and bright with an anxiety which he found unnerving. "Now you're not to worry," he tried to reassure her. "Her father and I . . . have had a disagreement, that's all."
"My dear!"
"Nothing that can't be mended. However, it makes it a bit awkward for me to call on her just now."
"Can I help? Suppose I ask her here, dearest?"
He could have embraced her. "The very thing," he agreed happily. "It seems a bit steep on you, that's all, dragging you in. You see they may have told her things at home . . . about this Massingham business—that I'm stubborn and interfering . . . and a Radical and so on."
Flo let out the beginning of a wail at this last horrific notion, but stifled it and responded loyally, even passionately: "I'm sure you're not."
"Well it doesn't matter if it's only what they think. But we must find out what Georgina thinks. I'm hoping that she'll see my side of it."
"I know she will."
"And if she sees it . . . well, they'll listen to her, Flo."
"Of course."
"Just as they did over that business of the engagement. Remember how to begin with they wouldn't hear of it? Yes, if you could only in some way manage to get her to come here. . . ."
The very next afternoon at three she was in the drawing-room at 'The Laurels', splendid in royal blue serge trimmed with fur, with fur hat and muff, the most elegant and eligible young woman in Smedwick. He only wished he could have been at ease with her. All the way from the office, out of which he had been prised by an urgent note from home, he had been reminding himself of his past neglect and wondering about the future, yet somehow neither bad conscience nor the problem of Colonel Deverel seemed quite at the root of the anxiety with which he watched her seat herself in one of the tall rosewood chairs and saw Flo slip tactfully out 'to make tea'.
"It's your father," he plunged in directly they were alone. "Of course, you've heard what happened. I tried for two whole days to see you. I didn't like to call, couldn't make any kind of contact until I hit on the idea of Flo—or rather Flo hit on it herself. Thank goodness you've come. I was so afraid you wouldn't. I thought you'd still be furious with me over that bazaar affair."
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"Oh, but I am. Quite furious."
He came up close to her and took her hand. "Dearest Georgina, you are so good to me and I haven't deserved it one bit. I've been so shamefully offhand."
"I know," she said, withdrawing it.
"And inattentive."
"So you have. And quite cruel and vexing to poor Papa. Aren't you ashamed of that?"
But he could see that far from being really angry with him and taking her own line in the old peremptory way, she was playing a game, uncertain how to treat him. He found it encouraging. "I'm ashamed of hurting you," he corrected her, getting possession of her hand again without much difficulty.
"And not Papa?"
"That's different."
"Why? Why did you have to quarrel with him? Surely you could have put things tactfully?"
"I tried."
"Or not have bothered him at all with it. You can't imagine the trouble you made for me. He even talked of ending our engagement. It's all nonsense, of course, and already he's beginning to come round. But you must give up these adventures of yours around the town."
There was a pause and then he repeated, "Adventures?" not really understanding.
"Isn't that the word? I'm sorry. This Massingham business. Anyway you must give it up."
He said slowly: "I'm afraid I can t do that."
"Why ever not?"
"I just can't, dearest, that's all."
He was looking at her unhappily, wondering how he could explain without using words like 'principle' and 'duty' which were smug and which she might be in no mood to understand. He had not, he reflected sadly, had much experience in refusing her things.
"But it's perverse," she berated him. "You must have some reason for preferring strangers, criminals to us. Papa says that those men you're worrying about aren't even clients."
"That's quite true."
"And that you're just stirring up the mud for notoriety's sake and to make trouble for everyone. I don't believe that." Her hand was
still in his and he felt its warm pressure against his own. "I said I knew you better. That however mistaken you might be you'd never act spitefully or out of mischief or do anything to hurt me."
"You know I wouldn't."
"Then why so perverse? You must see what you're doing by being so stubborn—that Papa will never consent to our marriage as things are. He's quite determined."
"But if I'm determined, that's wrong? Haven't I a right to an opinion?"
"Not to a foolish opinion," she burst out impatiently. "You are making yourself ridiculous with these enquiries in every hole and corner."
"I can't help that."
"But you are making us ridiculous too, and I won't have it, it's not to be borne. Papa is right: if this goes on we shall become a laughing stock in Smedwick, and you surely can't want that?"
"Of course not. And it won't happen if you'll only believe in me."
"I used to believe in you," she said, and suddenly she was leaning forward, almost in his arms, and he could see the charming curve of her neck and the lips very slightly parted as he remembered from earlier and gentler days. "I believed you loved me. I never thought that you'd refuse me anything that I really wished for. How can you be so cruel to me?"
He gazed at her, unable to put into words what it was he held by and must continue to hold if there was to be any respect and love between them.
"Because, Justin, it's a straight choice, you see. Either you love me . . ." Her lips brushed against his cheek and he could feel the warmth of her body close against him. "We could be married. We could be married quite soon and I'll never ask another thing of you, never, you shall have it your own way always. Shall it be that?"
He didn't answer, and suddenly she had started back, thrusting him away, her voice rising in a wail of incredulity like a child deprived of some greatly prized possession. "Why, I believe you've
As he trudged forlornly back to his office in the twilight under a sky heavy and ominous with snow he was still trying to take in what had happened. The break had come so bewilderingly at the very time when he had imagined that her natural impatience with him
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was giving way to kinder thoughts, but if he understood it at all he blamed himself for having failed her. He saw that he had expected too much and given too little. And he had explained nothing. His own deeply felt conviction that no one should accept dictation from another on a matter of principle had never been put to her at all, and it was with shame that he remembered how he had simply assumed she would be indifferent to such arguments and indeed to the idea that there was anything more at stake than the chance that people might find them ridiculous and laugh at them.
The impulse was strong to turn back, to find her again and say all the things he should have said—to say also that he loved her, which was the greatest omission of all. The stubbornness that had been one of the factors in driving them apart was acting now on the other side, to make him hold to the agreeably ordered world he had made for himself, in which Georgina had been the T>right particular star'. He did not come of a race that relinquished things easily.
But he did not turn back, and with every second the possibility of doing so receded. At first his reasoning was very practical. Enough had been said for one day. He must give her time for second thoughts. Only gradually, as he climbed the office stairs and sat himself down in the familiar chair, did the knowledge come to him that there was no point in going back because the positions they had taken up were utterly irreconcilable. And he was glad. He could hardly credit that this ending of all he had hoped for with Georgina should bring him nothing but relief, but that was what he began to feel with increasing certainty as the first flurries of snow
beat against the panes. No feelings of guilt were proof against it. He went to the window and looked out across the market-place to the fights in the shops and offices across the way, small beacons in the dusk through which the snowflakes were whirling, and he felt an extraordinary sense of release, as though some intolerable weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he was a free man again.
It was about five when he heard voices in the outer office. He rose from his desk and went towards the door, only a step or two at first, for to go nearer was to eavesdrop on his clerk, a crime only committed by very young solicitors in great despair of clients. Mr Rees's training had been explicit on this point, but as a fiercer flurry of sleet lashed up against the panes he forgot it. "I'll not can see 'im then?" a voice demanded. He had not heard it above twice before, but he recognised it; had perhaps recognised it some moments back when
he had first realised he had a client. Longford. There was no mistaking the vernacular, far broader than Sugden's quick and canny speech. And Miss Kelly presumably. The inseparables.
But when he opened the door he found only Longford, loutish in velveteens, standing by the clerk's desk like a big lad hauled up to the master for a thrashing. Not that it wouldn't be deserved, he thought, remembering the explosion of light and thunder in the darkness of the street, but he had too much curiosity to send him packing, no matter what Harris might think. "Come in if you wish," he said, leading the way into his room.
Seen at close quarters there was something different about the man: a kind of suppressed excitement that had not been there on those other occasions when Miss Kelly had been spokesman. It was like watching a wax model that had suddenly acquired a life of its own together with certain intentions and desires, though exactly what they might prove to be was not clear, and perhaps it was just as well.
He glanced quickly about him. Close to his right hand lay a bronze paperweight which he found himself regarding in an altogether new light, and in the hearth was a poker, but that was some distance off and only to be reached by turning his back on his client. Though by no means of a nervous nature, he could not fail to see that Mr Harris's advice to stick to the Tietter-class work' had a great deal to recommend it, but it was rather late to think of that with the man only a couple of yards off, one hand reaching into the flap pocket of his coat with a gesture like that of a conjurer about to produce some surprising object.
In fact it was an envelope.
Justin gazed at it, feeling more foolish than he had ever felt in his life before. He realised that only a blessed inability to act had prevented him from shouting for his clerk or bombarding a client with a paperweight. Visions of headlines in the Mercury flashed before his eyes, each more horrific than the last. What an ass he had been. There on the desk in front of him lay the envelope, fat, dog-eared and dirty with thumbmarks like so many other papers brought to him by clients of this kind; and there was Longford watching him with a puzzled expression, as well he might.
"My good man, what's this?" he managed to stammer out. "I mean, why bring it me?"
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Once he had spoken he felt better. After all, he had not actually done anything scandalous, only imagined it, and the habits of professional life were quick to reassert themselves and very comforting. What did the fellow want? That he should keep the envelope, ap-parentiy, and put it in a safe place, which seemed reasonable. But on the heels of this there followed a suggestion that Longford should return to the office that night to tell him something . . . something of mysterious importance.
"Is it about Massingham?" he asked, all his doubts returning with a rush.
A nod of the head.
"What could you have to tell me that you can't tell me now?"
No answer.
"I shall certainly not be here. The office will be shut."
Silence again.
"Do you understand? I shan't be here. Devil take it, man, haven't you a tongue in your head? And come to think of it, what would I be doing trusting you after the way you took a pot shot at me the other night?"
"That I niwer," he heard Longford say.
"Of course it was you. Someone saw you go haring off just after the shot was fired. You must be quite handy with a gun. Weren't you at Hannington the night poor Luke was killed?"
This time there was no doubt that the blow had gone home. 'He was there!' he thought with a thrill of triumph and expectancy, recognising at last the land of man he had to deal with—either the murderer of Luke or one of those who had stood by and seen the deed done. It was strange how the crime at Hannington kept cropping up as though related to his problem in some way.
"Where's Miss Kelly?" he demanded suddenly, as he put the envelope in the safe.
"Be 'ere t'night, sir. She said nine, sir, if that suits. Might be bringin' someone else, sir."
"You're wasting your time. I don't make appointments out of hours." He had not the slightest intention of walking into a trap at the call of such devious customers.
He let eight o'clock go by that night. But by half-past, in the silence of the drawing-room broken only by the rhythmic click of Flo's needles, he had become anxious about the safety of his files. The office faced the market-place where people might always be
passing, but there was a back way up an alley rejoicing in the name of Slipper's Lane, from which it would not be difficult for an enterprising man to break in. Admittedly it was hard to see why Longford should have advertised such an intention, if indeed he had one, but the idea of that night rendezvous was so challenging that he knew he would never rest till he had found out what lay behind it.
"Where are you going, dearest?" he heard Flo call as he was putting on his overcoat in the passage.
"Just off to see Lumley," he shouted back.
"At this hour? How thoughtless men are. Have you got your goloshes on?"
But he heard no more, for he had closed the door behind him and was out in the snow whose glistening whiteness he could see by the gaslight at the corner of the street. He felt his spirits rising. The fall was over; there was a bite in the air and the flakes were crisp under his feet, reminders of the magic world of childhood that had been often in his thoughts these last days. Ahead of him a light went out, then another, as the lamplighter came down towards him with his long pole in his hand, and in the market-place all was dark under a sky in which a few stars appeared beyond the wastes of cloud.
He drew into the doorway of the chemist's shop that faced his office across the square, and from this vantage point he could just make out the line of buildings on the other side, with one light high up in the attic of the newsagent's shop at Number 24. The silence was uncanny, as though the town were muffled in crepe, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when a whirring sound came out of the air and a clock began to strike nine.
As the last reverberations died away he slipped from his hiding-place and hurried across the square. He saw no one, heard nothing but the crunch of his footsteps in the snow. In his own doorway he turned and took out his key. The chemist's shop seemed closer than he had expected, as if it had followed him a few paces on the way, and looking up he saw the moon almost free of the cloudbank with a retinue of stars glowing frostily in a pool of ice-blue sky.
Inside, all was as black as pitch, and he felt in his pocket for a match. The stairs seemed strangely unfamiliar in the flickering light; and his room, which he was used to seeing in a mellow glow, was filled with shadows that flitted along the walls like fugitives. He was about to light the gas when the thought struck him that he could play the watchdog—if watchdog were needed—better from the
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clerk's office beyond the green baize door, where it was warmer too, and the embers of a fire still glowed.
Time passed as he sat half dozing in Harris's chair. Ten o'clock struck from across the square. It was getting colder, and with the chill came a growing sense of the absurdity of his vigil. He wou
ld give it another half-hour at the outside. He had just decided this and had risen, matches in hand, to light the gas, when there came out of the darkness below a small sharp sound.
He stood quite still, hstening. An occasional mouse had been known to disturb the office calm; indeed one morning he had come upon an invader actually browsing off the papers on his desk; but Harris, in a campaign of traps and poison, had won a fairly well accredited victory over the tribe. Besides, it was too loud a noise; unless one postulated rats.
Just then he heard it again, and this time identified it for what it was. Someone was coming up the stairs, moving with infinite caution. Now it was almost abreast of him in the passage, close against the private door that led from the landing directly into his office. He heard that door open and close; and he stood there, uncertain what to do, while around him he could sense the stillness and loneliness of the night under its blanket of snow.
From his office a small flurry of activity broke out: faint and exploratory at first, like the tapping of fingers against some hard surface, and then much louder. As he crossed on tiptoe to the green baize door he began to identify each sound: the tap of an instrument against metal, the grating of a key in a lock—till at last, with a very queer sensation, he heard the door of his office safe grind open and the rustle of parchment under someone's hand.
Then there was only silence. It was the eeriest thing that had happened to him that night: the sudden stillness and feeling of void that seemed to spread until he might almost have doubted there really was a man crouching there by the open safe, not a dozen yards from him, but for the acrid, tell-tale smell of a blown-out candle from the room beyond.
I'll count up to twenty,' he told himself, striking a balance between elation and downright funk. But he had got no further than eleven when there came a scurrying sound from inside the room and he was through the door, colliding with a body that seemed to fall towards him as a badly loaded sack might do, except that he could feel the embrace of arms twisting themselves around him.
He went down, submerged under that weight like a drowning man. There was a humming sound in his ears and he thought he saw a light start up on the threshold by the private door, outlining the shape of a head pressed close to his own; then the picture was reversed and there was someone under him, thrashing this way and that with legs and arms. The scene steadied and he saw everything clearly: the open safe, the papers strewn over the floor, the guttering candle in Longford's hand. Beneath him, blood gushing from a cut above the eye, lay his ex-witness, the gamekeeper Henderson, and on the boards beside him a lady's gold watch with deep incisions where something, probably initials, had been erased.
The Massingham affair Page 17