As this thought occurred to me, he pushed open the gate and walked furtively along the semicircular drive. Then he looked up at my window, saw me, or at any rate the light in my room, turned round abruptly and walked away down the hill to the right. He was a big fellow, wearing a shabby cloth cap – clearly no footman. A tramp, I supposed, whose courage had suddenly failed him.
A few moments later the gate opened again. This time it was a policeman. He went straight to the front door, and I heard the bell ring. There was a pause, and then a knock on my door.
‘If you please, sir, there’s a constable would like to speak to you.’
‘Oh, Lord! Have I to go down, George?’
‘No, sir, I can bring him up here, if you prefer.’
‘It might be better, I think.’
Whatever can this be, I wondered, as the butler left me. But it was only a formal summons to attend Monday’s inquest on Mrs Harley.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I will be there. Good night.’
‘Good night, sir.’
*
I continued to sit by the window, in meditation. Christmas, Christmas in Hampstead! All round the Heath, in the Garden Suburb, in the little houses packed around the Finchley Road, there would be paper-chains in the windows, Chinese lanterns, balls of coloured glass and Christmas trees. I pictured a thousand small drawing-rooms, filled with smart ‘modern’ furniture, the walls distempered a pale grey or a pale yellow, ornamented it might be with a ribbon-like frieze below the picture moulding, the mantelpiece covered with calendars and cards, the pictures – Medici prints probably, or minute etchings in black frames – each bearing a twig of holly. By every hearth two or three children would be playing with new toys, tearing the coloured ends of crackers into shreds, sucking whistles, blowing out balloons and bursting them. Father would have his feet up on the sofa. Like me, he had probably eaten too much in the middle of the day. Mother would be sitting in the easy chair, wearing a pink paper-cap, supervising the games, telling a story, and wondering how soon she ought to see about supper – for, of course, the maid had the afternoon and evening off. ‘Next year,’ said Father, knocking his pipe against the fender, ‘you won’t see the road. The macrocarpa should grow another two feet.’ ‘No, Jimmy, don’t do that, dear. Yes, we shall be quite private then.’ ‘Surely,’ she thought, ‘in another year we shall have blue curtains like the Smiths over the way! And Tommy will be eight, and go to school and come home every day with his little satchel. Now can it be that Eleanor forgot the cheese?’
I became quite lost in the picture of suburban domesticity I was outlining for myself, and felt strangely drawn to those unknown lives by which I was surrounded – lives which seemed, falsely enough, so much simpler and easier than my own. Dear lives which make no mark upon the world . . .
As this thought lingered in my mind, there were steps in the porch, which lay a little to the left of my window, and a man and a woman, Dixon and Amabel, walked round the longer arc of the drive which led past the shrubbery to the garage.
‘Now, darling,’ I heard her saying, ‘throw it all off and for God’s sake forget about it. We’re going to enjoy ourselves to-night, anyhow. Besides, there’s nothing . . .’
Her voice tailed off in the distance. In a few minutes I heard the sound of a car starting up in the garage, and shortly afterwards a smart little two-seater, which I recognised as Amabel’s car, passed the front gate and went up towards West Heath Road. Encouraged, perhaps, by the thought that the two most difficult members of the party were safely off the premises, I felt it was my duty to emerge from retirement again. Why could I not be more like Clarence – at least, the Clarence of that morning – and see what I could do for others? A word of sympathy to Harley might not come amiss. There was Sheila to entertain. Clarence himself might like to talk to me, and Mr Quisberg might be down at last, with news of Harrington Cobalts.
I went downstairs.
VIII. The Next Alarm
Christmas Day – 6.30 p.m.
I went first to the terrace room, but it was empty. Much as I should have liked to settle down there with a book, I had resolved to be sociable, and went upstairs again to the drawing-room, where I found Mrs Quisberg, Sheila and Harley. Poor Harley looked pale and shrunken, like a little animal that has been ill-treated by its master. When he saw me, he rose, as if to offer me his chair. ‘Oh, please don’t,’ I said, and gave him a look which I hope conveyed some of the sympathy I felt. ‘I’ve been eating and sleeping so much,’ I went on to the company at large, ‘that I feel quite dazed. I don’t think you can ever have had a lazier guest. You must make me do some work now. What can I do? Shall I teach Sheila to knit, or would you all like to teach me to play ping-pong with my left hand?’
Such an ordeal, fortunately, was not in store, and we managed to talk very pleasantly for about half an hour, when Mr Quisberg came in, suddenly and noiselessly, as was his wont. We shook hands.
‘A very happy Christmas, Warren,’ he said. ‘De greeting is belated but sincere. Now, as I expect you are hoping for a Christmas box from me, perhaps de company will let me give it you in my study. But it is a very small Christmas box indeed, I fear.’
He went to the door and opened it for me. I was surprised at finding him so calm, though he was very pale and had the air of one who has been through a painful experience.
As soon as he had shut the study door, he came straight to the subject – Harrington Cobalts. The meeting with G—— and his associates had duly taken place at the Carlton, and there was no doubt that G—— was eager to buy the company. He had actually made an offer at a higher price than any at which the shares had yet changed hands. ‘Higher than forty-two and nine?’ I asked timidly, remembering that I had bought myself some shares at that high figure.
‘Higher even dan dat ridiculous price,’ he answered with a smile. However, my fortune was not yet made, it seemed; for the syndicate of which Quisberg was a member had rejected the offer, and were holding out for considerably more. Whether G—— would give more, depended, said my host, on the success or failure of certain continental negotiations. There was every reason to suppose that they would be successful, and for this reason I was advised to ‘hang on’, even if there was a set-back when the Stock Exchange reopened. ‘Dis advice,’ he said, ‘is your Christmas box. I have, of course, told you more than I should, dough as you have de privilege of being one of my official brokers, I have de right to tell you my secrets. Hang on! You will get decidedly more dan your forty-two and ninepence!’ He smiled broadly, delighting, I believe, in the thought that I, a stockbroker, had paid more for the shares than he had.
‘And now, my boy,’ he said, ‘we may as well rejoin de ladies. I have been distressed, very distressed, you will believe me, at de deat(h) of de moder of my poor little secretary. It has shaken me severely – here.’ (He touched his heart.) ‘I have been ill all de afternoon. But now I am better, and hope to eat a happy Christmas supper wid you all. Let us now go.’
We went. I was a little disappointed at my host’s financial news, though it promised well. He, at least, seemed in no way disturbed at the delay in the final settlement of the business. Indeed, I could not remember ever having seen him less flustered or apprehensive. Quite clearly his agitation of the morning had nothing to do with Harrington Cobalts. In the drawing-room we found Dr Green. He too seemed to have fully recovered from the strain of the morning, and was in most excellent vein, twinkling and joking and radiating in all directions his satisfaction at being alive. I even felt that such good humour was perhaps out of place while Harley was with us. He did once move towards the door, as if to escape from us, but Mrs Quisberg, who was watching him the whole time, drew him back. ‘No, dear,’ I heard her saying, ‘you mustn’t be alone again. We’re better company for you than your thoughts. Come and sit down by me.’
At half past seven came supper. Amabel and Dixon, we were told, had gone to dine with some friends and would not be back till late. I sat on Mrs Quisb
erg’s right and Harley on her left, while Sheila and Dr Green were respectively on the right and left of Mr Quisberg, who was at the other end of the table. Between Sheila and Harley there was a vacant place which Clarence should have had. Mr Quisberg asked once, rather testily, where he was, and poor Mrs Quisberg had to apologise vaguely in reply. ‘I haven’t an idea,’ she said, in an aside to me, ‘what he can be doing. But with Clarence, one never knows!’
*
After coffee had been served, Mrs Quisberg and her daughter went upstairs, leaving me with my host, Dr Green and Harley. The two older men were still in excellent humour, and fell to bantering me on the score of my professional aptitudes. During the conversation Quisberg openly referred to the Harrington Cobalts which I had bought on his instructions for Dr Green, and the doctor pretended to feel great nervousness over his commitments. ‘Look here, Malcolm,’ he said, ‘I rely on you. Here’s Axel teaching me to gamble, and putting all my hard-earned savings into some wild-cat scheme or other. Why don’t you stop him? You should treat me as you treat your tenderest widow, and feed me exclusively with your excellent British government securities. I most strongly disapprove of these fly-by-night concerns. Harrington Cobalts indeed! Where’s Harrington and what is Cobalt, anyway? Answer me that!’
‘Harrington,’ I said vaguely, ‘is somewhere in Canada, and cobalt is a metal – perhaps I should say, a mineral, which is used for – for the manufacture of paint, I believe, among other things.’
The doctor snorted. ‘Now, Axel, you try,’ he said.
Quisberg, however, rose to the occasion, and delivered quite a sound serio-comic lecture on the mine, its situation and potentialities. No doubt, I thought, the doctor knows all there is to be known about cobalt, but it certainly seems as if, in this venture at least, he is merely following Quisberg’s lead. I was destined, later, to reconsider this view, but although it was quite possible that the whole conversation that evening was a piece of buffoonery, I had a strong impression that, for once, Quisberg was really sure of himself, and on his own ground, while the doctor was little more than an interested spectator. As for Harley, he had been plied liberally with claret and a very good brandy, and sat listening to us with a dazed acquiescence. I was a little relieved, on his account, however, when we went upstairs; for the other two seemed to have forgotten all about him, and I feared that either of them might by a careless remark reopen the morning’s wound.
In the drawing-room, of course, Mrs Quisberg took charge at once, and suggested that we should all play ‘Word Making and Word Taking’ – a game which Sheila had bought, intending to give it to Cyril. It promised to be a pleasant way of spending the evening, and with the exception of Quisberg we all seated ourselves round a big card-table in front of the fire, and did our best to concentrate. Quisberg declaring that he could not even spell words of one letter in English, sat in an armchair and read the paper. Harley and Sheila were both expert at the game, and Dr Green showed great adroitness for a foreigner. He was always devising unusual words, many of them with a slight flavour of impropriety. Mrs Quisberg just sat and smiled and failed to score a single point. Really, I thought, we are getting through the evening fairly well, all things considered. It was difficult to realise that only that morning I had found the body of Harley’s mother outside my bedroom window. The nervous apprehension, which had troubled me almost ever since my arrival, became blunted. Surely, apart from the inquest on Monday, the worst was over. It was indeed delightful to enjoy a lessening of the tension, the feeling of backwash into calm waters.
‘Now, Harley,’ said Sheila suddenly, ‘I’m surprised you missed that one.’
(The whole family called him Harley, I noticed, as if it were his Christian name.)
I looked at him, and saw that, despite a poor little smile, he was on the verge of tears. Feeling that I could not possibly bear to see him break down, I was about to make some excuse for leaving the room when, luckily, Mrs Quisberg, who had been watching him most of the time, gave an imitation of a yawn, got up, and said, ‘It’s all very well for you young ones, but I’m much too tired to go on to-night with such a difficult game. I can see both Harley and Malcolm are tired too. Don’t you think, dear, you should say good night now?’
Her question was addressed to Harley, not to me.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he answered, ‘I think I will.’
‘Come along then,’ she said. ‘No, don’t bother. The others will put the game away.’
And for the second time that day she led him out of the room, with such a natural kindness that one could not be surprised.
‘I must say,’ I said to Sheila, ‘I do admire your mother. She’s wonderful.’
We talked together and put the game away, while Dr Green drew up a chair by Quisberg. Then the door opened, and I looked up expecting to see Mrs Quisberg returning, but it was George, the butler, red in the face and somewhat flustered.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, and coughed importantly.
Quisberg looked round nervously.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a – an individual come, sir, who wishes to see you on important business.’
Quisberg rose, and walked towards the butler.
‘One of de police?’
‘Oh no, sir. At least, he’s in plain clothes.’
‘What name did he give?’
‘He gave no name, sir. He said his business was important and very private.’
‘Did you tell dis person dat I am not in de habit of interviewing dose wid whom I am not acquainted – least of all at such an hour?’
‘I did indicate as much, sir. But the – er – person in question was so very urgent in his manner, so to speak, sir, that I thought it best not to order him off the premises. If you would just see him for a moment, yourself, sir, no doubt you could judge . . .’
At this point, Dr Green intervened.
‘It’s probably some touting rogue, Axel. I shouldn’t go down if I were you.’
‘He said, sir,’ resumed George (who was clearly rather afraid of being called upon to eject the visitor), ‘that he had some information which you ought to have.’
Quisberg rose and followed the butler to the door.
‘Very well, I’ll go. No, Martin, I’m all right.’
As he went out of the room, he looked perplexed, rather than harassed. Sheila took up a book and began to read, while the doctor paced up and down by the fire. I made some remark to him, I remember, but he only barked at me in reply. Then suddenly I realised that Christmas Day was almost over, without my having produced the present I had bought for Mrs Quisberg, and resolved to have it ready for her when she came down again. I do not know if this resolve was prompted by a wish to overhear any conversation that might be taking place in the hall, but I certainly paused for a moment by the stairs, on my way across the landing. I heard nothing, however, and after reaching my bedroom, began to look for the parcel containing the rather horrible little green leather blotter, which was all that my feeble imagination had suggested as a gift for my hostess. It had evidently been put away somewhere by Edwins, and I had to search slowly with my left hand, through two or three drawers, before I came upon it. Then, as I was about to go back to the drawing-room, I suddenly heard voices below me – loud voices, seemingly raised in anger. Of course, I recollected, my room was immediately over Quisberg’s study, where, no doubt, he was having his interview. A great desire came over me to hear what the two men were saying, and I longed for an excuse to loiter in the hall. I was afraid, and perhaps ashamed, to do this, but, finding that the sounds from below came most loudly when I stood near the fireplace, I knelt down by the hearth-rug and put my ear to the wall by the chimney, which was presumably carrying the noise. The voices were now clearer, and I could distinguish Quisberg’s tones from the other man’s, but even so I could not gather a single word of the conversation, till all at once I caught the following sentence, uttered by the stranger – ‘Why, in that light, I saw it as plain as
I can see you!’ This was followed by a low murmuring, and the sound of a bell ringing.
A feeling of guilt overcame me. ‘Do they realise,’ I wondered, ‘that I’m just above?’ Should I go back to the drawing-room with my parcel and present it as if nothing had happened? But there were heavy steps on the stairs, steps on the landing and the sound of a door (probably the drawing-room door) opening, more steps and then the voice of Dr Green, speaking quite close to my door:
‘All right, George. If Madam asks where we are, say we are unfortunately involved in a business talk.’
He spoke loudly; for George was rather deaf. Then, after a pause, the door of the room below me opened and shut, and I heard the two voices again, reinforced by the doctor’s. But this time they were calmer and, realising that, short of another outburst, I should gather nothing more, I took up my parcel and crossed the landing to the drawing-room.
It was empty, except for Sheila, who was still reading.
‘Dr Green’s been called downstairs to join Daddy,’ she said, barely looking up. ‘Where have you been?’
Really, I thought, how tactless the child is!
‘I’ve been looking for the Christmas present I wanted to give your mother,’ I answered. ‘I’m ashamed to say the wretched little thing I got for you must have been left behind. I can’t find it anywhere among my things.’
Crime at Christmas Page 7