by Annie Haynes
“You are a very naughty man, I am afraid. But how did you know where to find me? The bag did not tell you that.”
The man’s smile broadened into a laugh, then he pretended to flinch from her feigned wrath. “It is to be a real confession then. I looked in the bag and found a card-case; I ventured a little further and found a card with your name and this address. Then it was all plain sailing. I couldn’t want a better excuse than I had got. So you see I came along the first minute I had.”
“I don’t know what to say to you,” Mrs. Jimmy said, glancing at him coyly. “You deserve a good scolding, you know.”
“I shall not mind that if you give it me,” the man said daringly. “But now, Mrs. Burslem, I have a favour to ask you.”
“Well, I don’t say I shall grant it,” Mrs. Jimmy said, bridling. “But first, you have got an unfair advantage; you call me Mrs. Burslem and Mrs. Jimmy as pat, as you please, but I haven’t got a notion what your name is.”
“My name,” said the man, “why, William, called by my friends Billy – or sometimes Sweet William. You can take your choice.”
“Now! Now!” Mrs. Jimmy aimed another blow at his arm. “This is worse than ever. You know what I mean right enough. Your surname of course.”
“And that is William too,” the man said, laughing. “Leastways, Williams. William Evan Williams is my name, to be exact. Welsh, my mother was, though I am English enough, being born in Camden Town. Still I always say ‘Good old Wales.’ Many a pleasant holiday I have spent at Harlech, which is just close to my mother’s old home.”
“That is real interesting,” Mrs. Jimmy remarked, without apparently having any intention of reciprocating these autobiographical details. “But now, Mr. Williams, I feel that you deserve some reward for bringing my bag back. It would have broken my heart to lose it. What do you say to a cocktail?”
“A cocktail is never unacceptable,” Mr. Williams said accommodatingly. “Not that I want any reward. At least I have got all the reward I want.” His glance pointed his words.
Mrs. Jimmy would have blushed had such a feat been possible. She got up and rang the bell. A maid appeared – not the one who had been there on Pamela’s visit. Mrs. Jimmy never kept her domestics long. She brought in a tray with two long, narrow tumblers, a dish of ice and seltzer-water siphon. Evidently Mrs. Jimmy possessed the morning cocktail habit. From a little cupboard containing a tantalus she produced the other ingredients.
“Do you like to take your drinks through a straw?” she asked abruptly. “I hate it myself – making a fool of your mouth I call it – but lots of folks seem to like it.”
Mr. Williams tossed off the contents of his glass at a swallow.
“I agree with you, Mrs. Burslem. That was something like a cocktail! You are the sort that knows how to make a man comfortable. A real home-maker, that’s what you are. And do you know what you are beginning to make me do?”
Mrs. Jimmy shook her head. “Unless you want another cocktail?” she suggested.
“Well, no! My head won’t stand too many, and that’s a fact. No, Mrs. Burslem, what you are making me do is break the tenth commandment!”
“The tenth commandment – I wonder what that is,” Mrs. Jimmy said with a broad smile that displayed all her purchased teeth. “I believe I learnt all the commandments when I was a kiddie, but I have forgotten all about them now. And it is no good looking them up, for they tell me everything will be altered in the new Prayer Book.”
“Well, you look this up anyhow. The tenth, don’t you forget. And if they do alter it I can tell you I shall not mind,” Mr. Williams said daringly. “Is that a portrait of Mr. Burslem I see over there?” pointing to a large photograph in a frame of beaten copper that stood on the mantelshelf.
Mrs. Jimmy nodded. “Though it isn’t much like him as he has been of late years. That was taken about the time we were married.”
“Was it now?” Mr. Williams got up and looked at it more closely. “A good-looking young man too. Not much like his brother Sir John, was he? Though there is a certain resemblance.”
“Did you know Sir John?” Mrs. Jimmy inquired with a slight change of tone.
“Lord bless you, no!” Mr. Williams said easily. “But the papers were full of likenesses of him a little time back. Terrible thing that was – I little thought what an interest I should be taking before long in one member of the family when I was reading about the Burslem case in the papers.”
Mrs. Jimmy smiled, then her face clouded over.
“I was hoping folks were beginning to forget that. There has not been anything about it for so long.”
“Everybody suspected Lady Burslem knew more than she said,” Mr. Williams rejoined. “But some people went rather beyond the limit in hinting at her. At least so it seemed to me.”
“It was disgraceful!” Mrs. Jimmy said, drawing herself up. “Poor Sophie! She had nothing to do with her husband’s death, I am certain. She is the only one of the family I like, to tell the truth.”
“Oh, well, if you like her, then I am sure I should,” Mr. Williams said. “But, if she doesn’t know anything about her husband’s death, who does?”
Mrs. Jimmy tossed her head. “I don’t know, and, what’s more, I don’t care. I never liked John Burslem, and he is not much loss anyway. But if you want to talk about John Burslem and his death you mustn’t come to me, Mr. Williams. You will understand it is not a subject that we Burslems are fond of discussing.”
“Me want to discuss it!” exclaimed Mr. Williams. “Bless you! Murders and such-like do not interest me a bit. It was only to hear you talk that I mentioned the subject. Anything else would do as well as long as you took to it. And all the while I was only putting off time in order to gather up my courage, for above all things I want to ask you to do me a favour.”
“Well, you may be sure I will if I can.” Mrs. Jimmy settled herself back in her seat and crossed her legs, exhibiting a generous amount of nude silk stocking, clothing a pair of remarkably thick legs and two fat knees. “I shouldn’t have taken you to be the sort of man who would be backward at asking for what you wanted,” she added with a coy glance as she drew her cigarette-case to him. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks!” He took one and held it unlighted in his hand. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t call me a shy man naturally. But when one thinks one may lose even the little one has got by asking for more, why, it is enough to make any man pause.”
“Bless my life, what is the man aiming at?” ejaculated Mrs. Jimmy, taking her cigarette out of her mouth and staring at him. “What is it you want – a subscription? Because if it is, get it off your chest and be done with it. I hate hints!”
“Subscription!” echoed Mr. Williams scornfully. “Do I look like the sort of man who would come and ask you for a subscription? No, the favour I want you to grant is this. I have bought a new car – there she is outside. Now, I want you to come and look at her. You told me the other night you were interested in cars – then if you think well enough of her, I want you to come for a spin in her and have lunch somewhere in the country. I can’t tell you how grateful I should be if you would.”
“Why, of course I will, and jolly glad to get the chance,” said Mrs. Jimmy jumping up. “Give me a minute and I’ll be ready. Go on with the cigarettes and there is the Daily Wire to look at while I am away.”
“Oh, I shall not want that,” Mr. Williams rejoined, with a knowing glance. “I shall have plenty to think about.”
Well pleased, Mrs. Jimmy waved her hand to him as she hurried across to the stairs. She was distinctly too canny to go out to look at the car without a hat. Hair, however carefully treated, was apt to show traces of its treatment in the sunlight, she knew.
Left alone, Mr. Williams’s demeanour underwent a remarkable change. He hurried over to the portrait of James Burslem and gazed at it intently. Then he turned swiftly to the drawing-room, of which he could catch a glimpse through the half-open door. Untidy it was, as Mrs. Jimmy’s drawing-
room was sure to be; the quick eye of the man looking in wandered over the disorder, glanced sharply at the various knick-knacks scattered about everywhere, finally focused themselves on a framed photograph standing on a distant table. In a couple of strides he was across the room and had caught up the photograph; that of a couple – a very smiling man and woman, both from their pose and expression suggesting the idea that they were accustomed to facing the camera.
“Mr. and Mrs. James Burslem photographed on their wedding morn,” he murmured.
Then he slipped the photograph, frame and all, into his pocket and tiptoed hurriedly back to the hall, where sounds of Mrs. Jimmy on the landing above could plainly be heard now. He went to the door and opened it. The fresh morning air and the warm sunshine were a welcome change after the scented, vitiated atmosphere of Mrs. Jimmy’s rooms. But the lady was coming downstairs now and he turned to meet her.
“Now, what do you think of my car?” he said as they went down the steps. “I don’t pretend to be an expert motorist like yourself, but I think she is a real beauty.”
Truth to tell, Mrs. Jimmy’s opinion of the car was by no means as high as its owner’s; but she was inclined to think a few rides in it with that same owner would be very pleasant, so she temporized.
“One cannot tell much about it until one has really tried it,” she said. “I should like to drive it myself.”
“So you shall when once we are out of the traffic,” the man promised her. “But I can’t let you touch the wheel until we are well out of London. Precious things must be taken care of, you know.” He glanced at her in almost an affectionate manner as he helped her in and settled the rug round her. “It is a bit cold when we meet the wind,” he remarked, as he deftly transferred the purloined photograph to the back locker.
Mrs. Jimmy laughed as he got in beside her. Mr. Williams was an adept at the style of conversation she understood and enjoyed. She had put on her fur coat and a black pull-on hat which came low down over her forehead, but on the small portion of her countenance which could be seen she had bestowed a liberal portion of paint and powder. Mr. Williams found her in an accommodating mood. They took a long drive into Kent, lunching at an old inn on the borders of Sussex, and when at last they turned homeward they were chatting together like old friends.
“At last!” Mrs. Jimmy said as they drove up to her door. “My maid will have been thinking I am lost.”
“I wish you were – with me,” Mr. Williams said tenderly. “To-day has been just like a bit of heaven to me. I am a lonesome sort of man and don’t make friends easily. When will you take pity on me and come out with me again?”
“Oh, any day you like,” Mrs. Jimmy said carelessly. “We have had a ripping time. And you talk of being lonely – what about me, a poor little grass widow?”
“A grass widow!” Mr. Williams echoed. “You will be cross with me if I say what is in my mind, Mrs. Burslem. But I think I shall risk it.”
“I should,” said Mrs. Jimmy comfortingly. “It would take a deal to make me angry with you – after to-day.”
“It is this, then,” Mr. Williams said boldly, “I wish there was not that little word ‘grass’ before the widow.”
Mrs. Jimmy grew very red. “What is the good of wishing that?”
“No good at all!” the man said, in a disconsolate tone. “That is the worst of it.”
CHAPTER 17
“This looks just the sort of place for lunch,’ Charles Standard said, slowing down. “What do you think now?”
“Ripping,” Pamela said laconically.
She was looking her best to-day in a long motoring coat over a petunia two-piece frock, and with a smart hat of the same colour pulled low over her eyes, her sunny hair just peeped out at the sides, and her bright colour, enhanced by the wind, flickered under Stanyard’s ardent gaze.
The two were great friends. Amongst their own immediate circle their engagement was an acknowledged fact, but Pamela had refused to allow it to be announced until at least six months after her father’s death. It was but a very few weeks to wait now; Stanyard, however, had a very great difficulty in concealing his impatience. Lady Burslem was still abroad, Pamela had written to her, to inform her of her impending engagement, not to ask her consent, since the girl absolutely refused to recognize her authority as guardian. She had received a vaguely worded note in reply expressing neither approval nor regret, but speaking of the engagement as a thing that must stand over until the writer returned to England and had time to look into things.
Anything better calculated to make Pamela take the matter into her own hands could hardly have been devised. The girl, with' Wilmer as her maid, was staying in Harker Place with some old friends of her father’s – the Hetherington Smiths.
Mr. Hetherington Smith was in some sense a partner in Burslem’s, since he had a small interest in the mine in South Africa, which had laid the foundation of Sir John Burslem’s fortune. Mrs. Hetherington Smith was Pamela’s godmother, and since her father’s second marriage the girl had spent much of her time with her. Being wealthy and childless Mrs. Hetherington Smith had become almost as fond of the girl as if she had been her own child, and she had eagerly welcomed the prospect of a long visit from Pamela while Lady Burslem was recuperating abroad.
Mrs. Hetherington Smith had not, however, reckoned on Sir Charles Stanyard’s almost constant presence in her house, and had at first been inclined to resent his friendship with Pamela. But her prejudice, born of gossip and the common feeling against Stanyard, had melted under the influence of the young man’s charm and pleasant manners. Her faith in Stanyard’s entire innocence of any complicity in Sir John Burslem’s death was now as strong as Pamela’s own, and she was looking forward to the announcement of their engagement almost as eagerly as the young couple themselves.
One thing Pamela had never been able to bring herself to do, and that was even to simulate an interest in Stanyard’s racing-stable. She shrank from even the mention of Perlyon. Stanyard, for his part, was very patient with her. He never mentioned his stables or his horses to her, and only through the papers did she learn that he had a couple of “leppers” in training for the Grand National.
Pamela never rode now, but she had developed a passion for motoring. She was looking out for a car of her own, and in the meantime Stanyard was giving her lessons. To-day they had been for a long drive into Berkshire, keeping, as far as possible, from the beaten track. Stanyard had seen an old, black-raftered farmhouse back from the road. A card on the gate had borne the legend, “Meals for Motorists – Parking Ground.” Inside, it did not quite come up to their expectations. The rooms were charmingly arranged, but it was evidently more of a regular resort for motorists than Stanyard had imagined. However, he managed to get a private room on the first floor with a little balcony overlooking the veranda, on which a party was already ensconced eating with great relish enormous platefuls of ham and eggs.
Stanyard ordered omelettes and coffee, with cream and whatever fruit was available. While she was waiting, Pamela took a chair by the open window and lighted a cigarette. Down below some of the party were smoking too. Scraps of their conversation floated up to the girl above. At first Pamela took little notice. The long drive in the keen air had tired her, and Stanyard, after ordering their meal, had gone back to the car to look at a screw that he fancied was defective. Suddenly the sound of her own name roused the girl’s attention.
“Pamela Burslem! She must be a queer sort of girl. They say she is as good as engaged to Stanyard, the sporting baronet, and goodness knows how much he had to do with her father’s death.”
“That may be all talk!” The second speaker was a man. “I thought Stanyard was in love with Lady Burslem and that that was supposed to be the motive –”
“Oh, that’s all off!” the first speaker rejoined. “The Gwenders have been staying in Spain and they were motoring from Madrid to some place far away among the mountains, when their car broke down and they had to put up in some li
ttle, unknown hostelry. There, to their amazement, they came across Lady Burslem, who was staying there with her maid and secretary. They knew her fairly well, meeting her in society and so on, so they made tracks for her at once. But her ladyship was not having any. She showed them plainly enough that she wanted to be alone. But the point of this is, that the people there all thought she was going to marry the secretary.”
“Good Lord!” the man interjected. “Do you suppose she knew him before, or has she picked him up over there?”
“That is just what the Gwenders wondered. He was a foreigner, they said. Couldn’t speak a word of English. An Argentine, they thought. Jolly outside sort of rotter, old Gwender said. Anyway, I’m surprised at Sophie Burslem’s taste.”
“Never was over particular I should say, chucking over a decent chap like Stanyard.”
“Oh, well, it was Burslem’s money she was after. Jolly sick she must have been of the old beggar too. But if she helped him off for the sake of this ancient Argentine, I should say it will be a case of out of the frying-pan into the fire.”
“I say, old thing, you will have to be careful or you will be getting pulled up for libel,” the man’s voice said jokingly, yet with a note of warning in it.
The woman laughed carelessly. “Not a bit of it. I guess Sophie Burslem would have something to do if she brought libel actions against everybody who talks about her. Besides, I’m only telling you what Olga Gwender told me. It was taken as an accepted thing among the people with whom they were staying. She said that the landlady at the hotel told her that the pretty English senora, who was a heretic, was going to marry the big, ugly Argentino, who was an atheist.”
“Is that so? Oh. By Jove! I suppose it is just my fancy, because we have been talking about him, but I really thought I saw Stanyard coming up that way from the parking ground just then.”
“What is that you say?” a third voice interrupted. “Thought you saw Stanyard. Dare say you did. He and Miss Burslem drove up half an hour ago; I believe they are lunching in the room over this.”