He got up and rang the bell and the bus growled to a halt.
“I refuse to talk about it any more. Come on. Cure coming up.”
“Where are we going?” She followed him off the bus, out into the crowd of Knightsbridge. "Shopping,” he said briefly and, taking her elbow firmly, half led her, half pushed her into Harrod’s huge main doorway.
“Marcus— what on earth?”
He stopped just inside and stood, very masculine and foursquare, in front of the perfume counters, the sweet-smelling pink and blue background and the beautiful lacquered and groomed salesgirls looking out of place as his background, but he was not looking odd at all.
“Look, Harriet, you have nothing to wear but what you stand up in, and practical and serviceable though that outfit no doubt is, I for one am tired of looking at it, and you must be tired of wearing it. You need some new clothes— so we’re going to buy some. And I guarantee the buying of them will give you a new lease on life— just that you need, the way you’re feeling.”
“Marcus! That’s the most marvelous idea I’ve heard for I don’t know how long — let’s!” Harriet cried, glowing with immediate pleasure and new energy. Linking arms with him, she went gaily towards the lifts. And then stopped.
“I can’t,” she said miserably, and everything suddenly looked horridly dull and dreary again and the heavy smell of the perfume department became sickly and cloying instead of exciting and glamorous. “Why not?”
“I’ve no money, Marcus. Not enough for clothes, anyway. I’ve still got some of that two hundred pounds I had, but not all of that— I paid bus fares and things. So I can’t.”
“Look, darling, I can stake you—”
“No. I’m beholden enough to you. I can’t let you spend more than you have already—”
“Already? it’s been peanuts—” he scoffed.
“That is neither here nor there. I can’t let you spend any more on me. Please try to understand, Marcus.” There was a bench sear near the lifts, and he made her sit down on it and sat close to her.
“Listen, you over-honorable little donkey— sorry! Pink icing again. I mean — listen, my darling. Since you have so exaggerated an idea of the value of money, let’s see where we are. Have you no money of your own? No bank accounts that is yours?”
She shook her head. “I told you. When Barbie died, the little money we had died with her. I’ve been completely dependent on Jeffrey.”
“Well, now he’s dead— surely there’ll be something for you? The house— did he own it?”
“I think so— he never discussed these things with me, but I think so. I never heard of any landlord, anyway.”
“Well, that’s worth a few thousand— and I daresay he left a bob or two. Well, unless he had some other relatives to who he might have left his estate—”
“I never heard of any other relatives. I told you that.”
“Well, then. You are the sole legatee and you can borrow on your expectations.”
She considered for a moment. “Are you sure I have any? I thought murdered people’s estates went to the Crown or something— that the law wouldn’t permit anyone to profit from the crime of murder.”
“Murderers can’t profit, of course. but you didn’t murder your husband, did you? So you inherit, I think.”
“I could ask Andrew Peters,” she said, almost to herself.
“That bloody man!” Marcus sounded really angry. “He’s as much use as a— sick headache. I wasn’t going to say anything till later— till the shopping therapy had had the desired effect, but I really must. Look, Harriet— don’t trust that man. Apart from his unpleasantness of manner, I just don’t trusty him. He’s— up to something.”
Harriet stared at him, at the the high color on his cheeks, and quite suddenly felt a glow that warmed her all the way through to her middle.
“I believe you’re jealous,” she said softly.
He looked at her a little oddly, and then managed a laugh.
“Perhaps.”
“How very delightful,” Harriet said. “That makes me feel marvelous— better therapy than shopping, truly. All these years being Jeffrey’s doormat, and now suddenly, you, and a jealous you, at that! Dear Marcus—” “Well, why not? He’s a personable enough sort of man, I suppose— not that I can ever see what it is women see in some men—”
“Oh, my dear, I assure you I just chose, arbitrarily, the first solicitor I found. And while I agree he’s a personable man, he’s a great deal too dour and bad-tempered to be attractive. Welll, certainly not as attractive as you are—”
Is this me? Harriet thought, marveling. Coquetting, as I live and breathe. Making lover-like conversation for all the world, like a lovesick schoolgirl. A sudden memory of the college youngsters she had envied on the underground the night she came to London rose before her eyes, and she laughed softly.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded, a little petulantly.
“Nothing. Marcus. Nothing. Look, how can I convince you that Andrew Peters is just a solicitor who is looking after my legal interests and nothing more?”
“Let me stake you some clothes,” he said promptly, and hurried on before she could speak. “You can pay me back , I promise. We’ll keep all the bills, and you can pay me back every cent, if you must. Fair enough?”
She capitulated. It would be ungracious not to, she felt, and anyway, the clothes she was wearing were getting wearisome, as Marcus had said, and new ones would indeed go a long way to restoring her self-esteem.
“Very well. And thank you. Very much.”
They got up and went over in the lift and, as it arrived and the little knot of waiting people pushed forward, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “There’s one other thing you could do to— repay me, if you like.”
“What’s that?” She looked back over her shoulder at him, as they shuffled into the lift with the others.
“Marry me,” he said, rather loudly, and then the lift gates closed, and she stood scarlet-faced amid the frankly grinning passengers, speechless with surprise, embarrassment and surge of decidedly physical pleasure that was remarkably disquieting in its effects.
But when the lift arrived at the fashion floor, she pretended she hadn’t heard what Marcus had said, feeling obscurely that she could not really listen to proposals of marriage they way things were, and to her intense relief he didn’t say anything more either.
She shopped blissfully, buying a whole new set of underwear, stockings, a nightdress, a flimsy dressing gown, fluffy slippers, a toilet bag. She bought skirt and a sweater in fine cashmere adorned with tiny pearl buttons that ran right up to the neck, the two garments matching identically in color, a rich deep blue-green, as serene and placid as the waters of a Scottish loch. She added a matching chiffon scarf to wear tucked into the neck of the sweater and then chose en elegant close-fitting coat, in honey-colored cloth that sat happily over the blue-green skirt. And she finally chose a dress, made of very soft Thai silk that moved, with a mandarin collar, that looked well on her slender neck, long tight sleeves and a narrow skirt with slits at the side.
“It makes you look like a Tartar princess,” Marcus told her gravely, when she came out of the fitting room, a little shyly, to show him. “And the color if perfect. You should wear that sort of golden yellow more often.”
She bought shoes to go with her dress, a pair of black kid gloves and a black handbag to wear with the coat, Marcus insisting all the time that she have these things, teasing salesgirls, making them giggle delightedly, refusing to listen to Harriet’s frequent appeals to stop— that he was spending too much. All he would say was, “You’re paying me back— some day. We’ll worry about it when we must, and not before.”
So she gave herself up to the pleasure of their spending orgy, and when they had bought a suitcase to hold her brand-new wardrobe, Marcus told her to go the the beauty salon “to make a job of it" while he settled the bill.
She positively wallowed in the beau
ty salon, letting the expert and elegant young man who came hipping over to her when she arrived cut her hair in to a petal-shaped and very becoming style, recklessly choosing makeup and lipsticks, and a bottle of Madame Rochas perfume as a final extravagance.
The young man seemed not one whit surprised at her request to change in one of the cubicles, and when she emerged wearing the yellow dress, carrying the coat over one arm, her newly made up face and her hair looking as perfect as she could make them, even he looked impressed, despite the fact that he had obviously found Marcus more worthy of regard up to then.
As for Marcus— he looked at her with a sot of startled approval that made her feel as though she were walking several inches off the ground in her handsome and up-to-the-minute new shoes. In a dreamy state of sheer happiness, she watched him sign a check with a flourish and hand it over to the cashier together with a tip large enough to make even the elegant young man raise his imperturbable eyebrows.
“Come on,” Marcus said, taking her suitcase from her and slipping his hand under her elbow. “Lovely lady— I request the pleasure of your company tonight at dinner, then at a theater and finally at a night club where we may dance a great deal more closely together than is generally regarded as seemly in polite society. Will you grant this boon I crave?”
“Most certainly, noble sir.” Harriet said and, impulsively, there and then, kissed him. “Thank you,” she said, and he grinned and said softly.
“No need to say thank you. Just go on looking as you do now, and that’ll be more than enough.”
And, just about the last customers to leave the big shop, they swept out into Knightsbridge, Harriet as happy and unconcerned with her problems as though she were in fact the young girl in love that she felt like.
Chapter Nine
It was just after dinner at the quiet Greek restaurant near the theater, where they had eaten taramosalata and moussaka and blaklava which were delicious, and drunk retsina which was so horrible Marcus demanded a good rough Cyprus red instead, that she found it.
She had gone to the tiny cloakroom, clutching her suitcase and coat, to repair the ravages to her face that the sticky turkish delight they had eaten with their coffee had made. She needed the suitcase because, stupidly, she had packed all her new makeup in it.
She rummaged through the case, the makeup and then, needing her handkerchief, put her hand into the pocket of her old coat, lying folded at the bottom of the case. When she pulled her handkerchief out, a small square of pasteboard came out with it, fluttering to the floor, and when she picked it up and read the brief note scribbled on it, she frowned.
“Ring me at this number tonight— imperative. Do not tell Cooper. A.P.” The message was followed by a number.
She turned the card over, and it was the one Andrew Peters had given her under Marcus' nose, at the police station.
How very odd, she thought. If he had something to say to me, why had he not said it while we were together? And why the terse “Do not tell Cooper”? She felt irritated suddenly. This Peters man was a deal too terse and imperative by half. As for telling Marcus or not— that was her concern. If she wanted to tell him she was phoning Andrew Peters she would, and that was that. She closed her case sharply, putting the card in her new handbag, and with a last check of her face and hair, swept out to Marcus. He was sitting for her by the door and, smiling, took the case from her hand.
“I’ll send this back to the flat in a taxi, shall I? It’s hardly a suitable accessory to take to a theater— Come on.”
All through the first act of the comedy Marcus had chosen she was abstracted. Almost too abstracted to notice the possessive way in which Marcus held her hand. What did Peters want to say to her that was so important? Why should she keep the message from Marcus?
And despite her decision to tell Marcus she was going to make the call— for her curiosity was getting more urgent every minute— when the curtain came down to a splatter of applause and the lights went up, she merely made an excuse and slipped away to the ladies' cloakroom, promising to meet him in the bar in a few minutes.
There was a telephone booth just inside the cloakroom, and she went into it, rooting in her pocket for a sixpence, and made the call.
He answered himself, and the sound of the deep Scottish voice clacked thinly through the phone wad oddly comforting.
“This is Harriet Darnell,” she said baldy. “What do you want?”
“Where are you?”
“At a theater— the Royal. Why?”
“Alone?”
“At the moment,” she said sharply. “This phone box isn’t designed to take more than one person.”
“Hmmph. Then you’re with Cooper?”
“For heaven’s sake, suppose I am? why shouldn’t I be? Have I to tell you and the police everywhere I go? And why this ‘Don’t tell Cooper’ note? It’s a bit—”
“Rude. Aye. I know. Now listen. That man, I don’t trust him. I can’t tell you why. Just don’t trust him. You’re to take care, do you hear?”
“I hear perfectly well,” Harriet said coldly. “And I think you are getting extremely high-handed. Mr. Cooper is a friend of mine. In fact, he’s the only friend I have and—”
There was a sharp sound at the other end of the phone, like an indrawn breath.
“Not quite,” he said, and his voice was gentler than she had ever heard it. “Not quite, Mrs. Darnell. I regard myself as— your ally, at any rate, even if you won’t see me as a friend. Believe me, it’s no skin off my nose if you make a fool of yourself over a bonny face but I feel I must warn you. There’s something about yon man—”
“You both make me sick,” Harriet said, suddenly furious. “You’re like a par of puppies squabbling over a bone—”
“Then he’s tried to persuade you to get rid of me again?” he said swiftly. “Aye- I thought he would. That makes it even more likely, as I see it—”
“But not as I do—”
“Will you listen, woman?” It was his turn to sound angry. “What d’ye take me for? I’m a man with a legal training. Do you think I’d dare to make vague accusations that I canna substantiate if I didna have verra strong reasons to do so? Would I lay m’self wide open to a slander action?” His accent thickened so that he became less and less comprehensible. “Will you whisht your suspeecious naggin’ and do as you’re bid wumman? I’m biddin’ you to take heed of a warnin’ — the man’s no’ to be trustit. I’m no’ askin you to run an’ hide fra the feller — I’m jist biddin’ you to tek’ care.”
“Er— I see,” Harriet said, a little helplessly. The torrent of words, the degree of feeling that must be there to make his speech regress to the patterns of his childhood startled her.
There was a silence, and then Peters said in a softer voice, “Are you still there?”
“Yes—”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lost my temper. But I’ve been a mite worried about you, you see. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to call me. And there’s something else. I would rather we could meet to talk about this, but there’s no chance of that, I’m thinking. Look, there’s been a new development, and—”
The door rattled behind her, and she turned. Marcus was standing outside the booth, a puzzled expression on his face. She opened the door and said in a gay voice that sounded strained in her own ears, “Hello, Marcus. Has the interval bell gone? I shan’t be a moment—”
“Thank you for your advice, Mr Peters,” she said formally. “I’ll— remember it.”
“Good. And as for the other thing— look, contact me in the morning, and in the meantime don’t panic, do you hear? No hysteria—”
“Good night, Mr Peters,” Harriet said firmly and hung up.
“You were phoning that Peters,” Marcus said accusingly when she came out.
“I— I don’t know anyone else,” she said, and smiled at him. There’s nothing odd about it, Marcus. He had scribbled a note on his card asking me to all him, so I did I that’s
all.”
“What did he want?”
“To tell me to be careful,” she slid over that. “And— there was something odd— he said there had been a new development. And then said not to panic. I wonder what—”
“Look, love, that man is just a dry-as-dust lawyer who flaps over things, as all lawyers do. I just wish you wouldn’t pay so much attention to him. He’ll— make things seem worse to you than they are. That why I didn’t want you to bother with him—”
“Still, it is odd—”
“We can talk about it later, sweetheart. Look, I have to phone Sue. I didn’t tell her I was sending your case back, and she’ll be in a flap herself wondering what’s up. Wait for me here, will you? It’s less crowded by the door—” he added as someone pushed clumsily past them in the narrow passageway.
She nodded abstractedly, and while he went into the phone booth wandered over to the main entrance of the theater, ignoring the people hurrying back inside in answer to the three-minute bell. Somehow the play didn’t seem very important anymore.
Andrew Peters’ distrust of Marcus disturbed her, not because she herself distrusted Marcus, but because somehow it had brought everything into focus. She hardy knew this man she had fallen in love with, after all. She knew nothing of his background, nothing more about him than that he had befriended her when she had needed a friend.
She stood staring out though the glass doors of the foyer into the dark street outside, wet now with a light rain that made the pavements gleam satin-black, reflecting the lollipop colors of the traffic lights and the bright shop-front windows. She felt cold suddenly and shrugged on the coat that she had been wearing over her shoulders.
As she pulled the collar straight across her neck, she saw a woman walk rapidly past the theater on the other side of the street, a tall thin woman with dark hair very like her own. So many people look like oneself, she thought. There was that woman at the house that night, and now this one. It’s probably the clothes really. The impostor was wearing a blue housecoat— my blue housecoat— and that was why looked like me. And that woman is wearing a black PVC rain coat, just like my old one. That’s why she looks like me. Maybe that woman at the house wasn’t really my double at all, maybe it was just the clothes.
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