“Do you care to take one of these sketches, ma’am?” Voice and manner were mechanical and without interest.
A little bleak laughter stirred in Rosalind’s cold, angry mind.
“I see—” she said. “They are for sale?”
“They are five guineas each, ma’am.”
Rosalind picked up the nearest. It was the sort of water-colour drawing which is turned out in any sketching-class. There was a white cliff, a strip of yellow sand, and an ultramarine sea. She held it in a rigid, steady hand and looked at it.
“I will take this one,” she said. She got out her purse and put down a five-pound note and two half-crowns.
Phoebe wrapped the sketch and tied it up.
Rosalind came out into the street, and heard the door shut behind her. It was almost dark, and it was very cold. She turned towards Marsh Street, and found her feet heavier at every step. It was very cold, and it was very dark. There was a street-lamp at the corner. When she looked at it, it wavered. It was very dark. The light wavered. It was very cold. It was a long way to the corner. She stood still and leaned against the wall of Bernard Mannister’s house.
There was a car coming up the road behind her. If it was a taxi, it would be better to take it. She tried to move, to turn her head, to signal, but nothing happened. She remained leaning against the wall, whilst the light at the corner wavered and broke up into a shower of blinding stars. She had a feeling that she was falling, and lost consciousness.
Mr John Brown, whose taxi had been coming up behind her, stopped his car abruptly and jumped out. He was in time to catch Rosalind before she fell. He saw her put out a groping hand and slip sideways. She fell against his shoulder and rested there for a moment. Then he lifted her and carried her to the car.
When she opened her eyes, she was lying back against the cushions. She raised herself a little. She couldn’t remember getting into the taxi. She was still very cold. The driver stood by the door looking in on her. She could see the outline of his shoulders, and his chauffeur’s cap, and his beard. You didn’t often see a taxidriver with a beard. … How stupid—of course he was waiting for her to give him the address. She drew a long breath, because she was afraid of what her voice might do. All that hard, clear anger was gone. She felt weak and quiet. There were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks.
She said, “Eleven b. Caradoc Mansions,” in a soft, quivering voice.
There was a pause. The man stood with the door in his hand. She thought he had not heard. She repeated the address, her voice still fluttering.
“Eleven b. Caradoc Mansions.”
Mr John Brown shut the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Rosalind lay back against the cushions with the tears running down her face. She felt utterly peaceful and relaxed, she felt utterly safe. She had been in a nightmare, and she had come out of it. The left-hand window was open at the top, and a cold air blew in upon her. Suddenly she sat up. The sketch still hung from her wrist by a loop of string. She detached it and pushed it out of the window. It caught the light of a street-lamp and was gone.
She got out of the taxi at the entrance to Caradoc Mansions and turned to the light to find the fare. The meter registered eighteen-pence. Rosalind stood with the light on her, turning the silver in her purse. She was very pale under the lamp. Her lashes were dark and wet. Her hair shone golden. She took out half a crown and gave it to John Brown. She said, “Thank you very much,” and turned and went up the steps and in through the open door.
John Brown got into his taxi and drove back to Nym’s Row.
CHAPTER XVII
BERNARD MANNISTER CAME HOME about an hour after Rosalind Denny had leaned fainting against the wall of his house. Jeremy had been thinking that his train must be late. The fog was not thick here, but it might be worse out of town—you never could tell with a fog. And then there was the click of a latch-key, the front door slammed, and Mannister came into the library, talking over his shoulder to old James.
“Tea—in here—as quickly as possible.”
He left James to shut the door and advanced upon the fire with outstretched hands.
“A very cold evening,” he observed. “I hope it will not spoil the attendance for to-night. A most important occasion. You have made a fair copy of my speech?”
Jeremy grinned inwardly. A fair copy! When he’d had to boil the thing for hours! He said,
“Yes, sir, it’s all ready.”
Mannister stood upon the hearth in a good Albert Hall attitude. He turned the pages of Jeremy’s neat type-script and frowned portentously.
“You have cut it to bits.”
“It takes just ten minutes to read now, sir.”
“One can say nothing in ten minutes!” said Mannister fretfully.
He began to declaim from the type-script, using only half his voice. The tea came in as he reached the last page. He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Ten and a half minutes,” he said, and poured himself out a cup of scalding tea which he drank standing in a sort of furious haste.
Between his gulps he inquired of Jeremy how long it would take him to memorize the speech. He required no answer and did not wait for one, remarking that he himself could learn anything by heart in a couple of readings, one for the general sense and the other for the detail. He mouthed through the speech inaudibly, tossed off a second cup of tea, and flinging Jeremy the type-script, proceeded to prove himself word-perfect, pausing at the end for applause.
It really was a pretty good performance. Jeremy expressed a dutiful admiration. After which Mannister drank a third cup of tea and threw himself into a big chair by the fire.
“I shan’t want anything else. Leave the type-script there. I’ll just run through it again before I start. Oh, by the way, there’s a letter in the safe that I may want for the Prime Minister—he was to see it if I got an opportunity. Just get it out, will you. Here’s the key.” He was detaching chain and key-ring as he spoke.
Jeremy came over to the chair and took the key of the safe. The ring and the other keys fell tinkling back. The chain hung down straight and caught the light.
As he pushed back the section of the bookcase which hid the safe, Jeremy’s thoughts pelted after one another. They ran so fast that they were out of breath. Between midnight on Saturday and one o’clock on Sunday morning he had seen Rachel open the safe with this key. How had she come by it? Mannister had had it at four o’clock on Saturday afternoon, and Mannister was catching the four-twenty-five. Mannister had it at four, and Rachel had it at midnight, and at five o’clock on Monday afternoon Mannister had it again.
The thoughts raced faster as he fitted the key in the lock. At four o’clock on Saturday afternoon there had been an important letter in the safe—a letter in a blue envelope. At midnight it wasn’t there any more, but in the locked drawer of Jeremy’s writing-table. Jeremy had put it back and seen the safe locked on it. Now, at getting on for half-past five on Monday afternoon, he wondered if it was still there. There was something uncomfortably transitory about that letter, and if it was gone again, it would undoubtedly be a case of “poor Jeremy Ware.”
These racing thoughts had taken but an instant of time. Whatever happened, he mustn’t hesitate. From his chair by the hearth Mannister looked straight across the room and watched him.
Jeremy turned the key, flung back the door, and on the impulse looked, not into the safe, but back over his shoulder at Mannister.
“Which letter did you want, sir?” he said, and gave himself marks because his voice was just as usual.
Mannister’s set gaze went past him. It had a sort of frowning intensity.
Why? Was the letter there, or wasn‘t it?
Jeremy waited. Mannister frowned. After a moment Mannister spoke.
“There—right in front—the one in the blue envelope!” His voice was harsh a
nd impatient.
Jeremy turned to the safe and saw the letter lying where he had put it at one o’clock on Sunday morning. He took it in his hand and looked over his shoulder again.
“Shall I lock the safe, sir?”
Mannister said, “Of course!” on a note of angry impatience.
When he had closed the book-shelf, he took the letter to Mannister and gave the bunch of keys into his hand.
“Is that all, sir?”
Mannister frowned at the letter, frowned at the keys. Jeremy had a momentary sense of anger straining at the leash. Then he got a curt “That’s all—you needn’t wait,” and was glad enough to get out of the room and out of the house.
He went round to see Mr Smith at nine o’clock. He had looked him up in Who’s Who? and remembered that The European Problem had had a place in Gilbert Denny’s library, and that Gilbert had spoken of its author. He thought he had met him, but he wasn’t sure.
Miller led him across the hall and, having taken his coat and hat and opened the first door on the right, announced, “Mr Ware,” and withdrew. A hushed, pontifical person Miller, moving in a solemn ritual. He closed the library door without making a sound.
Mr Smith drifted from the hearth to meet Jeremy and shook hands. From his perch in the window Ananias contemplated the visitor in an unwonted silence.
“Do you—er—like parrots?” said Mr Smith.
“I don’t know any,” said Jeremy.
Mr Smith moved in the direction of the window. He evidently expected Jeremy to follow him, for, having reached the perch, he scratched the parrot behind the ear and said without looking round,
“Meet Ananias.”
Ananias twitched away from his master’s hand and cocked a head at Jeremy. His beak opened, but no sound came from it.
“Well, Ananias?” said Mr Smith; and then, “Aren’t you going to say how do you do?”
Jeremy advanced a hand. Ananias looked sideways at it out of a red-rimmed eye. Mr Smith watched him with great interest.
Ananias slowly lifted one leg and took hold of Jeremy’s forefinger. He tightened upon it a cold and scaly grasp. Then he lifted the other leg, transferred his weight to Jeremy’s hand, and sidled up his sleeve. When he reached the shoulder, he balanced there, observed in a cooing voice, “Johnny, come down to Hilo,” and taking the lobe of Jeremy’s ear in his beak, began to pinch it gently.
Mr Smith regarded the performance with pleasure. When he presently removed Ananias and put him back upon his perch, there was some regrettable language, mostly in Arabic and Spanish.
Mr Smith led the way back to the hearth.
“Maps—” he said vaguely “—er—maps. … Now why do I connect you with—er—maps?” He took off his glasses as he spoke, and began to polish the lenses with a white silk handkerchief. “You did not come to see me about a map by any chance?”
He remained standing in front of the fire. Jeremy did the same.
“Well, sir, I did. You very kindly said—”
“In the park?” said Mr Smith. “Yes, yes, I remember—a seventeenth-century map of London.”
He strolled over to the shelves which covered the right-hand wall and mounted a book-ladder. As he did so, the door opened and Miller came in with a coffeetray. He set it on a low stool between the two large chairs which faced the fire and went out. Once more Jeremy admired the noiseless manner in which he shut the door.
Mr Smith came down with a book in his hand and another one under his arm. He sat down in the righthand chair and began to turn pages.
“You don’t say what part of London you want. It wasn’t very big in those days.”
“Round about Marsh Street,” said Jeremy, and Mr Smith turned more pages.
Presently he frowned, picked up the other book, and unfolded a modern tape-map. As he did so, he signed to Jeremy to look over him.
Jeremy pointed.
“It’s there, sir.”
“Marsh Street. … That’s an old name. There aren’t any marshes now.” His eye followed Jeremy’s finger. “Tilt Street. … That’s old too. There was probably a tilt-yard near by. And what’s this? Nym’s Row. … Yes, all old names. You remember Nym, Bardolph, and Pistol? I don’t think the name survived into the eighteenth century. Curious that it should have been a contraction for Edmund. I have always wanted to know why.” He let the tape-map slide down upon the floor and went back to the larger volume. “That’s not it—no—no good. … Ah, here we are!” He turned the book for Jeremy to see. “Seventeen-ten. Here is a Marsh Road, and here is Tilt Street. I think that is quite plain. There is an inn at the corner—the Golden Lyon. And here is the marsh—down here. Does the road still slope? And this huddle of houses is more or less where Nym’s Row is. Now wait a minute—there is something in the text about the inn.” He turned back a page or two. “Ah yes—there was a tilt-yard. And the inn was there in the fourteenth century … said to have had very fine and extensive cellars … fell into decay and was pulled down in seventeen-seventy, when the houses in the present Marsh Street were built. This is Henry Isaacson writing in eighteen thirty-two. He has a somewhat tedious passage in which he expresses great satisfaction at ‘the improvement in the neighbourhood from a waste and noisome marsh to a handsome street inhabited by the most respectable Persons, amongst whom may be numbered an eminent Divine and at least one member of the Peerage’.”
“Awk!” said Ananias, with piercing suddenness; and then, “Oh lordy lord—oh lordy lord—oh lordy lord!”
Mr Smith turned a mild gaze on Jeremy.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”
The inn ran right across the corner. … Fourteenth century—with extensive cellars. … They had pulled down the house and built their residences for the nobility and gentry over those groined and vaulted cellars. …
Ananias raised his wings and spoke wooingly,
“Johnny, come down to Hilo! Poor old man!”
Mr Smith closed the book and proffered it to Jeremy.
“If you would—er—care to take it home with you—A dull writer, but a most painstaking collector of facts and a pleasing draughtsman. It is a scarce book. I do not know of another copy in private hands.”
Ananias sidled from one end of his perch to the other, flapping his wings.
“Johnny, come down to Hilo!” he besought.
“He has taken an immense fancy to you,” said Mr Smith in tones of gentle surprise.
“Has he?”
“Undoubtedly. No, Ananias—not so loud. He keeps Johnny come down to Hilo for a very few people. My niece Susan is one of them.” He turned and took up the coffee-pot. “You will have some coffee? Black, or white?”
Jeremy took it black, with three lumps of sugar. It was very good coffee.
“Ananias,” said Mr Smith over his shoulder, “if you scream again, you will get no sugar.”
Ananias dropped his head and humped his shoulders in a tolerable imitation of a bird of prey. He could be heard muttering to himself,
“Mumbo-Jumbo—Mumbo-Jumbo—
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoodoo you”
“Er—yes,” said Mr Smith—“that reminds me—I am a forgetful person,” (Garrett would have been sardonically amused)—“but did you by any chance ever come across Gilbert Denny?”
If Jeremy was startled, he did not show it. He said, “I was his secretary,” and left it at that.
“Ah!” said Mr Smith. “That accounts for it. I was quite sure that I had heard your name. I had not the—er—pleasure of knowing Denny, but a relative of his is a very old friend of mine. That would account for it—he undoubtedly mentioned your name.”
“Mumbo-Jumbo will hoodoo you,” said Ananias in a sulky whisper. Then, brightening, “Johnny, come down to Hilo!”
“Ssh, Ananias!” said Mr Smith.
/> He gazed, not at Jeremy, but past him. He appeared to be waiting for something.
Without in the least knowing why, Jeremy volunteered,
“I’m with Mr Mannister now.”
“Er—Bernard Mannister?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Poor old man!” said Ananias soulfully.
Jeremy burst out laughing.
“How awfully well he talks!”
“Too much,” said Mr Smith, “But he has a flair—an undoubted flair.”
The laughter went out of Jeremy. It passed through his mind like a wind and was gone. He heard Ananias say “Poor old man I” and he heard Rachel say “Poor Jeremy Ware!” And Ananias had a flair.
“He is very much taken up with Vachel Lindsay just now,” said Mr Smith in his cultured voice. “Do you know his poem of The Congo? I have been teaching it to him. It excites him very much. ‘Walk with care,’ Ananias.”
Ananias listened, his beak just open and his horny tongue showing.
Mr Smith turned back to Jeremy.
“Er—Bernard Mannister. … Now, haven’t you a fellow-secretary of the name of Deane?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr Smith sipped his coffee.
“I—er—met Mannister the other day. I felt sure that he had mentioned a secretary of the name of Deane. Can you—er—describe him?” He sipped again. “I knew some Deanes once—a long time ago—” His tone was gently reminiscent.
Jeremy laughed.
“I’m not much of a hand at descriptions. He’s not very tall—and he wears glasses—and he’s fairish—and awfully painstaking and accurate—”
“A congenial companion?” Mr Smith appeared, in his vague way, to be making polite conversation.
“Well, as a matter of fact I hardly ever see him. He does all Mr Mannister’s private business—travels about, and sees people for him—all that sort of thing. And just lately he’s been away sick.”
“But you both live in the house, I suppose—or—er—do you not?” Mr Smith’s voice dragged as if the subject wearied him. His whole manner declared him too courteous to remain silent, but quite at a loss for conversation suitable to a young man so much his junior.
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