The Girl in the Cellar (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 32)

by Patricia Wentworth

  When Jim received the letter he read it through more than enough times to know it by heart. She said, ‘I meant to write to him but I couldn’t.’ Why on earth couldn’t she? She could tell him anything – anything. Why could she tell Miss Silver what she couldn’t tell him? He went on reading. ‘He will be so very angry with me for coming away, and I don’t think I can tell him why. I must think it well over first.’ And what did she mean by that? What had she got to think over? ‘Will you please tell him not to worry.’ Not to worry – ‘He was so very good to me. It would be a bad return if I did anything that would make things difficult for him.’ What was at the back of all this? And she had left her bag with the money in it. That was the real puzzle. You can’t get anywhere without money, but she had got to London. How? How had she gone? He could imagine ways, but they infuriated him. And where was she now? In London? She might be, or she might not.

  He rang Miss Silver up.

  ‘Jim Fancourt speaking. You haven’t heard any more?’

  ‘No, Mr Fancourt. I will let you know as soon as I do.’

  ‘You think you will hear?’

  ‘I am sure I shall.’

  Her quiet, firm voice was reassuring. He said, ‘I don’t know where to look for her – I don’t know what to do.’

  Miss Silver said, ‘There is nothing you can do except wait.’

  That’s the damnable thing.’

  ‘I will ring you up as soon as I hear anything.’

  THIRTY

  ON THE THIRD day of her search for work Anne was obliged to contend with discouragement. People wanted to know what you had been doing, and she didn’t know herself. She began to wonder whether she couldn’t make up something, but really when you came to look into it there was altogether too much to make up. If it had only been her name – if she could only produce one person who could speak for her— She thought of Miss Silver, at first to feel that she couldn’t ask her for a reference, but with each successive day to come nearer and nearer to trying her. ‘But she doesn’t really know anything about me.’ And then, hard on that, ‘Nobody does—’ The thought took her into a sort of giddy spin. For a moment she was all alone with no one to help her. No one who knew who she was or where she was. It was like being giddy, only much, much worse. She was out in the street when it happened to her, and she had to stand still and let the crowd go by. She groped her way to a railing and stood there till her head cleared. She must never let herself think like that again. She would remember – some day. And meanwhile she must go on—

  And then someone was speaking to her. A voice said, ‘Are you feeling ill?’ and she lifted her head and saw a girl of about her own age looking at her with concern.

  ‘No, I’m all right – now.’

  The girl said in a deep, strong voice. ‘You don’t look all right to me. Come in and have a cup of tea. There’s a shop just here.’

  Anne felt a curious relief. Here was someone else making a decision for her. The girl slipped a hand in a rather shabby dark brown glove inside her arm, and she turned and went with her no more than a dozen steps along the pavement, where they turned, and another dozen steps. There was an interval when she really didn’t know what was happening, and then her head cleared and she lifted it. She was sitting on a bench with a little marble-topped table in front of her. Her head was almost down upon her hands. The girl was speaking to her.

  ‘Are you better? I should keep my head down a little longer. Can you take cocoa – because that’s what I’ve ordered. You look as if it would do you good. Don’t bother to answer if it’s all right.’

  Anne felt relaxed and relieved. A curious indifference seemed to have come over her. She didn’t know it, but she was almost at the end of her strength. This girl could take over for a time. There was nothing she herself could do.

  When the cocoa came she drank it and came slowly back. The girl was looking at her with frank curiosity.

  ‘What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’

  Anne said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I don’t know who I am.’

  The girl pursed her lips and whistled.

  ‘I say, that’s bad! You don’t really mean that, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘But how?’

  Anne found herself telling her. Not all of it. Not about the girl at the foot of the steps. She began where she got on to the bus and met Miss Silver. When she got to Chantreys, she found herself in difficulties. She had to leave Jim out. Curiously enough, that hurt. It hurt so much that she didn’t know how to do it. She stopped, and looked at the girl. She didn’t know what a hurt, shocked look it was, but the girl said quickly, ‘Just leave out anything you don’t want to say.’

  Anne’s look melted in gratitude.

  ‘It’s difficult—’ she said under her breath.

  The girl said quickly, ‘Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to.’

  ‘I – I had to come away again – in the middle of the night. It – it wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘A girl took me in till the early morning. Then I came up to town.’

  The round eyes gave her a searching look.

  ‘Had you anywhere to go?’

  Anne shook her head.

  The girl said, ‘Now you must eat something. Those are quite plain buns.’ And, when Anne had helped herself, ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I found a room. It took nearly all day.’

  The girl frowned.

  ‘You don’t sound enthusiastic’

  Anne gave her the sort of smile which breaks into tears before you know where you are. She felt it going that way and bit her lip quickly.

  ‘It isn’t the sort of room that anyone could feel enthusiastic about. It was – dirty. So was the landlady.’

  The girl frowned more deeply.

  ‘Don’t you know anyone?’

  Anne said, ‘Miss Silver.’

  The girl clapped her hands together.

  ‘Is that the same Miss Silver I know about? She’s better than dozens of references!’

  Anne said, ‘15 Montague Mansions,’ and the girl clapped her hands again and burst out laughing.

  ‘That’s the one – the one and only! I’ve only met her once, but she did wonderful things for a cousin of mine, Evelyn Baring, so you see we’re introduced, all quite properly. My name is Janet Wells. And yours is Anne – Anne what?’

  The colour rose in Anne’s face.

  ‘I’ve been calling myself Anne Fancourt. I think the Anne part of it is right. The other isn’t, but one must have a surname.’

  Janet frowned.

  ‘Look here, you can’t stay in that horrid dirty room you’re in. I’ll come with you and get your things, and if you’d like to – well, there’s a room in the house we’re in. One of the girls went away last week, and the room wasn’t let when I came out this morning. So if you’d like—’

  Anne put out a hand and half drew it back again. She didn’t know how her eyes lighted up.

  You don’t know anything about me,’ she said in a shaking voice. ‘Miss Silver doesn’t either – not really – only since she met me.’

  Janet Wells took the hand, held it firmly for a moment, patted it, and let it go again.

  ‘You’d do as much for me, I expect,’ she said in a plain matter-of-fact sort of voice.

  THIRTY-ONE

  IT IS MUCH easier to be firm for somebody else than for oneself. Mrs Pink was all set to be disagreeable, and Anne hadn’t come out of feeling dazed. It was easier to give way, to pay what she asked, and have done with it. But Janet Wells wasn’t having any. She said just what she thought and she stuck to it, and in the end they got away.

  When they were in a taxi with Anne’s suitcase, Janet turned to her.

  ‘That’s a nasty woman. You ought never to have gone there.’

  ‘I know. I’d been up half the night, and everywhere I went they seem
ed to be full. I – I must seem dreadfully stupid. I – I’m not always like this – I’m not really.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about anything.’

  A sense of being looked after came comfortingly in upon Anne. She leaned back in the taxi and closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure whether she dropped off or not, she thought perhaps she had. But all of a sudden she came to with a start. The taxi had pulled up, and Janet’s hand was on her knee.

  ‘Anne – we’re here.’

  She was still a little dazed as she paid the fare and followed Janet up the front steps of a big house in a square. There were names on brass plates. The hall had linoleum down, and there was linoleum on the stairs. Janet put a hand on the handle of the suitcase and said, ‘Come along up. We’re on the second floor. The room you can have is one floor higher up, but you can share our sitting-room if you like. Here, what’s the matter? Are you faint again?’

  Anne was leaning against the banisters. She wasn’t holding the bag any more. It had slipped from her hand. Janet let go of the handle and put a firm, strong arm round her.

  ‘Sit down. Put your head down. I’ll get you up when you’re better. There’s no hurry.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ The words were only just audible. She heard the sound of running steps and fainted away.

  When she came to she was on a sofa in what had been the drawing-room of the house, or the front half of it. There were voices in the room. One of them was saying, ‘Well, I think you’re mad.’ To which Janet answered, ‘All right, so I’m mad. And that’s the way I am.’

  Anne turned on to her side and saw the two girls over by the window. As she moved, Janet detached herself and came towards her.

  ‘Are you better? Don’t try and talk until you’ve had something to eat. You’ve been starving yourself. You’re going to have soup and custard pudding, and there’s an awfully good cheese— Oh, this is my cousin Lizabet.’

  Anne began, ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry. You must think—’ Her voice failed her.

  Lizabet had remained turned away. Now she swung round.

  ‘I want to say—’ she began, and Janet interrupted her. ‘You don’t want to say anything at all!’

  Anne was conscious of a sharp disagreement. She struggled up on her elbow and said, ‘Oh!’ She looked at Lizabet and Lizabet looked at her. Anne didn’t know herself what she looked like. If she had thought about it she would have said untidy – dishevelled. That wasn’t what came into Janet’s mind, but defenceless – innocent. Anne went on looking at Lizabet as one does in those defenceless moments. ‘Why – why?’ And then, ‘How lovely she is.’

  Lizabet said, ‘Why do you look at me like that?’

  A little faint colour came into Anne’s face. She said, ‘I’m sorry. You’re so pretty.’

  Lizabet turned colour. Janet said, ‘Yes, isn’t she? Come along, Lizabet, and help me with her lunch.’

  Lizabet went.

  Anne pulled herself up on the sofa and looked about her. She felt weak and free. She felt that Janet was a tower of strength. And Lizabet – what was she – an enemy? The words came into her mind and she pushed them out again. Why should there be an enemy here?

  The room was large and finely proportioned. There was a blue tea-set on the mantelpiece. Spode, bleu de roi, lovely and bright. It came to her then that she could recognize a sort of china, and yet she didn’t know her own name. And she hadn’t the slightest doubt about the china – she knew it. Did that mean that she had lived with a set like that, known it intimately? She couldn’t answer that at all.

  She went on looking about the room. There were rugs on the floor – oriental rugs, small and good. They didn’t touch each other, and the space between showed polished parquet. There were books – a great many books. There was a dear little walnut writing-table. And over the mantelpiece, where it reflected the blue china, there was a lovely walnut mirror.

  She had got back to the mirror, when the door opened and Janet came in with a bowl of thick soup in her hand. Lizabet behind her with bread and butter. She had a rather wary expression. Her eyes darted at Anne and withdrew. At the sight of the food Anne realized how hungry she was. She had come out in the morning with nothing but a cup of tea. Everything in that house had tasted dirty, and the milk was sour. The soup smelled delicious. There was meat in it, and little suet balls. She took it all, Janet sitting beside her, talking just enough to make her feel at home. Lizabet had gone away, but she came back presently with the custard and the cheese. Every time she came into the room she looked at Anne in the same curious way. Anne thought she was like a spoiled child not accustomed to being crossed. She didn’t want to cross her. She only wanted to find a room and to find work. It wouldn’t do for her to come here and make trouble for Janet.

  And then Lizabet was putting the custard pudding in front of her and saying in a curious pettish voice, ‘Janet says I have been rude. I’m sorry.’

  There was something touching about it. Anne found herself putting out her hand and saying, ‘Don’t think of it. I’m not staying. Your cousin was so kind – but I’m not staying really.’

  Janet was behind her. She didn’t move. Anne thought she looked upset, for Lizabet began to twist her fingers.

  ‘You mustn’t go away because of me. Janet will be so cross if you do.’ She was like a little girl. Anne wondered how old she was.

  Janet came forward, and Lizabet ran out of the room. Janet said, ‘Don’t take any notice of her. She’s been spoilt. She’s my cousin, you know, and she had her home with my grandfather. He let her do anything she liked. When he died she had to come to me. I can manage her, but not if everyone else gives in to her. Do you feel better? Would you like to see your room? It’s one flight farther up. Lizabet’s up there too. Yours is the other front room.’

  ‘But—’ Anne checked herself, coloured, and said, ‘Who does the house belong to? Perhaps she won’t like to take me.’

  ‘The house belongs to me. That is, it belonged to my parents. When they died, and everything got so expensive, I realized that something would have to be done. Our old cook Mrs Bingham took the basement. Her husband is a watchman in a jeweller’s shop, so he’s out all night. There are two girls on the top floor, you and Lizabet on the next, and an old lady on the two ground floors. I am in the back half of this room. Another cousin of mine has been in the room you are to have, but she went out yesterday. She doesn’t like town, so she’s going down into Dorset to keep chickens with a friend. A frightful life, I should say, but it takes all sorts to make the world, and she hates town. Funny, isn’t it?’

  It came on Anne that she didn’t know whether it was funny or not. It came to her that she didn’t know what her life had been. She put the tray down carefully and got up to follow Janet to the room she was to have.

  THIRTY-TWO

  JIM FANCOURT WALKED into Miss Silver’s sitting-room. He could hardly wait for Emma Meadows to shut the door behind him, or for Miss Silver to shake hands, before he said, ‘I’ve been thinking—’

  Miss Silver gave a faint reproving cough.

  ‘Will you not sit down?’

  ‘Thank you, I’d rather stand.’

  Miss Silver seated herself. She took her knitting-bag from the small table beside her chair and began to knit. Jim Fancourt stood before the hearth. When she had knitted about a row and a half, he came out with something between a groan and a cough.

  ‘You haven’t heard any more?’

  Miss Silver was not prepared to tell an untruth. She said, ‘I have heard something, but not from Anne herself.’

  He had been turned half away from her, looking down into the fire. He was round in a flash.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said, Mr Fancourt. I have some news of Anne, but not from herself. I rang up your rooms, but you had already left. I felt sure that you would be very much relieved to have such satisfactory news.’

  He didn’t know how dreadfully af
raid he had been until she said that Anne was safe. He didn’t know how much his face gave away. He had to hear it again, to have it underlined.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I do not think that I can tell you that. She is with the cousin of a girl whom I was able to help – a very nice steady person. She is quite safe, Mr Fancourt. You may be perfectly sure of that.’

  ‘You won’t tell me where she is?’

  Miss Silver laid down her knitting.

  ‘I can make allowances for your impatience, but I will ask you to consider the circumstances. At the present moment Anne’s desire is to be left alone. She is perfectly safe, and you will do well to have regard to her wishes.’

  He bit his lip.

  ‘That is all very well—’

  ‘Yes, I think that it is. I think that you will achieve more by giving her a little time to, shall we say, miss you.’

  ‘Do you think she will?’

  ‘I think so, if you do not alarm her by trying to force a decision upon her before she is prepared to make one.’

  ‘What decision do you mean?’

  ‘Think for a minute, Mr Fancourt. Anne is not your wife – that has become quite clear.’

  ‘I never said she was.’

  ‘No. But with her memory gone, and in your absence, she was presented to your family in that light. Then you arrived, and I suppose that was a shock to her.’

  ‘I suppose it was.’

  They were both talking so seriously that to neither of them did it seem at all strange that it should be put like that. Miss Silver leaned forward.

  ‘Do you not see, Mr Fancourt, how it was? I do not know what your feelings were for the poor girl who was murdered. I do not know whether the form of marriage you went through with her would have held water. But all that is now beside the point. I think you must see that Anne will need a little time to think before any decision is taken as to your relationship. She is in the position of having no past. I do not think that she can decide upon her future until she knows what that past may have been. The best thing for her, and the thing most likely to clear up her thoughts, is a period of rest. What she needs is a time when nothing happens, a time in which she can feel secure and, if it works out that way, regain her memory.’