Cordelia

by Winston Graham

  For weeks there was an underlying spite on his side which made her very angry and uncomfortable. He offered remarks about her running of the house, about her management of Ian, which in aggregate were insufferable, but which separately could be instantly defended as well-meaning advice. She knew exactly what his attitude would be if she flared up, his injured tolerant patience, his patronizing rebuke at her childish show of temper. She knew him well now. She was determined not to fight him on his own ground, and in front of Brook.

  Jealousy from Mr Ferguson and Mr Slaney-Smith she had expected and took a certain pleasure in. Brook’s jealousy was less expected and quite startlingly strong. The publication of his own book had been a damp squib to which he had become grudgingly reconciled. But this sudden burst of fame of his old and disreputable uncle hit him very hard. Even she did not realize yet how hard he found it to bear. It was the last straw.

  One day there was a social tea. Mr Ferguson had raised all sorts of objections, but when he found it could not be avoided he changed his tactics and decided to make the best of it. Mr Crabtree Pearson was back again, and distinguished citizens of the town were present: the chairman and three members of the Philosophical Society, some from the Athenaeum and the Discussion Forum, a single representative of the new Church of England Sunday Schools, and one, who had somehow sneaked in, from the Destitute Children’s Dinner Society. There were also two leading Unitarians – with which religion Mr Ferguson was flirting these days – a representative of the Press, some wives, and a sonority of clergymen. Mr Slaney-Smith had pleaded pressure of business.

  Pridey didn’t think much of the affair and was willing enough to let his brother take the leading part. Sometimes it might have been Mr Ferguson who had written the book. In the end Pridey was persuaded to get up and make a speech, which he did in his usual jerky fashion. His greatest difficulty was to keep to the point. His mischievous mind ran off exploring any little side alley that came along. He was like a puppy on a lead, anxious to sniff out every corner on the way.

  The thin dividing line between eccentricity and brilliance was plain this afternoon. The old man chattering in the bosom of his family was a crank, the old man saying the same sort of things to an appreciative audience was an original thinker. Before he finished he had touched on Lord Palmerston and his failure to ‘ keep’ on the mantelpiece, Shudehill Market and the bad smells there, the civil war in Paris, Wagner’s musical genius, the poor quality of the oboe playing in last winter’s concerts, the ugliness of women’s fashions, and why Welsh mutton was the best for stewing.

  It was while he was talking that Cordelia noticed one man in the audience glancing at her. He was about forty years of age and well dressed. While tea was being served he came towards her.

  ‘You’ll pardon me, Mrs Ferguson, but I seem to remember having seen you somewhere before. My name is Price.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember it,’ she said, smiling, for once off her guard, after all this time.

  Brook had moved away to speak to one of his friends, and Robert Birch, who had come in late, was behind her, helping a lady to sugar.

  Price said: ‘Forgive me, didn’t I see you at the old Variety one night? You know, the old place where they had the fire.’

  It was like a sudden dagger-thrust in that respectable drawing-room.

  Taking the tea the maid was offering her, she said: ‘You must be mistaken. I don’t go to music halls.’

  He bowed. ‘I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should have realized that. It must be a resemblance. The colouring, you know, if you’ll forgive my saying so – unusual.’

  She was recovering. Keep a cool head. She took the sugar Robert offered and thanked him. As he moved away, Price said:

  ‘It was some lady with Mr Stephen Crossley, the proprietor. What I mean to say is, I naturally wouldn’t suggest you’d be likely to be there in the ordinary way. If you see what I mean.’ He broke off in some confusion.

  ‘Of course. Yes, we did know Mr Crossley, and Brook went once or twice without me. But it must have been some other lady, Mr Price.’

  He stayed talking for some minutes, making general conversation but evidently a bit confused. The shock was only now coming out in her. She kept telling herself that she had no need to be alarmed, it was the suddenness, just when she had begun to feel secure.

  People began to go, and she watched them leaving one by one, watched for Mr Price, convinced against all reason that he would return to the attack before he left. Instead, when it came to his turn he touched her hand apologetically and went out without a word.

  … When the last of his admirers had finally gone Pridey turned and leaned his back against the door and looked at Cordelia.

  ‘It’s all very well,’ he said in an undertone. ‘It’s all very well, I tell you. They come here overflowing with goodwill; talk, talk, talk. They all love it. But you know what I said to you at the beginning. They’re still praising my book for the wrong thing!’

  She tried to think what he was saying. They were praising his book … ‘ But surely there must be something …’

  ‘About the shrews? Oh, yes, it’s good enough stuff, added as an afterthought. Could have written that years ago. Doesn’t seem to me to be anything clever in it; just stands to common sense.’ He grasped her arm and led her away back towards the drawing-room. ‘What’s the matter. You got a cold?’

  ‘No, no, I’m all right. Go on.’

  ‘Thought you were shivering. Believe you were. They’re ignoring the important part. All that about the mice: that’s from years of study. All the graphs and charts couldn’t be made without years of study. Ever heard of a man called Mendel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Pearson Crabtree hadn’t either. Said to him, ‘‘Look here, why all this fuss about me when there’s this Austrian? He’ll be famous when all your pet favourites are forgotten. Go and see him and invite him to London.’’ They only smiled. Look.’ Uncle Pridey released her arm and began to fish in his pockets. ‘A letter from the fellow; he’s a monk or something. Wish I’d thought of that; joined an order; one way of getting privacy; trouble is one has to spend so much time praying. And this mortification of the flesh, sleeping in cold cells, wearing hair shirts, don’t agree with it. Though I believe they keep a very good table …’ Pridey stared in front of him for a moment, lost in thoughts of good tables. Then he unfolded the letter. ‘D’you read French? Pity. Anyway, look at the signature. He wrote a book, made mine out of date two years before it was published. Only read it last month. Wrote to him. This is his reply. I’d like to frame it. That’s what I mean. D’you see? All this fuss over the wrong thing. I didn’t want to prove their pet evolution theory right.’ He chuckled mischievously and rubbed his head. ‘In fact I think it’s wrong. Always have. Goes too far. Makes the wrong inferences. Natural selection my foot. But you can’t reason with ’em. One of these days they’ll see their error.’

  She was about to follow him up the stairs when she saw that the afternoon post had come while they were all too busy to attend to it. She knew that the top letter was addressed to her before she was near enough to read it. Coming immediately after the other shock, this one was doubled in power. But as she picked it up she saw the postmark was still New York.

  Chapter Six

  Mr Slaney-Smith disappeared on the twentieth of October. It was not known until the Thursday following, when a distraught figure appeared in the drawing-room just before evening prayers, pulling at its gloves and glancing nervously behind.

  They couldn’t understand what she said at first, and it was Cordelia who, more knowledgeable of the Slaney-Smith household, first began to grope towards the truth.

  ‘Do you mean he’s left you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Ferguson, I’m sure I don’t know, but I fear, I suspect the worst. On Saturday he didn’t come back until late, until the middle of the night. He’d been drinking, I knew, could tell from his breath. On Sunday he was in one of his moods, only w
orse. All day he never spoke, not even to Susie, who took his meals, who’s lame, you know, and his favourite. We lit a fire, he insisted, though it was so warm, so close; he sat over it all day, we didn’t dare go near him, I’ve never known him so bad, so difficult before. On Monday he went as usual and never came back, at least, not yet. I haven’t known what to do, which way to turn, and all the children crying.’

  During this Mr Ferguson paced up and down with his hands clasped under his coat-tails. It was plain that he knew nothing and was angry that his friend had not given him his confidence. Mrs Slaney-Smith had been to the tea warehouse where he worked but not yet to the police. She had wanted, she said, to avoid the scandal, and she glanced hurriedly over her shoulder as she spoke.

  But Mr Ferguson had no doubt in his mind what must be done, and drove with her after supper to the nearest police station. In the few minutes the two women had alone together before she left Mrs Slaney-Smith said:

  ‘Oh, Mrs Ferguson, I’m very much afraid. I don’t know, can’t tell if I’m doing the right thing. If Mr Slaney-Smith should return, I shall never hear the last of it. If he’d only left me a little note, as you say. I’d rather have known the worst, really I would, than be left in this suspense.’

  ‘You really think he may have come to some harm?’

  ‘Oh, dear, no! He wouldn’t do himself a mischief. I mean run off, eloped with that woman. You don’t know the anguish, the torments I’ve suffered.’

  ‘Have you ever seen her?’

  ‘Oh, no. They were too cunning for that. I tried once to follow him, but really I had to give it up, my heart was palpitating. But my friend Mrs Appleton saw him one day in Albert Square walking with a young woman and talking with her animatedly, Mrs Appleton said. I don’t doubt he’s been meeting her a lot.’

  Mrs Appleton had seen them talking animatedly and had borne the tale home. There but for the grace of God … The whole of this conversation had a horrible fascination for Cordelia.

  ‘It’s a family disgrace, Mrs Ferguson. And he a man of forty-eight and married eighteen years. I’ve tried to be a good wife to him. I’ve lost some of my looks perhaps, but I’ve done what I could to keep myself attractive – I’ve tried.’ Mrs Slaney-Smith turned up her wizened face to the light. ‘These wicked women, these home wreckers, they don’t think of that at all. And Mr Slaney-Smith so hot-blooded, that’s the trouble, all his life, at times it’s been difficult for me; at times–’

  Cordelia interrupted gently: ‘Have you asked at any of the music halls where he usually goes?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t go, Mrs Ferguson. I feel sure it’s there he’s met this woman. I couldn’t bring myself, couldn’t lower myself to make inquiries.’

  The police were willing to lower themselves, but when, in spite of Mrs Slaney-Smith’s resolve, some of her suspicions percolated through to them, their inquiries became less urgent. A runaway husband was not so much their concern as a prospective accident or suicide. Mr Ferguson was formidably indignant with her, treating her with politeness but calling her in private ‘a low woman whose narrow mind sought the most indelicate causes’.

  So the weekend passed, and Ian developed a bad teething cold, and Uncle Pridey went down to Town and bought him a clockwork mouse which ran all over the drawing-room carpet and made Aunt Tish jump and mutter. On Tuesday, about eleven in the morning, Betty came into the nursery to say there was a young boy at the door with a message for Mrs Ferguson, but he wouldn’t part with it to anyone else. In the hall Cordelia found a thin boy of about nine with a long anaemic face and lank yellow hair.

  She tore open the envelope. Scrawled in shaky writing were the words: ‘Please, Mrs Ferguson, can you come at once? He’s back. I can’t begin to tell you. Can you bring someone with you?’

  She stared at the boy, hesitating whether to question him or not, but he looked so scared that she turned away. Brook and Mr Ferguson were at the works, Uncle Pridey out buying sweets.

  ‘When did your father come back?’

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am. He was back when we woke this morning.’

  Betty brought her outdoor clothes. At the same time Mrs Meredith walked across the hall and opened the door for Dr Birch. He smiled his welcome as he put down his hat; he had been called in to see Ian yesterday.

  ‘Robert,’ she said, ‘ have you your gig outside?’

  ‘Yes. Can I do something for you?’

  She rapidly explained, speaking in an undertone.

  ‘I shall be only too delighted. But there’s not room for us all.’ He had coloured a little.

  ‘Of course. We can manage. It will save ten minutes.’

  The front door of the Slaney-Smiths was opened before they got down. Mrs Slaney-Smith ushered them through the curtains into the front room. Her hair was unkempt and her face streaked with emotion and tears. She trembled her way into a chair.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Ferguson, I’m so glad you’ve come, and Doctor too, so good of you. I’ve had a terrible, terrible night, I thought it would never end, never finish at all. He’s gone again. I’ve been wrong, dreadfully wrong over everything. I shall never forgive myself, and my poor children terrified out of their lives. D’you think we could try to stop him even now?’

  Robert said: ‘It’s not possible to restrict a man’s movements, unless–’

  ‘He said he was going to end everything this morning. That’s why I sent. I don’t know if he means it or not. But he said good-bye to the children, kissed each one, and embraced them; and then it came to Alec and he said, ‘‘Where’s Alec?’’ and when no one answered, no one had anything to say, he said, ‘‘You’ve sent him for the police. It’s no good, Florrie, they’ll be too late.”’

  ‘Do you know where he was going?’ Birch said, convinced now, and moving quickly back to the door.

  ‘He went down towards the Town. Oh, my poor Ted, what a dreadful thing to happen!’

  Robert said to Cordelia: ‘Can you drive?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Drive slowly down. I’ll run by your side.’

  With Mrs Slaney-Smith squeezed against her, Cordelia picked up the reins and they were off, leaving Alec with his anxious, peering brothers and sisters. One hand on the panel of the gig, Robert ran beside it. They clattered past a stationary bus, overtook two or three carriages moving at a walk. They kept a sharp look-out among the people on the pavements, but no one like Mr Slaney-Smith was to be seen.

  About a third of a mile down was a railway bridge, come to be known as the Fenian Arch from the recent murders there; on one side of it was a railway goods yard with express lines and sidings. As they came up to this Cordelia saw from her high position that there was a crowd of people at the gates of the shunting yard and more inside.

  She plucked at Robert’s arm. ‘Over there …’

  She slowed the gig and presently reined the horse in to a walk.

  ‘Can you see him?’ asked Mrs Slaney-Smith. ‘Is he among these? I can’t see anyone.’

  ‘No. But I thought …’

  ‘Oh … Oh … I hope not, he hasn’t … Oh, it can’t be Ted!’

  Robert was about to push through the crowd, but almost at the wheel of the gig a policeman said: ‘Don’t stop ’ ere, mister. There’s been an accident. They’re bringing ’im out now. Take your womenfolk away.’

  ‘What is it? What sort of an accident?’

  ‘Well, accident or suicide. Man jumped under that line of trucks, they say. Killed on the instant. Don’t block the roadway there.’

  Mr Slaney-Smith had done himself a mischief after all.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘I was quite wrong,’ she said, twisting her dusty wrinkled hands. ‘There was no woman, not that way. I’m quite ashamed to have thought so, to have suspected it, but what else could I think? Really. I was asleep last night and dreaming of my dear mother when I heard the front door bang. I knew at once. As he came up the stairs I quite feared, quite dreaded. But he hadn’t been drinking, at least not
recently, and I sat up watching him as he lit the lamp. I took my courage in both hands. ‘‘Mr Slaney-Smith,’’ I said, ‘‘wherever have you been? A whole week,’’ I said, ‘‘and never a word, never a line. It’s not fair to me,’’ I said, ‘‘ or to the children. We’ve been anxious, worried out of our lives.’’ But he didn’t say anything in reply. He just sat on his bed. So I spoke to him again. At last he turned and looked at me, just like seeing me, noticing me for the first time. And he said: ‘‘I’ve been in London thinking what to do,’’ he said, ‘‘and now I know what to do. It’s the only way out, Florrie,’’ he said; ‘‘ the only way for a logical man. I was made a dupe of when I was a lad,’’ he said; ‘‘the miracle stories, the candles, the pious parables. And what did it lead to? You know about Father. Well, I’m not going to be made a fool of a third time. I’m a civilized man, I tell you,’’ he said – very fiercely – it was like as if something was burning him up; ‘‘and I’ll go in a civilized way,’’ he said.’

  There was a breath of eau de Cologne as Mr Ferguson took out his handkerchief. The afternoon sun beat through the lace curtains across the crowded room, falling on the cheap bric-à-brac, the scientific books, the Japanese ware.

  ‘He wasn’t unreasonable, Mr Ferguson. He’d got it all worked out. I wish I could tell you, explain to you; I wish I could remember it all. Just as I thought, it had begun, been going on for more than two years. You had a – a séance at your house, didn’t you, and a man called Gustave who went into a trance or something?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, this Gustave gave a message, Mr Slaney-Smith said, about someone who had died, and he described Mr Slaney-Smith’s brother Charles exactly, dripping wet and carrying a crucifix. Charles turned Roman Catholic, you know, and he was drowned in the Mediterranean when he was only twenty-three. He had a terrible quarrel with Mr Slaney-Smith before he left and they almost came to blows …’