always did at the sight of him.
“Sweetheart!” he said in greeting as he kissed her lightly. “I got back before I expected. Shall we have tea?”
Lysbet glanced over her shoulder. “I’m afraid I asked Caroline and Ian to join us.”
“Did you have to?”
“Well, I suggested it when I wasn’t sure if you’d be coining. Caroline said you’d be late.”
“All right. Let’s go,” said Richard, squaring his shoulders in mock resignation. And when he asked Caroline to join them she made no demur.
At the table Ian scowled at his bread-and-butter, having refused fish-paste sandwiches as an alternative.
“Don’t want this,” he whined, pushing his plate away.
“That child of yours is so spoilt he’d refuse fried chicken Maryland,” commented Richard to Caroline. “Why don’t you try a spot of healthy starvation?”
Caroline looked helpless. “Ian, darling!” she pleaded, adding to Lysbet: “Richard declares he’s all right, but I’m sure his stomach is delicate—it revolts at such a variety of things!”
“M’m. You should just see the way it turns its back on chocolate biscuits and ice-cream comets. Heart-breaking!” was Richard’s caustic aside to Lysbet.
To all this, though understanding very little of it, Ian lent an interested ear. Woul
d he have to eat his bread-and-butter or wouldn’t he? Normally he could time his mother’s resistance to a nicety. But that Doctor Guyse was an old enemy, and of Lysbet he wasn’t sure.
As an experiment he pushed his plate towards her. “You eat it,” he invited.
“Thanks, I’ve got some,” she replied coolly. “But I know someone at home who’d think it was a grand treat.”
“Bread-and-butter’s not a treat.”
“This person thinks it is. Gobbles it up.”
Ian drew back the plate protectively. “Well he’s not going to gobble this up. It’s mine!”
(“Dog in the manger,” grunted Richard). But Lysbet watched with satisfaction the success of her ruse,
“Who is it?” demanded Ian, most of his face embedded in bread-and-butter.
“Name of Jeremy.”
“A little boy?”
“No.”
“A dog? A cat? A horse?”
“A kind of horse. A pony. If you came over to tea with me one day you could have a ride on his back.”
The child’s eyes shone with the first enthusiasm he had shown since the fiendish delight with which he had tugged at the wool. “Me? On a pony? With a bridle and reins?”
“Yes. And a saddle.”
“Could I stand up on the pony’s back, like at the circus?”
“Try sitting first,” advised Richard. “Even that has its early disadvantages, but it comes infinitely easier than standing, believe me!”
Even Caroline laughed, and Lysbet turned to her. “May he come over to Falcons?” she asked. “I could fetch him in the car and bring him back again.”
Caroline almost purred. “It’s sweet of you, Lysbet, but you don’t want to be bothered with him, surely! When did you think he might come?” she added practically.
“Any day would suit me,” Lysbet told her. “I could come for him in the morning and deliver him back to you before evening surgery. How would that do?”
So it was arranged, and Ian, in the glow of anticipation, actually accepted a second slice of bread-and-butter... Before she left him that evening Lysbet said to Richard: “D’you know, I’m a bit worried about Aunt Alicia—she doesn’t seem herself.”
“How do you mean—not herself?”
“I don’t quite know. But she’s usually so gay—sort of sparkling—and lately she’s been listless and awfully quiet. I shouldn’t say she’s ill, but I wish you’d look at her next time you come out to Falcons.”
“There’s nothing I can do unless she consults me professionally,” Richard reminded her.
“Oh, I know. But you could tell me whether you consider I’m making it all up.”
“It could be that she’s worrying about your leaving her to marry me,” suggested Richard thoughtfully.
“Ye-es, it could be. But I expected that, and yet she took to the idea splendidly. It’s only lately that—” Lysbet frowned.
“Maybe she’s getting a delayed reaction—hates the thought more as it gets nearer?”
“M’m. Though, oddly enough, the only things which seem to interest her are any plans of ours that I tell her about. She doesn’t ‘light up’ in the same way over anything to do with herself as she used to. I—I do care for her a lot, you know, Richard!”
Richard looked down at the hand she had laid upon his knee, then took its fingers in his and squeezed them. “I know, pet. I’ll take a look at her and report. Then you might be able to ease her into the idea of seeing a doctor.” He made a grimace. “Even me, for instance! D’you remember how she was prepared to wipe the floor with me and to whip you out of the hospital and into the Fallsborough, from under my very nose—?”
Lysbet laughed. “Yes. And how—” And they fell to the age-old ‘D’you remember—’ game of lovers, recalling and recording the absurd, intimate trivialities they were never likely to forget.
Meanwhile at Falcons Eliot was preparing that ‘more secure footing’ which he had decided was essential to his future.
Today he did not know when Lysbet was expected back and as he did not want to be interrupted in his interview with Mrs. Tempest he went up to her sitting-room and knocked upon the door.
As he entered, she looked up, startled. Over a long period she had established a tradition of absolute privacy for her afternoon rest in her own room; even Lysbet did not come there uninvited. She dropped humiliated eyes before his insolent stare. This—his coming here to speak to her—was the measure of his increasing power to do what he wished and to insult her as he pleased.
She made as it to put her feet to die ground, but he checked her and drew a chair alongside the divan.
“Don’t stir,” he said. “I only wanted to make sure that we should be alone.”
Mrs. Tempest, who spent a great deal of her time trying to avoid any such chance, asked, her voice sharp with foreboding: “Why? Has anything happened? Lysbet hasn’t found out—?”
Eliot laughed. “No. How should she?”
Alicia Tempest turned her head away in sick despair. “Then what is it? Aren’t I—playing my part?”
“Admirably. In fact, it could he that I wanted to take the opportunity to congratulate you! But what I really came to say was that I’m getting a trifle tired of this cosy conspiracy of ours. I admit that the idea of a little secret between you and me was intriguing at first, but now—”
“What do you want?” She was staring at him, the dawning of a wild hope in her eyes. Could it possibly be that he was satiated, that he had taken enough off her and that now he meant to leave her in peace? But hope died as quickly as it had flared. Blackmail wasn’t like that—it never let you go.
He tilted back his chair. Even for him this was a crucial point.
He said: “I want—Lysbet.”
“Lysbet! What do you mean?”
“Marriage with Lysbet. You can arrange it.”
“But you can’t! She can’t! She’s never thought about you in that way. Besides, she’s engaged to marry Richard Guyse!”
“Engagements can be broken.”
“But I couldn’t ask it of her. She loves him. Besides, I don’t see how it connects up with—all the rest. You don’t love her?”
“On the contrary—Lysbet is a charming person, she’s very lovely and she would grace any man’s home. What I’m concerned with at the moment is that she should grace mine. I haven’t any doubt but that I could make her very happy—ultimately. After all, you know that in your heart you don’t approve of this affair with the local Sawbones, do you?”
Mrs. Tempest said wretchedly: “If you cared for her at all, why didn’t you ask her to marry you before she got engaged to Richard? You would at least have had a man’s chance!”
He looked at her almost amusedly. “Because, lovely though she is, Lysbet—just Lysbet—wasn’t a terribly good bargain to anyone in my position. You see, I haven’t always been as well informed as to the real situation as I am now.”
“Then you don’t care for her? It’s merely money? Still merely money? Well, Eliot, I’m afraid you’ve lost this time. She’ll never consent—never!”
There was a pause. Then:
“Not even—to save you?” asked Eliot softly.
“To save me? But how could she save me without my telling here everything and telling her what your price is?”
“You could tell her. I thought I mentioned that I was tired of this ‘between you and me’ secret of ours.”
“But I don’t understand! I’ve paid you hundreds of pounds so that Lysbet need never know what I’ve done. If I must tell her now, all I’ve been through and all the money you’ve had from me has been wasted—wasted!”
“Not wasted. Spent in the good cause of my support,” corrected Eliot mockingly.
“All right. I’ll tell Lysbet. Because I’d rather trust her than trust you another inch! And when she knows, do you realize what will happen to you, Eliot? You’ll be finished—utterly finished and I shall be free of you, at least. And Lysbet is good and loyal
and she loves me. If I tell her everything she won’t do anything that can hurt me—I know it!”
“What sweet implicit faith!” mocked Eliot. “And what a lot of good cash it might have saved you if only you had believed it earlier and believed it enough to be able to tell me where I got off!” He was having to think quickly. He had not expected even this show of cornered defiance from his victim. Fortunately he had a weapon in reserve...
He went on smoothly: “It’s a pity for you that Lysbet’s goodwill isn’t the only thing to be reckoned with, isn’t it?” “But if she loves me enough to do nothing, I’m safe!”
“Are you?”
“What do you mean?” The words broke from her desperately.
“Well, you’ve laid yourself open to criminal proceedings over a long period, haven’t you? More than two years now, isn’t it? In the interests of justice “
“You mean—you would expose me?”
Eliot bowed his head. It had been a long shot, a dangerous shot to risk. But it had found its mark. “Of course I should regret the necessity—” he began.
“Oh—h!” It was a shuddering, half-stifled cry. “So there is no way out? You’ll extract your full price?”
“I’m afraid so. Tell Lysbet what you please.” (That was taking a risk too, but you had to take risks when you played for big stakes—those were the rules of the game as he understood it.) “But tell her that marriage to me is the price of your freedom. That ought to test the loyalty you were so confident of, a few minutes ago! In any case, I shall be willing to abide by the decision. But if she refuses, you and I must have another little talk with—a difference. Next time it needn’t be a tête-à-tête—we can invite young Lysbet along too!”
Wearily Mrs. Tempest stood up, putting a hand to her aching head as she turned away from him.
“When must I tell her?”
“When you please. You’d like a few days for thinking it over? I won’t press you.”
To this she did not reply and after a moment’s wait he left her. Outside the door he took out his handkerchief and wiped the palm of each hand with meticulous care while he thanked his luck for the possession of a poker player’s face which betrayed nothing. He was playing high indeed—but then, there was a high prize for the winning!