Death and Miss Dane

by Elizabeth Cadell

  Rosario turned to him, smiling, to perform an introduction. This was Miss Dane; this was her cousin, Sir Paul Saracen. Miss Dane uttered a casual “How-d’you-do?” and Paul told himself that he had been right; American accent.

  “Miss Dane is going to Fern Valley, Paul.” Her pleasure at this fact sounded clearly in Rosario’s voice. “She’s stranded; the Indian gentleman took the only three cars and the buses are not able to go.”

  “My car’s only meant for two,” Paul told Miss Dane, who, leaning on the bar and stirring her coffee, looked entirely unconcerned as to whether she got a lift or not. “But if you don’t mind being rather crushed at the back, and if you haven’t much luggage, I—”

  “One suitcase,” explained Miss Dane laconically. “You just go ahead and don’t worry about me; I’ll get to Fern Valley some time.”

  But Rosario, with a gentle persistence that reminded Paul of his mother, was shepherding Miss Dane back to a chair near Mr. Allenby. Paul, following with three cups of coffee on a tray, found himself addressed by the Indian gentleman.

  “You are Sir Paul Saracen? I overheard the name just now, and I recognized it because Dr. Veysey, who is my landlord, told me that all the business matters connected with the house will be done through you, isn’t it?”

  Paul said that this was so.

  “My name is Dutt. My wife is with me,” Mr. Dutt, to Paul’s surprise, indicated the girl in the pink sari. “Also there—” he waved a beautifully manicured hand—“is my mother-in-law. I am very pleased to have met up with you; we shall meet again in Fern Valley—if we reach there.” He laughed, and the vague antagonism that had been building up in Paul melted; it was a warm, infectious laugh, showing beautiful, white, even teeth, and it turned Mr. Dutt from an importunate figure into an engaging one. “Let us hope the waters will subside. We—”

  There was a loud shriek, and Mr. Dutt paused. At the door a fat little Indian child of about four was screaming with rage at the attempts of his two guardians—an ayah and a bearer—to keep him from joining his father. Having kicked them both on the shins, he pushed his way through the crowd, and Mr. Dutt; beaming with pride, swept him up into his arms.

  “This is my little Choomy,” he told Paul. “He is learning to speak English. His mother doesn’t speak; his grandmother also, but Choomy is learning. Come Choomy, come to your grandmother.”

  Mr. Dutt went away, and Choomy was left with his relations, but it became clear that he preferred to join Paul’s party. He made his way to Miss Dane’s side and made a snatch at a keyring she was holding idly in her hands—two keys, Paul saw, attached to a short scarlet strap at the end of which was a tiny polar bear. Holding it out of Choomy’s reach, she detached the keys and let him have the ring.

  “That’s a loan,” she said in her friendly, easy manner. “I have to have it back—understand?”

  “Un-stand,” said Choomy, and crawled under the table to amuse himself with his new toy.

  “Bit of cheek on that feller’s part, coming up and talking to you like that,” said Mr. Allenby, to Paul. “He—”

  He stopped, shivered, and gave a mighty sneeze. “Caught a chill. It was pouring this morning in town, and there wasn’t a taxi to be had anywhere. Had to go by bus—stood in the rain waiting for it, and was soaking wet when it arrived.”

  “We’ll be home soon,” said Paul. “Where did you put your suitcase?”

  “It’s over in the corner.” Mr. Allenby sneezed again, and tears started to his eyes. “Chilled to the bone; got a temperature; I daresay.”

  “Let’s go,” said Paul. “Miss Dane is coming with us,” he explained. “Will you all go out to the car? I’ll meet you there.”

  He threaded his way to the place Mr. Allenby had indicated, only to find that there were several rows of suitcases standing waiting to be collected by their owners. After some searching, he located Mr. Allenby’s and carried it out to the car. He found that Miss Dane was settled in the back seat, while Rosario, protesting that she would prefer to be with Miss Dane, was being put firmly into the front by Mr. Allenby.

  “No, no, no, no,” he told her. “Miss Dane and I are the extra passengers; we shall go behind.We shall be quite comfortable.”

  This optimism seemed hardly justified, since—there being no room anywhere else—his suitcase and Miss Dane’s had to be fitted in the back, too. Paul, glancing up at the driving mirror; saw the two extra passengers making the best of the lack of space, but they were pressed uncomfortably close to one another.

  “You’ll have to go by the upper road, of course?” said Mr. Allenby after a time.

  “Yes. The lower one’s under water in parts, like the railway.” Paul addressed Miss Dane. “Where do you want me to take you?”

  Miss Dane could not for some moments tell him; the address, she said, was written down somewhere; she would find it. She looked in her handbag, and failing to find it there, began a systematic search of her pockets.

  “I have it,” she said at last. “If you’ll switch on a light—”

  Paul switched one on, and she read out the address.

  “Care of Mrs. Edmond, Post House. Know it?” she asked Paul.

  “Yes.”

  He switched off the light, but not before he had seen Mr. Allenby’s stunned expression. Post House was a small seedy boarding house behind the Post Office, and Mrs. Edmond was rumoured to be the latest of Dr. Veysey’s mistresses. A moment’s speculation about Miss Dane came into his mind, and passed; her business, he mused, was her business—but if he was any judge, that easy manner of hers wasn’t an indication of easy morals. Mr. Allenby seemed to reach a different conclusion, for throughout the rest of the journey he did not address another word to the girl beside him.

  Paul stopped at last at the Post Office, and explained to Miss Dane that the lane behind it was too narrow for the car. He opened the door for her and saw that Mr. Allenby was leaning as far away from her as the cramped space would allow, and staring straight ahead. She said good-by and he gave a dignified bow, the effect of which was spoiled by a sharp fit of sneezing.

  “This way,” said Paul. He took her suitcase and led her round the side of the Post Office into the narrow, shabby street beyond. Mrs. Edmond’s was at the end of the row of houses; when they reached it, Paul knocked, and the door opened almost immediately and Mrs. Edmond stood before them, the dim light of the hall enough to reveal her bold, handsome face and generous display of bosom. She drew back to admit them, and Paul carried in Miss Dane’s suitcase and placed it at the foot of the staircase. As he stooped, he saw the label attached to it: Miss Anabel Dane.

  “Give me your coat, dearie, it’s damp,” said Mrs. Edmond.

  Miss Dane, turning from a calm and unhurried survey of the hall, slipped it off, and then gave Paul a slow warm smile.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Not at all. Good-bye.”

  He bowed to Mrs. Edmond and went back to the car, carrying with him a picture of the dark, showy landlady, the untidy hall, the fair slender girl in the green suit, smiling at him.

  When he got to the car, only Rosario was in it; his feeling that Mr. Allenby had fled from contamination was checked when he saw him walking back to the car.

  “Been phoning from the public call box,” he explained, as he got into the car. “Rang the doctor to ask him to come up tonight and take a look at me. They said he was up at Tor House, so I got him there. Casual as you please, he was. Says he’ll see the tenants in and have his dinner and come up and see me afterwards. Can’t stick the feller.”

  Paul drew up at the door of Brakeways, and Mr. Allenby got out, clutching his mackintosh closely around his throat.

  “No use asking you to come in for a moment?” he said to Paul.

  “I’m coming up after dinner,” said Paul. “See you later.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Mr. Allenby. “I’m going straight to bed. But I’ll tell Philippa to expect you. Thanks for the lift.”

  Paul did not l
inger after dinner; he wanted two things with increasing urgency: to get some exercise after the long hours at the wheel of a car—and to see Philippa. He advised his mother to see that Rosario went early to bed, said good-night and went out of the house.

  The night was so beautiful that he paused for a moment to admire it. The sky was cloudless, the stars shone brightly; the air—he drew in deep draughts of it—was fresh and cold.

  He took the shortcut through the grounds of Sanctuary; reaching the top of the hill, he left the house behind him and came on to the public road that ran along the ridge. Glancing to his left, he saw some distance away a single light burning in the Lodge, and wondered whether Frances had carried out her intention of going up to see Mrs. Zimmerman.

  He passed Tor House, which looked ablaze with light, and came to Brakeways. Philippa let him in, and the sight of her; lovely in a dark, low-necked dress, brought to his mind, for no reason that he could think of, the memory of Miss Dane in Mrs. Edmond’s hall.

  He drew her into his arms and held her.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “I’m glad.” She freed herself and slipped her arm through his. “Come on in. We’re in the library tonight.”

  “We?” Dismay sounded in his voice.

  “Mother’s still up. She wants to see you.”

  “Can’t we be alone?”

  “Presently. She’s got some news for you.”

  He followed her into the room. Mrs. Mitchell was on the sofa, her feet comfortably up; a log burned in the grate.

  Always, when he came into her house, Paul was struck by the smoothness and perfection with which she ran it; a perfection his mother had never achieved in all her years at Sanctuary. His mother had had servants, but she had not had Mrs. Mitchell’s belief that they were there simply to work, or be replaced. The servants at Sanctuary had been Lady Saracen’s friends and proteges, and the work of the house had suffered in consequence; everybody had been happy, and his father had surreptitiously dusted the drawing room with his handkerchief. It wasn’t money that produced results, Paul mused; it was the determination to get value for money. Mrs. Mitchell had it; sometimes, for an uncomfortable moment, he felt that Philippa had it too. He wondered whether he would in time get used to the fact that she was so rich; the income Mrs. Mitchell had named when he and Philippa became engaged had taken his breath away. A rich wife…his father had always said that a man married to one needed to walk all his life like a mountain goat: two feet up and two feet down; a goat did it naturally, but a man found it hard.

  Mrs. Mitchell was smiling at him.

  “Back safely, I see,” she said. “Come and tell me about your cousin. We couldn’t get anything out of my brother; he went straight up to his room and refused dinner.”

  “I’m afraid he caught a chill.”

  She gave a slight shrug which, Paul thought, held more than a touch of contempt.

  “He’s tired, that’s all,” she said.

  “He was sneezing a good deal.”

  “And so he thinks he’s dying. Sit down, Paul, and listen to my news. Philippa wants you to be the first to know.”

  He sat down. Something of the eagerness that had brought him so swiftly up the hill had left him; the room which on his entrance had looked so gracious, was beginning to give him a feeling of uneasiness; there was something about it and about Mrs. Mitchell and—he fought off the feeling, but it returned—about Philippa too, that looked satisfied to the point of smugness. For the first time he missed something; the stir and bustle at his own home.

  He had never missed it up here before; he had felt vaguely that this undisturbed peace was the result of good planning. Tonight…

  Mrs. Mitchell was talking, and with an effort he brought himself to attention.

  “I don’t know whether you’re going to be surprised or not,” she said. “You may have done a little speculating about it.”

  “He hasn’t, Mother,” broke in Philippa, and there was an edge of impatience in her voice. “Tell him.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Mitchell smiled at Paul. “I’m going to marry General Lessing,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  There was a pause; Paul was too astonished to speak. Below his surprise was something else—an emotion he could not identify—and then he realized that what he had just heard was the news that Mrs. Mitchell was to be the mistress of Sanctuary.

  The knowledge brought so strong a feeling of distaste that he felt a moment’s panic lest it should have shown on his face. Making an effort, he thrust his reactions back, to be examined later; for the present, he had to smile, look delighted and offer his congratulations.

  He found, to his relief, that he was saying something; it sounded smooth enough.

  “When is it to be announced?”

  “Soon, I think. We shall be married in the autumn.”

  An autumn wedding, very suitable, he thought. And not a word, you notice, about Sanctuary. Not a murmur about his or his mother’s old associations with the house. Tact? No, too busy reorganizing the place in her mind. She wasn’t even bothering to talk any more; she was staring into the fire, looking…Why try to gloss things; why not face facts? She was looking the picture of triumph.

  He found himself on his feet.

  “I’m keeping you,” he said. “It’s late.”

  “Good heavens!” Philippa sounded irritated. “You’ve only just come!”

  “I just wanted to walk up and see how you were. But it’s late and—”

  “It’s early,” said Philippa. “Sit down.” But Mrs. Mitchell had risen.

  “I’ll go up and see how my brother is,” she said: “Now that I’ve kept my promise to Philippa to tell you first, I can break the news to him.” She paused by the door, which Paul was holding open for her. “Tell me, Paul, how long is your cousin likely to be staying?”

  “Rosario? I don’t really know,” he said. “I don’t think there was anything specific said about dates. About a month, I imagine.”

  “A month…” Mrs. Mitchell seemed to be calculating; then her eyes, with a shrewd, speculative look in them, met Paul’s. “What I was thinking was that when she goes back to Spain, your mother and I might do a little house-hunting together.”

  He smiled.

  “That’s very kind of you,” he said, “but I think Philippa and I will decide on something soon; one or two of the houses, we’ve looked at will suit us very well, and —”

  “That wasn’t quite what I meant,” said Mrs. Mitchell. “I was really thinking of—”

  “Mother!” Philippa’s voice, oddly sharp, cut into the sentence, and Paul, turning to look at her, saw to his surprise that she was giving her stepmother what, for a moment, he would have said was a warning look; then he told himself that it was merely an angry one.

  “I was only trying to be helpful, Paul.” Mrs. Mitchell laid a hand on his arm. “It occurred to me that you and Philippa would fit so well into the Cottage when you’re married and I could have helped your mother to find a tiny house that would suit her just as well.”

  Paul stood still, fighting the burning anger that surged up in him. He heard Philippa’s voice again, and its tone of light contempt steadied him.

  “Mother, you’re being quite ridiculous.” Mrs. Mitchell raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, as if expressing

  astonishment at the fuss her words were causing. Then, with a brief, brittle laugh, she went out of the room.

  Paul closed the door carefully behind her and turned to look at Philippa. As she saw his expression, she walked over to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

  “What’s the use of looking like that?” she asked lightly. “Mother was over-excited, that’s all. Having settled her own future, she’s now setting about arranging everybody else’s.”

  “Did you know she was going to marry the General?”

  “That’s a silly question,” she said. “You can’t know a woman’s going to marry a man until the man has asked her
.”

  “When did he—”

  “He came to call on her yesterday, at about 11.”

  “Yesterday…” Paul’s mind went back to his visit to Sanctuary. “I saw him yesterday morning, and he said…So that’s where he was going!”

  “It was the first time he’d ever set foot in any house in Fern Valley. I suppose that in itself was what you might call an indication. He was here about an hour, and when he left, Mother came and told me that they were going to be married. He came again this morning at about 11:30, to get acquainted with his new stepdaughter—me. Terribly formal and stiff; coffee and congratulations.”

  “When she marries, what will your uncle do?”

  “I know what he’d like to do—find himself a nice little suite over at Sanctuary.”

  He did his best to ignore the spite in her voice.

  “Has he always lived with you?”

  “Practically always. Since I was about four. And always is a long, long time.” Her hands slipped down to hold his lightly. “I suppose you’re brooding over old times at Sanctuary?”

  “I’m not brooding. The house needs a mistress, but—”

  “—but you’d rather have carried me over the threshold. What would we have done with a house that size? Later, yes; at the moment, we’d be far better off at—”

  She stopped abruptly, but with a sinking sensation, he felt completely certain that she had been about to say ‘at the Cottage’. Feeling as though the evening had turned into a nightmare, he resolved that he must get away and sort out his emotions in the cold night air.

  She was reluctant to let him go, but for once she could not charm him into submission. He was in the hall, opening the front door.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “I hope your uncle will be better. Did the doctor come?”