There was a coolness between Bostock and Harris. The delivering of the anonymous letter was partly to blame; the rest was on account of a bouquet of wild flowers Bostock wanted to give to Mary Harris, whom he particularly admired, as it was her birthday.
“Give ’em to her tomorrow,” Harris had said impatiently. “Another day won’t matter.” He did not want Bostock, who was inkstained from writing the anonymous letter, appearing at his house on the same day as the letter itself.
“They’ll have faded,” said Bostock obstinately.
“Who cares?” said Harris with more than a touch of irritation. Then, when he saw that Bostock looked offended, he instantly regretted his tone. He sensed that his friend was affected by that soft passion that he, Harris, knew to be as disrupting as it was unscientific. He smiled at his scowling friend who was grasping his bouquet like a weapon.
“I know how you feel, Bosty,” he murmured kindly. “You fancy you’re in love with Mary.”
Bostock reddened. Harris was uncanny.
“But I’m afraid there’s no such thing as what you call love, old friend.”
Bostock braced himself, and Harris continued. “It’s only an instinct, old friend, nothing more than that. It’s like—like blowing your nose. You have to do it, and you feel better when you’ve done it.”
Bostock stared mournfully at the bouquet he had so laboriously gathered. If Harris was right—and he always was—he should have got Mary a pocket handkerchief . . .
“We all have these instincts, Bosty,” went on Harris. “Generally we get them when we’re thirteen or thereabouts. I’ll be getting them myself any day now. You see a female and right away you want to have carnal knowledge of her.”
“Carnal knowledge?”
“Poke her,” explained Harris. “It’s the law of nature, Bosty.”
Bostock thought of the wild, slender Miss Harris, and blushed to the roots of his soul. He looked down at the little forest all jeweled with tiny blossoms that he was clutching. “Is that really all it is, Harris?” he asked sadly. “That’s all, Bosty,” said Harris compassionately, and to his relief, Bostock let the flowers fall. Who’d have thought Mary would have so nearly come between them?
“Five minutes after six, Bosty” went on Harris, after a pause to allow his friend to bring his mind to the matter in hand. “That’s the time to do it. Poke—er—push the letter under the door and then go like the wind.”
Bostock nodded and Harris held out his hand. Bostock hesitated.
“Old friend,” said Harris, “it all depends on you.” Bostock sighed and the friends shook hands.
Harris made a good deal of noise as he entered his house so that the time of his arrival should be generally known and not confused with the arrival of the letter. He went up to the nursery and engaged the wet nurse in conversation while she, poor soul, all but suffocated the black-haired baby under her shawl as she modestly tried to hide her breast from Harris’s inquisitive gaze.
At five minutes after six Harris’s heart began to beat violently. The time had come. He strained his ears, but he heard nothing. Bostock must have been as silent as the air.
“Well, that’s all for now, you gutsy little darlin’,” said the wet nurse, returning the baby to its cot and her breast to her gown. She nodded to Morgan and went downstairs. Harris followed her. He stared toward the front door. There was no letter. Dismay seized Harris. Had Bostock deserted him? After all he’d said, had love really deprived him of his friend?
The wet nurse shuffled down the last stairs, when something white flew from under the door with tremendous force and vanished under her skirts. It had been the letter. Bostock, ever faithful to his friend, had kept his word, but resentment at the shattering of yet another illusion had caused him to be overstrong.
Dr. Harris, hearing the wet nurse in the hall, came out of his study to pay her. Harris the younger glared at the ragged hem of her gown. She took the money, lifted her dress to stow it away in her petticoat—and saw the letter.
She picked it up and gave it to the doctor. “It’s yours, sir,” she said, and jingling slightly, she shuffled out of the house.
Dr. Harris opened the letter and read it. Harris watched his father’s face in an agony of expectation, which, however, he concealed under a mild interest.
“W—what is it, Pa? Anything . . . important?”
The doctor frowned. “The impudence of it! Sending that wretched woman with their begging letters! Don’t I do enough for charity as it is?” Wearily he showed his son the paper on which Bostock, after so many attempts, had at last revealed the whereabout of Adelaide. “Dear Dr. Harris,” he had written. “Think of the poorhouse.”
The doctor fumbled in his pockets. “Here, son,” he said. “Take this down to the poorhouse with my compliments.”
He gave the dazed Harris a handful of silver, crumpled up the letter and trudged upstairs to the nursery. Harris stared after him in an agony of rage and disbelief. There were tears in his eyes. Everything seemed against him, even his own father.
He left the house and slammed the door behind him as if he would shake his home to the ground. Though Bostock was ever a great comfort to him, he was glad that his friend was not at his side. Harris doubted whether he could have restrained himself from blaming Bostock for the horrible failure of the scheme. Bostock had pushed the letter so unnecessarily hard that if the back door had been open it would most likely have gone clean through the house. There was no doubt that everything now rested on Harris’s shoulders, and he felt they were cracking.
Bitterly he counted up the money his distraught father had given him: nineteen shillings. In the old days, such a sum would have filled him with wonderment and joy. But now it weighed him down. He walked on toward the poorhouse while the sun, sinking in an irony of crimson, orange and gold, served only to deepen the private night of his despair.
He would have to give the money to the poorhouse. His father might meet Mr. Bonney, the keeper, at any time and mention it. But on the other hand, so large a sum as nineteen shillings would be sure to startle Mr. Bonney into mentioning it of his own accord. Then the affair of the letter would be bound to come out, and then everything else.
Harris moaned. Then he frowned. Then he half-smiled. Why hand over all the nineteen shillings? What was wrong with five? He paused and completed his smile. He rubbed his hands together. Mr. Bonney would accept five shillings gratefully and not think twice about it. Harris nodded shrewdly. All problems, however great, yielded to a little thought. Five from nineteen left fourteen shillings. A handsome sum. Harris brooded. Quite by chance he seemed to have hit on a remarkable way of making money. When the affair of Adelaide was cleared up, he and Bostock might work on a grander scale . . .
“Good evening, my young friend.”
Harris almost jumped out of his skin. The hateful Mr. Raven, who had been taking the evening air outside the Old Ship, suddenly accosted him.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” said the inquiry agent apologetically. “You must have been quite lost in thoughts. Were I a rich man, ha-ha! I’d offer you a penny for them.”
Harris smiled feebly.
“Come, let me guess. A young lady perhaps?” Mr. Raven gazed slyly down at his boot. “Are you on your way to a tryst?”
Harris laughed lightly. “Just to the poorhouse, sir. My pa asked me to give them some charity money.” Harris was honest enough to be truthful when he didn’t see that it could do any harm. “A very charitable man, my pa.”
“Very,” agreed Mr. Raven, and waved the boy on his way. He watched him disappear into the poorhouse, then shook his head and returned to the frontage of the Old Ship where he set about wondering if there was a space left for the poorhouse keeper in the frightful web of which Mr. Brett was the center and Adelaide Harris no more than a single, unimportant thread.
After a few minutes the brilliance of the setting sun reflecting on the sea distracted him and irritated his sensitive eyes, so he went to ta
ke his brandy and water in the gloom of the back parlor. His heart was heavy. The more he considered the complexity of the affair he was engaged upon, the more depressed and disgusted he became with the vileness of mankind.
Mr. Bonney, the poorhouse keeper, was away, but his wife, who liked to be called the matron, greeted Harris in his stead. “A real Christian,” she said as she pocketed the five shillings Harris gave her. “No matter what ‘is domination may be, I call ’im a real Christian and I’ll say so to ‘is face. And you’re a little one, Master H. God bless you—on be’alf of our five ’ungry mouths.”
Harris, after vainly peering over Mrs. Bonney’s high shoulder for a sight of Adelaide, bowed and withdrew. On the dark, narrow stairs, he passed the wet nurse who, smelling of gin, was on her way to do her duty by the foundlings. She looked at Harris sharply, shrugged her sturdy shoulders and continued on her way, leaving Harris to meditate on the irony of the same milk feeding both Adelaide and the alien baby in her place.
Upstairs, Mrs. Bonney waited for the wet nurse to settle herself down before going across to the Old Ship. Five shillings was a largish sum to hand over to her husband without subtraction. Two and sixpence would be more than enough, and very nice too for the poor little mites. Which left a further two shillings and sixpence for brandy which was altogether healthier and more genteel than gin.
“Evening, Mrs. Bonney,” said the landlord affably. “And how’s them sinful brats of your’n?”
“It ill be’oves a publican to talk of sin,” said Mrs. Bonney with dignity. “A large brandy, if you please, and a half of gin to cool it down.”
The landlord smiled. He was too sensible a man to take offense at anything save a bad debt. He dispensed Mrs. Bonney’s brandy and gin and took her money.
“From the charity bag, ma’am?” he murmured with a good-natured wink. “Ah well, them poor mites wouldn’t have much use for strong waters, eh?”
“A decent Christian,” said Mrs. Bonney, tasting her brandy, “don’t mock the unfortunates of this world.” Then she settled down and was much surprised and gratified to find herself admired by a gentle-looking stranger who suffered from the inconvenience of a clubfoot.
“You look after the poorhouse, ma’am?”
Mrs. Bonney nodded. “In a manner of speaking. I’m the matron.”
“Godly work,” said Mr. Raven.
“A vessel of charity,” said Mrs. Bonney, cooling her brandy with a mouthful of gin.
“Charity,” said Mr. Raven wistfully. “How little there is in the world.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Bonney thoughtfully. “It comes and goes.”
“Now that lad I saw calling on you just now—Master Harris, wasn’t it?” said Mr. Raven earnestly. “Do you often receive charity from the young?”
Mrs. Bonney looked at him sharply. “That were from ’is pa, sir,” she said carefully. “And it were private. For Mr. Bonney. Nothing to do with charity.” She had no intention of letting the stranger imagine she spent charity money on herself. She had a position to keep up. Being matron, she felt she ought to be above suspicion.
“A private—er—donation, then?” murmured the inquiry agent, almost to himself.
“Call it what you like,” said Mrs. Bonney, becoming suddenly aloof. “It were something between Mister Bonney and Doctor H. of which I am totally ignorant as God is my witness.”
“Indeed, indeed,” said Mr. Raven, and gave such a smile that Mrs. Bonney was chilled to the bone and wondered who or what she had inadvertently betrayed. “Pray to God it ain’t you, Mister Bonney,” she whispered. She did not know that in her aloofness she had betrayed not her husband but herself. A space had just been found for her . . .
Twelve
ONCE AGAIN MR. Brett had failed to tell Tizzy Alexander that he loved her madly and could not see his way clear to living without her. He had arrived back at the school from his successful visit to Dr. Harris still full of confidence in his powers, to discover that Tizzy had been waiting in the empty classroom for all of fifteen minutes. His mood being high and feeling his personality to be equal to anything, he’d put on an air of negligent gallantry and made a joke of his lateness. Unluckily Tizzy, who was somewhat on edge on account of the coming duel and her own responsibility for it, had not thought it funny to have been kept waiting and so was distinctly cool. Whereupon Mr. Brett made a further error of judgment by attempting to explain, a shade too carefully, what had kept him.
“It is of no importance,” she’d said, not listening. “I understand quite well that many matters must come before me. You don’t have to find excuses, sir. It’s perfectly all right with me if you choose to meet someone else in the town. These things happen, you know. Only I abhor excuses, so please don’t trouble yourself. After all, when all’s said and done, I know I’m only the arithmetic master’s daughter!”
With that she’d opened her book, fixed her shining eyes upon it—and Mr. Brett’s soaring spirits had dipped. The words of love he’d so dearly prepared were once again wrapped up and put away in his heart’s bottom drawer for some more propitious occasion. He fixed his mind on ancient history and tried to sail off into that golden time, but something warned him that Tizzy was in a different boat, so to speak, and from time to time, pupil and master glanced at each other with sad, puzzled eyes.
After the lesson he’d left the classroom in a mood of angry gloom, and collided with Major Alexander, at whom he stared with absentminded savagery.
“To me son,” mumbled the Major, awkwardly. He was holding a letter and was sure Mr. Brett had seen it and read the address. It was the very letter in which the arrangements for Mr. Brett’s dismissal were mentioned and the Major’s son invited to hasten to fill his place. Consequently the Major was particularly anxious not to invite interest by appearing too furtive about it. “Setting me affairs in order, y’know,” he explained, staring uneasily at Mr. Brett’s clenched fists. “Saturday. If I should fall, and all that . . . Sentimental nonsense, of course, but one never knows. Last farewells, eh?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . Saturday,” muttered Mr. Brett, and hurried on his way.
For several moments the Major remained, staring after him. He had never seen Brett look so angry and he could not help wondering if somehow he’d got an inkling of the private discussion with Dr. Bunnion.
He shook his head. He didn’t see how that was possible. If Brett had really suspected anything the Major felt sure that he’d have been rude enough to mention it. The trouble was, the Major was too sensitive a man. People didn’t realize how easily their chance expressions affected him, and he had so large a conscience that there was always something on it.
For the sake of his peace of mind he decided to postpone the sending of the letter until the following morning. He kept it under his pillow for the night. Next morning, after breakfast, he handed it, firmly sealed, to his wife for prompt dispatch.
Mrs. Alexander, large, fair and sad, read her husband’s letter with a sigh that stretched from first word to last. Then she replaced the seal with a spot of melted tallow—an accomplishment she had come by in her years with the Major—and called for Tizzy to take the letter down to the town for the post.
When her daughter had gone, Mrs. Alexander frowned and her eyes glimmered with tears. So, she thought bitterly, it’s all arranged. Herr Brett is to go, and Adam is to come. What an exchange! And so soon! On Saturday, even. She blinked, then straightened her ample shoulders and went into Tizzy’s room where, with rapid hands, she set about rummaging the shifts and petticoats to see what needed mending.
Tizzy, brightly pretty in her yellow spotted muslin and flower embroidered cap, went down into the town like a butterfly. There was always a coachman or two in the yard of the Old Ship who’d carry a letter to Southwark to oblige a girl looking like Tizzy.
It was now nearly a month since Adam Alexander had been waiting at Southwark after leaving the monastery at Basingstoke at the abbot’s request. “Burn me!” had shou
ted the Major’s son, passionate for martyrdom, for the young man was something of a firebrand, having inherited his father’s temperament. “Why don’t you burn me at the stake, then?” To which the abbot had wearily replied, “I’d be glad to, young man, but I rather fancy you’re too wet to make a worthwhile blaze.” So Adam had shaken his fist at the abbot and the dust of the cloisters from his sandaled feet and made his way to Southwark where he languished till his father should find him another situation.
Tizzy handed the letter to an ancient coachman and rewarded him with a shilling and a smile in place of the kiss he’d asked. Then, with the smile still about her—for to be asked for a kiss is a marvelous curver of the lips—she left the yard in time to meet with Ralph Bunnion, who was on his way into the Old Ship’s back parlor.
Aroused by Tizzy’s beauty and tortured by the memory of what it had brought him to, Ralph halted. “It’s all your fault!” he snarled. “When blood flows on Saturday, it’ll be on your conscience forever! I hope you’re satisfied.” Then he said, “Murderess!” and stalked into the inn in a blaze of peach velvet and a flash of love-in-idleness.
Tizzy stared after him, her eyes stinging with tears at the injustice of it all. For a moment she wished with all her heart that Ralph Bunnion would indeed be slain on Saturday, but she repented instantly as that would have made her father a murderer. So did she wish her father killed instead? Again she recoiled from the thought. She began to walk away with downcast eyes, and the ancient coachman who’d asked her for a kiss, gazed after her and fancied she was limping, as if she’d stumbled and been bruised against one of the world’s sharp corners.
“Charming young woman,” murmured a stranger with a clubfoot.
“A lass and a half,” agreed the coachman. “Sweet as a lane in May.”
The inquiry agent smiled. Quite reasonably he had taken Tizzy to be Maggie Hemp, as there seemed no purpose in introducing a newcomer to the scheme at this late stage. The threat of blood on Saturday and the terrible taunt of “murderess” had further confirmed him. Cautiously he twisted his neck to read the name on the letter the coachman still held. “Adam Alexander.” Mr. Raven’s brain reeled. Was there no end to the complexity of the affair? Were its hideous tentacles reaching out to yet another victim?
The Strange Affair of Adelaide Harris Page 9