The Black Cabinet

by Patricia Wentworth

  “I’m not going to Maxton—I’m going to London. But—how did you guess?”

  Martin laughed just under his breath.

  “I wanted you to so much.”

  “But how did you know?”

  “How does one know anything?”

  The car sprang forward as he spoke, and the wind took Chloe’s answer away. They were driving straight into the wind, and straight into the dawn. In the dusk the hedge-rows began to show like black walls, and the sky seemed to lift above them. Martin turned the lights off. The long, straight road lay white and empty between the hedges, and away on the horizon pale lines of gold showed like cracks between the grey, low-hanging clouds.

  Chloe’s heart sang in her as she watched the day-light grow. Neither she nor Martin spoke; but a sense of things unspoken and imminent was upon them both. Presently Martin would make love to her—and if Chloe was not in love with Martin, she was very much in love with love, and youth, and the morning; she was aware of something in her, poised, balanced, waiting for a touch, a breath.

  Martin, for his part, was silent because his instinct told him that Chloe needed this silence. He had made more or less serious love to a good many women. To Chloe he made love with a difference. Like the skilled musician who for the first time touches the strings of an instrument finer than any he has yet known, he felt at once expectancy and triumph. Her frank look and confident air; the eager warmth; the sudden, proud withdrawals—these were Chloe. Quickness; simplicity; ready tears and ready smiles; a child’s courage and a child’s terrors—these were Chloe too.

  He sat silent beside her, and thought strange thoughts.

  Chapter XXIV

  Their early start did not land them very early in London. They had breakfast at a road-side cottage which advertised “Cyclists’ Teas,” and had to be coaxed a good deal before it would rise to eggs and bacon. It was a delicious breakfast, like a breakfast in a fairy tale. Chloe’s cheeks were glowing from the wind. She had the brilliant look that some flowers have when the bud is just opening. Martin could not keep his eyes from her, nor hide the spark in them—perhaps he did not try very hard.

  “I suppose your aunt is in town?” Chloe said suddenly.

  “Oh, yes. I saw her a couple of days ago.”

  “You’re sure she wasn’t going away?”

  “Yes, quite sure.”

  “You see,” said Chloe, “I don’t know another soul in London—of course, I don’t know her. But—I say, you’re sure she won’t think it very odd?”

  “Why should she?”

  Chloe laughed.

  “It depends on how well you’ve brought her up. Of course, if she’s used to your just blowing in out of the blue with a stray girl who hasn’t got anywhere to go, it’s all right; otherwise, you know, she might think it a little odd.” One of those April changes came over her face. “Martin I’m really a little bit frightened.”

  “You needn’t be.”

  It was an hour later that the car began to labour. Martin got down, fiddled with things that Chloe didn’t understand, and presently started her again. She ran draggingly for the couple of miles which took them to the outskirts of Frambleton and a garage.

  Martin heaved a sigh of relief.

  “I thought we were going to get stuck by the road-side.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t quite know.”

  Ten minutes later he was being very apologetic: “I’m most awfully sorry, but I’m afraid it means two or three hours. We’ll have to have lunch here and push on afterwards.”

  They touched London at four o’clock; but it was nearly half-past when Martin stopped before an imposing house in a quiet square.

  Chloe fought against an overpowering rush of nervousness.

  “I won’t get out till you’ve explained,” she said, and sat there very upright, waiting for the door to open.

  The interminable minute passed; the door opened. Martin stepped inside. Chloe stiffened her back and waited. Idiotic to feel nervous. Nothing to be nervous about. One old lady was very much like another, and she always got on beautifully with old ladies. She had got as far as this in self-admonishment, when Martin ran down the steps. The door of the house shut behind him.

  He came round the car, leaned on the side of it close to her, and said in a low, agitated voice:

  “Chloe, there’s some awful muddle. I feel I’ve let you down most awfully.”

  “What is it?”

  “She isn’t here. I can’t understand it at all. I think she must have been called away to one of her daughters—she seems to have gone off quite unexpectedly. The wire that I sent from Frambleton was lying unopened in the hall. The butler thinks she may be back to-morrow. He said they weren’t forwarding anything.”

  Leaning there so close to her, he felt, rather than saw, the quiver that shook her. A street lamp half a dozen yards away made the dusk light enough for him to see her face, all white like a face in a bas-relief, only the eyes very black, and looking at him.

  “What shall I do?” she said in a little voice. They might have been on a desert island, the square was so empty.

  “Chloe, don’t look like that! It’s all right—it really is.”

  Chloe’s eyes never moved from his face.

  “What shall I do?” she repeated. “Perhaps perhaps—I’d better go to Maxton after all. I want to—you know I meant to. But last night—I wasn’t going to tell you—Emily Wroughton came into my room, and she frightened me.” The pressure of the thing she had not meant to tell him became intolerable; the words came fast on a whisper of sobbing breath. “She did frighten me. She said they were going to try and make out that I was mad. She said everybody in Danesborough believed it already. She said”—her hand caught suddenly at his arm—“Martin they couldn’t really, could they?”

  He gave a long whistle of dismay.

  “So that’s it!” he said.

  “Do you think they could?—do you think they really could? Emily said I’d better go away and hide till I was of age.” She drew her hand away. The relief of her speech had been great. “Martin, they couldn’t! I think I was silly to be frightened. I think I’ll go to Maxton. What do you think?”

  Martin spoke gravely, very gravely:

  “Chloe, I don’t want to frighten you, but I think Mrs. Wroughton gave you pretty good advice—I do really. If you go to Maxton, you’re asking for trouble. They’ll find you at once, and—you’re not of age, you see.”

  He heard her take a quick breath of dismay. He leaned over the side of the car.

  “Chloe, if you’ll trust me.” There was a note in his voice that called to her.

  She said “Yes”?—and then she shivered because her dream came back, and Mr. Dane’s voice saying, “Never trust anyone, Chloe.”

  Martin’s hand came out towards her. She made the first beginnings of a movement. The sense of being alone together, quite alone, deepened. She heard him say her name. And then a taxi swung by, and stopped just ahead of them. Half a dozen children poured out. There was a chatter and clatter of tongues; last directions to the driver from a fussy governess. Chloe drew back and sat up straight, hands clasped about her knee.

  Martin’s moment had passed. He was too wise to attempt to recapture it. He said instead, “I’ve got a plan.”

  “What is it?”

  He made a gesture with his right hand.

  “We can’t talk here. I know a very nice, quiet hotel—the sort of place one’s aunts and cousins go to. If you would let me take you there”

  Something in Chloe said “No.” Her lips repeated the word just audibly.

  “Chloe, why?”

  She had to find reasons for what had been purely instinctive; and she had to find them for herself before she could set them up between herself and Martin. Hotels cost money; she hadn’t much
money. She didn’t want to go to an hotel. She didn’t quite know why, and came back to the thought of the money. It would cost too much; only she couldn’t say that to Martin. The something that had said “No” shrank proudly from the thought that he might offer to lend her money. She gave herself a little shake, and seemed to wake up.

  “I don’t want to go to an hotel; but I do want a wash, and my tea, and a little time to think. And—aren’t we near a station?”

  Martin straightened himself.

  “Not frightfully near. Why a station?” Chloe’s spirit was coming back.

  “I told you why. I want a wash; and I want some tea; and I want to think. Take me to a station, please,—a good big one where they’ll be sure to have real hot water.”

  “Victoria’s the nearest,” said Martin. “I could take you there. I shall have to garage the car.”

  He got in as he spoke. That it was quite useless to talk to any woman who confessed to wanting her tea was a fundamental fact brought home to him by an experience that had not lacked variety.

  He drove Chloe to Victoria without further protest, merely inquiring what she proposed to do about her luggage.

  “I shall put it in the cloak-room; and then you see, we shall be quite free. I’ve got just the beginnings of a plan myself—I’ll tell you presently.”

  They fixed a meeting place, and Chloe, standing by her suit-cases, watched the car move out of sight.

  The cloak-room first. She made her way there, deposited the suit-cases, hesitated a little over the cardboard box, and finally kept it with her.

  A little later she leaned back on the sofa in their ladies’ waiting-room, and with the passing reflection that it was nice not to feel so gritty any more she began to develop the infant plan of which she had spoken to Martin.

  Old Nurse had lived in London till about two years ago, when she went out to her son in Australia; she had lived with a married niece. If the niece could be found, and would take Chloe in, it would be much, much cheaper than an hotel. The bother was that she couldn’t remember the address. The niece’s name was Harriet—Harriet Rowse—and the number was 122. But she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember the name of the road. She strained thought to the breaking point, and then suddenly relaxed.

  “No good doing that. Perhaps it’ll come if I leave it alone. And supposing it doesn’t—”

  Chloe became aware that she desired intensely to produce a plan of her own. Martin’s plan— No, she didn’t want it; she wanted a plan of her own.

  She leaned back, shutting her eyes, letting her thoughts drift. If she couldn’t remember the name of that wretched street,—what then? There must be places for girls who had to work,—of course there were places, like Lady Wenderby’s hostels. Martin wouldn’t know; but they might have asked at the house; someone in the house would have been sure to know. That’s what happens when you’re frightened—you don’t think of things till afterwards, when it’s too late.

  Then quick as light she thought:

  “But it’s not too late at all. I can telephone to the house and ask now.”

  “Now!” Chloe was on her feet at the word. She would just have time to telephone before Martin came back. She crossed the station, entered a telephone box, and looked up the number. Her pennies rattled through the slot, there was a click, and a man was saying “Hullo.”

  Chloe had decided that her visit to the house with Martin had better be ignored. She asked casually:

  “Is Lady Wenderby in?”

  The answer came in tones that betrayed surprise.

  “Her ladyship is abroad.” The last word stood out from the rest of the sentence. Mentally Chloe stared at it.

  “Do you mean that she went abroad to-day?”

  “Oh, no, madam. Her ladyship left for the Riviera quite a fortnight ago.”

  The receiver in Chloe’s hand seemed suddenly to be as cold as ice and as heavy as lead. There must be some mistake. There must be some mistake.

  “You say Lady Wenderby went to the Riviera a fortnight ago?”

  “Yes, madam,—to Mentone.”

  Chloe spoke once again very slowly; her voice seemed to have turned cold and heavy too: “Do you know when she is coming back?”

  “No, madam,—but it won’t be for a month or two.”

  “Thank you,” said Chloe. She hung the receiver up, took her cardboard box in her left hand, and walked out upon the platform again. A train had just come in, and a black stream of people came flowing past. Caught in the swirl of it, she moved on, because just for the moment she had lost the power to think or act for herself. The stream carried her on. It was really only a minute later that she found herself noticing that the girl in front of her had a brown velveteen skirt that draggled at the back and a silk stocking with a hole in it. Chloe saw this, and went on following the girl until she found the outside air blowing cold in her face, and realized that she had come out of the station and was standing on a crowded pavement past which a continuous line of traffic surged.

  She stood on the kerb with the string of the cardboard box cutting her wrist, and stared at the traffic—such bright lights, and such a noise; three buses in a string; cars without number; a boy on a bicycle whistling—he had red hair and freckles; another bus, rather empty. It was like fetching pictures on the screen at the cinema. Then the policeman on the island in the middle of the street was holding up his hand, and immediately Chloe felt herself pushed forward.

  She reached the island, stood still, and became aware that she was trembling from head to foot. Slowly, very slowly, the sensation of being in a dream was passing away. She began to think and to formulate her thoughts in odd, jerky sentences. She must get away. Martin mustn’t find her. Martin had told her lies. Why? It didn’t matter why. She must get away. She must go to Harriet Rowse. No she couldn’t, because she had forgotten the address. It was 122 something. Old Nurse’s letters—c/o Harriet Rowse—no, one didn’t put that on an envelope—c/o Mrs. Rowse, 122 Hatchelbury Road! Chloe drew in a long breath of damp, petrol-laden air, and found it purely sweet. The horrible dream feeling was gone. And she had remembered Harriet’s address.

  She turned, and spoke to the big policeman, “Please, can you direct me to Hatchelbury Road?”

  Chapter XXV

  “Is Mrs. Rowse at home, please?” said Chloe. Hatchelbury Road was very dark and very dingy. The open door of No. 122 disclosed worn yellowish linoleum on the floor, and steep steps that ran upwards into darkness. A little girl in a dingy overall stood on the linoleum and peered up at Chloe. The only light came from the half-open door at the end of the very narrow passage. There was a heartening smell of cabbage, onions, oilcloth and herrings.

  “Is Mrs. Rowse at home?”

  “Ow, yes.”

  “Can I see her?”

  The little girl fidgeted from one foot to the other, sniffed, and looked back over her shoulder.

  “Mrs. Rowse, ’ere’s a lidy to see yer.”

  The half open door opened a little wider. A large woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. The little girl vanished, leaving Chloe with the impression of a piercing voice and a high, bony forehead. Mrs. Rowse came forward, ponderous, breathing heavily.

  “Mrs. Rowse,” said Chloe in a quick, timid voice, “I’ve come to you because I don’t know anyone else in London.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong shop if you want money,” said Mrs. Rowse, still drying her hands.

  The brutal directness of the words brought Chloe’s head up.

  “It’s not a question of money,” she said quietly. “Your aunt, Mrs. Beeston, must have spoken of me.”

  “Mrs. Beeston is in Australia,” said Mrs. Rowse in the same hard, unmodulated voice which she had used before. “She’s in Australia, and if she owes you money, you must write to her about it, for I’m not responsible for other folks’ debts.”

>   Chloe could have slapped her. It was, in fact, a temptation—those huge bare arms, those large pale cheeks, so eminently slapable.

  “It’s nothing to do with money.” She raised her voice as if she were speaking to somebody who was deaf. “It’s nothing whatever to do with money. It’s—it’s—Mrs. Rowse, I’m Chloe Dane. You must have heard Nurse speak of me.”

  “Mrs. Beeston is in Australia,” said Mrs. Rowse without moving.

  Chloe lost her temper.

  “Of course she’s in Australia. What’s the good of keeping on saying so? What I want to know is, can you give me a room?—can you take me in for the night? I can pay,” she added with a tap of the foot that was nearly sharp enough to be called a stamp.

  Mrs. Rowse went on looking at her, and just as Chloe was about to burst into speech again, she said:

  “You’d better come in. I dunno about a room; but you’d better come in.” She wheeled round, opened a door which Chloe had not noticed, and led the way into a dark room, where she presently lighted a singly noisy gas-jet.

  The room was the regulation parlour, or, as Mrs. Rowse called it, “me droring-room.” There was a pair of blue and gilt vases on the mantelpiece. They appeared to be like trees growing up from a dense undergrowth of photographs, amongst which Chloe with a curious sensation recognized one of herself taken nearly three years before; it was encased in a frame of massive gilt. Mrs. Rowse picked it up, held it to the light, looked broodingly at it, and then turned her dark, protruding eyes on Chloe. After a moment she nodded.

  “Yes, it’s you,” she said. “And you’ll please to excuse me for being pertickler. She left it behind by mistake; and half a dozen times I meant to send it off. When I had the money, I forgot it; and when I remembered it, I hadn’t got the money.” She gave a short, hoarse laugh. “Lucky I didn’t send it, seems to me.” She put it down, and once more fixed her eyes on Chloe. “What’s a young lady like you want with a room in a house like mine? You’re Miss Dane right enough; and if you’re Miss Dane, you know well as I do that this isn’t no place for you.”