Death of a Doll

by Hilda Lawrence

  I would have refused the invitation if I had not been silly enough to mention it to Madame.

  She jumped at it. “Now, that is an idea,” she said, her black eyes snapping. “That’s more like it. If your friends won’t come here, you must take the business to them. You can have the whole day, and you can wear the grey Lejeune bonnet. I want that to be seen. When people remark on it, as they will, just tell them they can get a copy here in any colour, and only eight guineas. It’s very nice of me to trust you with it, Miss Brayton. It’s worth twenty pounds.”

  I told her I’d rather not have the responsibility; it might rain or something.

  “You sell half a dozen copies, and I don’t care if it snows on it,” she said.

  Totham Abbey girls are the daughters of bishops and the duller peers, and fashion is not and never has been quite at home there. The Lejeune bonnet was one of those extravagances Paris thought up in a joyous hour; the chiffon rose on top finished it—and me, too, when I thought about it.

  Finding me uncommunicative, Mrs Austin heaved herself off my bed. “What you want,” she dictated from the doorway, “is an ’usband, and when you find one, ’ang on to ’im.” Then she switched out the light. “You go to sleep,” she said, “and termorrer make up your mind to find a way out of all this ’ere. This isn’t your style, and never will be. Goodnight. Don’t read, ducks. I must get the ’lectric bill down. ’Appy dreams.”

  I turned over on my face. As I lay there, it occurred to me that part of what she said was true. I must get out of this if it wasn’t going to get me down.

  The reception was rather harder to endure than I had expected. To begin with, the Abbey was lovelier than I had thought. The Gothic tower over Big Hall was more graceful, the lawns were neater and more green, the flower beds brighter than I had dreamed. They all held out their arms, so to speak. It jolted me.

  On the other hand, the Lejeune bonnet was just about as unsuitable as I had foretold. I met Bunch Howarth as I went up the drive, and I saw her heavy brows rise as she glanced at it. Bunch is the daughter of an estate in the Shires, and although we never had been buddies at school, that had not been her fault. Sally and I had not had much time for her worthy solidity. She was thicker than ever now in faultless tweeds, and her unimpeachable velours made me feel as if I’d come out in something from the finale of a revue.

  “So glad you could come,” she declared.

  “Oh, I thought I’d buzz down,” I said. “I was always fond of old Budd, you know.”

  Her blank expression was excusable, for neither Sally nor I ever had been pets of the headmistress. She still irritated me.

  “I don’t say I had a crush on her,” I said, dropping into the school vernacular. “Don’t keep looking at my hat, you gump.”

  She giggled, in exactly the same way she used to in class, and I almost forgot I’d seen her engagement announced to one of the Perownes. “It’s sweet,” she said, “but it needs bridesmaids.”

  That was my chance to attempt to sell it, of course, and I saw it, but I couldn’t take it. Instead I said, “You can be matron of honour, darling,” and added, “Are we late or horribly early?”

  “Late, or at least you are. I came out again to see the garden. Everyone who has ever been here seems to have turned up,” Bunch announced. “That incredible woman, Rita Fayre, is the lion or was when I came out. You knew her, didn’t you? She was Rita Raven before she married Julian Fayre. A bit of a publicity hound, I should think.”

  Rita Raven. The name came back to me over what seemed to be an incredible number of years. I remembered a tall dark girl whose black-brown eyes were piercing and, to my infant mind, slightly terrifying. She had been an outstanding figure among the seniors in my first term.

  “She left almost as soon as I came,” I said. “I never spoke to her. She’s about thirty now, is she?”

  “About that. Fearfully modern and all that. I’m rather surprised Budd asked her. She may be terribly wealthy, but she’s hardly Totham Abbey style, is she?”

  “Isn’t she?” I said doubtfully. “What’s her line—sticky divorce?”

  “Oh, no. Only she’s a bit of a mystery, turning up to marry Fayre after being abroad for eight or nine years. She gives fantastic parties, I believe, and gets a lot of publicity for her painting, which is odd and rather filthy. I thought you’d know, being in London.”

  “She’s escaped me,” I said. “I don’t do my homework on the picture papers as I should. I was always vague, you know.” If this was not true, at least it had been my reputation at school and perhaps I had fostered it a little, hoping, no doubt, that it might give me an interesting mistiness beside Sally’s lovely bright colour.

  Bunch laughed. “I don’t know about being vague, but you’ve suddenly grown absolutely beautiful,” she said. “I hardly knew it was you, Gillian. You’ve come into flower or something.”

  I had no reply to that, but I was grateful for her clumsy praise for we had just gone into the Hall and everywhere I saw faces turned toward me; some had surprise on them, and some curiosity, and some the thing I most dreaded, pity.

  I left Bunch then and pushed my way to Budd, who was standing on a ridiculous rostrum under the central arch, looking exactly like a bronze of a plump Victorian statesman in classic robes. Poor Budd, she always did drape herself for a party, as if nature had not done it for her already. As we shook hands, she eyed the bonnet, and a wintry smile flickered over her lips. I knew her so well that I understood perfectly. She was assuming that I had put it on to create a false impression of affluence and she wished to tell me she was not deceived. She set herself out to be gracious, but she was also very cautious.

  I saw Rita Fayre immediately; one could hardly miss her. The crowd round her was far larger than the straggling group beneath Miss Budd’s rostrum. I recognised her, but she was smaller than I had expected, and it took me some moments to realise that I had grown a little since I had seen her last. Her eyes were still piercing, but she was vivacious and unbelievably soignée in mink and the chunky jewellery then so much in fashion. She was not beautiful, exactly, but there was a forceful charm about her, and she betrayed an acute sophisticated intelligence, which was impressive. I could well believe that she was much publicised; she looked like a celebrity.

  I did not go too close because, of course, I did not know her. We never had spoken, and she hardly could have remembered me.

  I was drifting away when Rowena Keith bobbed up before me. While we were talking, I noticed the chypre. A fur-clad arm slid over my shoulder, and I was pulled gently around.

  “Darling!” said a deep, effusive voice. “Here you are at last. My lamb, how pretty you’ve grown.”

  Rita Fayre kissed me before I could speak, and Rowena strode hastily away.

  I came out of the embrace a little dazed. My impression was that the celebrity had made a mistake. She was smiling at me affectionately. “I’m Gillian Brayton,” I murmured at last.

  “But of course, you are,” she agreed unexpectedly and slid her arm into mine. “And I used to be Rita Raven. Doesn’t it seem an age since we used to tear about here together? Do you remember those revolting bands of liquorice we used to share on Sunday afternoons? My dear, I am glad to see you again.”

  There was nothing I could say; I hardly could object to her claiming friendship with me, of course. It was extraordinarily nice of her, if incomprehensible. As she chattered on, the illusion became complete. It sounded as if we had been in constant correspondence. There were times when even I wondered. We had a royal progress through the room, and I began to enjoy it. From being a Cinderella, I became at least an attendant on the fairy queen.

  If she was determined not to let me go, I certainly made no effort to escape. At close quarters she was a trifle overpowering; her forceful personality was imperious, and she had a way of sweeping criticism aside with a ruthless highhandedness I never before had encountered. After half an hour or so, by which time I was completely dizzy, we reached
the doors leading to the main entrance and the drive, and I prepared to take my leave. As I moved, her arm tightened on mine.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said abruptly. “We’ve got to talk. I’m giving you a lift to town, Gillie.”

  “It’s awfully good of you,” I began, “but—”

  “Nonsense, dearest. It’s a miracle you’ve turned up at last. I only came down today to find you, and we’ve got some serious talking to do. Come along.”

  She swept me on down the corridor, and I blinked at her. “What about?” I enquired blankly.

  She laughed and hugged my arm. “Sweet, vague little Gillie,” she said. “Just the same, only a thousand times prettier. Yet you’ve not really changed; you still look faraway and slightly puzzled by everything. I’m so relieved; I dreaded to think what a year alone in London might have done to you. How are all the boyfriends?” The final question was thrown in casually, but she made it clear she expected an answer.

  “There aren’t any,” I said, as the Rolls whispered over the gravel toward us.

  Her eyes flickered as we got in, and I saw that she was pleased. I felt somehow that I’d told her a lot more than I’d intended. Her next remark concerned the bonnet. “It doesn’t suit you,” she said. “It’s far too old, for one thing. You must wear a sailor. Lejeune intended that for someone over thirty.”

  My surprise amused her. “I saw it in his Paris collection,” she said. “Clothilde made you wear it hoping for orders, I suppose. She really ought to have known it wasn’t suitable.”

  She took my breath away and made me feel transparent as well as uninformed.

  “Oh well, that’s all finished,” she said calmly, settling back on the cushions. “You’ve had quite enough of Clothilde. You’re coming home with me now; do you know that?”

  I felt it was high time to get a grip on myself. The whole afternoon had been too much like a daydream. “I didn’t,” I said drily.

  She glanced at me under her lashes, and her bright lips smiled. “I’m telling you. We’re going to drop into your boarding-house and pick up your things and drive home right away. Don’t argue with me, dearest. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “But I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I protested. “You don’t really know me and—”

  “Gillian!”

  “I mean, not very well.”

  “Rubbish, darling. We were buddies, years and years ago. I used to do your sums for you. Remember?”

  I certainly did not, but I did see that this was no time to argue the point. For that matter, I did not know how she knew I lived in a boarding-house unless she had been making enquiries about me.

  “Listen, Gillie,” she said, dropping her hand on my knee, “I want you to come. You’ll be a tremendous help to me. Don’t let me down.”

  She made it all sound so absurd when she put it like that. I hardly liked to explain to her that I thought she was crazy, and, while I was hesitating, I became aware that she was offering me a job.

  “Three hundred pounds a year, Gillie, and of course you’ll live with us.”

  “But—but you could get a trained secretary for that.”

  “Of course, I could, my lamb, but I don’t want a trained secretary. I just need someone I can trust who will be a little sister to me—do the flowers and that sort of thing.”

  “At three hundred pounds a year?”

  A fleeting cloud of anger passed over her face. It was very brief, but I was startled by its intensity. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said, smiling at me. “Just sit back and take what’s coming to you. You’ll love it, you know.”

  I was so astounded that I did just what she told me. To this day I don’t know if it was she or the Rolls that argued more eloquently. After the afternoon’s taste of nostalgic luxury, my life at Clothilde’s seemed very sordid and unimportant.

  It was Mrs Austin who put in the only word of caution that dizzy afternoon.

  While the car and Rita’s coat were making a sensation in the dingy back street, Mrs Austin snatched a word with me. “Ducks,” she said, squeezing my hand in her vast, damp one, “I know it’s not my business, but I must ask you—are you sure this is orl orl right?”

  “Perfectly,” I assured her light-heartedly. “It’s absolutely marvellous. Mrs Fayre’s offered me a wonderful job. I’ll come to see you next week.”

  Her coarse, kindly face did not alter. “Mind yer do,” she said. “I’ll be worrying. You do read of such things. I’d trust you anywhere, but oh, ducks, are you sure it’s orl above-board?”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” I assured her. “Mrs Fayre and I were friends at school.”

  “Ow, why didn’t yer say so?” Her relief was ludicrous. “Of course, if you was friends at school, that explains everything. Orf you go, and mind yer step.”

  It was not until I was back in the car that I recollected that Rita and I hardly had been friends at school; but by that time, she was setting out to be so charming to me that a trivial misstatement like that seemed a matter less than nothing.

  Want another perfect mystery?

  Get your next classic crime story for free…

  Sign up to our Crime Classics newsletter where you can discover new Golden Age crime, receive exclusive content and never-before published short stories, all for free.

  From the beloved greats of the Golden Age to the forgotten gems, best-kept-secrets, and brand new discoveries, we’re devoted to classic crime.

  If you sign up today, you’ll get:

  A free novel from our Classic Crime collection.

  Exclusive insights into classic novels and their authors and the chance to get copies in advance of publication, and

  The chance to win exclusive prizes in regular competitions.

  Interested? It takes less than a minute to sign up. You can get your novel and your first newsletter by signing up on our website www.crimeclassics.co.uk