Silence in Court

by Patricia Wentworth

  She let him go on, and went up to her room, where she unpacked her things. She wondered about Honor, about Nora, about Dennis. She liked Dennis. She thought he was an easy person to like—too easy? She thought that perhaps a lot of girls had liked him too easily. She thought, “He’s horribly afraid about losing his leg.” It was horrible of Nora to talk about it like that. She didn’t mean it of course—Nora never would mean anything. But she had her sore spot too. It was when Cousin Honoria told her to write to her husband that she had looked as if she might be going to throw a cup at her. She wondered about that.

  And she wondered about Honor, whose eyelids and nose had turned pink when Dennis teased her, and who had looked at Carey with pale dislike. She seemed a most unlikely person to be having a love affair, but of course you never could tell. The teasing meant nothing at all if it didn’t mean that. And the man had been in the Army and come out of it again. And either his name or his nature was Ernest. She thought it was his name. She began to think about going out with Jeff tomorrow. He was frightfully impudent and out of hand, and he would have to be shown. But he hadn’t got any secret sorrows, and he hadn’t taken a fancy to her because she was like her grandmother. She felt as if it might be rather a relief to get away from No. 13 for a little.

  She took herself to task about this. She had only just come—she hadn’t had time to settle down. The first day in a house full of strangers always had a world-without-end kind of feeling. She put the last of her things away, and told herself firmly how very, very lucky she was to have a roof over her head and a comfortable room, and a kind Cousin Honoria, because if it were not for these blessings, she would be in the really horrid position of having no more than three pounds to cover the three months during which she had been ordered not to work. Looked at in this way—and it was the only proper way to look at it—No. 13 Maitland Square was very definitely a Haven of Refuge. She must clamp on to that like mad. Suppose she had been coming out of hospital with three pounds in her pocket and nowhere to go.… She could get a job all right, but she wasn’t sure about being able to keep it. She got so dreadfully tired. That was what was the matter with her now—she was tired. She lay down on the bed pulled the blue eider-down up to her chin. Rather to her own surprise, she fell asleep.

  She woke with no idea what time dinner was, scrambled into a dark blue house-gown,’ and went down, to find the rosy-cheeked girl just about to beat upon a gong. At its first notes Honor appeared, and then more slowly, from the stairs, Dennis Harland. He was in evening dress, but Honor had not changed. Carey couldn’t help thinking that if she had tried she couldn’t have found anything less becoming to wear than that brief tight dress of stone-coloured wool.

  Down the stairs Nora came running. She was bare-headed, and the copper curls shone. Under a dark fur coat a dress with bright metallic threads in it shone too. Dennis said,

  “Always in a hurry—aren’t you? Who is it tonight?”

  “Oh, Jack—”

  “Rather a lot of Jack just now?”

  Half way to the door Nora whirled round, her colour high.

  “If you’re thinking of making mischief—”

  Standing there leaning upon his crutch, he gave her the most charming smile in the world.

  “Darling, you shock me. And what will our cousin Carey think?”

  Nora laughed, a musical laugh with a beat of anger in it.

  “I suppose she’ll think that anyone who isn’t dead and buried would like to get out of this old tomb of a house sometimes, and that I don’t much care who I go with—Jack, Reggie, Alan—what’s the odds?”

  Dennis laughed too.

  “Oh, quite. Have a nice time, darling. Explanations are a mistake, don’t you think? Sparkling indifference is so much more convincing.”

  Then, when the door had banged after her, he turned to Carey.

  “Come along and dine. I’m afraid I can’t offer you an arm.”

  They came into a room all bleached oak and vermilion leather, with a bowl of bright glass fruits in the middle of the table. Carey thought, “It’s like a room on the stage, startling and attractive for once, but imagine sitting down to breakfast in it for three hundred and sixty-five days in the year!” Quite frankly, imagination boggled. Anyhow, since they were there, she was thankful to feel that her own deep sapphire blue didn’t go too badly with all that scarlet and buff.

  As they sat down, Magda Brayle slipped into the room and took her seat at the foot of the table, leaving Carey and Honor facing one another at the sides. How she managed to move and sit down without a single rustle was very surprising. She was there as a piece of furniture is there, and as little seemed to be expected of her. As far as Honor and Dennis were concerned, she might not have been there at all. When Carey spoke to her she certainly answered, but in words as few and flat as if she had been an automaton with just such words to say. Having said them, she ate her soup, her fish, her savoury, without interest and more as a matter of business than of appetite. The others continued to ignore her.

  Carey discovered that she was hungry, and that Cousin Honoria had a cook who made war-time food taste like a beautiful dream.

  Over the fish Dennis surveyed the drab figure on his left.

  “Honor, my sweet, does that distressing garment indicate that you are going out tonight? Am I right in supposing that you are doing a flick?” He turned to Carey. “She’s a fan. Vicarious crime, love, and adventure—lots of it, piping hot.”

  Honor said in a small, obstinate voice,

  “Plenty of people like films besides me. You don’t say things like that to them. Why shouldn’t I go to the pictures if I like? If you want to know, I’m meeting Daphne.”

  His eyebrows went up as high as they would go.

  “Daphne?”

  Honor looked down at her plate.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I know, I know. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive! The first step on the downward path! Most confusing to the moral sense to say Daphne when you mean Ernest—no saying what it may lead to—” He broke off as the service door opened to admit the plump young maid. “Molly, is there any beer in the house?”

  “Mrs. Deeping’s very sorry, Mr. Dennis, but we’ve run out, and they promised it faithful, but it hasn’t come.”

  “All right—curse Hitler! I’ll have water—a drink only meant for fishes.” He addressed Carey. “Which would you rather—drink water all your life, or have to eat marge instead of butter?”

  “I drink water anyhow.”

  “Hence the schoolgirl complexion!”

  It brightened.

  Molly took away the plates, and the meal went on. As soon as it was over Honor disappeared. Dennis led the way to what he called the Study, a quite pleasant and not at all exotic room, with comfortable chairs, a log fire, book-lined walls, a wireless cabinet, and a piano.

  “Why haven’t we met before? Where have you been hidden? One of Aunt Honoria’s feuds?”

  Carey nodded.

  “Something like that. She loved my grandmother, and she wanted to adopt my mother. When my grandfather wouldn’t hear of it, there was a split. After my mother married they met once or twice, but Cousin Honoria didn’t get on with my father—not at all. Then my mother died—a motor accident—and it was the same thing over again. She wanted to adopt me, and there was a simply tearing row. My father went off abroad—he wrote, you know—and left me with his sister. And then he died, and she died just as I was leaving school. She’d been living on an annuity, and there was only just enough money to see me through a secretarial course. And then my old headmistress got me a job with Mr. Andrews, who was an M.P. and an old friend of hers. He was a pet, and so was his wife in a way, and I stayed there until the other day. He was killed when they machine-gunned the train we were in, and Cousin Honoria saw my name in the papers and wrote to the hospital and asked me to come and stay with her. I’m not supposed to take a job for three months.”

&n
bsp; “A very nice succinct autobiography. But you’ve left nearly all of it out. No love-life?”

  “Absolutely none.”

  “Then it won’t sell.”

  Molly came in with the coffee, and he went on talking about autobiographies and what made them sell until she had gone out of the room. Then he laughed and said,

  “I wonder what Candid Confessions by Honor would be like. Why are women with white eyelashes born liars? I’ll say that for Nora, she doesn’t tell lies—at least not often enough to notice. But Honor—” He sketched a circle with his cigarette, and a spark fell, going out as it touched the carpet.

  “She’s frightened. Why do you frighten her?”

  The hazel eyes looked at her, a curious straight look.

  “What’s she got to be frightened about? No more than the rest of us. She can’t take it, that’s all. No guts, like the Elle-maids. As far as I remember, they were very like our darling Honor. They had fair hair, they looked like women until you got behind them, and then there wasn’t anything inside them—no back, no innards—nothing but a façade. Norse mythology. I think our Honor is an Elle-maid.”

  “You shouldn’t torment her.”

  “Why not? It amuses me. I must have something to amuse me. If I couldn’t quarrel with Nora and stick an occasional pin into Honor, I’d go raving. Besides, you know, this Ernest affair is about the limit.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  He flung the stub of his cigarette into the fire.

  “What’s wrong! Ever hear of the respected Aylwin? No, you wouldn’t, but he’s Aunt Honoria’s solicitor, and a kind of family connection into the bargain. One of those firms where everyone has died off, but the names are kept embalmed like a lot of mummies—Weston, Weston, Montague, and Aylwin. Well, he’s Aylwin, and about twice a month when Aunt Honoria changes her will he comes along and gives her a lot of good advice which she doesn’t take.”

  Carey looked up, she didn’t quite know why. Their eyes met.

  “Why does she change her will?”

  He was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

  “Because it amuses her. She’s been doing it for years—she does it all the time. Robert, Honor, Nora, and I—we’re all on our promotion. If she’s annoyed she does a little juggling with her will—five thousand off Nora and on to me—ten thousand off me and on to our respectable Robert—twenty thousand off Honor and perhaps, who knows, on to you.”

  “Dennis!”

  He laughed at her indignant tone.

  “It would be more than that if anyone blew the gaff about Ernest Hood, and Honor knows it. That’s why she creeps about going pink round the nose. Because, you know, Ernest is the respected Aylwin’s clerk, and Aunt Honoria would just about die in a fit if she thought he would dare look the same side of the street as Uncle James’s niece. He used to come here with papers for Aunt Honoria to sign, and I suppose Honor chucked herself at his head. Then he got called up for the Army, and we hoped we’d seen the last of him. But he’s back again—flat feet, or fallen arches or something. Perhaps they just couldn’t swallow him. I’m sure I don’t blame them.”

  “What’s wrong about him?”

  Dennis was lighting a cigarette. He drew at it, flung the match into the fire, and said,

  “Everything. He’s like the sort of things you turn up under a stone—definitely sub-human.”

  “Why does Honor—”

  “She wants to get married, and I should think Ernest is the only person who has ever shown the slightest sign of asking her. He won’t commit himself unless he’s sure about the money, and that’s just what nobody can be sure about.”

  Carey sat up rather straight. She was pale. Her skin looked very white between the deep blue of her dress and the shining black of her hair. Her eyes matched the dress, and her lashes matched the hair. She said,

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  Dennis smiled his very charming smile.

  “Perhaps because you’re easy to look at, perhaps because there’s a natural bond of sympathy between us. Or I might be warning you off the grass, or inviting you to join the expectant throng.”

  “Why should you?”

  He blew out a little cloud of smoke. It tinged the air between them.

  “Well, my own idea has always been that we ought to have a gentleman’s agreement, just among the family. If we agreed to share and share alike, whatever the will said, we should know exactly where we were and cut out this uncertainty which is playing the devil with us all. You see, we’ve been brought up too close to money to do without it, and none of us have twopence-halfpenny of our own except Robert—and show me anyone in business who doesn’t want more, especially these days. Then take Nora. Her husband hasn’t got a bean—if he gets killed she’ll have about two hundred a year. Aunt Honoria has brought her up to spend double that on her clothes. Say he comes home—they’ll have nothing but his Army pension unless Aunt Honoria plays up. Take Honor. She’s thirty-two and she’s never been trained for anything. She hasn’t the nerve, or the health, or the guts to earn her living. And she’s all set to marry Ernest, who wouldn’t look at her if she got herself cut out of Aunt Honoria’s will.” He let his hand with a cigarette between the first and second fingers fall upon his knee and watched the smoke go up, his eyes curiously intent. “Take me. She’s always given me an allowance. When you’ve always had a thing, it’s not so easy to do without it. I’m a crock. They don’t know whether they’re going to take my foot off, or whether that will be the end of it if they do.” He laughed a little, and Carey bit her lip suddenly and sharply; the sound jarred her so much. “See?” he said. “A kind of family pool would put us all on velvet, because there’s really enough for everyone. I wouldn’t at all mind letting you in on it. In fact, it’s the only rational thing to do, because it’s on the cards that she might take an absolutely devastating fancy to you and leave you—well, not the lot, but an uncomfortably large slice. You see, she’s just in the mood for something of the sort, poor old pet. Her friend Mrs. Gwent has just died—a terrifying female, but they were at school together and they’d kept it up like mad ever since. Well, now she’s gone, and you are Julia’s granddaughter—she was talking to me about her last night, all keyed-up. Don’t you see it’s quite likely that slice might come your way?”

  Carey frowned.

  “You’re talking nonsense, but it isn’t the sort of nonsense I like. I wish you’d stop.”

  He drew at his cigarette, his eyes warm and smiling.

  “The unpalatable truth, my dear. The only thing that makes this kind of thing endurable is frankness. Unfortunately my beautiful idea of a pool won’t work because, for one thing, Robert wouldn’t play. He thinks far too much of himself to admit that Aunt Honoria could possibly fail to leave most of Uncle James’s money to the only male Maquisten, to say nothing of his personal merits—and he’s not in the least modest about those either. And secondly, the rest of us most unfortunately don’t trust each other. We don’t trust Robert either as a matter of fact, and he certainly wouldn’t trust us. So we’re back where we started, all sitting round with our tongues hanging out, and Aunt Honoria switching legacies whenever she hasn’t got anything else to do. To start a new metaphor, it’s exactly like a game of musical chairs—some day the music will stop and somebody won’t have anything to sit down on.” He threw away the end of his cigarette, pitched another log on to the fire, and limped over to the piano. “Moral song,” he said. “Prepare to be edified.”

  His fingers ran up and down the keys rapidly and easily. He had a brilliant touch, and when he began to sing, a melodious baritone voice. As the piano stood, he could play, sing, and look at Carey all at the same time.

  “Once upon a time, as I believe,

  Very long ago? Yes, very long ago.

  Adam lived, and loved, and married Eve.

  Oh, so very, very long ago.

  Here’s the book well thumbed for us to read in.

>   How much wiser we should be than they.

  Yet today

  Young Adam lives, and loves, and loses Eden

  In just the same old pre-diluvial way.

  Very long ago? Yes, very long ago.

  Midas lived who had the touch of gold.

  Oh, so very very long ago.

  Here’s the tale still told for him who listens.

  How much wiser all of us should be.

  Yet you see

  We still believe that all is gold that glistens

  And find ourselves as asinine as he.”

  He looked at her, laughing, over the last chords.

  She said, “Who wrote that?”

  “I did.”

  “It’s clever. You’re good—aren’t you?”

  He twisted round on the piano-stool and fished out his cigarette-case. “Thank you! I have thought of retiring upon street-singing if I’m unlucky enough to be odd man out when Aunt Honoria packs up.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  As Carey went upstairs to bed, the door of Mrs. Maquisten’s room opened and a little elderly woman in a black stuff dress came out. She had a small wrinkled face, grey hair brushed smooth and twisted into a tight knot behind, and little sunken eyes. Something about the way her head poked forward and the silent way she moved put Carey in mind of a lizard.

  “Mrs. Maquisten would like to speak to you.”

  Carey went back with her, was shown in, and was aware of the door closing behind her without any sound at all. It was a relief to hear Cousin Honoria’s voice bidding her come and say good-night. She went over to the bed as she had done on her arrival.

  A mild transformation had taken place. The silken cushions were now green linen pillows. There were still a great many of them. The brocaded coverlet had been replaced by a thin spread embroidered in wool with little bright bunches of flowers. A hemstitched green sheet was turned down over it. Cousin Honoria’s rings, earrings, and pearls lay in a heap on the table beside the bed, and a lace cap covered the red curls. One of the thin hands came out, looking undressed without its diamonds.