‘He’ll be wondering where you are, you know.’ Then she turned to Jenny. Tommy’s a pet – I’m most awfully fond of him. And he’s Richard’s oldest friend. He’s in the Navy. It’s such a chance his being on leave just now when Richard is. I don’t think he ought to miss the opportunity of seeing him – do you?’
Jenny said, ‘Oh, no,’ without raising her eyes.
A call having established the fact that Tommy was at home, that he was bored stiff – ‘Well, you know how it is. The parents are both as busy as can be, and you’ll be a life-saver, I give you my word.’
Richard turned from the telephone to find Jenny in the room.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.
‘What have you been thinking about, Jenny?’
‘About my being here.’
‘Yes—’
‘Well, I didn’t mean to stay – like this. I – I must think of something – to do—’
He made himself stay steady where he was by the telephone, but it wasn’t easy.
‘Is that because of yesterday?’
Her colour rose.
‘No – no – of course not. It’s just—’ She stopped there because she couldn’t go on. It was dreadful. It was the most dreadful thing that had ever happened to her, but she couldn’t help it. And she couldn’t go on. She just stood there with her eyes wide and they looked at one another.
Richard couldn’t bear it. It was all very well for Caroline to say, ‘Give her time. Don’t rush her,’ but there were things you couldn’t bear. He had started across the room to her, and she had lifted her eyes and looked at him, when there were steps in the passage and Miriam’s voice called out.
‘Are you there, Richard? I’m coming in.’
Richard said ‘Damn!’ under his breath and pulled up short. And with that Miriam came in.
‘I’ve a message from Cousin Laura,’ she said. ‘She wants you to come to lunch today, only it’s so fine that I suggested our making a picnic of it. There’s quite a nice place up on Hazeldon Heath. I don’t know if you know it.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Richard, ‘that I can’t say yes. I’ve arranged to go over and spend the day with a friend at Tillingdon.’
‘Oh – perhaps he’d like to come too.’
‘Well, I’m afraid he won’t be able to do that.’
‘Oh, dear – what a pity! What about tomorrow?’
‘It’s Sunday,’ said Richard.
Miriam smiled what she considered to be her most attractive smile.
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes, I think so. This is a village, you know. A very fierce light beats upon villages. The only excuse for not going to church is the bed of sickness.’
‘Well, Monday then—’
Jenny did not seem to be in on this conversation at all. Was she, or was she not, being invited? She didn’t know. She felt very, very angry, and she felt as if she was ten years older, and ten years younger. If she was really ten years older she would know what to do, and if she was ten years younger it wouldn’t matter so much. It mattered dreadfully. But at least she didn’t want to cry any more. Being angry dried up your tears. All this time she had not moved, but she moved now. She said, ‘I think Miss Danesworth wants me,’ and she went out of the room.
‘What an odd girl she is – isn’t she?’ said Miriam. She laughed as she spoke – a derogatory sort of laugh which was intended to put Jenny in her place.
Richard did not reply. He was too angry. The derogatory tone in which Miriam referred to Jenny, and the fact that she relied on him to second her, gave him so hotly partisan a feeling that it was all he could do to restrain himself from a candour of free speech which would not have gone down at all well.
Miriam stared at him. She was quite enjoying herself. If Richard disagreed with her he could say so, couldn’t he? She was not troubled with any delicacy of feeling herself. She laughed and said, ‘Oh well, if she doesn’t want to come, I suppose we can do without her,’ and left it at that.
Richard let her out of the front door and returned. In reply to Miriam’s attempt to tie him down to the picnic-lunch on Monday he had said firmly that he would find out what Jenny was doing and let her know.
With an inward determination to avoid the occasion even if he had to be rude he found Jenny in the kitchen. She neither turned nor looked at him as he came in.
‘Where’s Caroline?’ he said.
‘She’s gone into the garden for some flowers. Do you want her?’
She didn’t look at him. Why didn’t she? He came up close.
‘If I see much of that girl I shall be rude to her,’ he said.
Jenny felt a lightening of the spirit. He didn’t really like Miriam – he couldn’t. She was a horrid girl. She went on washing china with most particular attention. She was rather pale.
He said, ‘Jenny—’, and then Caroline Danesworth came in with a bunch of roses in her hand.
There was no more opportunity for private speech. Jenny clung to Caroline, and Caroline gave them no more opportunities. She was quite aware of Richard’s desire to be alone with Jenny, and she had no intention of giving way to it, or of making things easy for him. Jenny wanted time, and Richard had no business to stampede her.
She was very pleased to find that Jenny revived as the day went on. They went down the village and shopped, and then they came back and cooked their lunch, and afterwards when the things were all cleared away Jenny curled up in a big chair with a book and forgot that she was running away. She really forgot everything except that every now and then the thought of Richard stabbed in and took her breath. Where were they going? Was it the same way? Did he want her to go with him? He didn’t really want her at all.
And then there came the thought of Mac. It was such a little time ago that he had filled her world. She hadn’t been here for a week yet, and it was only that length of time since she had heard him talking with Mrs Forbes on the other side of the schoolroom curtains. It was just as if their words had had a corrosive quality which had burned out her picture of Mac. It wasn’t a true picture. She knew that now. It wasn’t true, and it never had been true. She had taken all the things she liked, his height, his fair complexion, and the pleasant tones of his voice, and she had made them into a picture of what she thought he was. And then as she sat behind the curtain in the schoolroom the real Mac had come out from behind the picture she had made of him, and this real Mac was – horrible.
She shuddered away from the picture, but she couldn’t forget it. Nearly a week had gone by, and she had had time to think. It hadn’t been a conscious sort of thought, but for all that the processes of healing and adjustment had gone on. The Mac whom she had imagined and loved, or come very near to loving, had never existed at all. He was a romantic fancy. She said it to herself, and it did her good.
Her mind turned to Richard. It wasn’t his fault that that odious girl Miriam was next door. As far as she could see, it would take them all their time ever to get a minute to themselves. Miriam was the most unabashed person she had ever come across in her life. Short of getting up very early in the morning and escaping for the day before Miriam was up, she could see no chance of their ever eluding her. It was nice to feel on the same side as Richard. What she hadn’t been able to bear was the feeling that he and Miriam were on one side, with Jenny a long, long way off on the other and a great thick hedge all set with thorns between them.
Caroline had gone in to see a sick neighbour. When she returned they had tea. It was a day which Jenny was often to look back on in the days that were to come. There was no hint of those days now.
When tea was over and washed up Caroline and Jenny talked. Jenny told her about Garsty and about the little girls, but she didn’t mention Mrs Forbes or the two boys. Caroline was a very easy person to talk to. She didn’t pounce on what you told her and try to make it mean more or less like Mrs Merridew did. She spoke very little, but you felt a flowing tide of sympathy and understanding. The time passed
very quickly.
It was just as it was getting dark that Miriam came. They had been sitting in the dusk, but now Caroline got up and turned on the electric light. At once the half seen dusk outside retreated and became vague and dark.
‘Richard’s not back?’ said Miriam. ‘Cousin Laura’s gone to some meeting or other. They do have them at inconvenient hours, don’t they? I wanted to see Richard.’
Jenny did not say anything. Miss Danesworth at the front windows looked over her shoulder to say,
‘He’s not back yet. I never do expect him until I see him.’
‘Oh – that’s very inconvenient, isn’t it? Well, I can wait for a little, but not for very long.’ She sat down in the most comfortable of the easy chairs and continued to talk in her rather loud voice. ‘It’s not very complimentary to you, Jenny, his going off like that for the whole day, is it?’ she said. ‘I mean, I shouldn’t feel flattered if I was visiting in a house with a young man and he made off like that.’
Caroline finished drawing the curtains and turned round.
‘Oh, he didn’t really want to go,’ she said in a laughing voice. ‘We fairly drove him, didn’t we, Jenny?’
Jenny lifted her head. She felt defenceless. But Caroline was defending her. She couldn’t defend herself. She wouldn’t do it. Miriam could say anything she liked, Jenny wouldn’t answer her. She had been mending a pair of stockings until the light got so bad. Now she picked them up again. The neat interwoven stitches were soothing to do. She would leave Miriam to do the talking.
And Miriam talked.
She talked about her sisters and her home, about the last place she had been in, and about how sorry they were when she made up her mind to leave.
‘I suppose I shall have to think about getting something else,’ she said. ‘Such a nuisance! I think employers are simply the limit – don’t you? And what they expect of one!’
She discoursed in this vein for some time. And then, suddenly looking at the clock, she said, ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, it keeps excellent time.’
‘Oh – then I must go. Tell Richard I want to see him, will you? Not tonight – I’m doing something else. But if he’d like to he can come round in the morning.’ She was already on her feet and out of the door as she finished speaking.
Jenny wondered a little. She thought that Miriam was a very odd girl, and she was very much relieved to see the last of her. If she had known that she was indeed seeing the last of her she would have had a more painful feeling.
TWENTY
MIRIAM WENT OUT of the front door. Coming from the brightly lighted hall, she blinked at the sudden darkness. The door behind her shut, and she stood for a moment to get her bearings. The two houses were at the end of the road. There was nothing beyond Mrs Merridew’s, a fact upon which she was apt to be complacent. ‘Here I am, just on the edge of the common, and no one can build beyond me. At the same time, with that nice quiet Miss Danesworth next door I have all the advantages of company.’
There was a little line of thorn trees on the far side of Mrs Merridew’s garden, and then the Heath dotted with thorns and carpeted with bracken.
Miriam walked past her own door and on up the road. Jimmy would be waiting for her. Half a mile up the road was what she had said. She had better fix things up with him. Really, Richard didn’t mean anything. She couldn’t flatter herself that he did. But Jimmy – well, she’d got a hold on him, hadn’t she? Jimmy was a cert provided she played her cards right, and there was no reason why she shouldn’t play them right. The best way would be to get Jimmy to marry her now, then there wasn’t anything people could do about it except make the best of a job that was out of their hands. There would be a colossal row of course, but who cared about rows if you got what you wanted? As she meant to.
It was dark. The man who walked behind her could not be seen, or only as a shadow among the many black shadows that lay across the path. Miriam was too much taken up with her own thoughts and plans to hear the faint sound of his footfall. He was walking very carefully. Sometimes the impatience in him throbbed itself to a climax. When this happened he stood quite still for a moment until he had it in control again. And all the time his purpose looked plainer. He had been waiting for an hour. He had given her that length of time. If she did not come then, he would have to think of a plan. There was an arrogance in him that would not contemplate failure. If she did not come out, or if she did not come out alone, he would have to think of another way. You succeed if you will hard enough to succeed. You succeed if you do not contemplate failure. He had never contemplated failure, and he had never failed in what he had set his heart on.
He went over his plans. He did not know that the boy to whom he had given the note was renowned for his carelessness. He had put on his skilfully planned disguise, the beard and the dark wig, and he had stopped his car half a mile on this side of the village. No one could possibly recognise him. If she didn’t come … He pushed the thought away. She would come. He recalled the wording of his note—
Jenny, don’t say anything to anyone, but come out and meet me up on the Heath as soon as it is quite dark.
Mac.
Bring this with you.
Well, they were far enough now. He quickened his step and came up with her just where a high clump of gorse stood by the side of the road and darkened it. He called to her softly under his breath,
‘Jenny—’
Miriam halted. It wasn’t Jimmy. And he had called her Jenny. It wasn’t Richard either. So Jenny was playing a deep game, was she? She thought she would learn a little more. He had taken her for Jenny. Well, she had come out of Miss Danesworth’s. Let him go on thinking she was Jenny for a little. She might learn something more. She tingled with a sense of adventure. She wouldn’t need to speak. She turned, and for a moment they were there in the black shadow with nothing stirring round them.
It was Miriam’s last conscious moment, lighted by a flash of anticipation, a sense of triumph. And then the blow fell.
She slumped to the ground with no more than a deep sigh. He picked her up, carried her round to the far side of the clump of gorse, and dumped her there. Then he bent to the inert body. He had to make sure.
He made sure. Then he walked away.
Ten minutes later he had come up with his car and was driving away up the country road with a sense of triumph in his heart. He had gone nearly ten miles before he remembered the note.
He had told her to bring it with her. Had she done what she was told? If she had, he must go back. Every instinct in him recoiled. The dead thing lying behind the clump of gorse, that was part of the past. You can’t go back into the past and correct your mistakes. They say a murderer always makes one bad mistake. What a fool he had been – what a damned, damned fool. He turned the car and drove back.
But when he came to that stretch of road he knew that he was too late. He saw the light, a lantern swinging from a man’s wrist, and the whole tall threatening clump of gorse standing up in front of it. There was only one thing to do, and he did it. As he went past at about thirty-five, he could hear a vague clamour. Voices called to him. He heard them for a moment, and then they were away. He was away.
The boy to whom he had given the note was called Dicky Pratt. As it happened, he was probably the most unreliable boy who could have been chosen for the purpose. His mother often said so. ‘Give Dicky a message,’ she would say, ‘and the first thing will put it out of his head.’ But she was wrong in this. Dicky had a very strong sense of what suited himself. On this occasion he went on his way with the intention of delivering the note with which he had been charged. He was always a most obliging boy with a cheerful manner. He had fully intended to deliver the note, but then he fell in with Roger Barton and Stuffy Craddock and they had a marvellous scheme on. Mr Fulbrook’s apples would be ripe – well, ripe enough – and Roger had had a bright idea. There was a wheel off the old cart that was smashed up no more than a fortnight ago. It had gone into the pon
d, and they hadn’t troubled to fetch it out yet.
‘Now if we could have it out of the pond we could run it up against the wall, and two of us could hold it and the third get over and get the apples, and no one would know.’
The note which he had promised to deliver was for the moment wiped as clean from Dicky’s brain as if it had never existed. To him, indeed, it ceased to exist. He said it was a smashing idea, and the three of them rushed off helter-skelter to put it into practice. It is pleasant to record that they never reached their objective, the wheel having stuck in the mud at the bottom of the pond. It refused all efforts to detach it. When at last they desisted they were soaked to the skin and regretfully decided to give up for the day.
The undelivered letter had miraculously survived. It lay crushed together with the mixed contents of Dicky’s pocket. If his mother had been a tidy woman she would have thrown the whole lot out, but she was a weak-willed, complaining sort of creature. She hung up Dicky’s trousers on the line over the stove and left the things in the pockets to dry as best they might.
The note survived. Also in Dicky’s memory there was the number of the car. The man had been sitting in it. He had got out and come after Dicky. Dicky collected car numbers. He ran off towards the village, stopped when he had gone a little distance, and made his way back carefully. The man had got into the car again. He was a large man. He might object to Dicky getting the number. Besides it was more fun if you stalked the car. Dicky was a very expert stalker.
He reached the back of the car and discovered a very curious thing. The car lights were off. There was something hanging out of the boot, and it covered the number plate. Coo – that was a rum start that was! The man in the car didn’t want to be recognised – that’s what that meant! Very secretive and all that! Dicky reflected that it was a good thing he had got a box of matches in his pocket. Very useful things matches. He struck one now and read the number at the back of the car. There were the letters that meant the county, and then 505. Quite easy to remember. He let down the flap again and proceeded on his way towards the village and to his meeting with Roger Barton and Stuffy Craddock.
The Alington Inheritance (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 31) Page 11
