Number Nineteen

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  When he opened the door he saw a hard-eyed woman dressed in black standing before him.

  17

  Lady No. Two

  ‘This ain’t fair,’ Ben decided. ‘I don’t git no warnin’. ’Oo’s this ’un? ’Ow am I ter know which side she’s on and which side I gotter be on whichever side she is? It ain’t fair. Yer don’t git no warnin’. It ain’t fair.’

  And so, lacking any policy, he donned an expression which he hoped would convey nothing until he knew what he wanted to convey; and as the nearest thing it came to was a dead haddock, it fulfilled its purpose.

  ‘Good-morning,’ began this latest visitor, stiffly.

  ‘Good-mornin’,’ replied the dead haddock.

  ‘Can I see Mr Wavell?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr ’Oo?’ answered Ben.

  ‘Mr Wavell.’

  ‘Oh! Mr Wavell.’

  ‘You know him, of course?’

  ‘Well, see, there’s mor’n one.’

  ‘Don’t be trying! This is Mr Ernest Wavell. Not the General.’

  ‘Ah! Well, ’e wouldn’t of bin ’ere!’

  ‘Hardly. The Mr Wavell I am talking about is the head of the firm of Wavell and Son, house-agents.’

  ‘Oh! That ’un.’

  An expression of exasperation swept across her face. It was not a happy face, which might have endeared it to Ben, for he was drawn to unhappy people. Sort of unnerstood ’em like. But he could not hatch any fondness for this grim, unattractive lady. She wasn’t like that other one. Still, corse, yer never knew, did yer? Wot yer saw didn’t orlways give yer wot was unnerneath. Same with ’orses. ’Old aht yer ’and ter the gentlest lookin’ in the row and ten ter one ’e’d bite yer …

  ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Eh? Yus, that’s right, mum,’ jerked Ben. ‘Wavell and Son. That’s right.’

  ‘You do know the firm, then,’ said the lady, with thinly veiled irony.

  ‘Well, why wouldn’t I?’ hedged Ben.

  ‘You certainly ought to if they are agents for this house.’ She paused, as though waiting for corroboration. When none came she was forced to put the question. ‘They are the agents, are they not?’

  ‘Don’t the board say?’ replied Ben.

  He thought this good, but was proved an optimist.

  ‘There isn’t any board,’ she answered.

  ‘Oh! Ain’t there?’

  ‘You didn’t know that?’

  ‘I expeck it’s got blowed dahn.’

  ‘I saw no sign of it.’

  ‘I expeck it was took away while they was gettin’ another.’

  With forced patience, the lady in black enquired whether, when the new board came, it would bear the name of Wavell and Son. Worn out by her persistence, Ben risked the admission that it would do so, though it occurred to him that if there was no board now there probably would never be one. This was not a house that advertised itself.

  ‘So let’s get back to where we started from,’ said the lady. ‘I understand that Mr Wavell is not at his office—as a matter of fact I rang up to find out—so I thought he might be here.’

  ‘I see, mum. They tole yer ’e was ’ere.’

  She hesitated, then shook her head, admitting the truth rather grudgingly.

  ‘No—they didn’t tell me,’ she responded. ‘The girl did not seem to know. She just said he was out with a client, and I was given to understand that there was a long list of houses to be visited.’

  ‘I see,’ nodded Ben, ‘and they give yer the list and yer callin’ at the lot?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Oh! Then wot mide yer choose this ’un, mum—?’

  ‘Will you stop asking questions and answer mine?’ she interrupted angrily. ‘Do you think I propose to stand here listening to your nonsense? Is Mr Wavell here, or isn’t he?’

  Further postponement being impossible, Ben tossed in his mind. ’Eads ’e is, tails ’e ain’t. The imaginary coin came down heads.

  ‘’E ain’t,’ said Ben.

  After all, why obey a coin that wasn’t here, either?

  The lady frowned. Her expression was sceptical, but she seemed uncertain of her next move. It took her a few seconds to decide, and when she spoke again her tone was rather more conciliatory.

  ‘That’s a pity—I hoped he was,’ she said. ‘You know him, of course? If this house is on his firm’s books, I expect he has been here. You are the caretaker?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mr Wavell engaged you, I dare say?’ Leave that one, unless she repeated it. ‘Did he?’

  Lummy, why didn’t she go? He wanted to find out what was happening in the basement. Of course it wouldn’t be no picnic, finding out wouldn’t, but it had to be done, and if she kept him here much longer … ’Allo! Wot was that?…

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Eh? ’Oo did wot? Oh, yus. I mean no. ’E didn’t engaige me—not Mr Wavell didn’t.’

  ‘Who did engage you?’

  ‘Some’un else did.’

  ‘Naturally, if Mr Wavell didn’t! The owner?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Who is the owner? What’s his—?’

  She stopped in the middle of the sentence, and looked beyond Ben’s shoulder. Had she heard something, too?

  ‘Look ’ere, mum,’ he said, earnestly, ‘I’m the caretaiker ’ere, like I told yer, but I ain’t bin engaiged ter give perticklers, you better git them orf the agent, see, I on’y ’as ter show people rahnd wot’s interested in the ’ouse—’

  ‘Then suppose you show me round?’ she interrupted, tartly. ‘I happen to be rather interested in this house myself.’

  Making one last effort against this determined woman, Ben replied,

  ‘’Ave yer got a norder, mum? I ain’t supposed ter show no one rahnd not if they ain’t got a norder.’

  ‘I don’t need any order, thank you,’ she retorted. ‘Perhaps, since you are so particular, it might be a good idea for you to ask who I am?’

  ‘Oh! Then ’oo are yer?’

  ‘I am Mrs Wavell, Mr Wavell’s wife. Now may I come in? You say Mr Wavell is not here, but someone is! I heard them below those stairs a few moments ago, and whoever they are I am quite certain of one thing—they will be more satisfactory to talk to than you are!’

  She began to push past him, then paused at his expression.

  ‘You seem surprised,’ she said.

  ‘Well, mum—yer didn’t tell me,’ muttered Ben.

  ‘That may have been because of your most extraordinary attitude when you opened the door to me! What is going on in this house? Would you like to inform me, or must I find out for myself?’

  Ben gave up.

  ‘Yer can please yerself, mum,’ he answered. ‘I ain’t stoppin’ yer.’

  And why, after all, should he? This was something new—something not in the original picture—and he could not be expected to handle it! Let her go down and find her husband! If she did, perhaps Ben would learn something in the shindy!

  But as she resumed her way to the head of the stairs a new thought—a new reason for detaining her—came into his mind. He didn’t like her, that was a fact, but she was a lady, and you had to look after ladies, didn’t you? You know—whoever they were. And if she didn’t know what was going on in the house any more than Ben did, and might bump into a corpse at any moment, well, she ought to be warned like, oughtn’t she?

  So he called out. ‘’Arf a mo’!’ but it had no effect. Mrs Wavell either did not hear or chose not to hear, and descended the stone stairs with a determination there was no combating. Very well, then. If a little too tardily, Ben had done his best, and she must take the consequences. And so, incidentally, must Mr Wavell, if that unhappy gentleman were still about.

  Ben did not descend himself. At least, not immediately. He waited for an explosion, the sound of which, he had little doubt, would reach him when it came; and he waited, to his surprise, with an unexpected calmness. He did not realise
that his calmness was due to the very fact that the situation had got out of hand and that since it was now beyond him he no longer had to worry about making any decision. Temporarily he had ceased to be an actor in the drama of No. 19, Billiter Road. He had become the audience or, more correctly speaking, the listener.

  He expected the explosion to occur at the bottom of the stairs, for after the crash which had concluded Mr Wavell’s too rapid descent he had visualised the unhappy agent lying helplessly on the ground. No explosion took place. Instead, a sudden scuffling rose from the basement, obliterating the diminishing sound of Mrs Wavell’s footsteps. The scuffling was followed by what seemed to be the swift closing of a door, which was itself followed by a muffled exclamation.

  The exclamation did not come from Mrs Wavell. Creeping now to the top of the stairs, Ben saw her motionless figure standing at the bottom. She was staring along the passage, past the kitchen door, as though pausing to consider what next to do. All at once her back stiffened, and she began to move again, going along the passage till he lost sight of her. He heard her stop a second time, and then, after another pause, her voice broke the silence venomously.

  ‘Come out! I know you’re in there! Come out!’

  There was no response. She called again, more loudly.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? Come out—or am I to open it for you?’

  She evidently did so, and now the exclamation came from herself. Sharp as a pistol shot, it reflected both astonishment and rage.

  ‘So that’s why you—!’

  A rush of footsteps broke into her sentence. Someone appeared to have developed panic. An instant later Mr Wavell loomed meteorically at the foot of the stairs, began to mount with a curious lopsided motion, swerved round, and vanished again. Another door opened and closed with a bang. Then, silence once more.

  Was this the moment to go down? Ben guessed that Mr Wavell had made his escape through the back door, but he had no solution of the cause of such an ignominous flight, nor of the silence that ensued after it. Why hadn’t Mrs Wavell made any attempt to follow him? Or why, if she had decided to let him go, did she not return up the stairs?

  Suddenly her voice sounded again. It was shrill with rage.

  ‘Have you nothing to say for yourself?’

  Who was she talking to?

  ‘Trollop!’

  Response came in the form of an hysterical gurgle, and Ben’s heart missed a beat. Hesitating no longer, he clattered down the stairs, and came upon Mrs Wavell standing outside a cupboard, staring at someone still inside it. The inmate was the other, the far more attractive lady.

  Mrs Wavell turned to Ben.

  ‘I suppose you knew of this?’ she challenged, icily.

  ‘Knoo wot?’ gulped Ben.

  ‘How much have you been paid to keep their secret?’

  Ben shook his head.

  ‘Yer got it wrong, mum.’

  ‘Oh, no! I’ve got it right!’ She turned back to the cupboard. ‘The next person you pick up to have an affair with, make sure first that he does not talk in his sleep. And you’d better start looking for him at once, for you won’t be seeing any more of my husband, I assure you! No, don’t try and explain. It will only be waste of time. I can find my own way out. Good-morning!’

  She did not leave by her husband’s route. They watched her march up the stairs and heard her bang the front door.

  18

  Oasis

  ‘Nah, where are we?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Please!’ she answered, dully. ‘I need a minute to get over this!’

  Her eyes were dazed. She had passed her moment of hysterics in the cupboard, and had now grown limp. Ben did not like the look of her.

  ‘’Ave a sit dahn,’ he suggested.

  The suggestion was somewhat pointless in the absence of a chair. She began to sway slightly, and he took hold of her arm.

  ‘We’ll go in the kitching,’ he said.

  She accepted his assistance mechanically, and when he had got her into the kitchen she fainted. The one fortunate thing in the unhappy situation was that the blackout occurred just as he was lowering her into a chair. He held her until he was sure she would not fall off, and then, placing another chair near her, sat down himself.

  He never knew what to do with people who fainted. Corpses, yes. You just ran away from them. But faints? You had to stand by to give ’em a hand when they came to. There was nothing to do while the faint was on, or if there was he’d never learned it. He wouldn’t have minded a bit of a faint himself, because then life would have become a lovely blank into which all its problems would have vanished.

  And, lummy, he was surrounded with problems! They weren’t only in the kitchen. At least, not at the moment they weren’t, but you never knew when some of them might come popping along! The two major problems outside the kitchen were Mr Black and that locked cellar. He’d have to get into the locked cellar somehow! But meanwhile he had to deal with the insensible problem in the kitchen chair.

  ‘I don’t expeck she’s bin through not ’arf wot I bin through,’ he reflected, as he watched her face for signs of recovery and noted its fatigue, ‘but she’s bin through somethink!’

  Then an idea occurred to him. The obvious solution of every trouble in every English home. Tea! Of course, that was it! A nice cup of tea, ready and waiting for her the moment she opened her eyes. What happened if she didn’t open her eyes? Lummy, she wasn’t going to join the corpses, was she? He set aside the unpalatable thought, which was dissipated finally a few moments later just after he had got the kettle going. A small sigh whirled him round from the stove, and he saw that her eyes were open.

  ‘Tike it easy,’ he said.

  She stared at him dully, and then suddenly sat up.

  ‘Nah, jest you sit back agine fer a bit,’ he advised. ‘I don’t want ter ’ear nothink from yer not till yer’ve ’ad a cup o’ tea.’

  She smiled faintly, and he turned back to the stove, because there was gratitude in her smile, and Ben always felt orkward like when anybody was grateful to him.

  ‘’Ow yer feelin’,’ he asked the kettle, and then added, ‘Oh! Don’t answer, I fergot—yer ain’t ter tork.’

  Disobeying him, she replied, ‘I’ll soon be all right, and I’ve got to talk. I went off, didn’t I?’

  ‘No, yer stayed on,’ said Ben.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The chair. See, yer come dahn on it jest right.’

  ‘Please don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘Wot’s funny? Corse, miss, yer marth’s yer own, but I’d keep it fer that cup o’ tea afore yer uses it fer torkin’, honest I would.’

  This time she obeyed him, closing her eyes again until the kettle had nearly boiled. He was just putting a finger in front of the spout, because with some kettles you can’t see the steam even when the water’s bubbling, but you can always feel it—he was just applying this test when she spoke again.

  ‘I suppose that was Mrs Wavell?’

  ‘Yer mean the one that’s jest left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s ’oo she sed she was.’

  ‘What did she come for?’

  ‘Well, it looked like Mr Wavell, didn’t it?’

  ‘Did you know he was still here?’

  ‘Oi!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Okay.’ The steam had arrived. Sucking his finger, Ben said something unintelligible, and then started again. ‘Kettle’s boilin’. Doncher move. I’ll bring yer yer cup in ’arf a mo’.’

  When he brought it to her, she said, ‘You know, you’re a sort of an oasis.’

  ‘Well, I bin called plenty,’ he replied, ‘but that’s a new ’un!’

  ‘What am I to call you? I can’t remember if you’ve told me.’

  ‘Ben’s the nime.’

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘Am I ter know your’n, or ain’t that the way yer wants it?’

  She hesitated for a moment, then answered, ‘I am Jennifer Brethert
on.’

  Bretherton. Lummy! Of course!…

  ‘Go on!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘You didn’t guess?’

  ‘No, miss.’ Now Ben was beginning to understand her interest. ‘Yer mean—’is—’is wife?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘His sister.’

  ‘Sister. Oh, I see. Leastwise, not orl of it.’

  ‘You see why I want to find out all I can about the murder of my brother.’

  ‘Yus, but not wot’s brought yer ’ere. Or ’ave yer tole me, and ’ave I fergot? If yer wants the truth, miss, there’s so much goin’ on inside me ’ead that I couldn’t tell yer wot’s there and wot ain’t. If yer git me?’

  ‘Ben,’ said Miss Bretherton, solemnly, ‘I think heaven must have sent you here! Suppose it had been somebody else? But you and I can work together.’

  ‘Yer right abart that,’ he agreed, ‘but I ain’t so sure abart the other.’

  ‘What other?’

  ‘’Eving. Any’ow, if it was ’Eving wot sent me ’ere, don’t expeck me ter thank it!’

  ‘I won’t,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll do the thanking. Aren’t you going to have a cup? There looks enough in that pot for two.’

  While they drank tea, and in the strange silence that seemed now to have settled on the house, Jennifer Bretherton told her story.

  19

  Exchange of Information

  ‘I’ve told you, haven’t I,’ began Miss Bretherton, ‘that I’ve worked for Mr Wavell. I was with him for about a year, and don’t ask me why I stayed so long with the odious man! I started by disliking him, and ended by loathing him. In fact, when I left him it was because of his rotten behaviour.’

  ‘Yer mean ’e wasn’t honest like?’ asked Ben.