by Ruth Rendell
“The mirror adjusts at the touch of a finger,” said Macdonald, thrusting his head through the window.
Stanley put it to the test. He moved the mirror an inch down and glanced into it. Then he stared harder, going hot all over. From the High Street end of Lanchester Road Caroline Snow was walking along the pavement in the direction of his house. She wore large round sunglasses with mauve lenses and a skirt several inches shorter than the one she had worn on Sunday. Stanley looked down, twiddling knobs and pulling small levers. One of these operated the windscreen washers and a fountain of water gushed across the glass.
“Here, here,” said Mrs. Macdonald. “Mind what you’re doing. I shall have to get a leather to that.” She frowned spitefully at Stanley and pulled the car door open. “Anyway, you’re wanted. There’s someone come to call on you.”
Stanley got out very slowly, not looking behind him. Macdonald slapped him on the shoulder. “When the cat’s away the mice will play, eh, old man? Very good taste you’ve got, if I may say so.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stanley muttered. Six faces confronted him, the children’s inquisitive, the women’s indignant, the men’s frankly prurient. John Blackmore gave a crooked grin and then he slowly winked. “Excuse me,” Stanley said. “Got to go in.”
He scuttled up the path to where Caroline Snow stood waiting for him on the doorstep. Behind him he heard Mrs. Blackmore say, “Well, really! How disgusting.”
“I just had to come and see you again, Mr. Manning. I do hope it’s not inconvenient?”
The air in the house smelt stale. Stanley flung open the french windows. The girl followed him.
“Perhaps we could sit in the garden? It’s so hot, isn’t it? And your garden’s lovely.”
“I haven’t got time for any sitting about,” said Stanley hurriedly. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got an appointment at half-past six.”
“I’ve really come to you,” the girl said, taking no notice of all this, “because—well, you were very kind to me on Sunday and you’re really the only responsible man I can talk to. You see, I’ve relied on Daddy all my life but Daddy’s such a long way away.”
Let me be your father, Stanley thought eagerly, forgetting for the moment all about his date with Pilbeam. “What exactly d’you want me to do, Miss Snow?”
“I went to see Mrs. Paterson,” Caroline Snow said earnestly, “and she said Miss—er, my grandmother had got a room with a Mr. Smith but she doesn’t know his address. Now college comes down on Tuesday and I have to go home so I wondered … My grandmother’s bound to come and see you and your wife sometime, isn’t she? I thought if you’d be kind enough to tell her about me if she does and—well, write to me, I could look her up when I get back to London.”
“Yeah, I could do that,” Stanley said slowly. Of course he could. He could tell her he’d seen Ethel and Ethel had moved again or even that Ethel didn’t want to make contact with her relatives. Suddenly he was inspired. Making his voice sound as confident as he could and infusing into a hint of the paternal, he said, “Why don’t you ask your father’s advice? Have you told him anything of all this?”
“Well, no … As far as Mummy and he know, I just wanted my grandmother’s name for this family tree.”
Wonderful. Just what he’d hoped for. He could just imagine Snow’s horror when he heard of this search for his mother-in-law and his relief when he learned she wasn’t to be found. “Your dad’s a man of experience. He’ll know what’s the best thing to do.” He will, Stanley thought, if he’s in his right mind. “He might feel rather hurt if you went over his head like this. She is his mother-in-law after all. He might not …”
“Oh, but Daddy’s a marvellous person. He’s got a terrific social conscience. He couldn’t bear to think …”
“Can you be quite sure of that, Miss Snow?” Stanley leaned earnestly towards her. “Certainly your father’ll want to know all the details you’ve told me, but isn’t it likely he’ll want to do any further investigating himself? Besides, he and your mother may feel your grandmother’s got a right to privacy, if that’s what she wants and it seems she does want it. No, he wouldn’t like it at all if you put people’s backs up and got the police on a wild goose chase.”
“I wonder if you’re right?” Caroline Snow looked nearly convinced. “You’ve put things in a different perspective for me, Mr. Manning. Actually, I’ve just remembered something. Once, years ago when I was quite young a gipsy came to our door when Mummy was out and I gave her some clothes and made her a cup of tea and when Daddy heard about it he was furious. He said the state should look after people like that. He’d got quite enough supporting his own family.”
The man with the terrific social conscience! Stanley almost laughed aloud.
“Of course, it’s not really a parallel case, but it does make me think I ought to ask Daddy before I go any further.” She got up and held out her hand. “You’ve really been very kind, Mr. Manning. I’m sure you’ve given me the right advice. I won’t do another thing before I’ve asked Daddy.” She held out her hand. “I’m afraid I’ve made you late for your appointment.”
“Better late than never,” Stanley said cheerfully. “I’ll walk with you. It’s on my way.”
They left the house together. John Blackmore, who was trimming his hedge, favoured Stanley with another wink. Stanley talked about the weather and the car he was going to buy and the business he was going into to take the girl’s mind off Ethel Carpenter.
“I wonder now why I got this idea something terrible might have happened to her? I suppose it was because Mrs. Huntley said she was carrying fifty pounds on her.”
“She’ll be living it up on that without a care in the world,” Stanley said reassuringly.
Caroline Snow smiled at him and in that smile he saw Ethel grinning up at him and waving her umbrella. She gave him the address of her father’s house and they parted cordially.
That, Stanley thought, was the last he would ever see or hear of her. He walked to the Lockkeeper’s because he couldn’t afford the bus fare. The little shop was still boarded up but the agent’s placard had been taken away.
Pilbeam wasn’t alone but surrounded by a circle of friends, all of whom seemed extravagantly big men. He didn’t introduce any of them to Stanley but moved away from them without a word. For some indefinable reason this made Stanley uneasy.
Without asking Pilbeam’s preferences—he knew them—Stanley bought two halves of bitter and, floundering in a mass of prevarication, set about giving his new partner a picture of his finances.
Pilbeam said only, “Next week, me old love. First thing next week.”
Some of Vera’s ideas about James Horton had been right and some wrong. He was manager of Barclay’s Brayminster branch; he was well-off, for he had inherited money both from his father and his uncle; he did live in a nice house. But he wasn’t married to a woman in her handsome early forties and he hadn’t a family of teenage children. His wife had died of cancer five years before, leaving him with one son, now at university.
“A lonely life, James,” Vera said on her last evening as she and James sat in the cocktail lounge of the Metropole hotel.
“It gets lonely sometimes.”
“You never thought of marrying again?”
“Not until lately,” said James. “You know, Vee, you haven’t told me a thing about yourself. We’ve been out together every night—oh, mostly with the Goodwins, I know—but all the time I’ve seemed to do nothing but talk of my life and I haven’t given you a chance to tell me about yours. I’m afraid I’ve been very self-centred.”
“Oh, no. I’ve been so interested.”
“I suppose it’s living alone that makes one want to talk. But your life must have been as lonely as mine.”
“What makes you say that?” Vera looked at him, puzzled.
“Aren’t we almost in the same boat, Vee? I a widower and you a widow, you childless and I …”
�
��James,” Vera said loudly, “whatever made you think I was a widow?”
He turned rather pale and stammered, “But my aunt said … You came down here alone and you never …”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Horton’s got it wrong. I’m not a widow. My husband just couldn’t get time off from work. Oh dear, now I begin to see a lot of things I didn’t understand.”
“You mean you live with your husband? You and your husband …”
“Of course. I’m going home to him tomorrow.”
“I see,” said James Horton. “I’ve been rather foolish and obtuse.”
16
All Vera’s cards were on the mantelpiece but not displayed. They were tucked in a stack behind a vase. Stanley hadn’t asked her if she had enjoyed herself and she was very hurt.
“How’s the job?” she asked quietly.
“I’ve resigned, if you must know. I’m going into the antique business. There’s pots of money to be made out of antiques and we’re taking a shop in the old village. Me and my partner, that is.”
“Your partner?” said Vera. “What partner? Who is he, Stan? Where did you meet him?”
Vera looked so aghast that it would hardly have made matters worse to tell her he had met Pilbeam in the street and founded the partnership in a pub. But Stanley was one of those men who never tell their wives the truth if a lie will serve instead. “He was put in touch by a mutual friend,” he said vaguely. “A client of mine at the Superjuce gave him my name.” He knew Vera wouldn’t believe him but at the moment he hardly cared. He shifted his eyes sullenly. Two hours before she came home he had telephoned Finbow and Craig only to be told by a secretary that Mr. Finbow had a matter he wanted to discuss urgently with Mrs. Manning and a letter on the subject would reach her on Monday morning. Another hold-up. God knew what Pilbeam would say if the money wasn’t forthcoming in the Lockkeeper’s on Tuesday night.
Vera said astutely, “Has this man got any capital?”
“Be your age,” said Stanley. “He’s rolling. Would I get involved with him if he hadn’t?”
“I don’t know what you’d do, Stan. But I reckon you’re a child when it comes to business. I know more about business than you do. Promise me you won’t do anything silly.”
Stanley didn’t answer her. He couldn’t get that letter out of his mind and the more he thought about it the more he felt the tiny muscles around his eyes twitching. On Sunday night he slept badly, being visited by troubling dreams of Maud. In one of them he and she were discussing the contents of her will and Maud told him she hadn’t finished with him yet, that Mr. Finbow’s letter would be concerned with a clause in that will designed to upset any business schemes he might have.
He was therefore less indignant than he might otherwise have been when Vera brought him a cup of tea and read aloud to him.
Dear Mrs. Manning,
With regard to your inheritance from the late Mrs. Maud Kinaway, I have been in touch with the firm of stockbrokers acting for the late Mrs. Kinaway. Owing to the recent fall in the stock market, I feel it my duty to inform you that I consider it inadvisable to sell the stock in which your late mother’s monies are invested, at the present time. I am, however, reliably advised that the market is once more rising and that it would be expedient to retain these stocks for a further few weeks.
No doubt, you will wish to discuss this whole question with me as soon as posible. I should like to stress that should you desire this stock to be sold forthwith, I will naturally proceed to instruct your late mother’s stockbroker accordingly. Perhaps you could arrange to call at my office early this week.
I remain,
Yours sincerely,
CHARLES H. FINBOW.
“I just hope he’s on the level,” Stanley said gloomily, “and not playing ducks and drakes with our money. You can tell him to sell that stock right away.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” Vera said mildly. “Mr. Finbow’s only acting in our interests. He means that if he sold those shares now he’d get hundreds less than if we waited a few weeks.”
Stanley sat up, choking over his tea. “You what? We’ve got to have that money. God knows, we’ve waited long enough.” He felt quite sick with horror. Imagine Pilbeam’s face if he was asked to wait weeks. The whole enterprise would go up the spout. “You’ll go there today,” he spluttered, “in your lunch hour and I’m coming with you.”
“I can’t, Stan. Doris is off and I can’t get away for lunch.”
“If you won’t, Vee, I will.” Stanley threw back the covers. “I’ll go down there alone and get that money if I have to knock his teeth in.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Vera sighed.
Alone in the house, Stanley paced up and down, sweating. In the pub on Friday he had confidently promised Pilbeam money to buy a van, money for decorating and furnishing the shop and enough ready cash to stock it. Finbow would have to cough up. His eye fluttered painfully and to calm himself he sat down and did the crossword puzzle.
He was just filling in 26 across “Last Post” eight letters, four and four, “Ultimate mail before leaving the field” when the doorbell rang on a sharp peremptory note.
Stanley never answered a doorbell naturally and innocently as other people do. He always debated whether it was wise to answer it at all. Now he crept into the front room and peeped through the curtains. Pilbeam stood on the doorstep with a large heavily built man who looked no more than twenty-eight and who was recognisable as one of those henchmen who had moved silently away from Pilbeam in the pub on Friday.
Stanley let the curtain fall, but not before Pilbeam’s eyes had met his. There was no help for it. The door would have to be answered. He opened it and Pilbeam put his foot inside and on to the mat like a pushing salesman.
He didn’t introduce his companion. Stanley didn’t expect him to. They all knew why the friend had come. There was no need for hypocritical formalities.
“I told you Tuesday,” Stanley said.
“I know, old man, but what’s a day one way or the other? We all realise the big lolly’s coming tomorrow. What I want is fifty on account now.”
They came in. Stanley couldn’t stop them.
“I haven’t got fifty,” he said, very conscious of the friend’s size and youth.
“Thirty, then,” said Pilbeam. “It’s in your own interest, Stan. Me and my mate have got our eye on a couple of famille rose vases. It’d be a sin to let them go.”
“I’ll see,” said Stanley feebly. The friend’s mammoth shoulder was nudging his. “Sit down. Make yourselves at home. The money’s upstairs.”
He scuttled up the stairs and made for the bookcase. Leafing thirty notes from the pages of the crossword annual, he became aware of a step behind him and then that Pilbeam was standing in the doorway, watching the operation with interest and a certain bewilderment.
“So that’s your little safe deposit, is it? By gum, it stinks of violets.”
Speechless, Stanley handed over the thirty pounds. There were now only thirteen notes left in the annual.
“This is my husband,” Vera said when they were admitted to Mr. Finbow’s office. It wasn’t an introduction she had often had to make. She and Stanley hadn’t lived in a world where many introductions were called for. But whenever she had to say those words she was conscious of a little creeping feeling of shame, a feeling which was even more intense today as she glanced at Stanley and noticed the belligerent set of his chin and the calculating suspicious gleam in his eye. “He wanted to come with me.”
“How do you do, Mr. Manning?” said Mr. Finbow. “Won’t you both sit down? Now then, I think my letter explained the situation, but if you’d like any further details I’d be glad to give them.”
Stanley said, “We would. That’s why we’re here.”
Mr. Finbow raised his eyebrows slightly and turned his attention pointedly in Vera’s direction. “The position is this, Mrs. Manning. The money your late mother bequeathed to you is principally invested in
two stocks, Euro-American Tobacco and Universal Incorporated Tin. Both very sound investments, as safe, if I may say so, as houses. You are, however, no doubt aware of the effect on the stock market of the recent Arab-Israel crisis.”
He paused, perhaps for some comprehending response from Vera. But Vera, although vaguely aware that there had been a lot on television about the Middle East during recent weeks, had been too involved with personal crises to pay much attention, and she could only give a rather helpless nod.
“I am told,” said Mr. Finbow, “that to sell at this juncture would result in a loss of several hundred pounds, owing to the considerable fall in prices.”
Vera nodded again. “But these—er, investments, they’ll get back to what they were before?”
“I am assured they will. You see, Mrs. Manning, the two companies I’ve mentioned are vast world-wide concerns which generally maintain their shares at a steady level. There’s absolutely no question of any long-term deterioration in their value. The point is that the current price is temporarily unsatisfactory. In other words, any knowledgeable person would tell you it would be unwise to sell at present. But wait, say, six weeks and we should see a considerable improvement in …”
“Six weeks?” Stanley interrupted. “What about the interest? What’s happening to all that?”
“As I have just explained,” the solicitor said less patiently, “the price is currently reduced. The price of each individual share is lowered but your wife’s income is unaltered as there has been no change in the dividend policies of the companies.”
“O.K., O.K.,” said Stanley. “So you say. But how do we know there won’t be more of these crises? You can keep us hanging on like this month after month. It’s our money you’re playing with.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, isn’t it? My wife told you to sell. Weeks ago that was. And now, because you’ve been hanging about, there’s not so much money there as what you said at first. Seems plain enough to me.”