She turned round and went back to the house. The drizzle was turning to rain, and there was no sense in getting wet—she hadn’t enough clothes for that. She walked fast, and as she walked, she made up her mind to see Uncle Henry as soon as possible. She would have to insist on seeing him. It really wasn’t Miss Cannock’s place to make difficulties, and Meg was prepared to be extremely firm. Since he was at a critical point in his book, she wouldn’t complain about Mrs Henderson’s rudeness, but she must insist on his giving definite orders that she was to be let out whenever she chose. This sort of prison gate and eight-foot wall business was absolutely medieval. If he really wanted to be left alone with his Millers, and his Cannock, and his revoltingly rude Hendersons, he’d only got to say so, revive her suspended allowance, and press a cheque into her hand, and no one would depart more joyfully than his unwanted niece.
These meditations lasted her to the front door, which she found not quite open and not quite shut. She had given it a brisk bang when she started on her walk and it must have rebounded before the latch could click. She didn’t bang it now. She wanted to get up to her room without encountering Miss Cannock, of whom she felt she had had a just sufficiency. She therefore closed the door very gently and went softly up the stairs. If the house was neglected, it was solid. Not a step creaked.
She reached her room and shut herself in.
XXII
Meg looked up from the book she was reading and glanced at her wrist-watch. If was five-and-twenty past four. She had drawn the curtains and switched on the light when she came in. Her chair was comfortable—it was her own old bedroom chair—and her book was one of those pleasant old-fashioned ones in which nothing very much happens, in a very pleasant old-fashioned way. She wondered if there was going to be any tea. She had a raging tea-urge, but one of the irritating things about life at Ledstow Place was that you never knew whether there was going to be tea or not. Some days there was, and some days there wasn’t, and you never knew which it was going to be until it was half past four and the tea either arrived or didn’t arrive. It was one of the things which filled Meg with a yearning to take the invaluable Millers by the scruff of their necks, knock their heads together with a good resounding bang, and give them the permanent push. It pleased her very much to dream of doing this, but it was a regretful pleasure, because she could see no immediate chance of making the dream come true.
The tea-urge grew stronger. Unwarned by her encounter with Mrs Henderson, it occurred to Meg that after all she could order tea. What was there to prevent her just going down to the blue room and ringing the bell for Miller. If she told him to bring her some tea, he could hardly refuse point blank.
But suppose he did.
It was a most frightfully daunting thought, and it ought to have been an impossible one, but somehow it wasn’t. It undermined Meg’s morale a good deal. There was something about Miller and there was something about Henderson which was a warning against any assumption of authority. She would not have kept either of them in her own service for a day, but the fact that they were in Uncle Henry’s service and that Uncle Henry was completely inaccessible had a very sobering effect.
She came out of her room and stood there listening. There wasn’t a sound of any kind in the house. She went along the gallery and down the passage that turned out of it to the bathroom to wash her hands, and it was while she was letting the so-called hot tap run in the hope that it might, if given time, live up to its name that she had a bright idea. If she went down the back stairs as she had done on the day of her arrival she would probably be able to hear whether there was any prospect of tea or not. There is a particular kettle-cum-teapot-cum-cup-and-saucer kind of clatter which permeates any back premises when tea is being got ready. If she hung over the back stairs she would know whether to nourish hope or to abandon it.
She dried her hands on a horrid limp towel which looked and felt as if it had been hanging there for weeks, and then went to the door at the top of the crooked stair. She couldn’t hear a sound, but if the door at the bottom was shut, the rattle of china and the chink of tea-spoons might very well be lost. She went down as she had done before, and wondered what she was going to say if she met Miller or Mrs Miller coming up. As a matter of fact she had never set eyes on Mrs Miller, though she supposed she had heard her voice. It seemed very difficult to think of the owner of that light laugh and that odd thrilling voice as being married to Miller.
This time the door at the bottom of the stairs was shut. Meg went right down, set her hand on the knob, and hesitated. She ought to go back. She was putting herself in an undignified position. She ought to turn right round and get off the back stairs without a moment’s delay.
She stayed where she was, and without any conscious order from her brain the hand which held the knob began to turn it. When the knob had moved a certain distance the latch became disengaged, and the door, as if by its own weight, swung slowly back until it touched her shoulder. There was a gap of two or three inches. The passage beyond was dark in the twilight, but a couple of yards away the kitchen door stood open and a bright patch striped the gloom.
In the very moment that Meg saw these things she heard Miller say in a grumbling, exasperated way,
“What’s the sense of waiting about? If a thing’s to be done, what I say is, ‘Get on with it and get it done.’”
If this was Miller putting it across Mrs Miller because she was late with the tea, it was all very well and good. But then why have a horrid tricky feeling down the back of your spine, and why be reminded—oddly, definitely, sharply reminded—of a scene in Macbeth and of somebody saying, “When ’tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly.” But she couldn’t remember who said it—was it Macbeth?—and when she tried to remember she couldn’t even be sure of the words.
The voice she supposed to be Mrs Miller’s was speaking now. It was nearer to her than Miller’s voice had been—a voice with a thrill in it, a calmly dominant voice, a very odd voice to belong to anyone who cooked as badly as Mrs Miller did. It said,
“Who’s running this show? You’ll do as you’re told, and when I’m ready I’ll let you know!”
Miller made some kind of movement. He must have jarred the tray. There was a rattle of china. The light laugh which Meg had heard before rang out.
“As a matter of fact, I’m ready now. There—does that please you?”
If it was the tea that was ready, what was Meg waiting for? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t have moved to save her life.
Miller said in a changed tone, “How are you going to do it?”
“This—in the cup. Put out the cracked one so that there won’t be any mistake. The stuff’s quite colourless.” This was the woman again, speaking with an indifferent calm.
Meg heard her own heart beating with a strange loudness. A cracked cup—so that there should be no mistake.… Something colourless in it.… “If a thing’s to be done, get on with it and get it done.” … No, that was Miller. It was the woman who had said, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” and, “I’m ready now.”
Meg still had hold of the door knob. Her straining grip pulled the door towards her, but her weight as she leaned against it kept it from moving any farther and maintained a steady gap of about two inches through which she could see the light that barred the passage and hear the voices that spoke within. And suddenly there was another voice, another woman saying querulously and with a Cockney accent,
“I don’t like it, and I don’t see what you wanted to have her down here for at all.”
“Don’t you?” The thrill in the voice was one of amusement and scorn. “You take a lot of telling, Milly. Come along now—isn’t that kettle boiling?”
Through the pounding of her heart Meg heard Milly sniff and say,
“Just about.”
“All right then, I’m off. Take the tea along, and if she isn’t down, beat the gong.”
There was a light sound as if someone had jumped down from t
he kitchen table. Meg had a picture of the owner of the voice sitting carelessly on the table edge giving her orders and now—yes, now—coming across the room, coming through the open door with the brightness of the lighted room streaming past her. Instinctively, noiselessly, and swiftly Meg pushed the door against which she was leaning. The gap through which she had been looking and listening was gone. On the other side of the panel she could hear light footsteps going away. She released the knob, controlling her hand so that the latch should engage without any sound at all. Then slowly and stiffly she turned round and went up the stairs. And along the passage. And so by the corridor to her room. It seemed to take a very long time—a very, very long time, because if she let go, if she let her panic drive her, she would begin to run and perhaps to scream. She mustn’t let go.
She got to her room, locked the door, and sat down upon the edge of the bed. But as soon as she did that she felt the terror come up into her throat as if it would choke her. And she mustn’t let it do that. You can’t think when you’re frightened, and she had got to think, and think quickly.
She went over to the washstand, tipped the contents of the jug into the basin, and plunged her face into the ice-cold water. She came up gasping, and did it again, and yet again. Then she dried her face and made herself go and look in the glass, apply powder and lipstick, and arrange her hair. Lipstick—plenty of lipstick—that was the thing. And enough rouge to prevent anyone seeing how pale she was. She hardly ever used rouge, because when she was well she had colour enough, and when she wasn’t she thought it made her look worse, but she was thankful for it today.
When she had finished, she felt steady and controlled. Make-up helped, because it gave you the feeling of a part to be played. But in what a ghastly play—what a nightmare of a play!
But was it? What had frightened her? After all, what had she heard? She tried to go over it in her own mind, and found herself thinking less of the words than of the voices. There had been two women and a man in the kitchen. The man was Miller, but which of the women was Mrs Miller? She couldn’t believe it was the one with the voice which at once attracted and repelled her. Voice and laugh alike belonged to another world than Miller’s. They had the easy habit of command, the ring of authority, the consciousness of charm. No, it must be Milly who cooked the burnt rice puddings and the skimpy tough cutlets. If the other woman cooked at all, she would do it well. Whatever she did, it would be well done—you could hear it in her voice. But who was she—who was she?
The answer started out with a horrid plainness. She was someone from whom the Millers took their orders—in Uncle Henry’s house, and behind Uncle Henry’s back.
Right there Meg had a reaction. Her nerves were all wrong. She was behaving like a fool. After all, what had been said? What orders had been given? Never mind about the voices, get down to the words. Think—think. You’ve got to get it right. You’ve got to remember exactly what they said.
She put her head down in her hands and shut her eyes and thought. What was the first thing she had heard? … “Who’s running this show? You’ll do as you’re told,” and, “When I’m ready I’ll let you know.” … Well, there was nothing in that. But there was—there was. She was giving orders, and who was she to give orders to Miller? … Then the next thing—“As a matter of fact I’m ready now.” … And she had asked Miller if it pleased him, and Miller had said, “How are you going to do it?” … Do what? That was what she had got to be clear about. What was it that was to be done? Because the woman had answered, “This—in the cup.” … But what had she been holding out for them to see? … Meg had a picture of a hand that would match the voice—slim and delicate-fingered, with something lying on the palm, held out for the Millers to see. “This in the cup.” The Millers had seen what it was, but Meg couldn’t. She could only see her own picture of the delicate-fingered hand with something lying in the palm. And the something was to be put into the cup with a crack in it, so that there should be no mistake. The something was quite colourless. That was why Meg couldn’t see it. It wouldn’t show in the cracked cup. The tea and the milk would cover it and hide it, and it wouldn’t show at all.
The booming note of the gong came up from the hall below. It was the same gong which had called them to many pleasant meals at Way’s End. What was it calling her to now? She didn’t know, but she knew that she must go and face it whatever it was. Just for a moment she wondered what would happen if she were to stay here with her door locked. She could plead a headache—sudden illness—say she was going to bed.
No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t wait up here and not know at what moment footsteps would come—along the passage or up the stair—Miller’s footsteps—his wife’s—the light footsteps she had heard come out of the kitchen and go away—lightly—down the passage. She couldn’t bear that. Besides, it wouldn’t help her. She mustn’t let herself be isolated. She had never imagined that there would be a time when she would want to cling to the Cannock, but that was what she had come to. She needn’t drink out of the cracked cup. Miller couldn’t very well stop in the room to see whether she drank her tea, and she needn’t drink it. And then she must put pressure on the Cannock and make her understand that she had just got to see Uncle Henry—not tomorrow, or the next day, or in the vague future, but now, at once, within the next half hour. If she could get to Uncle Henry she would be safe, and everything would be all right. She had just got to get to Uncle Henry.
XXIII
The blue room looked comfortable, with the curtains drawn and the tea-table set out in front of a little crackling fire. Miss Cannock was pouring out the tea as Meg came in. There was a muffin-dish keeping warm by the hearth, and some stoney little buns with blackened currants sticking out of them on a plate belonging to Uncle Henry’s mother’s best tea-set. Meg wondered what she would have said to its being used every day, and used for Mrs Miller’s nasty little buns.
Miss Cannock looked up with the bright smile which showed her gums.
“Ah—here you are! I’ve poured out your tea, because I could hear you coming downstairs, and one wants it to cool a little—doesn’t one? Not to get cold, but just to cool off the least thing—don’t you think so? And you don’t take sugar, do you? I am very forgetful about things like that, I am afraid, but I always say it’s better to ask, because once you’ve put it in you can’t take it out again, can you?”
Meg said, “No, you can’t,” and took her cup. She sat in the little round chair she had always been so fond of and lifted the cup from the saucer as if she were looking at the china. It was one of a set which she had chosen herself—rather tall fluted cups with little bright bunches of flowers on a white ground. The cup which she held in a stiff, steady hand had a chip out of the gilded edge, and a long dark crack which ran from the chip to the base of the handle.
“It’s pretty china. It’s a pity it’s cracked,” she said.
Miss Cannock sipped her tea.
“Servants are so careless. Not the Millers—they are really most careful—but Mr Postlethwaite’s china was in a terrible state when they took it over. Of course a man with his remarkable brain cannot be expected to supervise a household, and without supervision—but you are not drinking your tea, Mrs O’Hara.”
“It’s too hot,” said Meg. She put the cup on the edge of the table and got up. “Miss Cannock, I really do want to see Uncle Henry. There’s some business which I simply must discuss with him. I quite see that you don’t like to take the responsibility, but I’ve got to see him, and I’ll take care that you don’t get into trouble over it. He shan’t blame anyone but me.”
Miss Cannock began to fuss and flutter. She was eating one of the little buns, crumbling it nervously and picking out the currants, which she arranged in a circle round her plate.
“Oh, Mrs O’Hara, I don’t think—”
“It’s no use,” said Meg—“I’ve got to see him. That’s what I came down here for, and I can’t just go on like this day after day. He’ll be months ove
r this book, and my business won’t wait.”
“Oh dear!” said Miss Cannock. She pulled at her scarf and coughed in an embarrassed, deprecating fashion. “Oh dear, Mrs O’Hara—I’m sure I don’t know what to say. Of course I see your point, but Mr Postlethwaite’s orders are so stringent—so exceedingly stringent—”
Meg picked up her cup and strolled across the room to the window. She put back one of the curtains and stood there as if she were looking out, with the cup in her other hand. If the window had been open, she could have poured the tea away, but it was shut, and it was a heavy sash window, not an easily opened casement. She said aloud “I must see him,” and she lifted the cup to her lips, but she did not drink from it. There was no strange smell. The tea smelled good, and she would have been very glad of a hot drink. Her mouth was parched and dry. Her throat was dry all the way down. There must be some way of getting rid of the tea. If there had been a plant in the room it would have been quite easy, but there wasn’t any plant.
There was a book-case on the same side as the door. She went over to it and stood there as if she were looking at the books. She was behind Miss Cannock’s back now, and from this position she spoke.
“All my old books are here. It’s funny to see them.” She lifted the cup to her lips again. “I don’t like this tea very much. Do you? Perhaps some sugar would improve it. Shall I try a lump?”
She had gone over to the book-case with the idea of taking out some of the books as if she were going to look at them, and then pouring the tea away into the gap. The books would hide it. It would trickle down at the back of the shelves and dry up before it could do much harm. But as she stood there, a much better plan came to her. The Cannock was always pressing her to take sugar in her tea. Well, that was the way out—a really beautiful natural way, and nothing messy about it. She had hated the idea of wetting the books, and Uncle Henry would have had a fit if he had ever found out. No, this was going to be a much, much better way.
Dead or Alive Page 17
