The China Governess

by Margery Allingham

  At the moment, however, a draught of cold, soot-laden air was flowing in freely through the centre window.

  ‘See that?’ Mrs. Broome demanded. ‘The glass has come clean out. It’s simply gone, unless someone has cut it. Keep away from that Mr. Tim, do, or you’ll get yourself filthy.’

  Tim had swung himself up by two of the bars and now dropped back obediently, dusting his hands.

  ‘There’s no sign of it and the wire netting has gone too,’ he said. ‘They do sweep along there, though. It serves as a fire escape from the basement of the factory beyond the warehouse next door and has to be kept clear. I expect the netting rotted and the glass fell out and broke and both were shovelled up by the scavengers.’

  ‘In that case they must work funny hours,’ Mrs. Broome said, tartly. ‘It was perfectly all right at lunch time. I’m in and out here in the mornings but this evening I felt the fresh draught as soon as I set foot outside the kitchen door.’

  ‘What an extraordinary place.’ Mrs. Telpher came in cautiously, as if she were entering a cave, and Mrs. Broome frowned.

  ‘It’s antique, madam,’ she said sharply. ‘This is where the famous well was. It’s under the floor where that ring is, full of medicine. That’s why we can’t do anything useful with the room, like making a laundry of it. Someone has been up to mischief with our window, trying to get in, I suppose.’

  ‘Nonsense Nan,’ Timothy spoke soothingly.

  ‘No one could get through those bars, they can’t be six inches apart.’

  ‘A rat could,’ said Mrs. Broome. ‘Come along out of here at once and we’ll shut the door.’

  Julia was uneasy. ‘Oughtn’t we to report it to the police?’

  ‘I’ll mention it,’ Mrs. Broome said grandly. ‘But as Mr. Tim says, if those bars are no protection a bit of dirty glass certainly wouldn’t be. If anyone was hoping to get in there they’ve been put off. Now all sit round the table please because I mustn’t keep the gentlemen waiting.’

  On the whole it was a relief when at last, some little time later, they persuaded her to leave them. She tripped lightly up the stairs, her long purple coat wrapped round her and her eyes as bright as if she were going to an assignation. Tim sighed when at last they heard the front door slam.

  ‘Now we can start again,’ he said. ‘Geraldine, how about another tin of lovely pink soup?’

  ‘Are you still eating? Splendid! We did hope we’d find you still at it.’ Miss Aicheson appearing suddenly in the doorway took them by surprise. She was tired but still game and was fussing a little in an old-gentlemanly way.

  ‘The club was shut,’ she said. ‘I’d been told, too. Alison was quite right. It had slipped my memory completely. So home we came only to find Mrs. Broome on the doorstep being carried off by that pleasant Mr. Campion.’ Her smile was disarming. ‘I feel certain I can open a tin. You must just tell me what to do, Tim. Alison won’t mind as long as we steer clear of onions or red pepper.’

  Both young people rose to the occasion. Julia cleared a place and Tim gave up his seat.

  ‘Don’t worry Aich,’ Timothy said. ‘How was the concert?’

  ‘Oh, very good indeed. I’m so glad we went to make two more. Poor Henry Ambush hasn’t many friends and he’s so talented. It’s a very exacting instrument, the harpsichord – on the ear, I mean.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Mrs. Telpher mechanically. She had relapsed into her unforthcoming mood and sat relaxed and withdrawn, as if she were out of the circle altogether.

  ‘So this is where you all are!’ Alison came flitting in with Eustace behind her. The Kinnit resemblance both between brother and sister and Geraldine Telpher herself had never appeared more marked. They were all mature people, past the age when the family stamp appears unmistakably in the bone structure, and they looked to Julia like three little moulds off the same line, only differing superficially where some celestial paintbrush had been at work.

  ‘Don’t worry about us,’ Alison sat down in Julia’s place beside Miss Aicheson and smiled at everybody. ‘Eustace has had his sandwiches and I hardly want anything at all. What have you been eating? Soup and cheese? How very nice. What are you doing down there, Eustace?’

  ‘Looking at this fireplace.’ He spoke from behind Mrs. Telpher. ‘I come down here so seldom it always takes me by surprise. It’s perfect and just as we uncovered it. Every brick quite perfect. A simple ellipse. It’s pure fourteenth century, much older than the house, and must have had a big square chimney, long since gone, of course.’ He rose, dusting his knees. ‘One day Nanny Broome, or some other silly woman, will try to light a fire in it and smoke everybody out. But it’s most interesting; this must have been the original ground level, eight feet or more below the street of today. The same period as the Well in fact. Have they shewn you that, Geraldine?’

  ‘I saw the slab over it just now. One of the windows has been broken in there. Julia thought it should be reported to the police.’

  ‘What? A window? Really? Tim, you didn’t tell me this? I ought to have been informed at once!’ Eustace was already on his way to inspect the trouble, Timothy behind him.

  ‘My dear boy,’ his voice came floating back to them. ‘we mustn’t take any unnecessary risks. These are evil times. There are a lot of unprincipled people about and we have treasures here.’

  Alison noticed Mrs. Telpher’s expression of astonishment and hastened to explain.

  ‘Eustace is thinking of irreplaceable antiques,’ she murmured. ‘We don’t keep money or jewels in the house. That’s why we wrote to warn you to put yours in a safe deposit. We feel it’s wrong to tempt people. Any burglar who came here would have to know exactly what he was after or he’d be very disappointed.’

  ‘I see.’ Geraldine Telpher inclined her head gravely and everyone was left a little irritated, as if she had disparaged the contents of the house.

  ‘I believe you’re right.’ Eustace returned to the room wiping his hands on his handkerchief and still talking to Timothy who was behind him. ‘The bars are a complete protection but we’ll report it in the morning and it must be repaired at once. I can’t think it has been done deliberately but —’ An expression of dismay spread over his gentle face as a tremendous rattle and thump directly outside the door leading up into the house shook the whole basement.

  In the silence which followed somebody outside used a familiar but ugly four-letter word.

  Timothy pulled the door open and put his head out.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’ There was a pause and he glanced back into the room, trying not to appear amused. ‘It’s Basil. He’s slipped down the stairs. Get up, you ass. Are you all right?’

  ‘Ruddy Kinnits!’ The voice which was unquestionably drunken sounded tearful. ‘This is just the welcome I should expect. I’ve already been called Basil once tonight – just outside this inhospitable house. I’ve been asked by a perfect stranger “Are you Basil Kinnit?” What’s the answer? That is the question. The answer is no.’

  ‘All right,’ Timothy sounded harassed. ‘Don’t worry about it, old boy, just get up.’

  ‘But I do worry.’ The tears were more evident. ‘I hate the ruddy Kinnits and all their damned governesses and let me tell you, Wonderboy, I’m in a position to tell them something they don’t all know.’

  ‘So you shall, chum, so you shall.’ Timothy was speaking whilst expending considerable exertion. ‘Just get up and you shall tell us all anything you like.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Beanspiller

  ‘PUBLIC HOUSE NOTHING! This is a hotel.’

  Charlie Luke had never appeared a finer animal in harder condition. His suit might have been buttoned tightly over wood, and he perched on the plush-seated chair in the deserted upstairs dining-room of the Eagle Tavern in Scribe Street, E.C.3, glowing at Mrs. Broome as if she were a plate of cornflakes and he a greedy child on a poster advertising them. Mr. Campion, who was between them, was amused despite his anxiety.
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  ‘At lunch-time this room is crowded with solid businessmen but in the evening they’ve all caught their trains home and it is quiet and comfortable for us to have a chat in, see?’ the superintendent was explaining. ‘You’re being given Royal treatment. I’ve had them open it up and turn on the lights for us.’

  ‘Not many.’ Nanny Broome, smug in her purple coat, glanced up at the spray of bronze wall-lights above the table. They shed a somewhat ghostly glow over the rest of the thickly carpeted room. ‘I know it’s been used at lunch-time because I can smell spirits and cigars. Still, if Mr. Campion says it’s all right I don’t mind staying.’

  ‘That’s handsome of you, Missus.’ Luke was a trifle dashed and his eyes were inquisitive. ‘I’ve invited you to come along because I want to ask you one or two very simple questions You may not be able to tell me anything but there is a chance you could help with an inquiry which is nothing whatever to do with anyone you know.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’ He seemed surprised. ‘That’s good. I could take you down to the police station and the detectives there could get you to make long, long statements, but I don’t want to put you to all that trouble.’

  ‘Why?’ She appeared genuinely curious and he caught his breath and let it out in a short explosive laugh.

  ‘Because you’re needed at home to do the washing up,’ he said and gave Mr. Campion a sidelong glance. ‘Would you like a cake with that coffee, Mrs. Broome? No? I’ll have a ham sandwich,’ he added to the resident manageress who was serving them herself. ‘The others will too. Some of those very expensive ones.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr. Luke, don’t worry.’ The woman, who was tired and motherly for all her spiked heels and diamond ring, set down the coffee tray and waddled off into the darkness.

  The superintendent returned to his guest.

  ‘Now I want you to take your time over this so we’ll start with something which hasn’t very much to do with it,’ he began mendaciously. ‘Mr. Campion here was telling me that you believe you saw the woman who brought Mr. Timothy Kinnit down to the country when he was a baby, and that to the best of your belief she was in Harold Dene Cemetery this afternoon. Is that right?’

  Mrs. Broome smiled at him and presently threw back her head and laughed like a girl.

  ‘I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-looking,’ she said. ‘You ask me straight questions and I’ll give you straight answers. You want to know if Mr. Tim’s mummie has turned up out of the blue, don’t you?’

  Luke blinked, exaggerating the reaction and leaning back in his chair.

  ‘I didn’t say anything of the sort.’

  ‘No, I know you didn’t, but that’s what you were thinking.’

  ‘Was I? You’re a mind reader, I suppose?’

  ‘No, I don’t pretend to be that.’ She was cocky and deprecating at the same time. ‘But I generally know what lies behind any question I’m asked. Some people do, you know.’

  The superintendent sighed and the wrinkles on his forehead deepened as his eyebrows rose.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Some people do – and damn dangerous they are, too! Well then, suppose that is what I wanted to know? I’m not saying it was, mind you.’

  Mrs. Broome touched the sleeve of his coat where his wrist lay on the table beside her.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, anyhow. She hasn’t,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I told Mr. Toberman that, and Mr. Campion here was listening – as he usually is, it seems. That girl was not the mother of Timothy or anybody else when she came down to Angevin.’

  Luke leaned over the table. Cosiness and man-to-woman approach glowed from him.

  ‘It’s very easy to make mistakes in a matter like this. I’ve been taken in time after time. Motherhood is like any other natural thing: there are hundreds of variations of condition.’

  Mrs. Broome shook her head. She was sitting up very straight, her cheeks pink.

  ‘I don’t doubt that you’re a very clever man and that being in the police you’ve had to get to know a lot of things that aren’t a gentleman’s business, but you’ve never had a baby have you? Not personally, I mean.’

  Luke scratched his chin but before he could comment she continued:

  ‘Well, I have. More than that, I had just come back from hospital after losing my baby when this girl turned up with Timmy, who was quite new – still on his stalk. That’s a thing no one can disguise. Naturally, although I was run off my feet looking after all the other mummies, she was my chief interest because the baby was so young, and I put her to sleep in my little room where we shared the same bed, and all day I was looking forward to talking to her about her confinement.’

  ‘Oh.’ A wave of comprehension passed over the superintendent’s expressive face. ‘She didn’t give the right answers?’

  ‘She didn’t know anything at all!’ Mrs. Broome’s contempt and disappointment were as fresh as if she felt them still. ‘I spent all the night trying to get some sense out of her and I soon found out she wasn’t only a liar but a very ignorant young monkey. Do you know, another woman on the bus had lent her a bottle or he would have starved by the time I was there to save him! A wicked, wicked girl!’

  ‘She was pretending to be the mother?’

  ‘Not to me, she wasn’t. She soon saw how ridiculous that was. She had had to say she was his mother to account for the pink ticket. She had to have a pink ticket to be allowed on the bus. No. That girl was simply frightened of the bombs. They were her worry, silly little cat! Not a thought for the poor baby. I’d have given her bomb!’

  Luke was watching her with the whole of his body.

  ‘After talking to you she ran away?’ He could not help anticipating the story.

  Mrs. Broome raised mutinous eyes.

  ‘Yes, she did. I knew I’d frightened her but I never expected that. The next morning she vanished. I thought she was hiding so I didn’t say anything but looked after the baby. I was so busy and so happy with him that I kept putting off mentioning that she’d gone. Then, when Mr. Eustace practically owned to him, naming him like that, I didn’t bother any more. I made up my mind that she was a maid sent down to bring him to me.’ She paused and took a defiant breath. ‘If you don’t believe me I can’t help it. But I’m not a liar.’

  ‘No,’ said Luke, grinning at her. ‘You’re not dull enough! I believe you. What about the kid’s clothes? I don’t suppose they were anything to write home about, but didn’t you keep anything? A bootee or a bit of embroidery or anything at all?’

  She shook her head. ‘The only thing I kept that Timmy had when he came to me was most unsuitable for a baby,’ she said. ‘It was a cotton head-scarf tucked under his shawl. It was a lovely pale blue. Blue for a boy. It had little jumping white lambs on it and writing made of daisy-chains. “Happy and Gay” it said. All over it. It was just my meat and I’ve got it somewhere and I’ll show it to you, but it wasn’t special. There were hundreds of scarves like it in Woolies that year.’

  ‘If you’re certain of that, don’t bother.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘What’s your observation like?’ He had taken his worn black wallet from his pocket and was looking for something amid the bursting contents. ‘This is a curio in itself,’ he said to Campion. ‘They wouldn’t let me borrow the file of course, but the photographic section got me these in fourteen minutes flat.’ He produced two small photographs of a woman, one full face, one profile, and handed them to Mrs. Broome who wore the expectant expression of a player awaiting his turn in a quiz game. A single glance, however, wiped everything but dismay from her face.

  ‘Oh, doesn’t she look awful!’ she said aghast. ‘She’s not as bad as that, not even now. What are these for? Her passport?’

  ‘You could call it that,’ Luke said dryly. ‘Is it she?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can see it’s her. They’re not as bad as that.’

  ‘Do you remember the name she gave you?’

  ‘She didn’t give me any na
me. If she had I should have remembered it and it would have saved a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Wasn’t it on the pink ticket?’

  ‘I had no time for tickets! You have no idea what it was like. We had hundreds of mummies and kiddie-widdies in the house – hundreds! All wanting – my goodness! – all sorts of things.

  ‘What did you call her?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, when you were getting down to the intimate details. “Ducky”?’

  ‘No, I should never have said that. I’m very particular how I talk.’ She was thinking, casting her mind back as he was persuading her to. ‘I’m not sure, but I think I called her “Agnes”. She must have told me that was her name if I did. It’s not a favourite of mine.’

  ‘All right, don’t worry. Have you ever heard of a Mrs. Leach?’

  ‘No. Is that who she says she is?’

  The superintendent ignored the question. He was looking at some scribbled notes on a sheet torn from a telephone pad.

  ‘I understand,’ he said at last, ‘that you told Mr. Campion here that you didn’t have a chat with her in the cemetery. It was a chance meeting and although you thought you knew her you didn’t place her until you were on a bus coming home. Did any word pass between you at all?’

  ‘None.’ With the recollection of Mrs. Telpher’s reaction to her habit of addressing inanimate objects fresh in her mind, Nanny Broome was cautious, sticking carefully to the letter of the truth ‘I might have said “excuse me” as I passed her to put the wreath on the grave, but nothing more.’

  He nodded acceptance. ‘You say she was kneeling?’

  ‘I might have been wrong. She might have been just bending, looking at the flowers.’