All at once she knew that she was cold. She would have liked to feel the air, but she was cold. She got a coat and pulled it close about her, but there was a cold shaking inside her which went on. She had broken her marriage because of Damaris Forrest’s necklace. Because Charles had stolen it. Because she couldn’t be married to a thief. But now Lewis Brading had it back. Charles must have given it back. Perhaps Charles had put it back, and Lewis had never known. That didn’t make any difference. It was what she knew herself that mattered — it was what she knew about Charles. And Charles was a thief. Slowly, painfully, straining, she could listen to Lilias saying, ‘He’s always done it, but it’s never been found out. We’ve managed — we’ve put things back. It broke his mother’s heart — it’s breaking mine. That’s why I wouldn’t marry him. He oughtn’t to have married anyone. I hoped you’d never know.’ She had to strain to catch the words because they came on such low, broken breath. She had had to strain — there, in the half-light, three years ago, with Lilias turned away from her and saying, ‘He’s always done it.’
Looking back at that young, crude Stacy was like looking at someone else. You didn’t live with a thief. Charles was a thief — she couldn’t go on living with Charles. She couldn’t see him — she couldn’t tell him — she couldn’t talk about it ever. Even to think about it made her hot with shame. She must get away — she must get away at once. The thing that wanted to stay was her body. You could make your body do what you told it to do. She could make her hand take a piece of paper and write on it, ‘I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I oughtn’t to have married you. I can’t talk about it. Don’t try to make me come back. I can’t.’
He had tried all the same. First an angry, ‘What’s all this nonsense?’, and so on through, ‘At least let us meet and talk it out,’ to the last, ‘Very well — just as you like. I won’t ask you again. We have to wait three years for a divorce.’
She had hidden herself and she hadn’t answered any of the letters — not really answered them, because all she had done was to write those first lines over again and say, ‘I can’t ever come back.’ She had always known that she couldn’t hold out if she and Charles were face to face. If he looked at her, if he touched her, she would give way — and despise herself and him for ever. You can’t live with a thief.
She sat there and looked at herself, and Charles, and Lilias. There was something in each of them that was a kind of bedrock self, the thing which couldn’t be changed. She supposed that everyone had a bedrock self. When you lived with people you found out what it was. Suppose, when you got down to it, there was no rock but only shifting sand. That was what had happened with Charles... Lilias — She wasn’t sure... Perhaps her bedrock was the way she felt about Charles, because she had always known he was a thief, and she went on loving him. Stacy couldn’t do that. All at once she felt mean and small.
What was the use of thinking about it? It was all over now. She wouldn’t have stayed here five minutes if it hadn’t been all quite over. Stop thinking, stop analysing. It’s all past, it’s all gone, it’s all dead. Charles’ face rose before her so vividly that she very nearly cried out. His eyes smiled...
She sat a long time after that. Presently, as the room darkened, her thoughts tangled, drifted a little way and came back, drifted farther and took her into a dream. She didn’t know what it was, or how long it held her, but she woke from it with a startled sense of fear. For a moment she did not know where she was. The room was dark, and she was cold. She shivered in her coat. She had fallen asleep by the window, and she had had a frightening dream, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Fear had come back with her, but not memory.
She stood up and went to look out of the window, and just as she got there the light came on in the glass passage below. She stood staring at it. It hadn’t been on when she waked. Everything was quite dark. If the light had been on, she would have seen the reflection here in her room. She stepped back to the chair from which she had risen. The glow from the passage followed her. It threw the pattern of the window across the floor, it touched her breast, her hands, her feet. It hadn’t been there when she woke up.
With the thought in her mind that someone had come from the annexe to the house, she made her way to the door. It was not a reasoning thought, but it took hold of her. She opened the door, and saw the dark passage run towards a dimly lighted landing. Without stopping to think she went in the direction of the light. If anyone came from the annexe he must pass along the passage under this one. He must come out into the hall — unless he turned into the billiard-room or into Lewis Brading’s study.
She was on the landing before she thought about the study, and all at once she felt she was making a fool of herself. Anyone coming from the annexe would be Lewis, or James Moberly. Either of them could have business in the study. She frowned, standing with her hand on the rail which guarded the landing and looking down over it into the hall. A light burned there too. The stairs came up in an easy curve. If James Moberly or Lewis Brading had business in the house, why should the light in the glass passage be turned off and then on again? There was only one answer to that, because there was only one reason for turning off the light — the person using the passage didn’t want to be seen. But only Lewis or James could turn the light off and turn it on again.
She had got as far as that, when she heard a sound from below. Someone was walking along the passage from the glass door. She looked down over the railing and saw Hester Constantine come into the hall. Just for a moment Stacy did not recognise her. She was in her nightdress, with bare feet in slippers and her hair loose on her shoulders. She held a gorgeous embroidered shawl about her. The colours of bright birds and flowers threw back the light, a scarlet fringe dripped to the floor.
Stacy stared incredulously. The shawl, of course, was Myra’s. But this woman with the loosened hair and the dreaming face, was she really Hester? She was at any rate ten years younger, and twenty years better looking. She had a slow smile, and the air of a woman who is content.
Stacy ran back to her room in a hurry and shut the door.
FIFTEEN
THE MORNING CAME UP clear and fine — a blue sky, a blue sea, and the promise of heat. There was nothing to show that the day would be any different from any other day — an August Friday with the weather set fair and a warm week-end to follow. The club was going to be full. The bathing would be perfect, there would be tennis on the hard courts — all the normal routine of a holiday place in the height of a holiday season.
Stacy lay between sleeping and waking, with an idle wash of thoughts that came and went like drifting seaweed. Emeralds and Maida’s red hair. Lilias with the pinched look she had last night. Charles going over to sit by Maida — walking home with her. Lewis like something grey that had come out from under a stone — she didn’t like Lewis Brading any more than he liked her. Hester Constantine wrapped close in Myra’s brilliant shawl...
She roused herself with an effort, sat up, pushed back her hair, and began to think about the miniature. Myra would give her a sitting at ten. Yesterday’s sitting seemed a long time ago. She had to fight against the feeling that the miniature didn’t matter as much as it had mattered yesterday. It had been crowded out, pushed into the background, swamped by all these people and what they were thinking and feeling. For three years she had pushed people out of her life. She had shut herself up from them, not cared what they said or did, and turned all her thoughts, her interests, her energies into the channel of work. And now all the things she had shut out were flooding back again. They mattered again. The cold indifferent feeling was for her work, which no longer seemed to matter at all.
But everything which happened at Warne House on that Friday was going to matter. Every single smallest thing, every detail; the exact moment at which everyone came and went; what they did, said, wore; whether they spoke to anyone; whether they wrote or received a letter; whether they telephoned — it was all to matter, down to the last shade of expression,
down to the last turn of the head and tone of the voice. But Stacy wasn’t to know that. Perhaps none of them knew it yet, though even that was to be in doubt.
It was not to be in dispute that Lewis Brading walked down to the entrance gate and took the nine-thirty bus which goes to Ledstow and then on for the seven straight miles into Ledlington. At a quarter past ten he entered his bank, asked to see the manager, and in his presence and that of a clerk put his signature to the will-form which left Maida Robinson his sole legatee. He was very pleasant and smiling over the business — laughed, and said he might soon be asking for congratulations.
‘But at the moment it is all confidential. This is just a stop-gap will in case of accidents.’ He laughed again. ‘I shall be going up to see my solicitors. The museum will still get part of my Collection. It is just that — well, one never knows what is going to happen.’
The manager was genial, the whole affair very pleasant indeed.
Lewis Brading took the next bus back. At half past eleven he was in his study with James Moberly. Part of their conversation was overheard. At five minutes past twelve he went over to the annexe and put through a couple of calls. At one o’clock he came into the dining-room for lunch, and about half an hour later returned to the annexe, stopping for a moment by the table at which James Moberly was lunching alone to say, ‘You’d better take the afternoon off. I shan’t want you.’ This was overheard by half a dozen people, but nobody seems to have heard Mr. Moberly’s reply. He may not have considered that there was anything to say. He was observed to be looking tired and pale, and it was noticed that he hardly touched his lunch.
At about half past one he returned to the annexe, following Lewis Brading after an interval of only a few minutes. There is no means of knowing whether they met, or what, if anything, passed between them there. James Moberly was to state on oath that they did not meet, that he only went back to the annexe to fetch a book, and that he returned without delay to the club and went into the study, where he spent the rest of the afternoon.
When lunch has been cleared at Warne House the staff are for the most part off duty, though there is always someone in the office and a waiter can be summoned. That afternoon was hot. Miss Sagge, in the office, wouldn’t have minded changing places with Mrs. Constantine who, as everyone knew, just went to bed after lunch and slept like a baby. Good thing she did too, as far as the daughters were concerned. Only chance they ever got. Lady Minstrell went off with a book into the garden. It would be nice in that old summer-house up the hill. Her favourite place, that was. You could see over the sea for miles and a nice cool breeze off the water. The white dress with its large black spots went out of the shaded hall and took the bright glare of the sun outside. Very good clothes Lady Minstrell had — kind of quiet but with a sort of look about them you never got unless you paid the earth.
Edna Snagge had a nice amiable disposition. She didn’t envy other people, but she would have liked to be going to meet her boy friend tonight in a dress like that — only perhaps the spots navy blue, because you’re only young once and black is a bit dull when you are twenty-two and nobody’s dead.
Mr. and Mrs. Brown went through the hall carrying towels and bathing things. Miss Snagge could have done with a dip herself — not too soon after lunch but round about half past three. Mrs. Brown waved and said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to be coming too?’ which was rubbing it in. Not meant of course — nothing catty about Mrs. Brown, everyone knew that. It was just her way, like wearing clothes too young for her and a bit on the tight side. Even on a girl that pink linen would be rather too much of a good thing. Funny how the wrong people always went for those strong pinks. Now a nice navy—
Her thought was broken off by the entrance of Mrs. Robinson and that Major Constable who was staying at Saltings. The red hair dazzled in the sun which left the smooth, creamy skin untouched. Maida came into the hall looking as cool and fresh as if she had just stepped in from a shady garden instead of having walked along the hot cliff path from Saltings. It was Major Constable who showed the heat — regularly flushed with it, he was. It made his eyes look ever so blue. Miss Snagge admired him. Nice friendly way with him. No airs, but he didn’t get fresh either like some did.
Maida Robinson came up to the open front of the office.
‘I’m just going through to the annexe to see Mr. Brading. Be an angel and give him a ring on the house-telephone. I don’t want to stand and cook in that glass passage whilst he comes to open the door. Mr. Moberly’s out, isn’t he?’
Edna Snagge said,
‘I didn’t see him go.’
‘Oh, well, just give Mr. Brading a ring.’ She turned to Major Constable. ‘What will you do, Jack? I shan’t be long. I don’t know what Lewis wanted to see me about.’
Jack Constable laughed.
‘Doesn’t he always want to see you?’
She made a face at him.
‘Don’t be silly! Anyhow I shall tell him we’re going to play tennis and then bathe. He doesn’t do either, so he can’t complain. I’ll run in and find out what he wants and be back again. I can tell him I’ll dine with him — that will keep him quiet.’
They spoke with a careless indifference to Edna Snagge. She might have been a chair, or a table, or a fly on the wall. Bad manners, she called it. If hers hadn’t been any better, she’d have tossed her head as she picked up the house-telephone and rang the annexe.
Maida Robinson said, ‘Well, so long,’ and went off round the corner in her white dress.
Mr. Brading answered the telephone. That meant Mr. Moberly was off somewhere, Mr. Brading wouldn’t bother if his secretary was there. She said,
‘I’m speaking from the office, Mr. Brading. Mrs. Robinson asked me to give you a ring. She’s just going through to the annexe.’
She hung up and looked out into the hall. Major Constable had picked up a paper and was standing there reading it. She thought if she was Maida Robinson, money or no money, she would let Mr. Brading go when there were chaps like that about. Served in the Commandos, someone said. Horrible what they went through, getting themselves dropped out of planes and all. Even just to think of it made you feel as if you hadn’t got any insides. Major Constable must be ever so brave. And of course Major Forrest was too. Shame about him being divorced like that — she didn’t know how any girl could. There was something about him made you feel you’d do anything he asked you. Funny, her coming down here and calling herself Miss Mainwaring again, and their seeming quite friendly. Well, you never could tell with these divorces, could you? There was always something that didn’t come out.
Major Constable put down his paper, walked along the hall to where he could see right past the study door into the glass passage, and then walked back again. This time he came up to the office window and said in a laughing voice.
‘When you say you won’t be a moment, how long do you generally mean?’
Miss Snagge said demurely,
‘It would all depend.’
‘On what?’
‘On who I was talking to.’
He laughed again.
‘Well, suppose you were talking to Mr. Brading.’
She put a little distance into her voice.
‘Mr. Brading doesn’t talk to the staff.’
He glanced up at the office clock, one of those big old wall-clocks which keep such excellent time.
‘Well, she’s been gone seven minutes. That’s long enough to say you’re going to play tennis and come away again, isn’t it?’
As he spoke, Maida came round the corner of the passage. She looked down at her wrist and said,
‘Oh, Jack, I’ve left my bag. Run back and get it! I’ll ring Lewis and tell him you’re coming.’
He laughed, humped a shoulder, and went off saying,
‘Why do women always leave their bags?’
Maida laughed too.
‘We do, don’t we?’ she said to Edna Snagge. ‘But then we don’t have all the pockets that men do. If I
was plastered all over with the things like they are, I wouldn’t have to have a bag.’ She gave her husky laugh. ‘Oh, well, I suppose I should. I couldn’t very well tuck away a bathing-dress, could I? It would spoil the figure a bit, to say nothing of being damned wet.’
As she spoke she came through into the office.
‘I just want to speak to Mr. Brading. Is this the house-telephone? What do I do? Oh, I think I know. It’s this way, isn’t it?... Hullo, hullo!... I say, have I really got it right? Nothing’s happening... Oh, yes, here he comes... Hullo, hullo! Is that you, Lewis?... Look, darling, I left my bag... Yes — on the table. Jack is on his way to get it. Just go and let him in... Oh, has he? Did I? How awful of me! Don't be too angry — I won’t do it again... Now, Lewis — really!... No, I don’t think you ought to talk to me like that. Anyone might make a mistake — I expect you’ve done it yourself... No, I suppose you wouldn’t, but when you were my age... Oh, Lewis, don’t. I didn’t mean that. Is Jack there? Because I don’t think it’s very nice of you to scold me if he’s listening... Oh, he’s started back? Then I’d better hang up. Well, so long, darling. Be good. See you tonight.’
She hung up the receiver and turned to Edna with a face of mock horror. ‘He didn’t have to let him in, because I’d left the door open! I let myself out because Lewis was busy, and I suppose I didn’t bang the wretched thing hard enough or didn’t bang it in the right way. My gosh— I hope he’s forgotten about it by this evening! It’s the world’s worst crime, you know. Could you hear what he said? Did you think he sounded really angry? We shall have a merry evening if he is!’
Edna Snagge shook her head.
‘I couldn’t hear any words, only the voice.’
Maida laughed and shrugged.
‘What’s the odds?’ she said. ‘Men get angry a lot more than we do — no idea of hiding it either. Anyhow I don’t think Lewis was really angry. He just wants me to be properly impressed with the sacredness of the Collection. Have you seen it?’
Mr. Brading's Collection Page 9