Sarah was paler still.
“Then why doesn’t she say so? She must know. John, that’s what defeats me—she must know.”
“Yes, she knows. But she’s afraid. She can’t prove anything, and she’s afraid he’ll try to make out she’s mad.”
“John!”
“I’m sure of it. I’m sure he’s threatened her with a lunatic asylum. And she’d rather face death—my poor plucky girl! Don’t you see, there’s no proof—there’s never been any proof. If she talked, he’d have the doctor in and make out a case for persecution-mania. I guessed at something of the sort when they played that damnable trick to frighten her—the Thing dashing at her window. It would have suited their book remarkably well if she had run screaming through the house, but they dropped it like a hot brick as soon as they knew you had changed rooms. It wouldn’t have suited them to have Lucilla’s story corroborated.”
“She said it would stop when I’d seen it.” Sarah’s lips were stiff on the words.
John Hildred nodded.
“Yes—she knew. She’s been playing a lone hand ever since Henry died. Do you happen to know whether she’s refused Ricky lately?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t wonder—he’s looked so sulky.”
“I think that’s been the alternative. Now they’re desperate—and so am I. Sarah, I don’t know what to do. He’s her guardian. We can’t prove a thing, and Ronald Eversley doesn’t land till Friday at earliest. I’d like to take you both away to-night, but if Geoffrey called in the police, I’d be done. I can’t prove I’m her father till Ronald comes. And I’d give a good deal not to drag Lucilla and the family name into court. Geoffrey knows that. What am I to do?”
Sarah said, “I don’t know.”
He smiled suddenly.
“I did a stupid theatrical thing just now—I registered as John Hildred of Holme Fallow, right under Geoffrey’s nose. I wish you’d seen his face. I’m afraid I’d do it again—just for that. By the way, did you know he wasn’t staying here?”
She had known, but it came freshly and brought an overwhelming sense of relief. She said rather breathlessly.
“No—of course—he’s got his flat—he wouldn’t. He and Ricky will be at the flat. He said so. Oh, but then we’ll be all right here—won’t we?”
“It’s the most respectable place on earth,” said John Hildred. His voice lagged a little on the words. “I’m along at the end of the passage—No. 45. It ought to be all right. Now look here—I’m coming to the theatre with you to-night. I’ve told Geoffrey so, and he’s offered me Ricky’s ticket. Ricky is said to be at the flat, very seedy with a bad head. Bad conscience and funk, I should say. But anyhow he’s off the map, and I’m going instead. Geoffrey was very polite, after looking as if his eyes were going to pop out of his head when I signed the register in my own name. He was very polite, and very upset about Lucilla. He rather gave the show away by saying he’d been anxious about her nerves for some time, and didn’t I think she ought to see a specialist? He’s a good actor, and I let him think it was going down all right, because I don’t want to push him into a corner at this juncture. I’ve got to play for time. Now these are the plans for this evening, and you must back them up. We dine here, and we all go in a taxi together to the theatre. If Geoffrey’s arranging a smash, he’ll have to be in it himself—and I think he’s a great deal too fond of his own skin, so that will be all right. Coming back, same thing. And if I have to go for a taxi, you and Lucilla don’t leave the foyer till I come for you. Then we all come here, and Geoffrey can take the taxi on to his flat, which is only just round the corner. I think that’s a pretty watertight arrangement. You both bolt your doors, and if you could bear it for once in a way, I think I’d like you to fasten the windows too. There’s a sort of built-out place on the next floor below, and—I think I’d feel happier if your windows weren’t open. Any active person could climb up by way of that bit of roof.”
Sarah said, “All right.” And then, “John, it’s a bad dream. I’d like to wake up.”
The dream-like feeling persisted through the evening. They dined together at seven, the four of them—Geoffrey, Lucilla, John, and Sarah. John Hildred had wondered whether Geoffrey would show up, but there he was, the agreeable host to the life, with no more than a shade of concern in his manner. He held Lucilla’s hand for a moment and patted it. Sarah asked after Ricky, and they heard that he had gone to bed—a chill, Geoffrey opined, but considered that he would be all right in the morning. He continued to talk easily and fluently.
Lucilla wore her black georgette frock, but she wore it with a difference. She would not have come down to dinner at the Red House with her fair eyebrows darkened and shaped into a slender arch or her mouth painted in a scarlet cupid’s bow. She had darkened her lashes too and faintly stained the smooth pallor of her cheeks with rose. The whole effect was very decorative, but Miss Marina would certainly not have approved of it. Sarah discerned the courage which flies all its flags in the presence of danger.
Dinner over, John’s plan was carried out without a hitch. They had seats in the third row of the stalls, and sat in the following order—Geoffrey, Sarah, John, and Lucilla. Again, John’s arrangement. It might, indeed, have been his party rather than Geoffrey’s, and to Sarah’s surprise Geoffrey took it all mildly enough, only smiling pleasantly when his offer of chocolates was very peremptorily refused.
“You think them unwholesome?” he said. “Now I wonder why—I really do wonder why.”
Sarah thought the innocence a little overdone, and for the last time the question came beating at her heart, “Is it real? Is it possible that it’s real?” Well, it was all part of the dream, and at some time and in some way the evening would be over.
The curtain went up and the play began. As it proceeded, Sarah found amazement struggling with indignation. What a piece to have chosen for a girl of Lucilla’s age who was ostensibly to be cheered up and taken out of herself! It seemed as if Geoffrey must have guessed her thoughts, for when the curtain fell on the first act, he turned to her with an appearance of distress.
“I had no idea it was this sort of piece. Some friend of Ricky’s recommended it. And of course it is very well acted—but I wanted to take Lucilla to something amusing—I had really no idea at all.” He continued in this strain, and presently leaned across to ask Lucilla whether she would like to come away without waiting for the other acts.
The slender darkened eyebrows arched themselves in dismay.
“Come out? But why?”
His tone was solicitous.
“Well, it’s rather a gloomy piece for you, my dear.”
“Gloom doesn’t matter when you’re feeling cheerful. I’m feeling very cheerful, and wild horses won’t get me away before the end. You and Sarah can go home if you like. The Preserver and I are staying.” She hooked her hand inside John’s arm and squeezed it.
Geoffrey Hildred sat down with a sigh and told Sarah all over again that he had had no idea what the piece was about.
It was certainly a very gloomy piece. There was a young man who was going mad, and a girl who tried to drown herself, and three very depressing middle-aged women who poured out the stories of their thwarted lives whenever any of the other characters could be got to listen, but as everyone in the play was entirely and exclusively preoccupied with his or her own feelings, this fortunately did not happen as often as it otherwise might have done. There was an elderly man who drank, and a girl of sixteen who doped. The piece was called A Slice of Life, and Geoffrey Hildred kept on explaining that he had expected it to be a farce.
It came to an end at last, and they drove back to the hotel according to plan. It seemed as if Geoffrey Hildred’s flow of words had failed at last, for he sat silent in the taxi whilst Lucilla chattered about the play.
“They were all such idiots,” she declared. “Why didn’t they go and do something instead of just mooning around and talking about themselves? I do hate people who can’t get a
move on.”
Geoffrey did speak then. He said in a curious flat, gentle voice,
“I hope it won’t spoil your night’s rest. You mustn’t miss your sleep, my dear.” And with that the taxi stopped before the hotel.
John sprang out with some relief. He said,
“You’ll take the taxi on?” And then in a minute the three of them were there on the pavement and Geoffrey was being driven away.
Sarah felt a most blessed sense of relief. What had she been afraid of? He was gone, and the three of them were here together, she, and John, and Lucilla. They were a family. It was going to be like this always—she, and John, and Lucilla. It felt very good indeed.
They went up the steps and into the hotel.
CHAPTER XXXI
The taxi drove on with Geoffrey Hildred round the top of the Square and out of the narrow street which runs in between Nos. 40 and 41. Another turn, and the taxi drew up before a block of flats. Geoffrey got out, separated the legal fare from the loose silver in his pocket, added a generous tip, and went in.
He rang for the lift, conversed affably with the porter who took him up, and, getting out at the third floor, let himself into his flat with a latch-key. He stood in the hall with his hand on the door-knob. It was as if for a moment he relaxed. The day had been a hard one. To be constantly on your guard; to contrive, fitting one bit of your puzzle so deftly to the next that there shall be no sign of a join; to hold pleasant converse through the strain of an awkward and dangerous situation; to dare in the teeth of risk; to be within an ace of succeeding and to fail, and, failing, to keep an unwavering purpose and show no sign—these things put a pretty heavy strain upon a man. Geoffrey Hildred leaned against the inner side of the door and eased himself from the strain. The geniality of his expression was gone, leaving the features heavy with fatigue. The florid colour looked patchy and hard. The shoulders sagged into a forward stoop.
It was for no more than a minute. Then he straightened up, took his hand from the door, and walked into the first room on the right. It was a very comfortable sitting room—a man’s room, with big leather chairs, a table strewn with papers and magazines, and a deep couch. There were Persian rugs on the floor, and a few really beautiful pieces of Chinese porcelain on the mantelpiece and in a cabinet which stood between the windows. The crimson curtains were drawn. A shaded reading-lamp glowed on a low table by the couch and showed Ricky lying there at full length. He had a magazine in his hand, but it was impossible to say whether he had been reading it. He started as his father came in.
Geoffrey Hildred had resumed his customary expression. He shut the door behind him, switched on the overhead light, and settled himself in one of the large arm-chairs.
“Well, my boy,” he said, “we had quite a successful evening.”
Ricky’s face twitched. He flung up an arm to shield it and said in an uneven voice.
“What do you mean? What’s happened?”
Geoffrey Hildred frowned. You had to use the material to your hand, but really Ricky’s nerves—He shook his head a little as he said reprovingly,
“Nothing has happened. Nothing was due to happen.”
Ricky sat up with astonishing vigour.
“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that!”
Geoffrey’s eyebrows rose.
“Why, I suppose the servants have gone, haven’t they? But you’re quite right—we mustn’t be careless. Just make quite sure they’re all off the premises, and then put the chain on the door.”
Whilst he waited for Ricky to come back, his fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of the chair. He was going to have trouble with Ricky; he could see that. And he was tired—tired. He clenched his hand with a jerk. He wasn’t too tired to finish the game.
Ricky came back.
“They’ve gone—and I’m going to bed.”
“It’s scarcely worth while, is it?” said Geoffrey Hildred.
Ricky came a step nearer.
“I’m going to bed. I’m not going on any farther. I don’t care what you say—I’m not going on. I don’t care if we’re ruined. It’s better to be ruined than dead. You’re just trying to get me to put my head in a noose, and I won’t do it. I tell you I’m through!”
“Well, well,” said Geoffrey Hildred—” so you say. But have you the slightest idea what being ruined is going to be like? I’m afraid you haven’t. I’ve tried to spare you, you know, and I’m afraid it’s been a mistake. I ought to have taken you more fully into my confidence. Just shut that door and come and sit down. I don’t think you’ll really be quite so indifferent to being ruined when I’ve told you a little more about it.”
Ricky plunged sulkily down on the sofa and stared at his father with shifty, nervous eyes.
“I know Jack can put you into court if he chooses. But he won’t choose. After all he’s a relation.”
Geoffrey Hildred lifted his hand and let it fall again.
“My dear Ricky, that’s puerile. He won’t be able to help it. There is a settlement on Lucilla under his grandfather’s will, and the fact that a good deal of it has gone will be beyond his power to hush up if he ever comes to go into the accounts. He would expose himself to the charge of being an accessory after the fact. So you see you are talking nonsense. There was a time about three years ago when I could have handed everything over and cleared enough to make us very comfortable for life. If Jack had come back then—well, I shouldn’t have risked any further transactions. But with Henry at the other side of the world and no chance of his return—I used to get most deplorable accounts of his health—I was, most unfortunately, tempted to continue. And then, as you know, the roof fell in.” He paused for a moment, waited to see if Ricky would speak, and then went on. “When you say you know that Jack can put me into court, you are a good deal under-stating what is likely to happen—what is bound to happen—unless we take steps to prevent it. I don’t know if the idea of penal servitude attracts you. You would of course get a lighter sentence than I should. And you are young. You would probably be a free man again before your thirtieth birthday. That is still young, and I dare say you would be able to make a new start, though it’s never easy for a penniless, discredited man to get on his feet again.”
Ricky sprang up, quivering from head to foot.
“What do you mean? What are you talking about? Prison?” he said.
Geoffrey looked a mild reproof.
“My dear Ricky, don’t you realise the position? Misappropriation of trust funds is, I fear, the name that will be given to my well-intentioned financial operations, and you will find that there is ample documentary evidence of your, shall we say, collusion? You may get off with a light sentence, but you will have no chance at all of convincing a jury of your innocence.”
Ricky collapsed again upon the sofa and buried his head in his hands with a groan.
“What can we do?”
Geoffrey Hildred regarded him complacently.
“Why, what we planned to do. I think you must see that it is necessary and—” He made a slight gesture with his hand. “Forgive me, my dear boy, but I really cannot see what you are boggling at. It isn’t as if it would be your first attempt, though I’m sure we both hope it will be your last.”
Ricky looked up sulkily.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t want to allude to past failures, but you did push her off the bank and under Miss Trent’s car—didn’t you? And without any prompting from me either. It was a bold stroke that might easily have succeeded, but after that you can’t expect me to take your scruples very seriously.”
Ricky stared at him gloomily.
“She’d made me mad. I didn’t care what I did to her. I asked her to marry me, and she laughed at me and said—” His voice choked with rage.
Geoffrey Hildred nodded.
“Yes, she called you a white rabbit. Very silly of her, but she’s still a schoolgirl.”
Ricky sprang to his feet and began to walk about the room. “
She made me mad, and I didn’t care what I did. I pushed her, and I’d have been glad if she’d been killed. But I can’t do it in cold blood, I tell you. Why don’t you do it yourself if you’re so keen on it?”
“I do wish you’d sit down,” said Geoffrey Hildred, and as Ricky threw himself on the sofa again, he continued in a calm judicial voice. “I should just like to point out that up to the present most of the risks have been mine. I’m not complaining that it is so.”
“You made me go down to that beastly school of hers and set light to her curtains.”
“Well, there wasn’t much risk in that, either to her or to you. There’s one point about a school—you can always count on everyone being just where they’re expected to be at any given moment.”
“You made me put the screws in her pocket too.”
Geoffrey Hildred laughed pleasantly.
“A most dangerous job, Ricky! Come, come, you must admit that so far the risks have been mine. That was a narrow shave at Holme Fallow, and a piece of real bad luck that Jack should have been so near. When Miss Trent turned her torch on and I saw him, I thought the game was up. Well now, my boy, about to-night—I would certainly undertake the job myself if it didn’t involve climbing in at that bathroom window. I’m afraid that’s a little beyond me. But really the whole thing is simplicity itself. You go round to the back, do the bit of climbing, which is easy enough for you, push back the catch of the bathroom window, and get in. You’ll find this palette knife will do the trick. It’s an old-fashioned catch and moves very easily. I have put the cylinder of gas all ready in your old rucksack. I don’t think you’ll find it at all in your way for the climb.”
Ricky had his chin in his hands. He stared at his father and said nothing. Geoffrey Hildred continued in his equable voice.
“Leave the window unlatched and slip the bolt of the door. Then put on your gas mask—it is in the rucksack. If anyone does catch sight of you after that, you will be very well disguised. By the way, I should wear your Burberry. Everyone looks alike in a Burberry. Now listen carefully. You must deal with Jack first. He’s in 45 at the end of the passage. Unless he’s changed a lot, he’s a sound sleeper—all the Hildreds are. There isn’t any bolt on the door. If he’s locked in, this little contrivance will turn the key from the outside. You’ll be able to tell from his breathing whether he’s deeply asleep. Bring the nozzle well down over his face and turn on the gas. When he’s off, shut and latch the window, turn the gas fire on full, and leave him, taking care to shut the door. Then get back to the bathroom and lock yourself in again. This key opens the communicating door to Lucilla’s room. I got the inpression of the lock last time Marina stayed there. It’s the room on the right as you come in. Repeat the process with the gas, shut and latch the window, make sure that the door is bolted on the inside, then turn on the gas fire and come away, locking the communicating door behind you and taking care to bring away the key. You then have only to unlock the bathroom door and climb out of the window, shutting it behind you. The fact of its being unlatched will occasion no remark. At least half a dozen people will have had baths, and any one of them might have left it like that. At the inquest it will be perfectly evident that Lucilla, in a fit of derangement, went along the passage and turned on the gas in her father’s room, afterwards returning to her own room, where she locked herself in and once more turned on the gas. She will be found in a room with two locked doors and a latched window, and I think it is quite impossible that the least suspicion should be aroused. You will wear rubber gloves throughout, so there will be no finger-marks. Move the gas taps with the little instrument I gave you for turning the key. You don’t want to disturb the prints which will naturally be there. I don’t suppose anyone will think of looking for them, but it is just as well to be on the safe side.”
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