by Emma Page
‘How dare you speak to my sister-in-law in that fashion!’ At once Zena closed ranks against the outsider.
A laugh escaped from Anthea’s lips. ‘Sister-in-law!’ she said. ‘A fine sister-in-law!’ A warning light flashed in her brain but she blinked it away. She’d done a little ferreting in the last couple of weeks, had made one or two phone calls to an old friend in the London branch, had got a long and highly interesting letter from her only the day before, full of absorbing items of gossip about the goings-on between Ruth and Mr Turner when they had worked together at headquarters, when Mr Turner was still a married man. ‘Ask your precious sister-in-law how she wangled her present job!’ she said to Zena with deep pleasure. ‘Ask her what she gets up to behind her husband’s back!’
Ruth stood up; her face looked pale under the clear white light. The door from the passage opened and three women came in, chatting gaily. ‘If you’re feeling better,’ Ruth said to Zena in a low voice, ‘we could go back and join the others. Or would you rather go home?’
‘Indeed I will not go home!’ Zena said fiercely. ‘But I’ve had more than enough of Miss Gibbs’s company.’ She got to her feet and walked to the door with Ruth thankfully at her elbow. The three newcomers had already vanished through the archway; the woman at the wash-basin had completed her toilette and now dropped some coins into a saucer on a table.
‘Thank you, Mrs Venn,’ the attendant said, still seated on her stool. ‘Now that that’s all over,’ she said to Miss Gibbs, ‘perhaps I can get on with stitching up your hem.’
Anthea felt all her vitality drain away; she began to shiver, her shoulders shook in a sneeze. ‘Actually I don’t feel very well,’ she said in between dabs at her nose with a moist handkerchief. ‘I think I’ll go home.’ It had been a disastrous evening; there had been scarcely ten minutes that had given her any pleasure at all. She lived in a village ten miles away, had been given a lift to the hall by a member of the Independents’ who lived in the same village. But he would be sure to stay till the very end and she couldn’t possibly endure another two or three hours of this wretched festivity. ‘I’d better go and see if I can find a taxi.’ She took some money from her purse and gave it to the attendant; she had a sudden horrid feeling that she was about to burst into loud, undignified tears.
‘What a ridiculous creature!’ Zena said as she walked back into the hall with Ruth. She felt for the moment almost kindly disposed towards her sister-in-law, being left with the impression of having fought side by side with her against the foe. ‘Demand her money back indeed! I’ll speak to Sarah, I’ll make very sure she doesn’t get a penny.’ As they edged their way towards their table she caught sight of Maurice Turner dancing with that dark-haired young woman. He raised his hand and waved at her; she gave him a little nod in return.
‘By the way,’ she said to Ruth, suddenly recollecting Anthea’s final shafts, ‘what was that about Turner? That Gibbs creature, what was she saying about you—’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t pay any attention to her,’ Ruth said easily. ‘She talked a great deal of nonsense, I think she’d had a little too much to drink. Poor thing, she probably isn’t used to it, she’ll be very sorry about it all tomorrow. And I shouldn’t think you’ll hear any more about the dress, she’ll calm down, she’s that type, she’ll let it drop. Are you sure you feel all right now?’
‘Yes, I feel fine.’ Nothing better than a good argument to stimulate Zena back to a sense of well-being.
I’m glad I managed to escape from her clutches, Maurice thought, glimpsing Zena’s rear view again as he revolved with Linda Fleming. He smiled down at his partner. ‘We’ll slip along to the bar as soon as the music finishes, we’ll have a little drink.’ He pressed her close to him. A remarkably pretty woman, an agreeable and soothing companion; it occurred to him with pleasure that it would be a very good idea at the end of the evening to offer to drive her home.
CHAPTER 12
‘And suppose I’m taken ill again while you’re gallivanting by the sea,’ Zena cried above the sound of music from the radio on her bedside table. ‘I could die for all you’d care!’
Owen put his head round the dressing room door. ‘I’ll leave a note on the table with the name of my hotel and the phone number. You can always ring me.’ He hadn’t bothered to mention the name of Seahaven, he’d allowed Zena to believe he intended making a trip to several places along the coast. ‘Anyway, you’ll be perfectly all right.’ She was certainly very much recovered from the attack that had laid her low immediately after the ball; there’d been a day or two when old Gethin had looked gravely concerned, had shaken his head in the passage outside her room. But thank goodness that was all over now. ‘You can always get Emily Bond to stay the night if you want to, she won’t mind.’ Owen returned to his packing.
‘Emily Bond!’ Zena spat out the words with distaste. ‘I’m not having the pleasure of her company for the night!’ Returning strength was beginning to unleash in her a host of old animosities and resentments.
In the dressing room Owen took shirts and pyjamas from a drawer, folded them neatly into his suitcase. A stream of words from Zena washed against the edge of his mind but his thoughts were very pleasantly occupied with a vision of tomorrow evening, Linda Fleming coming gracefully down the stairs of the Cliff View Hotel, the way her face would break into a delighted smile when she caught sight of him.
As he tucked his hairbrushes in among the clothes he became aware of a certain note of repetition in Zena’s shrill utterances. He stood still and allowed the unlovely sounds to formulate themselves into intelligible sentences.
‘For the third time!’ Zena roared. ‘Have you or have you not dealt with the matter of the surplus stock? What’s wrong with you? Have you gone stone deaf?’
Scarcely surprising if I have, Owen thought, hastening to the door and flashing his wife a conciliatory look. ‘So sorry, my dear, I didn’t catch what you were saying.’
‘Didn’t catch what I was saying!’ She was astounded. As well she might be, he thought; folk a quarter of a mile away had doubtless been able to make out her drift. ‘I was asking you if you’ve made any arrangements about the rest of the stock from the shop.’ Tomorrow evening the shutters would go up for the last time; she still hadn’t forgiven Owen for high-handedly taking the decision to close down the shop without consulting her, although she had realized after due reflection that it was a sensible move.
‘That’s all taken care of,’ Owen said smoothly. ‘Don’t fret yourself about business, you just want to concentrate on getting your strength back.’ Though she seemed particularly well supplied with strength this morning. He vanished back into his sanctuary and finished packing. Zena’s questions continued to bombard him but he didn’t bother to register them; in another minute or two he’d be safely downstairs and out through the front door. He glanced round the room, making sure he’d forgotten nothing, snapped the suitcase shut and went in to say goodbye. Zena’s cheeks were bright pink with rage.
‘It may have escaped your notice,’ she said as he put down his case and approached the bed, ‘that I am still joint owner of the whole business and that I am quite capable of telephoning my solicitor and getting him to draw up a new will.’ She saw the weary way his eyelids drooped for an instant, implying a bored disregard of her threat; it jerked her into fresh fury. ‘I will do it!’ she cried. ‘I’ll ring him as soon as he gets to the office, I’ll have a new will signed and sealed before the day’s out.’ It seemed to her now that she would actually translate her idle words into forceful action; Owen would see that she wasn’t to be trifled with.
He stooped and kissed her cheek. ‘Goodbye,’ he said in an abstracted fashion. ‘Take care of yourself.’ She called something after him as he went downstairs but he had already switched his attention off; he didn’t even turn his head in the direction of her voice.
A few minutes later he was snugly seated in his car, driving gaily into the pale grey morning and the music which came
lilting and singing from his radio, the very same music which upstairs in Zena’s bedroom had struck him as tasteless and irritating, now fell upon his ear like the carollings of angels and the rhythm of glittering blue seas beating on enchanted shores.
‘Come in here at once!’ Zena cried fifteen minutes later when she heard Emily Bond’s step down the hall. Like that, is it? Emily said to herself stoutly, her trained ear at once interpreting with keen accuracy the particular note and quality of that displeasing call. Had a row with the old man, she diagnosed with soundly-based confidence; looking for someone to take it out on. She sent back no answering screech but allowed her heavy unhurrying footfall to signal her approach.
‘You’ve certainly taken your time!’ Mrs Yorke said as soon as she’d got one toe across the threshold.
‘Can’t go hurrying at my age,’ Emily said calmly. ‘Not wise.’
‘No,’ Zena said with emphasis, ‘and can’t go pilfering either at your age, not in the least wise.’
‘Pilfering?’ Emily asked on a totally different note. ‘What do you mean? Pilfering?’
‘I’ll tell you precisely what I mean.’ Zena embarked on a catalogue of missing objects, all more or less trivial, the kind of item Emily had come to look on as one of the perks of the job–and heaven knew there weren’t many others. The irritations and frustrations of the last day or two of her convalescence, plenty of time to brood over grievances real or fancied, had prompted Zena to dredge up from the depths of her memory various peccadilloes on Emily’s part that she’d let pass at the time but which struck her now in her angry and dissatisfied mood as important and monstrously reprehensible.
‘No one is going to call me a thief!’ Emily said, fiercely virtuous. Within another five minutes the situation had slipped from Zena’s control; there were accusations and counter-accusations, words like prosecution and slander began to pepper the air. And in yet a further five minutes Emily was being despatched down the stairs with her insurance cards and a week’s wages in her handbag; and Zena found herself abruptly without a daily woman.
A quarter to ten. Arnold Pierson glanced at his watch and decided it was a convenient time to go along to Owen Yorke’s office to settle a few points that had arisen in connection with the annual audit, due in another four or five weeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ Owen’s secretary said when he looked into her room, ‘Mr Yorke isn’t in today, he’s gone down to Seahaven on business, he won’t be in till Monday. Is it anything urgent? I’ve got the phone number of the hotel.’ She glanced down at her notebook. ‘The Cliff View Hotel. I could contact him there if it’s really necessary.’
‘No, it’s not urgent.’ Arnold turned to go. ‘It can quite easily wait over till Monday, no hurry at all.’
At lunchtime Neil rang his sister from the office to ask how she was.
‘You may well ask,’ Zena said in a dramatic tone. ‘In the first place Owen has suddenly seen fit to take himself off for the weekend—’ She enlarged on her husband’s neglect, callousness and all-round deficiencies in character and feeling. Neil opened his mouth in a huge silent yawn. ‘And then, if you please,’ Zena went on, ‘Emily Bond has the cheek—’ Another two minutes crawled by while she devoted herself to the old woman’s sins of omission and commission. My, my, Neil thought, we have been having a right royal time, haven’t we? He began to sketch an intricate pattern on a memo pad. He realized suddenly that Zena had switched from the subject of Emily to another topic, she was saying something about her solicitor. He sat up in his chair.
‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘I couldn’t quite catch—’
‘I said I’ve already seen my solicitor,’ Zena said distinctly. ‘He came over at eleven o’clock, he’s calling in with the draft some time this afternoon, and if it’s in order, it will be signed tomorrow morning.’
‘Draft?’ Neil asked on a rising inflection.
‘The draft of my new will, of course,’ she said impatiently. ‘What’s the matter, aren’t you listening? You ought to, it concerns you.’
Neil’s pencil remained rigid in his fingers. ‘In what way?’ he asked gently.
‘Never you mind.’ A teasing edge to her tone. ‘Are you coming in to see me this evening? I’ll be all on my own.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t this evening, Ruth and I are invited out to dinner. But Jane could come over and keep you company, she could stay the night if you like.’
‘She needn’t bother staying the night, but you could ask her to look in for a bit if she’s got nothing to do.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ Neil said. He would make quite certain Jane had nothing better to do if there was a question of new wills being made.
‘Let me see,’ Zena said, ‘isn’t she going off abroad somewhere soon?’
‘Yes, she’s going on a coach-tour for a week with her godmother.’ A sister of Neil’s first wife–a retired schoolmistress, fond of travel, glad of the company of a lively young girl.
‘When is she going?’
‘Not for another five or six days. What time would you like her to come over?’
‘Not too early,’ Zena said. ‘Say about half past seven or a quarter to eight.’
At eleven o’clock on Saturday morning Anthea Gibbs stood on the damp pavement outside Underwood’s dress shop and rallied her forces for the attack. She had spent the greater part of the past two weeks in bed with a severe bout of influenza; it was only the knowledge that this was the final day of the shop’s trading that had prompted her to leave the house at all this morning. She still felt a little weak and wobbly but there was no help for it; if she wanted her money back she would have to march through the door today, Monday would be too late. And she was absolutely determined to get her money back.
She looked up at the red and white stickers proclaiming the closing-down sale; under one arm she clutched a large cardboard box wrapped in brown paper. She glanced about at the harassed shoppers, then she squared her shoulders and walked resolutely forward. Might as well go in, she was never going to feel any bolder than she did now.
She let the door swing to behind her and strode up to the counter. ‘Good morning,’ she said to a young assistant in a voice that struck her own ears as being extravagantly loud, possessed of a curious ringing tone. ‘I wish to speak to Mrs Yorke.’
The assistant’s eyes blinked open in a look of wariness. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ she said. ‘Mrs Yorke isn’t here, in fact she hardly ever comes into the shop nowadays. And in any case she’s ill.’
‘Then I will speak to whoever is in authority,’ Anthea said with unflagging spirit. ‘The manageress. Or head saleswoman.’
‘If you could just indicate what it’s about,’ the girl persisted courteously.
‘It’s about criminal misrepresentation.’ Anthea slammed the cardboard box down on to the gleaming mahogany surface. ‘False pretences,’ she said. ‘Among other things.’
‘I’ll get the manageress,’ the girl said hurriedly, moving swiftly towards a distant curtain. She re-appeared a few moments later with Miss Pierson at her side. Sarah halted and levelled a long look at Anthea.
‘All right,’ she said to the assistant. ‘I’ll deal with her. I know the type, trouble-maker. You can finish clearing up in the stock-room.’ She made an unhurried progress to where Anthea stood with both hands resting on the cardboard box. As she approached, Anthea turned her head and caught sight of the straight-backed figure, the uncompromising glance. Oh dear, she thought, remembering now that this was the woman who’d served her when she bought the dress last summer; how had she forgotten that unflinching eye? Not exactly a person before whom one might utter the words ‘false pretences’. Anthea turned her head and threw a longing look at the door.
‘Good morning,’ Sarah said with icy calm. ‘I believe you feel I might be able to help you?’
Anthea drew a long breath and withdrew her gaze from the door. She was beginning to feel she had bitten off rather more than she could comfortab
ly chew.
Shortly after half past twelve Zena phoned Sarah to discuss one or two final details about the closing of the shop.
‘Are you sure you’re well enough to be worrying about these matters?’ Solicitude showed through the formality of Sarah’s tone. ‘They’re very minor points.’
‘Oh, I’m feeling a great deal better.’ Zena was pleased all the same at a little fussing about her health. ‘I particularly wanted to ask you about the surplus stock.’
‘There’s no need for you to bother about it. It’s all being jobbed off in a single lot. Didn’t Mr Yorke tell you?’
‘He probably mentioned something,’ Zena said carelessly, ‘but I haven’t been in much condition lately for troubling myself about business. And he isn’t here at the moment for me to ask him.’
‘It’s all to go to Mrs Fleming.’ At the other end of the line Zena made no reply; only the faint sound of a radio, playing light and joyful music, reached Sarah’s ears. ‘I expect you know who she is,’ Sarah added after a brief pause. ‘She took over that little shop—’
‘Yes, I know who she is,’ Zena interrupted. ‘When was all this arranged?’
‘I couldn’t tell you exactly. Mr Yorke mentioned it to me a couple of weeks ago. I did ring her earlier today, to ask if she could call in this evening and get things settled, but it appears she’s going away for the weekend.’
Again there was a short pause; then Zena asked idly, ‘Where’s she off to? Somewhere gay?’
‘I don’t really know.’ Sarah did her best to remember. ‘I think she said something about the sea.’
‘Well now.’ Zena spoke with a brisk change of tone. ‘We must settle a time for you to come over with the rest of the accounts, we can go over them together—’ She broke off suddenly. ‘Oh, I was nearly forgetting–has a Miss Gibbs been into the shop recently? Anthea Gibbs, the name is. I meant to warn you about her but of course I was taken ill and it went out of my head.’
