Silence in Court

by Patricia Wentworth

  It was the most uncomfortable moment of Carey’s life. Her colour burned and died, leaving her distressed and pale. She murmured something which sounded like “Please, Cousin Honoria—” but the words were drowned by Dennis’s laughter. He blew his aunt a kiss and said,

  “Darling, how too dramatic! You do brighten things up, don’t you? Not a dull moment!”

  Mr. Aylwin gave him a look between tolerance and reproof, and turned to say something in a low voice. Beyond the fact that it began with “My dear Honoria,” no one but her was any the wiser.

  She made very much the same face as Nora had made at Dennis and sketched a gesture which set all her rings making rainbows. Her voice mimicked his.

  “My dear Mark! Sit down and have your tea. Magda, bring a cup of tea for Mr. Aylwin. Nora, it’s your turn to pour out. It’s just as well—at least you won’t drop the teapot if I shock you, and Honor probably would. Well now, isn’t anyone going to speak? Remember, here’s your opportunity. If you don’t take it, there won’t be anything doing afterwards—Mark will see to that.”

  Mr. Aylwin’s sandy eyebrows rose, but he made no further protest. Having known Honoria Maquisten intimately for forty years, he was only too well aware of the fact that opposition merely spurred her. If she meant to have a scene, a scene she would have. He took his cup of tea from Magda, sat down, and surveyed the baited family. Of them all Robert showed the most temper, and the most control. He glowered, but he had himself in hand. He was older than the others—mature—a man with a business of his own. Honoria shouldn’t—no, she really shouldn’t.

  It was quite plain that Honoria was enjoying herself. The red curls quivered and the diamonds flashed.

  “Nobody got anything to say? What unanimity! Well then, if you’re all quite satisfied you can say so. You’ve all got tongues.… Robert?”

  He certainly had himself very well in hand. His voice couldn’t have been bettered as he said,

  “Isn’t this all a little unnecessary, Aunt Honoria? What you do with your property is entirely your own affair. I hope you don’t think that any of us would question that.”

  Mrs. Maquisten bent a look of smiling malice upon him. If she had looked like Nora a moment before, she now bore a startling resemblance to Dennis.

  “My dear Bob, that is a pious platitude. Did you really expect to get by with it? What I am asking all of you, and at the moment you in particular, is whether you are satisfied? Or not?”

  “I couldn’t possibly answer a question like that.”

  “And why not?”

  He managed to smile.

  “You have a perfect right to leave anything to anybody.”

  She nodded and said,

  “Ingenious! You’re a good man of business … Nora?”

  Nora held the heavy teapot poised. Her eyes were as bright and hard as Honoria Maquisten’s own.

  “What do you want me to say—that you’re all there and on the spot? I’ve never heard anybody doubt it.”

  The eyes met in a glance that held and challenged like a meeting of blades.

  Dennis said, “Honours easy!”

  Mrs. Maquisten nodded.

  “Honor?”

  Honor looked down, twisted bony fingers in her lap.

  “Nothing to say? Swallowed your tongue?”

  “There isn’t anything to say.” The words came in a shrinking whisper.

  “Meaning you’re kind enough to agree that I can do what I like with my own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dennis?”

  “Darling, need you ask?”

  She said drily, “I don’t know that I need, but I do.”

  He got up out of his chair, went over to her, and stood there leaning on his crutch.

  “You know, you are plagiarizing horribly. We seem to have wandered into King Lear, and I suppose I’m Cordelia. I’ve always thought her the world’s prize mutt, so I’ll give a completely original reading of the part. In fact, darling, I think you’re the cat’s whiskers, and anything you do is O.K. by me. With which virginal remarks I make my bow—or I would if I wasn’t on a crutch—and invite the audience to applaud.”

  Mr. Aylwin promptly clapped his hands.

  “And now,” he said, “don’t you think, Honoria, that the curtain might come down? Theatrical performances during meals are a little hard on the digestion, and as you know, I am a passionate admirer of Mrs. Deeping’s scones.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nora whirled out of the house and was seen no more. This time apparently it was Alan, not Jack, who was her escort. She passed Dennis and Carey on the stairs and flung out the information with zest. Then she opened her fur coat and pointed triumphantly to a large glittering emerald and diamond crescent.

  “How’s that for richness?”

  Dennis whistled.

  “How did you get away with it?”

  She put out the tip of a pointed red tongue at him.

  “She gave it to me just now—sent Ellen to get me and pressed it into my hand. Aha!”

  Dennis lifted an eyebrow.

  “Everyone will think it’s Woolworth, or if they don’t you’ll be garrotted on the way home.”

  She said, “Pouf!” and flicked two fingers at Carey. “It’s worth masses more than the one she gave you, but you’ll probably get the rubies. Competition in armaments! I wonder what Honor got. She was going in just as I came out. Poor old Den—you can’t even wear a diamond ring! Bye-bye—have a nice time!”

  Honor came creeping down after them, followed by Magda Brayle. As they came into the dining-room, Carey had a momentary impulse towards laughter. Honor in that hideous beige frock, the last colour on earth she ought ever to put anywhere near her, and, fastening the neck, one of those frightful Victorian brooches like a gold pudding with stones stuck in it for plums! The stones were red, and possibly valuable. Rubies? Difficult to tell in all that gold, but she didn’t think so. Probably carbuncles, in which case not valuable at all. All that really mattered was that Honor was obviously as pleased as Punch. She fingered the horrid thing, and was determined that everyone should notice it. Perhaps the stones were really rubies. Perhaps she only thought they were. Perhaps she was just pleased at having a present. The impulse to laughter died. It was pathetic to see anyone so pleased with a heavy, ugly thing like that.

  Dennis looked at it and enquired candidly,

  “Your share of the loot?”

  “Aunt Honoria gave it to me just now.”

  “Mrs. Maquisten is very generous,” said Magda Brayle.

  Dennis laughed.

  “She’s very clever—little sops all round to keep us from hating Carey. I don’t know about Robert, but I got a cheque—quite a nice fat cheque. Carey and I are dining out and doing a show on the strength of it tomorrow.”

  Honor looked under her pale eyelashes at Magda.

  “You didn’t get anything? But of course you’re not one of the family.”

  It was a bald statement of fact without apparent malice. Carey wondered. Could you be so inept as that without meaning anything? She thought she preferred Honor silent, though it got on your nerves a bit.

  If Magda’s feelings were hurt, she did not allow it to appear.

  “Mrs. Maquisten is always very kind,” she said.

  Carey thought her colour rose a little. Perhaps it was this faint flush that made her suddenly realize that Magda’s looks had possibilities. Her features were good. A little darkening of the eyebrows, a touch of lipstick, some colour in the cheeks, would do wonders for her. She wanted colour. All that starchy whiteness, so becoming to most women, just blotted her out. Colour, and the play of expression—if she had these, she would be a very pretty woman.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” said Dennis.

  Carey blushed, and was laughed at.

  Honor disappeared after dinner. Carey and Dennis spent a companionable evening. They had reached the stage of intimacy at which you talk if you want to, and sit silent if you have nothing
to say or if what you would like to say is not ready to put into words. She discovered that he sang charmingly to the guitar.

  “Pity Aunt Honoria doesn’t like music, or I might be able to sing my way into being residuary legatee.”

  Carey sat up straight.

  “Don’t any of you ever talk or think of anything but Cousin Honoria’s will?”

  He smiled affably.

  “Oh, sometimes—just to fill in odd moments.”

  “Because it’s frightfully bad for you, and frightfully boring.”

  He twanged a soft descending arpeggio.

  “Boring? Oh, no, darling—we’re passionately interested. It’s the golden link that binds us.”

  “That’s what I mean. It’s horrid, and it’s dull.”

  He shook his head.

  “Not dull, my sweet. It combines a really good gamble with the excitement of the chase. There’s only one thing that offers a bigger thrill, and that is making love. Combine the three, and you have the perfect situation.”

  Carey looked at him with an odd little smile.

  “You do like talking nonsense, don’t you?”

  “That’s not nonsense—it’s a profession of faith. And I’m one of those rare people who translates faith into works.”

  “I suppose you know what you’re talking about. I don’t.”

  “You will, darling. I’m leading tactfully up to the fact that now you are an heiress I shall probably make love to you.”

  Carey’s chin lifted.

  “How kind!”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I’m a little handicapped, but I can still put one foot forward, and the wounded hero stunt is said to go down well. If I were to come over faint, would you go down on your knees beside me?”

  “No, I shouldn’t. I should call Magda.”

  “A heart of stone! I must think again.”

  “I’d much rather you went on singing.”

  Rather to her surprise, he complied, and after a little put down the guitar and took up a book. But when Carey got up to say good-night he reached for his crutch and limped to the door with her. She thought he was going to open it, but he stood there, looking at her and smiling.

  “Pleasant dreams.”

  “Thank you.”

  “About me.”

  “I see quite a lot of you in the day.”

  His eyes held a spark of malice.

  “There are several answers to that—but perhaps better not. Kiss me good-night?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “I shouldn’t have asked, should I? What’s a girl to say? Be brave—it’s quite painless!”

  His hand came down on her shoulder, steadying him. You can’t step back and let a cripple fall. Carey didn’t know whether she wanted to step back or not. She ought to have known—she didn’t. She was pulled up close and kissed. It was rather disquieting, but not at all unpleasant. She gave a little laugh, and was kissed again.

  “Dennis—I’m not a crutch!”

  “All right—all over.” He let go of her, “Going on well?” He stepped back from the door as he spoke and opened it.

  Carey stood and tried to look severe.

  “It wasn’t fair!”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  Something in his teasing look brought the colour flaming to her cheeks. She said, “You know it wasn’t!” and ran out of the room.

  His voice followed her, pleasant and cousinly for anyone to hear.

  “Good-night, darling!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jeff Stewart was kept busy out of London. He wrote most days, and sometimes twice—funny scraps, not real letters at all. One was just, “Honey, I wish I was back.” Some of the others weren’t much longer, but there was one which affected her oddly—a long, serious letter all about his job, the sort of letter he might have written to another man. It gave Carey a queer jolted feeling, she couldn’t for the life of her tell why. It might have been because the letter was dead serious and she wasn’t prepared to take him seriously yet.

  Meanwhile she was having the pleasantest time of her life. Cousin Honoria was affectionate, Nora friendly, and Dennis the best of escorts. He kept his word and made love to her in the most agreeable manner. It was impossible to believe him serious, so her conscience did not bother her at all. He amused himself and her, and when Jeff came back it would be very, very good for both of them. The days of the second week slipped by.

  She had been at No. 13 for just a fortnight when Honoria Maquisten showed her the rubies. It was quite a performance,’ and it did not begin until she was satisfied that Magda Brayle was out of the way. She had two hours off in the afternoon, and sometimes, at her own request or by Mrs. Maquisten’s decree, the time was shifted. Once a week she went off duty at six and took the evening out. On November 15th Mrs. Maquisten sent her out at half past five, telling her not to come back for a couple of hours, and presently she sent Carey to see whether she was gone. After which she reached up to the head of her bed and pressed the bell which rang in Ellen’s room across the passage.

  Then the performance began. Ellen was sent to rummage at the back of a drawer and bring out a curious inlaid box. It was quite small, about five inches by four, with different coloured woods inlaid to make a pattern. Mrs. Maquisten gave it to Carey with a curt “Open it!” But there wasn’t any opening. She turned it over and over, but it wasn’t like any box she had ever seen, and there wasn’t an opening anywhere. She looked up from it to find herself being laughed at.

  “I can’t open it, Cousin Honoria.”

  “No? I didn’t think you could. Give it to Ellen.”

  Carey held it out, but there was no answering movement from the woman beside her. Ellen stood with her hands together, large knuckles prominent, nails cut down to the quick, fingers not reddened but bloodless, the forefinger very much pricked. She poked her head forward like a tortoise coming out of its shell and said,

  “I can’t open it either.”

  Mrs. Maquisten turned a mocking look on her.

  “Can’t you really?”

  The small, cold eyes met sparkling hazel ones.

  “You know very well I can’t open it.”

  “So I do!” said Honoria Maquisten. “Well, give it to me.” She took the box, and with one of her rapid movements twisted it, and parted her hands again with a piece of the box in each. A little brass key fell between them upon the green coverlet. “There you are, Ellen,—open the safe!” She turned to Carey. “You’re privileged, my dear. Of course they all know I’ve got a safe somewhere in my room. At least I suppose they do, but they don’t know where it is, and they’ve never seen it open. No one ever has except Ellen.”

  Carey felt dreadfully uncomfortable.

  “But Cousin Honoria—”

  “Don’t be a goose, my dear! If I choose to trust you it’s my own affair—you needn’t let on to the others.”

  Ellen stood there hostile, the key in her hand.

  “It’s Mr. Robert you should trust, or Mr. Dennis,” she said—“not those that haven’t been in the house no more than a fortnight. All right, you needn’t look at me like that—I know my place! If everyone did, it would be all the better, but there’s some that don’t and never will.”

  Honoria Maquisten said incisively,

  “That’s quite enough, Ellen. Get on with it!”

  The grumbling continued, but almost inaudibly. Carey could see the old woman’s lips moving as she turned away and went round to the far side of the bed. When she passed out of sight behind the green and silver curtain, Mrs. Maquisten put out a hand and slid it back, but it went no farther than to admit a view of Ellen’s black dress and the knob of hair at the back of her head.

  “The safe,” said Mrs. Maquisten, “is there in the wall. A bit of the panelling slips away. I’ll show you how it works some day when I’m up.” She dropped her voice to an exasperated murmur. “Ellen’s a jealous old pig. Don’t take any notice. I’ll put it across her when I’ve got her alone.”

>   There was the click of a turning key and a swishing sound as if a door had fallen back against the brocade of the curtain. The little brass rings up under the canopy tinkled. Ellen’s head came round the pleated folds, mouth puckered up, eyes cold and bright among disapproving wrinkles.

  “What were you wanting?”

  “I want the rubies. You know that perfectly well.”

  “And how was I to know when you never said a word?”

  Mrs. Maquisten laughed.

  “Didn’t I? Well then, I say it now. Rubies, Ellen—rubies for Miss Carey.”

  Ellen’s eyelids came half down over her eyes. Through the slits something looked out, as malevolent as a snake.

  Carey kept her feet firmly where they were, but she would have liked to step back—even with the width of the great bed between them she would have liked to step back. She wasn’t going to, of course, but wanting to do it made her angry. What did it matter to her how the cross old tortoise looked?

  The cross old tortoise turned away, but slowly—slowly. Carey felt a little cold, a little sick. She was reminded horribly of the way a reptile moves. Once, by a pond, she had seen a snake asleep and watched it wake like that with a slow, sluggish motion, the head first and then the coils, until suddenly it was gone, like the lash of a whip, like water running. And then she had to laugh at herself. Tortoise or snake, she couldn’t see Ellen running.

  Honoria Maquisten patted her hand.

  “They’re pretty. You’ll like them,” she said.

  Carey had a blank moment before she remembered that they were waiting to see the rubies. And then Ellen was setting faded red morocco cases out—a very large case, two round ones, and a lot of others, all with C.M. upon the lids in Gothic letters from which the gold had almost vanished. Mrs. Maquisten pressed the spring, threw back the lid of the largest case, and displayed a Victorian necklace with a design of diamond bows and fleurs-de-lis with half a dozen enormous rubies embedded in the pattern. She gazed at them with a passionate admiration which Carey felt quite unable to share. The rubies were a lovely colour, and the diamonds made rainbows about them, but what in a modern world could you do with a thing which must be almost as hard and heavy to wear as a drawing-room fender?