“And all the dresses — and the French maid” — Bell turned to meet the challenge of her daughter’s eyes, the nervous smile on Kay’s lips, the husky defiance of her voice — “and Lady Cynthia.”
“Oh yes.” Bell stripped off her gloves and tossed them on the dressing table. “Mr. Somervell’s wife.”
A whole world turned to black ice.
“You knew he was married, I suppose?” Her eyes were on Kay in the glass; at the spasm which passed over the child’s face, her own brows knitted. Her heart quickened.
“Of course I did.”
Bell turned sharply.
“He told you?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know?”
“I don’t know. I just — knew,” she stammered.
Oh, Dick, Dick, why didn’t you trust me? I’d never have told a soul. “Sick flowers of secrecy and shade ...” Now I understand. Now I know you can’t ever marry me. But it won’t make any difference, will it? It won’t make any difference to us, will it, darling Dick?
“All right.” Bell spoke sharply. Whatever happens, she told herself, I won’t give way to the thoughts of yesterday. “I’m ready for my supper, Susan.” She drew her aside as they went out on the landing, pushed her into her own bedroom, and closed the door. “What’s it all about? Did you tell her?”
“No, Mrs. Timson. I wouldn’t think it my business to gossip about Mr. Somervell’s affairs.” For all Susan’s control, the rebuke crept out between the words.
When, at last, Bell was alone she wrote a letter. She detested letter writing, preferring to use the telephone; but on this occasion she preferred, for once, to trust her pen.
DEAR MR. SOMERVELL,
Since you mentioned the theater I have remembered the girls are already going out that evening. I am afraid they will be back too late to go to the play. They would be very disappointed if they knew, so perhaps it would be as well if we say nothing about it. With very many thanks for your kind thought,
Yours sincerely,
BELL TIMSON
She read it over, approved, and sealed it into its envelope, and, after a moment’s reflection, lifted the receiver of the telephone ... “Hello. Is that you, George?”
Chapter V
“You DO IT once too often, and then it’s bingo,” gloomed Flora. “Archie What’s-it’s properly cut up.”
Bell was not put out by this abrupt form of greeting. Flora dispensed with all verbal conventions; she just looked up when one walked into the room and said the first thing that came into her head, regardless of whether it was six weeks, six months, or six years since she had seen one. Today, tomorrow, and forty years ago had all merged for Flora — saving her, perhaps, a lot of trouble.
Bell looked round the unwontedly empty room.
“No company tonight?”
“They’ll be along later,” said Flora dimly. “Aimee Tiddleypush; you know who I mean.”
“Oh — Aimee Wakeford.” Flora’s line of conversation often had the curious effect of making one feel slightly intoxicated. But people were rarely sober at the Debrett; it was as though they went there to escape the curse of sobriety, and if they had been sober they would probably not have gone there. Bell found something in the slack, good-humored, unmoral atmosphere which gave her what she needed: escape from the rigors of her domestic and professional life. Too wholesome to be disturbed by viciousness, liking alcohol only in moderation, she went to Flora’s in something of the same spirit that another type of person would have gone to the theater: to be entertained. Indeed she often told herself that there was nothing to be seen on the stage which, for amusement, could compare with an evening in Flora’s parlor.
“I never remember names,” Flora was saying resignedly. “Would you like some champagne, dear?”
“I’d sooner have a whisky and soda, if it’s all the same. I’m all in.”
Flora raised an arm and pushed a bell button behind her head; the action revealed a figure which, still fine and pure in its gaunt outline, must have been ravishing in her youth.
“You should take to champagne; it’s more nourishing. Poor kid, she was fond of her bottle!”
It seemed necessary to make some attempt to unravel this. Loosening her scarf and pushing the veil up over the brim of her hat, Bell smilingly inquired whether Flora was still talking about Mrs. Wakeford.
“Haven’t you heard?”
Bell shrugged her shoulders; she could guess the kind of thing.
“Oh well, they’ve had their eye on her for a long time — in spite of the license.” Bell chuckled. “Fancy giving it to her! That was a nice piece of work on the part of somebody.”
Flora’s unsteady eye focused; an obvious effort of understanding took place behind the sphere of china blue.
“What the hell’s the license got to do with it?”
The waiter shambled in, whom Bell recognized from her first visit; greasy, shabby, morally and physically dirty, he had an air of having stepped out of one of the grosser cartoons of Rowlandson.
“Fetch the Vat 69 and a siphon. And fetch a bottle of Pol Roger.”
“You’ve ‘ad it all,” sneered the waiter.
“You’re a bloody liar ... They’re all bloody liars,” she explained to Bell amiably; the waiter dawdled out, unmoved. “What’s it matter? Everybody’s a bloody liar — except Aimee. Well, maybe her too — but you can’t say those things about people after they’re gone.”
“They’ve got her, have they?” Bell spoke easily; it is always comfortable to look back upon the proofs of one’s own good sense.
“Got her? She’s dead.”
A shiver took Bell unaware. A second later it was gone — shrugged aside, by curiosity, Why indeed should she feel anything about the death of a woman she had met only once and who had inspired in her nothing but a feeling of dislike? Yet a curious thought — for Bell — came into her mind: that death was more sinister when it laid its touch upon the evil than upon the good. Making no claim to religious convictions, the methods of her early upbringing were no doubt accountable for her healthy, if superstitious, belief in hellfire and the way of the transgressor: as they were for her invariable practice of taking the girls to church on Sunday mornings, subjecting herself to boredom secretly relieved by mental calculation of the week’s accounts, because church was “the right thing” for children of that age.
“When did she die?”
“The other day. Somewhere abroad,” said Flora indifferently. “Paris, I expect. I’ve heard it was the same man that finished poor little Thingummy — you know: the one that was engaged to young Lord Who’s-it. Lovely girl. It’s a bloody shame. Poor old Aimée.”
“But ... ! However old was she?”
“I dunno.”
“I took her for forty-six or -seven at least! She looked younger of course; but it was her eyes — they gave her away.”
Flora’s speculative blue eyes again sought Bell’s, and it struck the latter that those eyes, belonging to an old woman to whom corruption was second nature, who in her time had flourished on human depravity, were as pellucid as a child’s. Flora’s saving grace was that she was born without a conscience: the omission which Remington, only half in jest, had ascribed to her — Bell. Only she knew how far she was from that crystalline immunity.
“Oh no, dear, she couldn’t be that age. I’ve known Aimee since she wore pigtails ... How old are you, dear?”
“I’ll be forty-one this year.” Goodness, thought Bell, I’m getting to a time when a woman doesn’t like admitting her age! The stab of admitting to it to Flora had taken her by surprise.
“Fancy. I’d have put you older.”
Bell forced a laugh.
“You get to look more than your age when you’ve got a job like mine.”
“You keep your skin and your eyes, and you don’t have to worry,” said Flora more encouragingly. “Lovely skin you’ve got, haven’t you, dear? That’s what the duke was saying the other night a
fter you’d gone. Now what about that?” She bestowed a graceless nudge on her companion. “He’s all at a loose end now Maggie What’s-it went off with you know who. I’ll tell you what; we’ll fix a little supper party one night —”
“You’re a good old cow, Flora.” Bell laughed as she bent forward to open the bottle the waiter had slammed down at her elbow. “You’ve been a good friend to me — though if I’d taken some of your advice I’d be in Holloway!”
“Let folks go their own way: that’s my motto,” said Flora. “If you’d listened to me you’d be going round in your own Rolls instead of those mucky taxis. Well — here’s to poor old Aimee. No, I don’t mean old. She can’t have been more than a bit over thirty. Makes you see red; it’s all the fault of government that won’t let you live your life the way it suits you.”.
Bell felt a faint sickness and gulped her whisky. For a moment the Debrett and its clientele had ceased to be amusement, as if the lid had slipped sideways, revealing sights that revolted even her far from squeamish stomach. All that fun of watching people get tight and planning to go to bed with each other — and then, after ... It was what came after that was so slimy. If it came to that, the whole business was slimy; one went and sat and laughed — but “deep down inside” one despised the whole boiling. It gave one a sort of a kick; that was what one went for. It was fun, being vicious by proxy. But now and again it was inclined, as in the present instance, to leave an uncommonly nasty taste in the mouth. Maybe I’ll stay away for a bit, thought Bell as she gave a quick glance round the room which was still, surprisingly, empty.
It was funny, she had had an instinct about coming here tonight. It was always something of a problem, getting Flora on one side when she had her visitors, but here for once was fate, playing beautifully into Bell’s hands. Now the main thing was to get at Flora before the Pol Roger had got into its swing; while she was still, for Flora, fairly consecutive.
“You’ve often said you’d help me, Flora, if I needed it.” She spoke with an unusual degree of diffidence.
“I know I have, dear, but you’re such a damn fool about taking advice,” said Flora amiably.
‘It’s not advice this time. It’s money.”
“What do you want? A tenner? I’ll send that lazy bastard Jules to the till.”
Bell leaned forward hastily, to check the hand which was again groping its way toward the button.
“A lot more than that. Listen, Flora; I’ve got to tell you about it before the others come in.”
An unexpected attentiveness had come into the old, illusionless face.
“What do you want it for?”
“I’ll tell you. But do for goodness’ sake pay attention to what I’m saying, for if anybody comes I’ll have to stop, and perhaps we won’t get the chance of talking again. A doctor friend of mine is opening a nursing home.”
The bright blue eyes stared fixedly; then an eyelid fell slowly over the left one.
“With a little something extra on the side — eh?”
Bell choked back a laugh.
“I suppose I’ll never convince you it wouldn’t pay me not to be respectable?”
Flora nodded slowly.
“You know your own business, dear. All the same, I think it’s a pity —”
“Never mind the pity. Good God, Flora, this is a Harley Street man! Do you think he’d risk ruin ... ?”
“Plenty of ’em are doing it.” She wagged her head wisely. “And they ain’t being ruined either! I could tell you some stories — listen; it’s not the hip fellows that pet themselves into trouble, it’s these little places round —”
“I wouldn’t touch them, big or little, with a barge pole,” Bell interrupted. Flora turned sulky.
“Well, if I could do anything to help poor girls like Aimee —”
“I wouldn’t lift a finger for people like Aimee Wakeford if I could! Take that what way you like, Flora. I think it’s a damnable thing that when a poor bit of an ignorant girl gets herself into a mess nobody can, legally, do anything to get her out of it. I’d help that kind! But it’s too damn dangerous in this country, and I’ve got my own reasons for keeping clear of it.”
“Well, don’t lose your temper, dear. Have another drink.”
But Bell moved the empty glass aside. She began to talk quickly, but taking care to emphasize her points. She knew Flora had the reputation of being no fool when it came to money, and it had struck her some time ago that, if she did not care to risk her own, there was no one more likely to be able to contact some source to which it might be possible for Bell to apply.
She had made up her mind that it was no use investing some petty sum in Remington’s venture. He had shown her the figures he had promised, and, although she had always known that the nursing-home game was a paying one, she had not realized how paying it could be — even run on relatively honest lines, as he seemed to propose to run it. For the first time she had glimpsed a security which, up to the present, had eluded her, and, although she had made no promise to Remington, she was ruthless in her determination to raise the (for her) large sum which he had suggested.
Although George Glaize was the first name that came to her mind, for George was now doing very well and was on the board of directors of his firm, she felt it was more than unlikely that he could conveniently let her have the sum she had in her mind. Richard Somervell she passed over without consideration; not even attempting to analyze the quality of their relationship, she felt that to introduce the question of money would be indelicate and bring in an uncomfortable element — at least on her side — that might prejudice their future meetings. One by one she dismissed the rich women with several of whom, although many of them had ceased to be patients, she was still on casually friendly terms: although she lingered over the name of Lois Thesiger, who was always interested in a business deal. Lois, however, was entirely absorbed in her forthcoming marriage with Solness and, when she became her ladyship, was unlikely to concern herself with small-scale gambles. (Although, of course, it was not a gamble; Remington had explained that very carefully. It was as good as a gilt-edged security; and he had assured her that she would be able to repay the loan, with interest, within three years at the outside.)
The name of Flora had come to her in a flash of inspiration. For her own imponderable reasons Flora, who had no liking for her own sex, had taken a fancy to Bell. It was, to begin with, the grudging respect of a woman who has done well out of vice for one who was making virtue pay. It had increased so far as to make Bell feel that she might succeed in cashing in on her popularity. She had, at least, not the faintest embarrassment in going to Flora, whose refusal, if she chose to refuse, would be as blunt as her acceptance of the terms Bell had to offer.
Flora was rubbing her nose contemplatively — as well she might; Bell had come plump out with the sum she required — the kind of sum that might appeal to the gambler in Flora.
“Well, dear, I don’t know. Poor How-much used to look after my business; now he’s gone, I’ve a notion I’m in a bit of a mess. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have a talk to the duke. He’s such a nice boy, and I’ve heard he’s sound on money matters. Why don’t you have a go at him yourself? I tell you, he’s taken a real fancy to you; and you’ll be making a mistake if you don’t get what you can while the mood lasts.”
She turned on Bell a look, a cold, summarizing, calculating look which dismissed the whole of their friendship and valued her only according to Flora’s currency. She said meaningly:
“You’ve not got so long before you — a woman of your age. What do you want to be a fool for? Why don’t you get going while the going’s good?”
“Look, Flora.” Bell spoke with deliberation. “I want this thing more than I ever wanted anything in my life; but I’m not prepared to sleep with anybody to get it. One doesn’t start that sort of thing at my time of life, and, besides, there are circumstances — that you know nothing about — that would make it out of the question. So let’s w
ash that out.
“If you like to talk to the duke, and he likes me well enough to consider the idea as a speculation, all well and good. I’ll pay five per cent interest — which is as much as he’ll get from the best of his investments at present — and I’ll sign a paper to pay it back in three years. I’ll give you a rake-off for the introduction. But if you try any games on the side, or give him the impression he’s likely to get anything over and above his five per cent — the deal’s off. And — this is the truth: it’ll be your loss as well as his.”
“I could do with a pony,” blinked Flora.
“It’ll be more than a pony,” promised Bell, “if you put me in the way of what I need.”
The telephone trilled in Lady Emily Hope’s sitting room. She put out her hand and lifted the receiver.
“You, Dick? I thought you’d cut me off your list!”
His voice sounded short and dry — unlike Richard’s voice, as she knew it; and her feminine intuition stirred. So Dick was in trouble again? What was it this time?
“Don’t be ridiculous. Look here: will you come with me to The Beggars’ Of era next Monday?”
“But I’ve seen it.”
“Of course; so has everybody.”
“Haven’t you? I thought —”
“My God, yes, of course I have. Anyhow, are you free that evening?”
“Just let me look ... I’m afraid I’m not, Dick. I seem to have some people dining here. How about joining us? I think they’re all people you like, and I’m sure to be able to find an extra woman.” “I ... think I won’t, thank you, Emily.” At least he took the trouble, she thought, to say it nicely.
“How many seats have you got? It’s a pity they are to be wasted.” “Oh, I expect they’ll be glad enough to have them back; the public’s still fighting to get in.”
“I’m sorry your party has let you down,” she hazarded gently. There was silence at the other end of the wire. “What are you doing? Why don’t you come along and have a drink? Or have you got to change and go out somewhere?”
Bell Timson Page 22
