“Yes. By the main road. Rosario didn’t know who she was or where she was going, but she saw that she was terribly exhausted, and so she put the parcels down and hurried to her and asked if she could help her. And Mrs. Zimmerman said she wanted to see you. So Rosario brought her to me and I put her into the drawing-room, and Rosario’s looking after her. She…she isn’t herself, Paul. Something about her frightens me.”
Without a word Paul walked to the drawing-room and opened the door. Mrs. Zimmerman was sitting on the sofa, and in the first glance, he saw that her hat was on back to front and her gloves of different colours, but the ravaged face she turned to him drove from his mind the grotesqueness of her appearance.
“Here is Paul,” said Rosario gently as he came in. “I will leave you alone with him.” Paul closed the door after her, and then saw Mrs. Zimmerman struggling to rise, and walked forward to press her gently back on to the sofa.
“Don’t move,” he said calmly. “Just tell me what you want.”
She seemed to have some difficulty with her breathing, and after watching her for a moment, he went to the cabinet and brought her a drink.
“Take this,” he said.
“Thank you.” Her hand was trembling, and he steadied the glass as she drank. “Now,” he said, “sit back and rest for a little while; there’s no hurry.”
“I…I wanted to see you. I wanted your help,” she brought out.
“Well, I’m here and you shall have my help.”
“The police came to see me this morning. To tell me…”
“Yes.” He said. “Try not to think too much about it.”
“Think?” She wrung the oddly-gloved hands, and something in the gesture went to Paul’s heart. “I think all the time…think, think, think. But…I can’t remember.”
“Then don’t try to. Just tell me what I can do.”
“Can’t you tell me what we quarrelled about? Oh, no, no, no—not you and I. I meant what my brother and I quarrelled about.”
Paul hesitated.
“Suppose,” he suggested, “you tell me everything from the beginning.”
“I don’t remember anything—but the servants at Sanctuary told the police that I had quarrelled with the General.”
“When was this quarrel?”
“Yesterday morning. The morning of the day he was…the day he died. The servants told the police that I went over to Sanctuary, to see him—demanded to see him, they said. He was out, but I waited; they said I wouldn’t go away. He came home at about a quarter past 12, and went to the veranda room and they heard us quarrelling; they came to the door once or twice to see if the General wanted his usual drink of sherry, but he waved them away. They said he looked terribly angry.”
“And then?”
“Then I went away, they said. But when they went to tell the General that lunch was ready, he…he said he didn’t want any. He went out on the terrace and walked up and down for about a quarter of an hour, and then, they said, he went indoors and wrote a letter. They begged him to have some lunch, but he said no, he wouldn’t; he wanted to catch the post. He took the letter out himself and posted it at the end of the drive, and then he shut himself into the veranda room and said he wasn’t to be disturbed until the evening. The servants went out and left him a light supper and he ate it, but when they brought his hot drink at 10, he was…he was…But they said that he had looked terribly ill all day.” Once more her hands performed the pathetic, wringing gesture. “What could I have said to him? What could I have done?” she moaned.
“You remember absolutely nothing of your visit to him?”
“Nothing, nothing. But I thought I might have said something to you when you came to see me…something…”
“Do you remember speaking to my secretary, Mrs. Castle, yesterday morning?” She started at him.
“No. Yes.” She closed her eyes. “Is she dark, and pretty?”
“Yes.”
“I can see her, but…No.” Her eyes opened. “I can’t remember talking to her.”
“You didn’t say very much.”
Mrs. Zimmerman fixed a desperate gaze on him.
“All I need,” she said, “is a clue. Just a…a clue. I seemed in a hurry, the servants said; I walked there in a great hurry. Could your secretary remember what I was doing? Could she…”
“She said that you were packing.”
“Packing?” She frowned. “Yes, I must have been packing, because I had made up my mind to go away. Even when you came to see me, my mind was made up. I wouldn’t have stayed, you know, after my brother had asked me to go—but all our lives he had a way of doing things that rubbed me up the wrong way, and all our lives I’ve retaliated by behaving as annoyingly as possible. But we understood one another. He was a hard man and I am perhaps a rather silly woman—but we understood one another. There was nothing that could have made me…upset him so terribly.”
“Would the quarrel”—Paul spoke hesitatingly—“have been over his reason for wanting the Lodge?”
She looked at him blankly.
“Why should I go back to tell him what I’d told him already? He was going to make a fool of himself, I told him; he was planning to marry again.”
Paul stared at her, too astounded for speech.
“Again?” he echoed at last. “You mean he…he’d been married before?”
“Of course. Did everyone here think he hadn’t?”
“I don’t know. I certainly did.”
“He was a widower; his wife died young. He had a daughter, but she married against his wishes, and he never forgave her. She married a Frenchman named Gautier, and the trouble was that she proposed turning all their children into Roman Catholics, and that maddened my brother—I don’t know why; he had never seemed to me to care about religion. As it turned out, there never were any children because his daughter and her husband were killed in a train accident shortly after their marriage. I had tried very hard to get my brother to forgive her, but when at last he agreed to see her, it was too late; we saw the names in the casualty list. And you see”—she stared at Paul—“he should have altered his will, but he didn’t. When I came here, he spoke about it—but he died without altering it, and as she’s dead, everything will come to me.” She grasped Paul’s hands. “So you see how important it is for me to remember what happened? If I could talk to your secretary, ask her to help me…Would you send her up to the Lodge to see me?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
He paused. She had risen and he looked at her uneasily.
“Will you telephone for a taxi, please?” she asked.
“Just a moment.”
He went into the hall, but not to telephone. He walked into the kitchen and saw his mother and Rosario working together at the table, and had a moment’s pleasure at the sight of Rosario with her dark good looks heightened by a vividly colored apron.
“Could you give Mrs. Zimmerman lunch?” he asked his mother.
“Of course.” She hurried to the drawing-room and stood for a moment studying the visitor.
“Mrs. Zimmerman, are you alone at the Lodge?” she asked.
“Yes. I don’t in the least mind it, you know,” said Mrs. Zimmerman. “I’m used to living by myself.”
“I don’t think you should be alone at this time,” said Lady Saracen. “Why don’t you come and stay here?”
“My dear, kind Lady Saracen.” Tears sprang to the faded blue eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Why not?” asked Paul. “Do you dislike this house? Or me? Or my mother?”
“I am an eccentric old woman,” she said, groping unsuccessfully for a handkerchief and unfolding the one he handed her. “I have not got a very soft nature and I do not as a rule please people; I am like my brother, who liked his own way. May God rest his soul.”
“You must come,” said Lady Saracen. “You shall be quite quiet, and if you want to stay in bed, Rosario will take your meals up lo you. Perhaps it would be better if we had lunch now, and after
lunch Rosario and I will go up to the Lodge with you to collect a few of your things. We shall all love having you.”
“That’s settled,” said Paul, “and now we can have some sherry, but we’ll have to take it in to lunch with us; I’m late.”
He paused after lunch to have a word with his mother at the front door.
“If you can, settle Mrs. Zimmerman down for a sleep when you get her back here,” he suggested. “Why don’t you persuade Rosario to wear something besides black? She looked another girl in that apron she was wearing. Who’s she in mourning for anyway?”
“An aunt, I think. All she brought with her is black.”
“Then take her up to that new dress shop opposite my office and treat her to a couple of bright scarlet dresses. They’ll turn her into a beauty—see if they don’t.”
“I’ll try,” said his mother.
Chapter 5
He got to the office to find Frances waiting with a riddle.
“Eleven trunks, twenty one suitcases and half a hundred miscellaneous packages,” she said. “How many were going to St. Ives?”
Paul paused to think it out. “Not the Dutt’s luggage?” he asked at last.
“Yes. It passed me in a lorry and got held up just by the church as I was coming back from lunch, and I read the names and counted the collection. In heaven’s name, where are they going to put it all?”
“Where was it coming from?”
“The Junction.”
“He hired three cars last night to get his party to the house; I suppose he had to leave the luggage behind. If what you said about the feeling against them is true, perhaps he’ll soon be carting it all away again.”
“Not he,” said Frances. “The tradespeople have been discovering that one live Indian is worth several dead generals. The General sat up there at Sanctuary and didn’t spend one single penny in the Valley; as far as the grocer and the butcher were concerned, he needn’t have been there at all. But Mr. Dutt? He’s been out this morning, laying a trail of gold. He doesn't keep a car, so he hires taxis every time any member of his family wants to take the air. He practically bought up the grocer; it’ll need a hay-cart to get all his orders up the hill. When I came to the office this morning, nobody had a good word to say for Dutt and company, but they’re all singing a different tune now.”
“Mrs Zimmerman’s staying with us,” said Paul. “She wants to see you.”
“Me, what for?”
“Her memory’s gone—partly gone, as the doctor told you. She remembers your face but nothing more about your visit, but she feels that if she could talk to you, she might find out something helpful.”
He told her what had passed at the Cottage, and Frances frowned thoughtfully.
“But that’s all I know,” she said. “She was packing, and our interview, such as it was, took place through a window. I can’t tell her any more than that.”
“Talking to you might help her; she’s in a state. Why not come and have dinner tonight, and bring Bob with you?”
“Of course we’ll come, but it won’t help Mrs. Zimmerman. You don’t think she could have—”
She stopped and Paul finished the sentence.
“Murdered her brother? No, I don’t.”
“But she went over there on the morning of his death and they quarrelled, and she was packing to go away and now she can’t remember a single thing.”
And there was a key ring beside the body, thought Paul, and a girl called Anabel Dane had disappeared, and some deep unidentified part of him seemed to have gone with her…
“I’m going to do some work,” he said. “No interruptions unless absolutely urgent.”
It was 3:30 when she came into his room.
“Got your cheque book?” she asked. “Your mother wants it.”
“What for?”
“She’s over at the dress shop, brightening Madame Fleury’s day. She came into the office with your cousin Rosario.” She made a grimace of disgust. “Men!”
“What have men done now?”
“A skin like a peach, great big dark eyes like…like deep pools, tiny little hands and feet, a soft little voice…Haven’t you any eyes?”
“I gave you every one of those details—or almost every one.”
“You gave me the impression that there was nothing about her to shout about. Well, there is. There’ll be more when she gets a colourful dress on. Give me that cheque book. It’s some time since your mother came in, so it must be about time to pay. Now I come to think of it, you’ll have to do the signing, so you’d better take it over there yourself.”
He went unwillingly, and opening the door of Madame Fleury’s, found himself in a dimly-lit salon around which were curtained fitting-rooms. Only one of these was occupied; he could not hear his mother’s voice, but another, half-insolent, half-wheedling, was giving out sales talk of the kind he loathed, and the kind he knew would nauseate and antagonize his mother.
“—all that is needed, Moddom, as you can see, is a tiny inch taken up there, and—”
The curtains parted; Madame Fleury emerged, holding a shrinking Rosario firmly by the arm. She led her to the long mirror in the middle of the showroom and continued her monologue. Behind her came Paul’s mother and behind Paul’s mother…
After the first stunned moment, Paul wondered at his surprise. She had told Rosario that she was coming to Fern Valley to work—and here she was, working. She had left Mrs. Edmond’s: that was no matter for surprise either—but here she was, dressed in a neat dark suit, holding over her arm three or four dresses that Rosario was to try on. Here she was, and the showroom seemed to him suddenly to be full of light.
Her eyes met Paul’s; he saw recognition, a smile, a calm acknowledgement—and then Madame Fleury had turned and without ceremony snatched one of the dresses from her and was holding it against Rosario.
“The colour—you see? Perfect, Moddom. Big, perhaps, but that isn’t the fault of the dress; Moddom is very small; very small indeed. It would be impossible, quite impossible for Moddom to find any dress anywhere that would fit exactly. Now this gown—Moddom sees? There would be hardly anything to do to it.”
Standing uncomfortably by, listening to the glib sentences and disliking Madame Fleury more every moment, Paul became aware that his mother, who usually wilted under the least sign of bullying in a saleswoman, was today showing remarkable sales resistance. As dress after dress was held against Rosario, as Madame Fleury, grasping a handful of material and dragging it out of sight, declared the remainder to be a perfect fit, Lady Saracen, calm and firm, rejected it. Paul, moved to admiration at this show of poise in one who never showed anything but meekness, marvelled until he happened to glance aside in time to catch the exchange of glances between his mother and Miss Dane, and saw Miss Dane, by the merest lift of her eyebrows, indicate that the dress was impossible. He watched two more proofs of where his mother’s courage was coming from—and then Madame Fleury had also become aware of the situation.
There was a pause, short but of dreadful tension. Then Paul, with great presence of mind, drew his womenfolk to the door and opened it; as they went out they heard the storm breaking behind them.
Lady Saracen lingered on the doorstep. “But it was my fault, Paul. I shouldn’t have come away.”
“Home,” he said firmly. “Both of you.”
“But she was the girl you and Rosario gave a lift to the other night.”
“I know that, mother.”
“Rosario had just introduced us when that dreadful creature came in and snatched the dresses out of Miss Dane’s hands and—”
“I have a feeling,” said Paul, “that Miss Dane can hold her own against the Fleury.”
His mother walked down the steps and stood on the pavement.
“It’s too early to go home,” she said. “Why don’t you give us tea at the new cafe, Paul?”
He hesitated. He had a strong urge to sit down on Madame Fleury’s doorstep and wait: wait until closing
time, when the door would open and Anabel Dane would come out. She would not get away from him a second time; he was going to dangle a key ring before her and ask her to explain one or two things.
But it was difficult to refuse his mother’s request. Reluctantly, he fell into step and went toward the cafe.
He left his mother and Rosario at the table and hurried back to the office. He would, he resolved, turn his chair to face the window, and keep his eye on Madame Fleury’s door; at 5, or at 5:30, Anabel Dane would emerge, and then…
He entered the office to find Frances in a state of frenzy.
“Where on earth have you been?” she demanded angrily, “I’ve been waiting ages. I thought you’d been murdered, too. I’ve got news—wonderful, wonderful news! The employment agency rang up and they said—” her voice rising, and the words were tumbling out at high speed—“they said they had a girl there; could they send her? What were they waiting for? I asked them; so she came, and I’ve put her into your room because you’ve got to engage her or I’ll leave. She types, and she does a kind of shorthand I’ve never seen before, but which she seems to understand, and her references are all right. She just happened to get flung out of a job—don’t look like that; she didn’t do anything wrong. She walked down to the agency, and they phoned me, and we’ve got ourselves an assistant secretary.” She took his arm and pulled him toward his room. “Go on in. She says you’ve seen her before, so—”
She reached past him to open the door and usher him inside.
“This is Sir Paul Saracen, in case you’ve never been formally introduced,” she said. “Paul this is Miss Dane.”
She was standing facing him. He looked at her, and he found that he was not thinking very clearly—but one question at least, was finally answered: he knew why he had picked up the key ring.
His eyes met hers; he saw that they were wide-spaced and clear and honest. They were—the adjective surprised him, but he did not change it—they were kind eyes. Those eyes could never have rested coldly and cruelly on a murdered old man. Fair hair—not the light, feathery kind like Philippa’s, but fine, smooth, honey-coloured. Small nose, soft mouth, and that manner…serene and cool; cool, but not cold.
Death and Miss Dane Page 5
