“Oh, you’re marvellous!” A broad grin spread over Rex’s ugly attractive face. “Gee! I just hate the thought of going out tonight.”
“My dear, you needn’t,” Felicity smiled. “I’m being taken by a friend of my childhood to the Savoy, so you’d be awfully lonely doing nothing.”
“Damn!” said Rex tersely, and he picked Felicity up in his arms. With a quick motion of his knees he had the sitting-room door open, and had run upstairs and flung her down on the bed.
“Now!” he laughed, just a trifle breathlessly. “You stay put, I’ll get busy with the bath.”
For a few moments Felicity lay at full length upon the crumpled bed, then Rex returned, wrapped in a dressing-gown.
“Aw, hell!” he exclaimed. “Of course I’ve been and forgotten every darned thing about telling Bottom to put my clothes out again. Say, Felicity, that’s the valet.” He pointed to a big mahogany wardrobe. “Just take a little practice in doing what a woman ought to do for a man, while I have my bath.” He disappeared with a grin, slamming the door of the bathroom after him.
Felicity sat up, straightened her hair, and putting her long legs to the ground, went over to the wardrobe.
She opened it and for some minutes took out and put back the things inside, with care and amusement. She examined the pants, vest, polo sweaters, shirts, pyjamas and socks, fingering each garment carefully to assess the texture and quality with a woman’s natural interest in material. At length she started to put out such things as she considered he might want, and although she had never done such a thing in her life before, it is interesting to note that Felicity put out every necessary garment and not a thing too much.
The resounding splashing from the bathroom ceased and Rex returned. He cast his eye over the array of clothing, and a broad smile lit his face.
“Oh, Felicity, that’s swell of you. I didn’t mean it. I was only joking, but how perfectly marvellous of you to have put out just the things I want.”
Felicity was almost conscious of a blush. “Have I done it right, Rex? I’m so glad. I’ll run downstairs again till you’ve changed.”
“It’s perfect!” he regarded the carefully arranged clothing, “’cept for just one thing, that’s my best evening suit. You weren’t to know, sweet, but I keep him for swell parties. Let’s swop it for the one I use for dull dinners, like I’m going to tonight. It’s in the valet all handy.” He picked up the trousers as he spoke.
Felicity took up the coat. “Rex,” she said suddenly. “What on earth do you keep in your pockets? There’s a thing like a piece of cardboard stuffed in here—that’s not the way to treat your best suit.”
“I don’t know, darling,” he replied gaily. “Maybe it’s an invitation from the Prince of Wales to meet Mr. Mount’s shrimps from Morecambe Bay at the Five Hundred Club.”
Felicity pulled it out. After a moment: “Rex,” she said softly, “what queer parties you do go to,” and she read out the title, printed in gold upon the square cardboard booklet which she held:
“The Thirteenth Annual Dinner of the London and Sheffield Commercial Association, Park Lane Hotel, London, November 22nd, 1931.”
“Say that again,” said Rex suddenly.
“The Thirteenth Annual Dinner—” she had only got so far when Rex snatched it from her.
“Where did I get that,” he exclaimed.
“My love, how in the world should I know?” she answered sweetly. “It sounds a dull party, anyhow.”
“It’s Gideon’s copy—look,” he held it out to her excitedly, “got his name in copy-hand on the top corner.” He opened it rapidly.
“Take a look at this, honey.” He spread out the table plan which was pasted in the back. “Here it is again, top table, Sir Gideon Shoesmith, underlined in red. They always have these things at banquets, hand ’em out to each guest as he comes in, so they can find their place easy.
Felicity looked troubled. “But, beloved, how did you come to have it in your pocket, and why are you so terribly het up?”
“Say! Give me that telephone!” shouted Rex suddenly, and he began to dial furiously upon the instrument beside the bed.
“Hallo! Hallo! Is that Grosvenor 8383?... Give me the Duke—and make it snappy.... Hallo, is that you? Listen here, I’ve got the goods on Shoesmith. It’s just marvellous. A programme of the dinner with a table plan and all—Gideon’s own copy marked with his name. Where’d I find it? Why, stuffed away in the pocket of my best suit—suit I haven’t worn since the Ingram party.... How did I come to have it? Say, can’t you guess? Picked it up off the desk in the Shoesmith apartment....
yes, I used it to fan the hired girl when I was trying to pull her round out of that faint.... You get what that means, don’t you? These programmes wouldn’t be issued before the show; the old man must have brought his copy back with him and when Aron called the flat he got rattled, laid it down beside the ’phone, right where I found it. It just couldn’t have got there any other way, I knew it again the moment I saw it, and I’m prepared to take oath as to where I found it and the time I picked it up.”
The Duke’s clear voice came back over the line. “My dear fellow, how intensely interesting and, by Jove, you’re right! This will alter the entire aspect of the case. It’s not too late, and this fresh evidence can be brought tomorrow. We must certainly hold a conference tonight. I’ll get hold of Marrofat, I am very glad for his sake; this case has been particularly difficult for him. I’ll also get Aron and Schatz and Eaton; we must have the people for the prosecution, too. They must get particulars from the man who handed out these programmes at the Park Lane Hotel. If all these programmes were in his possession until the guests actually arrived for dinner, the case is complete.”
“I’ll be along, the very moment I can break away after dinner,” said Rex, as he hung up the receiver.
“Felicity, sweetheart,” he lifted her off her feet with a laugh. “I’m going to cut that bum party and take you out to eat.”
* * *
Upon the following day His Lordship allowed that it was not too late, and that he would hear fresh evidence brought by the prosecution. A little under a month later Sir Gideon Shoesmith paid the final penalty, upon a February morning, which belied its nature and held every promise of an early spring.
EPILOGUE - SIMON ARON TAKES A HOLIDAY
One Wednesday afternoon some five months later, Simon Aron and the Duke de Richleau were enjoying the pine-laden air of the Surrey hills, as they were borne smoothly and rapidly along in the latter’s great, silver Hispano.
Earlier in the day the Duke had invaded the tall, grey building in the city where—summer and winter—Simon Aron sat, hedged in between his desk telephones, narrow-shouldered and stooping a little, nodding and peering over his pince-nez from one set of stock reports to another. Hesitant of speech, diffident of manner, but so quick and active in mind, busy, for ever busy, weaving and unweaving the complicated threads of finance.
It had been no easy matter to drag Simon from his desk out into the summer sunshine, but the Duke had succeeded because he was a wily man. Finding the more ordinary methods of appeal to be useless, he had lied shamelessly, pleading his loneliness and advancing age, and Simon, who never spared himself, could never resist an appeal from his friends. He had, therefore, put through two long-distance calls and then abandoned work for the day.
The great car took the long rise from Milford to Hindhead with an even purr of its many hidden horses. Upon one side was spread the lovely panorama of the Punch Bowl and, on the other, the sunlit valleys that he between Whitley and Dunsford. With a long musical note upon the siren they sped through the village and on down the hill towards Liphook, but when they were still half a mile away from the cluster of houses, the car slowly drew to the side of the road and stopped.
“Let us,” said the Duke, removing the rug from his knees, “stretch our legs a little.”
Simon agreed, and they got out. De Richleau placed his hand upon the younger
man’s arm and led him slowly down a little lane, a cave of cool shadow in the sunlight, flecked and speckled with the tiny patches of light that penetrated the roof of boughs and leaves above.
“I’m taking you,” De Richleau remarked quietly, “to tea with an old friend, at least, I hope there will be tea, since she is not informed of our coming.”
“She?” said Simon, casting one of his quick sideway glances at the Duke.
“Yes, a spinster lady of our acquaintance. Behold, my friend, this charming old-world cottage, as a house-agent might say—with Tudor garden and a sunken lawn. Indeed, a pleasant place to spend one’s old age in. How I wish that I were not cursed with this restless spirit of mine, ever seeking companionship and excitement. Look, too, at the tiny orchard and the kitchen garden. I wonder, do you think there will be strawberries for tea?”
They had paused before a wicket gate, beyond which a neat tiled walk led up to something between a cottage and a country house. Upon either side a blaze of colour met their eyes, steep banks of July blossoms, delphiniums, phlox, and marigolds, tall hollyhocks, and little blue love-in-the-mist, lupins and daisies and golden Aaron’s rod.
“An English Eden,” murmured De Richleau, lifting the latch. “Almost I am sorry that I have come—but we are here— let us go in.”
To all appearances the place was deserted, sleeping for ever in the sun; it seemed impossible that winter or death could come to such a spot. The silence was only broken by the murmuring of hovering bees; one bright blue dragon-fly paused for a moment, almost completely still, above the walk and, then, with a flight ability far surpassing that of bird or man, wheeled without warning and disappeared aloft in a curve of flashing light.
De Richleau pulled the hanging bell, and a faint tinkle sounded from the interior distance. There was a pause while Simon thoughtfully prodded a piece of moss that grew between the tiles, and then the door was opened to disclose Miss Eaton.
The Duke stood hat in hand upon the doorstep. “We are indeed fortunate,” he smiled, “to find you at home. My car has broken down here just at the end of the lane. My man tells me that it will take at least an hour to put the trouble right, and I was wondering if we might seek the hospitality of this charming house in the meantime. I am a little old to walk very far; by good chance a farm-lad informed us the name of the owner, which has emboldened us to try.”
“Oh, please come in.” Miss Eaton held open the door which led into a cool and comfortable lounge hall.
Simon regarded her closely. She was a trifle greyer, perhaps, and she seemed smaller than ever, but certainly more lively, when she had first opened the front door—but after, he thought, she went a little dead, speaking quite naturally, but avoiding his eyes and those of the Duke.
“What a lovely garden,” De Richleau went on, as Miss Eaton led them to a low-ceilinged, chintz-hung room, at the back of the house.
“It is nice, isn’t it?” She smiled nervously. “I was lucky to find a little place like this. I like it better every day.”
Simon held a chair for her near the open window. His dark eyes flickered rapidly from Miss Eaton to the Duke. “What was the purpose that lay behind this visit?” he wondered. “Why the Duke’s excuses to get him here? The lie about the car having broken down, and the farm-lad whom they had never met?” But the Duke gave no sign.
“Of course you’ll have some tea?” Miss Eaton went on hurriedly. She pressed a bell behind her chair as she spoke.
De Richleau bowed again. “You are most kind, nothing could have been more welcome, if we do not trouble you too much.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all.” A diminutive maid appeared from a door in the oak panelling. “Visitors, Hetty,” said Miss Eaton quickly. “Tea, China tea, as quickly as you can.” And the girl departed with a quick grin.
“What a—er—nice little maid you have,” remarked Simon, for lack of something to say.
“Yes, oh yes, Hetty’s a good girl, a little awkward, but I took her straight from the village school,” Miss Eaton nodded.
“You take perhaps an interest in the life of the village?” inquired De Richleau.
“Oh yes. There’s the women’s institute, you know; I find the people very nice, so helpful, I’m not a bit lonely, and I have Hetty to sit with me in the evenings. Of course, some people might not think that quite right, but I’m sure I don’t see why.”
Simon laughed into his hand. “Very silly of them, and anyhow, why should one worry what other people think?”
“That’s just what I say,” agreed Miss Eaton.
“May we, I wonder, walk round your lovely garden?” De Richleau asked. “It looks so very lovely.”
“Oh yes, we’ll go round while we’re waiting for tea.” Miss Eaton led the way out with the Duke beside her.
Simon brought up the rear. He was amazed at the knowledge that the Duke displayed of plants and flowers, their seasons, and the soil most suitable to each; while Miss Eaton was obviously pleased and happy to show them her small domain. The atmosphere was easier than it had been in the house, yet Simon— trained and sensitive to receive and qualify impressions and reactions—was aware of an undercurrent, a spirit of fear and tension that had invaded the slumbering peace of the garden. Twice his quick eye caught Miss Eaton looking furtively at the Duke, and he felt more certain than ever that the clever, charming epicurean had a definite purpose in having brought him there.
On their return to the house they found tea awaiting them. Hot buttered toast and apple jelly, little rolls of thinly cut bread and butter, and a great heaped dish of strawberries flanked by a pot of fresh cream.
Simon never ate tea, but today he made an exception. The country air had sharpened his appetite, besides it was impossible to resist Miss Eaton’s pressing; moreover, he felt it preferable to eat than to sit still and say nothing, for he certainly had nothing to say. Indeed he was unhappy, almost miserable. He was anxious to get away—out of this, to leave the little spinster to her flowers, her institute, and Hetty. Not to stir up things that were better left unstirred.
The Duke, too, had ceased to make conversation, his grave, bright eyes regarded Miss Eaton steadily across the tea-table, while she kept looking at him, and then nervously away.
“You greatly prefer,” the Duke addressed her suddenly, “living here to living in Curzon Street, do you not?”
“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“I imagine that you often dreamt of having such a home when you were there?” he went on evenly.
She nodded, avoiding his eyes.
“Lady Shoesmith was not your sister, was she, Miss Eaton, only your sister-in-law? She was not over-considerate, I think, for those dependent on her.”
Simon Aron rose quickly to his feet. He spoke abruptly, rudely almost for him. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get bade to London.”
Perhaps Miss Eaton thought he was addressing her. In any case, she stood up suddenly with a little wail. Wringing her small hands together, her eyes wide with fear flew from one to the other. “Oh,” she cried, “I knew they’d find out, I knew it, and now you’ve come to take me away.”
2
At the same hour that Simon and the Duke were sitting down to tea with Winifred Eaton, by a curious coincidence Rex and Felicity were not very far away.
They, too, had been tempted by the sunshine to drive into the country, and a neat little sports car with Felicity at the wheel was making its way up the long pull round the corner of the Devil’s Punch Bowl.
It had been a silent and unhappy drive. Rex’s stay in England was nearly over, orders had come from the big chief, his father, on the other side, and he was sailing for the States in the coming week.
Rex knew what was in Felicity’s mind well enough, but he was stubborn about it, endeavouring to evade the issue, and he would not give her a lead.
Felicity, dreading the possible blow to her pride, did not wish to open the subject herself, and had been hoping for days that he would do so o
f his own accord. It had, in fact, been with that particular object in view that she had, with some difficulty, lured him away from his office to come upon this drive. But by the time they had passed through Goldaming, she had decided that he was determined not to help her, and that if she wished to discuss the matter she much broach it herself.
All the way up the long hill she was keying herself up, and at last, just as they passed the Sailor’s Stone, she said it.
“Rex why won’t you marry me?”
Rex shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Here it was at last— just what he’d been expecting, ever since he’d broken the news about going home. “I never said I wouldn’t,” he parried clumsily.
“Isn’t that rather cowardly?” said Felicity. “If you’d wanted to, you’d have asked me weeks ago.”
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m just terribly fond of you honey, but I don’t want to marry.”
“Why not, Rex? You love me, don’t you? I believe you do, but don’t lie to me, tell me the truth. Do you love me, or are you tired?”
“I love you, sweet. Honest I do, and I’m just hating the thought of how I’ll miss you when I get back home.”
“Then why not, Rex? I know it sounds terribly old-fashioned and all that, but one must settle some time. Surely you have had enough gadding about, or is it the awful truth that I have made myself too cheap?”
“No, darling, no,” he protested quickly. “Don’t say that. It’s horrid and it’s not true. But be honest, Felicity; there wasn’t any question of marriage when it all started months ago, was there? We met, and well—we liked each other terribly—I reckon we just did what most people in our set do, that’s all.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Felicity said softly. She was driving very slowly down the Liphook road. “I’m not complaining, darling, but hasn’t our friendship grown into something more than just one more affair?”
Rex squirmed. “Oh, sure, darling! You know it has. It’s been different, different altogether, but all the same we’d be fools to marry. All marriage is a mess these days, you’ve only got to look around.”
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