The Listening Eye

by Patricia Wentworth

  In her private capacity Miss Silver might have wished to unpack and to tidy herself in privacy. In her professional capacity she could welcome any flow of words however tedious. People who talk all the time are seldom discreet. She owed no small part of her successes to the fact that she was outstandingly easy to talk to. Miss Bray found her a most sympathetic listener as she discoursed upon the difficulty of staffing a house like Merefields.

  “Men really have no idea! Take the butler and the cook. Because they have been here for twenty years Lucius thinks they are perfect! And of course they think so too! I am sure I daren’t say a word! And the girls from the village-of course quite untrained-one has to be after them every minute! And they don’t like it! Only the other day Mrs. Hilton told me that Gloria Stubbs was thinking of giving in her notice, and when I wanted to know why, she said it might be better if I were to leave the training of the girls to her! It just shows, doesn’t it!”

  Miss Silver observed tactfully that the staffing and running of a big house must be very difficult indeed.

  “And Moira is no help at all! I brought her up, you know, after my cousin died-at least she was sixteen, so I didn’t really have the training of her, and she has been married since, which of course makes a difference, don’t you think? But if I suggest her doing anything she only says that there are too many fingers in the pie already. She said that only yesterday, and I’m sure I can’t think what she meant, because if the Ball is going to be put off-you know, I suppose, that Lucius was giving a fancy dress ball at The Luxe next month? That is why he was getting the necklace out of the bank-Moira wanted to see it. And I can’t help feeling intensely thankful that it was stolen before it got here if it was going to be stolen at all. Lucius wasn’t going to keep it here of course-it’s too valuable. Moira wanted to see it, and then they were going to take it up to town and leave it at the jeweller’s to be cleaned and taken care of until the day of the Ball. Of course it is terribly shocking about poor Arthur Hughes, but when I think it might have been Lucius and Moira I really can’t be too thankful! I don’t suppose Lucius will think it necessary to put off the Ball-there were such a lot of people coming. Moira thinks it would be absurd, but young people are so apt to be callous. I often think it would be so much more comfortable not to have such sensitive feelings, but on the other hand does one really want to be insensitive?”

  Miss Silver opining that there was a happy mean and introducing a quotation from Lord Tennyson in support of this, they went down to lunch together on the best of terms.

  Lucius Bellingdon and three other people were waiting for them-a girl in smoky blue who was Moira Herne, someone taller and older who was Mrs. Scott, and Mr. Hubert Garratt. Introduced by Bellingdon, Miss Silver found herself regarded with as complete a lack of concern as she could have desired.

  Her own interest was, however, warmly engaged. Every person in this household had some part in the problem she was here to investigate. Because one of them had talked young Arthur Hughes lay dead. The leakage could have occurred through inadvertence, heedlessness, lack of self-control. It could have been the result of fear, of some burst of confidence, or of malice aforethought, but somehow through one of these people it must have come about. She could not neglect Mr. Bellingdon’s secretary, Mr. Bellingdon’s daughter, or Mr. Bellingdon’s guest.

  Moira Herne would have been remarked on anywhere for her ash-blonde colouring. As to her features, they were of the kind you really hardly notice. It was the gleaming hair with its soft full waves, the rather light eyes with a dark ring about the iris, and the fine white skin, which fixed and held the attention. The lashes and brows were slightly and artistically darkened to a golden brown. The mouth, which might have been too pale, had been deepened to a delightful rose, the pointed fingernails matched it to a shade. She allowed the eyes to rest upon Miss Silver in an indifferent stare and did not speak.

  Mrs. Scott could hardly have exhibited a greater contrast in looks and manner. She was a tall, slim creature with smooth dark hair, dark eyes, a skin warm with colour, a wide mouth, and teeth as white as hazel-nuts. She might have been anything between twenty-five and forty. Her voice as she said “How do you do?” had a quality of youth which it would probably never lose. She smiled, showing the white teeth, slipped into her place by Lucius Bellingdon, and began to talk to him about this and that. She had an easy charm of manner, a trick of saying things that made them sound interesting, a way of laughing with her eyes. It took Miss Silver rather less than a minute to discern that Lucius Bellingdon’s feeling for her was something out of the ordinary.

  Mr. Garratt was middle-aged and inclined to put on weight. He took the foot of the table opposite Mr. Bellingdon and sat there pale and depressed, eating little and talking less, with Moira Herne on one side of him and Miss Bray on the other. Miss Silver, between Miss Bray and her host, could hardly have been better placed. She need not talk, because Mr. Bellingdon was quite taken up with Mrs. Scott. She was therefore free to look and to listen.

  The conversation might have been confined to that end of the table if it had not been for Elaine Bray. She appeared to be able to eat and talk at the same time, and was most solicitous about Mr. Garratt’s loss of appetite.

  “These eggs-now you really should! They are done in onion sauce-a Portuguese recipe, I believe. The cheese in it neutralizes the onion to a very great extent. Now how do you suppose you are going to get up your strength if you do not eat?”

  Mr. Garratt said, “I don’t know.” He took about a dessertspoonful from the proffered dish and left it on his plate.

  Moira Herne took a large helping and said in a drawling, husky voice that she adored onions. Her way of speaking was so much at variance with the ethereal fairness of her colouring as to heighten its effect. Miss Silver found herself wondering whether this was deliberate.

  “Mrs. Hilton is a marvellous cook,” said Annabel Scott. She smiled warmly and unconventionally at Hilton as she spoke, and turned back again to Lucius with a laughing “I shall put on pounds if I stay here too long!”

  As the butler went back to the serving-table, Moira said in exactly the same voice and manner as before,

  “Wilfrid is coming down for the weekend.”

  Miss Bray echoed the name in a fitful manner. Lucius said,

  “That fellow Gaunt? He was here last week, wasn’t he? I don’t remember being struck with him.”

  Moira said, “I don’t suppose you would be. I’ve been dancing with him quite a lot in town. He is a dream.”

  Elaine said, “My dear!” and Lucius enquired, “As a dancer?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does he make it his life work?”

  “He paints. He has two pictures in the Masters galleries.”

  Bellingdon’s attention was caught.

  “I bought a picture there the other day-a very good one.”

  Moira said “Oh-” And then, “Who was it by?”

  “Not your friend Wilfrid, I’m afraid. A young man of the name of Moray-David Moray.”

  The large blue eyes gazed at him without expression. There was no expression in the husky voice as she said,

  “Wilfrid hates him.”

  Lucius burst out laughing.

  “Then that will be nice for them both! Because Moray is coming down for the weekend too. I asked him if he would like to see my pictures, and he said he would.”

  Moira just went on gazing.

  “Wilfrid’s picture is about a tombstone and an aspidistra. The tombstone is in a sort of blue mist, the aspidistra is in a pink pot, and there are some bones.”

  Annabel laughed and said, “Why, darling?”

  “I don’t know. He painted it like that. It doesn’t really mean tombstones and aspidistras-it means things going on in your Unconscious.”

  “Darling, I should hate to have a pink aspidistra in my Unconscious!”

  Moira shook her head.

  “It was the pot that was pink.”

  It was at this
point that Miss Bray came in on a worried note.

  “Oh, my dear! Oh, Lucius! Do you really think-a party-just at this moment-is it really suitable?”

  Moira’s gaze shifted to her. She said without hurry,

  “What do you call a party? Two men for the week-end? Not my idea of one, Ellen.”

  An unbecoming magenta flush spread over Miss Bray’s face. To call her Ellen was Moira’s way of punishing her. As a rule she avoided giving occasion for it, but at the moment her feelings of propriety were engaged. In the spirit of the proverb that you might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb she added to her offence.

  “I think we should be as quiet as possible- I think it will be expected of us. The house is full enough as it is.” Her glance touched Annabel Scott, fell away, met Lucius Bellingdon’s frown, and withdrew. “Of course”- the words came tumbling out-“the inquest was adjourned, and the funeral is over. I don’t mean that we have to shut ourselves up, or that there is anything wrong about having a friend or two down quietly.”

  “Then what do you mean?” said Moira Herne. “Do you know?”

  Miss Bray was twisting her long jet chain. She said in a nervous hurry,

  “I was really thinking about the Ball. I don’t know whether anything has been decided yet, but of course with all those people coming-”

  Moira said, “There is nothing to decide.”

  Miss Bray tried a second look at Lucius Bellingdon and found him frowning still. He said with some accentuation of his usually decided manner,

  “There can be no question about the Ball. It will take place as arranged. The date is still a month away. No one could possibly expect us to call it off.”

  “No-no-of course not. I only thought we ought to know what is going to happen. I wasn’t really suggesting-Naturally, as you say, a month is quite a long time.”

  He laughed.

  “Did I? I don’t remember. Anyhow there is nothing to worry about.”

  Hubert Garratt had taken no part in this interchange. He crumbled the slice of bread beside him and drank from a glass of water. The arrangements might have had nothing to do with him at all, yet the brunt of the work in connection with the Ball would fall to his share. As soon as lunch was over he disappeared.

  The rest of the party adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee. Miss Silver found herself next to Mrs. Scott. She was about to remark on the view from the windows, where a smooth green lawn sloped gently to the windings of a stream, the banks all set with daffodils, when Moira Herne walked up to them coffee-cup in hand and said,

  “I shall have to get another dress for the Ball. What a bore!”

  Annabel laughed.

  “Why should getting a new dress be a bore? And why do you have to get one anyway?”

  Moira just stood there.

  “The other dress was a copy of one Marie Antoinette really wore. I’m not going to wear it without the necklace-why should I! Anyway they say her things are unlucky.”

  Annabel Scott looked up at her appraisingly. It was rather as if she were looking at a picture or a statue.

  “I don’t know about unlucky, but definitely not in your line.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The appraising look vanished. A wide flashing smile took its place.

  “But, darling-with your colouring! Why smother it with powder? Fancy having hair like yours and covering it up with a wig!”

  Moira frowned.

  “I didn’t think about that. I wanted to wear the necklace. If it’s gone, there doesn’t seem to be much point about the rest of it. Now I don’t know what to wear.”

  “Oh, you must be Undine! I didn’t say anything before, because you’d got it all settled.”

  “Who was she? I’ve never heard of her.”

  Miss Silver was shocked. She was aware that the classic authors of her youth were now mere shadows from the past, but that La Motte Fouqué should have ceased to be even a shadow shook her. It appeared that Mrs. Scott at least knew something of his most famous creation.

  “Undine was a water spirit. It’s a German legend. She fell in love with an earthly knight and married him, but in the end he was false to her and she disappeared in a cloud of spray from a fountain. One of the Chopin ballades puts the story into music.”

  “You do know a lot, don’t you?” said Moira Herne. And then, “What would she wear?”

  Miss Silver considered that Mrs. Scott showed an amiable temper in her reply. Mrs. Herne’s manner had been abrupt to the point of rudeness, but Annabel only laughed and said,

  “Undine? Well, it might be rather enchanting, I think. Transparent green draperies like water flowing, and your hair brushed out into a sort of cloud like spray. Lucius, give me a pencil and paper and I’ll show her.”

  There were both on an ornamental table in the window. She took them, drew rapidly, and held up the result to Moira. The sketch had caught a likeness, but it was a likeness with a twist on it. It was, in fact, Undine with her unearthly lightness and grace, her hair blown by some wind of glamour, her dress flowing with the lines of flowing water. Moira studied it attentively. In the end she enquired,

  “Green chiffon?”

  “Green and grey-very pale grey, to get the water effect. You could have crystal drops where the points of the dress come down. No, not diamonds-they mustn’t be too bright.”

  She went across to the piano at the far end of the room and began to play the Undine ballade.

  “Listen-this will give you the idea.”

  She had an exquisite touch. The rocking melody came on the air with real enchantment. When the storm of Kühleborn’s anger broke she gave it only a few wild chords and dropped her hands from the keys.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  Moira Herne said in a grudging tone,

  “It mightn’t be bad, but no one will have the foggiest idea what it’s meant for.”

  As Annabel Scott came back to her seat she was saying to herself, “She hasn’t a spark of imagination. Why did I suggest Undine?”

  Chapter 11

  GOING through the hall, Lucius Bellingdon picked up a letter or two lying ready for the post. The one on the top attracted his attention. It was addressed to Miss Sally Foster, 13 Porlock Square. He stuck there, frowning at the number and the name of the square. In the end he called Moira and waited for her to come to him. She arrived without hurry, stared, and said,

  “What are you doing with my letter?”

  “I was going to post it-I’m going down into the village. Who is Sally Foster?”

  Those curious light eyes of hers dwelt upon him without affection. She said,

  “Why?”

  He had been used to her for so many years that he was conscious of no fresh chill. There was no warmth in her, no kindness. You couldn’t get blood from a stone. What he meant to get was an answer. He said,

  “I know the address-that is all. I couldn’t help seeing it. Who is this girl?”

  “She was at school with me. Why do you want to know?”

  “I have a reason. It’s some time since you left school. Have you seen anything of her since?”

  “She is Marigold Marchbank’s secretary. One of the girls married Freddy Ambleton. I see quite a lot of them. Sally is a friend of theirs-I met her again like that.”

  “Do you know her well enough to ask her down here?”

  She gave an odd laugh with a flavour of contempt,

  “There’s no harm in asking!”

  He had continued to frown at the letter. Now he turned the same look on her.

  “What is she like?”

  “Very much the same as other people.”

  “About your age?”

  She shrugged.

  “More or less.”

  “And you know her fairly well. What were you writing to her about?”

  “She asked me to make a four to go dancing. I said I couldn’t.”

  He said, “Look here, I want you to ring her up and ask her d
own for the week-end.”

  She opened her eyes so widely that the dark line about the iris showed clear.

  “But I don’t want to.”

  His voice roughened.

  “She needn’t be in your way.”

  “Why do you want her?”

  He said,

  “Too long to go into. She comes from the same house as David Moray. I told you I’d asked him for the week-end-that is why I was struck by the address on your letter. She can help to entertain him, and to prevent your being bothered.”

  Moira considered the question in a leisurely manner. She didn’t want Sally down at Merefields, but she didn’t want this David Moray person either. She wanted Wilfrid, and she didn’t really trust Wilfrid where Sally was concerned. On the other hand it might be a good plan to have a show-down. There would have to be one soon anyway. If Wilfrid was in the same house with her and Sally he would have to show his hand. If David Moray was at all presentable he might come in usefully, either to distract Sally’s attention or to flirt with herself and put Wilfrid on his mettle. Because the one thing she was really sure of in the whole situation was that, Sally or no Sally, Wilfrid had no intention of letting himself be cut out with Moira Herne. That was a development which he simply couldn’t afford, and he knew it. Having reached this point, she said in a flat uninterested voice,

  “Oh, well, I can ring her up if you want me to. Ellen will say it makes it more of a party, but I suppose you don’t mind about that.”

  Lucius Bellingdon said, “Not a bit.”

  She was not prepared for his following her into the study and standing there looking out of the window with his back to her whilst she telephoned. Her voice came through to Sally without any more than its usual lack of expression.