“You will take the responsibility of those lives—of Antony’s life?”
Delia stuck her chin in the air.
“I’m going to wait here for Antony,” she said in a sweet, frosty voice.
He could recognize defeat when he met it. He could not force Delia into his car, hale her to the bank, and coerce her into handing over a parcel which was addressed to somebody else. There was really nothing he could do but cut his losses and avoid disaster by clearing off before Antony turned up. He bowed correctly in the foreign style—odd to have a man bowing to you when you felt quite sure that he would like to cut your throat—reached for his hat, and then walked to the door.
Chapter Eleven
Delia stood a long time at the drawing-room window looking for Antony. It was a cold day, but she opened the casement wide and leaned out, listening for the first found of his feet on the gravel of the drive. But half an hour went by and there wasn’t any sound to catch. One of those horrible niggling whispers began in her mind—“He said he’d be here before ten o’clock. It’s half past ten. Why doesn’t he come?” She countered that firmly with “The bus is late,” and then, unable to leave well alone, ran into the study and rang up Mrs. Giles.
Mrs. Giles was the grocer’s wife. She stood behind her counter from opening time till closing time, with an hour off between one and two for a dinner cooked by Mr. Giles after he had done his rounds. Mr. Giles was a bright, breezy little man with a light hand for pastry and a profound admiration for his wife. “There’s nothing else Mrs. Giles can’t do, Miss Delia, but she can’t cook, and that’s a fact. Dreadful thin we was getting, the two of us, and the business going downhill at a gallop, because a head for figures is what I’ve never had nor never shall. So I took and put a stop to it. I’m wonderful fond of cooking, you know, and if there’s a business head in England, Mrs. Giles has got it.”
So Mrs. Giles stood behind the counter, and nothing that came and went through Wayshot escaped her eye. She knew when Mrs. Canterbury had a new hat, and when Mrs. Barrock turned her dark grey tweed as a war economy. She knew when Cynthia Kyrle had a new young man, and could tell you to within a week when the affair had reached its climax and was due to fade. She knew just by looking at them who had had letters from sons and husbands, and who hadn’t. She knew when one of the Ladies’ Guild was late for her turn at doing the altar flowers and polishing the candlesticks which had been presented by Mr. Canning in memory of his son who was killed in the last war.
She was therefore entirely the right person to ask about the bus. If it hadn’t come, she would know.
Delia rang up, and then felt a sick hesitation, because if the bus had come—if it had come—
And it had. Mrs. Giles said so at once with the bright voice in which people say devastating things when they have no idea that they are devastating.
“Punctual to the minute,” said Mrs. Giles, holding the receiver to the ear which hadn’t pink cotton wool in it, but never taking her eye off the street. Even as she spoke, she could see Gladys Parkin making eyes at Mrs. Canterbury’s new manservant, who had fallen arches and couldn’t get passed for the Army. A real fast girl, that, and she’d be thankful to anyone who got her out of the way before Tommy came home. Boys are that silly—
Having Tommy in her mind, she couldn’t let Delia go without talking about him.
“We haven’t had no more than the one postcard since he was taken prisoner, Miss Delia, and of course they can’t say nothing to set your mind at rest. Says he’s well, but Tommy ’ud say that if he was dying. And what’s on my mind, Miss Delia, is do they give him enough to eat whether or no. There’s no saying, is there?”
Delia took time from being frightened about Antony to be sorry for Mrs. Giles. Tommy had been such a fat boy, and rather a mother’s darling.
“They’re supposed to have the same as the German soldiers.”
“Supposed,” said Mrs. Giles darkly. Then, in a brisker voice, “I was wondering if you would ask Mr. Antony next time he’s down this way. Flying over Germany like they do—”
Delia saw her chance and got in.
“He’s coming down today, and of course I’ll ask him, but I’m afraid he won’t know very much. Mrs. Giles—he didn’t get off the bus, did he? Because that’s how he said he was coming.”
“Nobody got off—only Ivy Parkin, Mrs. Parkin’s daughter that’s come back home to live—the one she says got married in London.”
Delia hung up. If he hadn’t come by the bus, then he hadn’t. And in a way it was a relief, because there were quite a lot of good reasons why anyone might miss a bus. She went back to the drawing-room window.
At eleven Mrs. Barrock rang up to say all over again what a shocking thing it was about Miss Murdle. Pressed by Delia, she conceded that Dr. Kyrle had said she was getting on very well.
“Of course she remembers nothing. I hope you are very careful to be in before dark. It is exceedingly unpleasant to think that we have a homicidal maniac roaming through our lanes. Quite like Jack the Ripper—which of course you won’t remember anything about, but my father used to talk about him. And they never found out who he was. That was the really horrible part of it—he might have been anybody. As I said to the police inspector, ‘If this man isn’t traced, suspicion might fall upon anyone in Wayshot—even Colonel Barrock and the Vicar if it were not for the fortunate circumstance that they were together in the Vicarage study going through the Clothing Club accounts at the time when the outrage must have taken place.’ And do you know what the Inspector had the hardihood to say? He winked—actually winked at me—and said, ‘Well, I hope you’ve got as good an alibi, Mrs. Barrock.’”
Antony arrived at five minutes past twelve, by which time Delia had made up her mind that something had happened. When the Daimler drew up she was on the steps, and when Antony jumped out she ran down them into his arms. Bill grinned, and Ellen, at the spare-room window, goggled with all her eyes. Here was a little something to go home with this afternoon. Like as not Mrs. Parker ’ud bite her nose off if she mentioned it in the servant’s hall, but nobody can’t tell you what to talk about on your afternoon out, and it’d be a real old treat for Mum—kissing and hugging right out there in the front where anyone could see them.
Delia didn’t care who saw them. If Mrs. Barrock, and the Vicar, and Mrs. Canterbury, and Mrs. Giles, and the bank manager, and Uncle Philip, and all her snoopiest relations had been standing there in rows, she would have hugged and kissed Antony just the same, because he had been dead and he was alive again, and what did anything in the world matter except that? His arms were round her—his strong, living arms—
And then all at once the grinding of brakes. Another car drew up behind the Daimler and there alighted from it, majestic in a fur coat, Cousin Leonora Maddox.
Delia had once had a nurse who was very fond of talking about tempting Providence. You tempted Providence if you assumed that your birthday was going to be fine, or if you said, either aloud or privately in your own mind, things like, “I don’t care what happens, I’m going to do it.” Here, right on the doorstep, was one of those manifest judgments foretold by Nanna. Of all her relations Lady Maddox was the one Delia would least have desired to see. For one thing, Cousin Mervyn Maddox was her co-guardian with Uncle Philip, and though he was as mild and easy-mannered a person as you could wish to have for a co-guardian, Cousin Leonora was not. As long as she had three daughters of her own at home, the menace was remote, but after Delia had been bridesmaid to Dilys two years ago, to Enid six months later, and to Bronwen last August, it had begun to impend.
Lady Maddox advanced with dignity. She was tall. She had what is politely described as a presence. Her fur coat resembled those you see illustrated in catalogues and wonder why anyone had enough money to buy them. Of course Cousin Mervyn was frightfully rich—
By the time she reached them Antony and Delia had stepped apart, but it was quite hopeless to suppose that she had not seen them locked in one anot
her’s arms. There are things you can explain away, and there are things you can’t. When you cannot possibly explain something, it is better to ignore it. Delia kissed her Cousin Leonora, who turned a frosty cheek and then put up a lorgnette and trained it on Antony. When Delia had murmured his name, Lady Maddox made a very slight inclination of her head and, linking her arm in Delia’s, walked up the steps and into the house.
“My dear child! What are you doing here all alone? I have only just heard of Philip Merridew’s accident.”
“He was bombed,” said Delia, putting up a smoke-screen.
It was disregarded.
“That doesn’t matter in the least. He is not here, and you should not be here. I shall take you back with me after lunch. Who did you say that young man was?”
“Antony Rossiter. Uncle Philip was his guardian. He’s been here always. You must have heard of him.”
The lorgnette came up again. The lenses made Cousin Leonora’s eyes look quite incredibly sharp and hard. “My dear Delia! You’re not going to tell me he’s staying here!”
Delia was aware that her colour was flaming, but she was not going to deny Antony. She said in her clearest voice,
“No, he isn’t. But we’re engaged.”
“With Philip Merridew’s consent?”
Really Cousin Leonora had a most unpleasant voice.
“It’s only just happened. He’s been too ill for us to tell him. He loves Antony. He’ll be most awfully pleased.”
Lady Maddox emitted a sound expressive of contemptuous dissent. “And your other guardian—it did not occur to you to consult your Cousin Mervyn and myself?”
It hadn’t, and Delia said so.
“I should like to go upstairs,” said Lady Maddox. Her tone suggested forcible self-control.
By the time she arrived in Delia’s bedroom a change appeared to have come over her. She removed the coat and a kind of fur turban, dabbed at her immaculate permanent wave, and turned a smiling countenance. Ginger hair, presence, and all, she was a handsome woman when she smiled.
“Well, my dear, he’s quite a nice-looking young man, but we won’t talk about getting engaged. That’s what I always said to my girls—‘Run round with all the boys you want to and have a good time, but when it comes to getting married, well, that’s a serious affair.’ And I was brought up to believe that it was a family affair, and not just a personal one. With your looks and your money, Delia, you can do a great deal better than this young Rossiter. Lewis West was immensely struck with you at Bronwen’s wedding. I thought you hardly realized it at the time—and one is so taken up at a daughter’s wedding—but I saw him last week and he asked after you in the most particular way and said if he got his leave in November, would I ask you down? He really didn’t attempt to conceal how much he was interested.”
Delia cast back her mind and tried to disentangle Lewis West from the crowd at Bronwen’s wedding.… Rather a plain, silent young man with doggy eyes and a knack of being always at one’s elbow—She must have looked blank, because Cousin Leonora was saying with an edge on her voice,
“Really, Delia! Don’t you ever notice anything? Most girls would give their eyes to have Lewis notice them, and you behave as if you didn’t even remember him!”
“I didn’t at first,” said Delia, “but I do now. There were such a lot of people at the wedding. He was nice.”
The last sentence slipped out. She bit her tongue too late. He was nice, but how fatal to tell the truth if it was going to encourage Cousin Leonora.
“Nice!” said Lady Maddox in an exasperated voice. “He’ll be Duke of Westchester when his uncle dies, and that may be at any time now! Do you mean to tell me you didn’t even realize that? I can tell you, you’re a very lucky girl. He’s never taken any notice of anyone before. And as steady as a rock—quite taken up with housing, and social welfare, and all that kind of thing until the war—and I must say the Army has brisked him up quite a lot. I can’t think of anyone who would make you a better husband.”
Delia began to laugh. She couldn’t help it. Poor Lewis West! And he’d probably never thought of her at all. She laughed, and she said,
“Why, I don’t even know him, Cousin Leonora. And I’m going to marry Antony.…”
It was not until the lunch bell rang that Lady Maddox descended or permitted Delia to descend. On any other occasion the time would have passed pleasantly enough. Lady Maddox was a fond grandmother. She had snapshots of Dilys’ boy and Enid’s twins—all three plump, pleasant babies. If it hadn’t been for the thought of Antony champing downstairs, Delia would have taken a more whole-hearted interest. There was also all manner of family gossip. What Cousin Leonora didn’t know about her relations could be put on the point of a needle. Serena Luton was engaged. George Fotheringay—very old family, but no money. Old Cousin Harcourt had been snatched from a marriage with his nurse at positively the eleventh hour—“A most determined red-haired woman. The poor old man was quite terrified of her. He is ninety-odd, but it cost the family five hundred down to get rid of her. If he’d been five years younger they’d have had to double it, but they threatened to dispute any will and bring an action for undue influence, so she caved in. Actually, I believe, nothing could have stopped her getting whatever it is widows get under the new law, but mercifully she didn’t know that.”
The tale went on. Tiger Beauchamp had got the Distinguished Flying Cross, and one of Great-aunt Harriet’s gardeners had been given the George Medal—“Something to do with removing a bomb, but Aunt Harriet says he’s such a stupid boy, she doesn’t suppose for a minute he knew that it might go off. He’s the one with freckles and a grin. Your Cousin Mervyn has taken in forty secondary schoolboys and four masters at Plas-y-Maddox. I can’t think what the carpets will be like. I must say they are very well behaved and no trouble at all. I expected the staff to give notice, but mercifully they didn’t, and then I found out that Mervyn had raised all their wages. Without one word to me, and quite obstinate when I spoke to him about it.”
Delia wanted to laugh about Cousin Mervyn being obstinate. So frightfully good for Cousin Leonora. She wondered why he didn’t do it oftener. He had put down his foot about the girls’ names. His family might spring from the soil, whilst the Lutons went back a thousand years, but his eldest girl would get his mother’s name, and the other two would be called after his grandmother and the little sister who had died when she was ten years old and whom he never forgot. If there had been a son he would have been Gwilym, but there was no son to carry on the name of the grandfather who had driven a pick in a Welsh mine and conducted a prize-winning choir. His business was sacrosanct. Once, and once only, had Leonora attempted to interfere.
No one knew quite what had happened, but she never did it again. For the rest, he was a little, dark, wiry Welshman with a fine baritone voice, and he still liked singing hymns on Sunday evening.
It was one of the nicer things about Cousin Leonora that she let him do it, except when there was a very unsuitable house-party and the girls went on strike.
Lunch was not all that Delia had fondly hoped it was going to be. Instead of talking to Antony she had to listen to Lady Maddox. So had Antony, who couldn’t be expected to feel even a remote interest in the probable condition of Plas-y-Maddox after housing evacuees in bulk. Interest or no, the subject served until it was succeeded by the full history of a dispute with the local council.
They took coffee in the drawing-room. It had been obvious to Antony from the word go that he was not going to be allowed to see Delia alone. He could, of course, have walked her out of the room, but Lady Maddox was quite capable of walking after them. There was also the impressive fact that if Philip Merridew was to die, Lord Maddox would be Delia’s sole guardian for the next two years. Besides, it is a mistake to quarrel with your wife’s relations if you can possibly help it. He exerted himself to charm Lady Maddox, and succeeded in raising the social atmosphere quite sensibly above freezing point.
At half past
two he rose to go. Delia cast him a despairing look. He shook hands with Lady Maddox.
“I really came down to discuss a small business matter with Delia. It’s about a parcel which my brother sent me, and which she has very kindly been taking care of. Will you excuse me if I just ask her about it?”
Lady Maddox inclined her head.
“Certainly. It is not, I imagine, a private matter.”
The unregenerate man in Antony would have liked to say, “Yes, it is, and be damned to you!” He curbed the base instinct, murmured “Oh, no,” and turned to Delia.
“Did Cornelius come down?”
“Yes, he did.”
Delia was feeling quite sick with disappointment. Antony had only kissed her once—they had a million things to say. How could she tell him about the parcel with Cousin Leonora listening to every word? She was in despair. It just couldn’t be done.
Antony’s eyes seemed to be saying “Buck up!” but it was no use. His voice said quite cheerfully,
“Did he want you to go to the bank and get the parcel out?”
“Yes, he did. And when I said you were coming down, he said he couldn’t wait.”
“Oh, he did, did he? What time was that?”
Delia said, “A quarter to ten,” and saw his face change and become alert and interested.
“How sudden of him! After all, the bank wouldn’t be open till ten o’clock. It sounds almost as if he didn’t want to see me.”
“He didn’t—he said so.”
He paused for a moment, then said, “Well, well—” and held out his hand.
“Goodbye, my dear—take care of yourself.”
He was gone, and Delia could have cried with pure rage. Instead she had to gird herself in defence of her liberties, which, it now became plain, were being threatened in a most menacing fashion.
It was quite impossible according to Cousin Leonora that she should remain in her present unchaperoned position—“Quite out of the question.” And when Lady Maddox said “Quite out of the question,” it made the words sound as if they were spelled in capitals at least two feet high. Unfortunately, owing to the influx of secondary schoolboys—and staff—Plas-y-Maddox would really be hardly suitable. “In fact, for all I know, your Cousin Mervyn may have doubled the number by now—he is in that kind of mood. But perhaps Cousin Emilia—”
Pursuit of a Parcel: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 12