by Betty Neels
She got up, switched off the lights, got back into bed and closed her eyes. She was asleep at once and didn’t wake again until the rising sun woke her. It was six o’clock or thereabouts, and a lovely morning. To go to sleep again would be a waste of time. She got up, put on her dressing-gown, slipped into her slippers and went quietly downstairs, intent on making a cup of tea before Mrs Shadwell got down.
She was half-way down the stairs when she heard a faint sound. A drawer opening or being shut? A door closing? She paused, frowning. Mrs Shadwell never came down until just after seven o’clock, and her great-aunt remained in her room until she had breakfasted. It might be the milkman, but the sounds had come from the front of the house. Beatrice, not a nervous type, tied her dressing-gown girdle more tightly, tossed her mane of hair over her shoulders and trod softly down to the hall.
The front door was still locked and chained, but the drawing-room door was ajar. She pushed it open and peered round it. A man was standing in front of the handsome bow-fronted cabinet where Miss Browning’s splendid collection of antique silver was housed. He had a case open beside him and was picking and choosing the best pieces.
Fright held Beatrice silent for a moment and then indignation took over. ‘Put everything back at once,’ she said in a voice which shook only very slightly. ‘I’m going to call the police.’
Even as she uttered these brave words, she saw that the french window at the other side of the house behind him was open, and since the telephone was at the other end of the room he had a distinct advantage—which he took. Snatching up the case, shedding christening spoons, silver dishes, goblets and some really fine snuff boxes as he did so, he ran out. Beatrice went after him. Never mind the phone; she was a splendid runner and he was a heavily built man, lumbering across the garden which gave on to an alley-way at the back of the house. But half-way there, with her in hot pursuit, he turned, to run down the side of the house and jump the little iron railing and dash along the pavement. Beatrice, hard on his heels, wished in vain for the milkman, someone going to work—anyone. Characters in books always cried, ‘Stop, thief!’ but she had no breath for that; she was gaining, but once out of the square there were several narrow roads where he could get out of sight.
Oliver, on his way to spend a couple of quiet days at his home, saw the man first and then Beatrice, her hair flying, dressing-gown all anyhow, tearing along like a girl possessed. If he had been uncertain as to what was happening, the sight of a small Georgian coffee-pot at the side of the road would have helped him to understand the situation. But he didn’t need silver coffee-pots; with a snort of laughter he overtook the man, got out of his car, knocked him down and then put a well-shod foot on him.
‘Hello,’ said Beatrice, and flung her hair out of the way and tugged her dressing-gown into decency. ‘He was stealing the silver.’
The doctor smiled in his nice calm way. ‘I thought that might be it. Get in the car, my dear, and phone the police, and stay there until they come.’
She turned to go. ‘You always come,’ she said, and his smile widened.
All he said was, ‘Run along now.’
She sat obediently while the police came and put the man in their car and asked her a lot of questions. She answered them in her sensible way, and looked astonished when the police sergeant warned her in a fatherly fashion not to go running after thieves again.
‘He could have turned nasty, miss,’ he told her. She forebore from telling him that Great-Aunt Sybil could turn nasty too, especially if she had come downstairs and found her cabinets rifled. On the whole, she thought, she preferred the burglar.
She would be required to make a statement, said the pleasant police sergeant, but later in the day. He cast an eye over her appearance. ‘You’ll need to go home and have a nice cup of tea, miss,’ he told her kindly. ‘A bit of a shock it must have been.’
Oliver was leaning against the car’s bonnet. ‘I’ll see her safely back, Sergeant. I’m a friend of the family and I know her aunt.’
So presently he got into the car and drove the short distance to Miss Browning’s house, its quiet dignity disturbed by a police car parked on the street outside and a police officer standing at the door, while another one pottered up and down the square, retrieving teaspoons, snuff boxes and a badly dented teapot…
Inside there was a good deal of noise and confusion. Loud voices in the drawing-room seemed the signal for them to peer round the door, to see Aunt Sybil, clad in a magnificent dressing-gown, sitting very upright in a chair before the almost empty cabinet. Mrs Shadwell was standing behind her, wringing her hands, and the daily girl who came in to help stood just inside the door. She looked round at Beatrice and Oliver as they went in and exclaimed, ‘Well, I never…’ in a loud, excited voice, so that Great-Aunt Sybil and her housekeeper gave up contemplating the cabinet and turned round.
‘Beatrice,’ Miss Browning’s voice trembled a little with shock, ‘you are undressed, I am told that you have been in the square, I am deeply mortified.’
Beatrice, without realising it, clutched Oliver’s hand. ‘So sorry, Aunt Sybil, but I saw this man making off with the silver. I’m sure you’d have been a good deal more mortified if I’d let him go without trying to stop him.’
‘You could have called the police instead of tearing round Wilton like a demented…’
The doctor stopped her, a cutting edge to his calm voice which would have silenced a howling mob. ‘Miss Browning, you do not appear to understand the situation. Beatrice very bravely challenged the thief, and since the telephone was out of reach, did what any person with a spark of courage would have done: tried to stop him. I find your attitude utterly incomprehensible. You should be unendingly grateful to her.’
He flung a large arm round Beatrice’s shoulders. ‘I shall take her home as soon as she is dressed and has packed her bag.’
Great-Aunt Sybil went a delicate puce, made several attempts to speak and at last said, ‘Young man, you are extremely rude…’
‘I am not a young man, Miss Browning, though it is kind of you to say so, nor am I rude.’ He took his arm from Beatrice and tapped her smartly on the shoulder. ‘Upstairs with you. Is ten minutes long enough?’
As she went upstairs, she could hear her aunt’s voice, its rich tones vibrant with feeling. ‘I shall be alone…’
‘You have these ladies—your housekeeper and her help in the house? You do not know what it is to be alone, Miss Browning. To sit in a small bedsitter with not enough to eat and nothing to keep you warm, and dependent on a neighbour’s kindness if she remembers—that is being alone!’
Beatrice paused on the stairs to listen. Her aunt would shred him into little pieces. She was amazed to hear her voice pitched in a lower key and almost subdued. ‘Young man, I do not like you particularly, but I think that you are a good man with the courage of your convictions. Should I be taken ill—as I probably shall after this terrible shock— I shall expect you to attend me.’
Beatrice didn’t wait for more, she had already wasted two minutes of the ten she had been allowed.
She dashed water on to her face, raced into her clothes, brushed her hair in a perfunctory manner and rammed everything into her bag. There were several odds and ends lying around, and her forgotten dressing-gown lying in a heap by the bed. She snatched them up and stowed them into a plastic bag she had thrown into the wastepaper basket the night before, and went downstairs.
Her aunt was still sitting in her chair; she didn’t appear to have moved, and Oliver was standing by the window, looking out, his hands in his pockets. He looked, she thought, completely at ease, and she loved him all the more for it.
‘A plastic bag!’ exclaimed Great-Aunt Sybil. ‘Must you, Beatrice? In my day, no young lady carried such a thing—why have you no luggage?’
‘Well, I have Aunt, but I didn’t have much time and I haven’t packed very well—these are just some bits and pieces left out.’
To her utter surprise, Miss
Browning observed, ‘I shall give you suitable luggage for your birthday, Beatrice. Your twenty-seventh birthday.’
No girl of twenty-six likes to be reminded that she is going to be twenty-seven. Beatrice swallowed bad temper and said perkily, ‘I can’t wait for it; I love birthdays.’
The doctor looked over his shoulder at her and allowed a small sound to escape his lips. ‘A very proper attitude,’ he said approvingly. ‘Shall we go? Miss Browning, the police will require a statement from Beatrice, and she will have to return here to make it. I hope and expect that you will recover anything which was taken—thanks to Beatrice.’
‘Well, and you too,’ said Beatrice. ‘I should never have caught him if you hadn’t come along.’
‘An open question.’ He bade Miss Browning a polite good morning, nodded to Mrs Shadwell, who was still wringing her hands, smiled at the daily help and took Beatrice’s bag while she said her goodbyes in turn.
‘You’ll have your nice Miss Moore back in another two days,’ said Beatrice cheerfully.
In the car she asked, ‘Isn’t it rather early for you to be driving home?’ She turned to look at him, and her loving heart was touched by the tiredness of his face. ‘You’ve been up all night,’ she said.
‘Well, yes, for the greater part of it. But I have the weekend to myself, and Mrs Jennings will be waiting for me with a mammoth breakfast.’
He was driving steadily, looking ahead.
‘Aunt Sybil will be all right? She did say that she simply had to have a companion. Supposing she falls ill?’
‘Your Great-Aunt Sybil has a constitution of iron.’ He added casually, ‘You look untidy.’
Indignation swelled in her bosom. ‘Of course I’m untidy. You gave me ten minutes to dress and pack, remember? And I cannot think why I did as you asked. I needed at least half an hour. I know of no other woman who would be such a fool…’
‘Actually,’ said the doctor at his most soothing, ‘you look rather nice.’
The wind was taken out of her sails. She said contritely, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap and you’re tired…’
‘A couple of hours’ sleep will soon put that right. I’ll call for you after lunch; we can go for a drive, if you like, or go back and have tea in the garden, and lie about working up an appetite for one of Mrs Jennings’ dinners.’
‘I’d like that—just to sit in the garden. Aunt Sybil doesn’t much care for sun and fresh air, and I’ve had to spend rather a lot of time indoors.’
‘Two o’clock, then?’
There was a delicious smell of bacon frying as they went in to her home, and Mrs Browning was warming the teapot at the sink. She put it down rather sharply as they went in. ‘Beatrice, darling, what’s happened? How very untidy you are. You’re not hurt? And you, Oliver, are you all right?’
‘Perfectly. Beatrice surprised a burglar at her aunt’s house and gave chase—I happened to be passing by—and as I was on my way home I gave her a lift.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Mrs Browning, not seeing at all. ‘You both need a cup of tea and then a good breakfast, then you can tell me all about it.’
‘Tea would be splendid, but I can’t stay for breakfast, Mrs Jennings would never forgive me—I told her I would be home between eight and nine o’clock.’
Beatrice hadn’t spoken; now she said, ‘Oliver came just when I didn’t know what to do next. He always comes.’
The doctor smiled gently, and her mother gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Yes, dear. Sit down and drink your tea, and then have a nice hot bath and I’ll make the breakfast. Oliver, you’re sure you can’t stay?’
He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t dare. The Jenningses are hand in glove with Rosie, my housekeeper in London; between them they order my life.’
‘Won’t your wife mind?’ asked Beatrice suddenly, and went slowly pink because he would think that she was prying.
‘Oh, they’ll thoroughly enjoy having someone to look after. They are worth their weight in gold.’ He put down his cup. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Browning. If I may, I’ll just take a look at Mr Browning while I’m down here. He’s due for a check-up in two weeks, isn’t he?’
He crossed the room to where Beatrice was sitting, and bent and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll see you at two o’clock.’ He turned to her mother. ‘I’ve asked Beatrice over to keep me company for tea and dinner.’
Mrs Browning gave him a limpid look. ‘Just what she needs after several days of her Great-Aunt.’ She looked at Beatrice. ‘Isn’t it, dear?’
Beatrice nodded, thinking about the kiss. Of course, to him it had just been a casual salute which had meant nothing to him; unfortunately it had played havoc with her heart, which seemed to be choking her and making it impossible to speak. She watched him go, and when her mother came back from seeing him to his car she got up. ‘I’ll go and have a bath, Mother.’
‘Yes, dear. Breakfast will be about twenty minutes, and your father will be back by then, so you can tell us all about it.’
So half an hour later, bathed and dressed in the pink outfit, her hair brushed and plaited, her face nicely made-up, Beatrice sat down to her breakfast. She was allowed to make inroads into bacon and eggs before her father said, ‘Well, love, tell us what happened.’
So she told. ‘In your dressing-gown,’ commented her mother when she had finished. ‘But at that hour of the morning there wouldn’t be many people about.’
‘No one, Mother. And I’d forgotten what I was wearing, I just wanted to catch the man.’
‘Very brave of you, darling. I think I would have crept back to bed.’
‘And then Oliver came along,’ said Ella, who had sat quiet, for once.
‘Yes, wasn’t it lucky?’
‘Not luck, fate—it was meant. You keep bumping into each other, don’t you? Oh, not bumping, you know what I mean. Fate throws you together.’
‘You’ve been reading the horoscopes again,’ said Beatrice in what she hoped was a light voice.
‘Mother says you are having tea and dinner with him. Does he fancy you?’
Mrs Browning drew in her breath sharply and cast a warning frown at her husband, who had his mouth open to speak. It was left for Beatrice to say something. ‘He is getting married very shortly. She sounds a very nice girl, and when he talks about her you can hear that he’s—he’s very fond of her.’
Ella was irrepressible. ‘Oh, well, someone else will turn up for you. There’s a letter from Colin for you; it’s on the hall table.’
Beatrice who felt like crying, laughed instead. ‘Ella, you’re incorrigible! Shall I put on an overall and come and give you a hand with the animals? What’s in, anyway?’
Half an hour later, cleaning out the small room where the smaller animals went to recover after surgery, Ella said, ‘You and Oliver ought to marry—you suit each other down to the ground. And what I want to know is why, if he’s so smitten with her, doesn’t this girl he’s going to marry ever come down to his house here? He spends almost as much time in it as he does in his London house, doesn’t he? Always racing up and down the A303 at all hours of the day and night. Do you suppose she’s there and no one knows?’
‘If she were, I would have met her by now.’ Beatrice strove to keep her voice calm. ‘Besides, they’re not married yet.’
Ella gave her a pitying look, ‘Really, love, you’re dreadfully out of date—or do I mean old-fashioned? Two of the teachers at school live with boyfriends. They’re even buying a house together…’
Beatrice gently moved a sick terrier belonging to the vicar to a clean cage. ‘Well, they wouldn’t need to buy a house, would they? He’s got two already. And I should imagine that well-known specialists in the medical profession take great care of their reputations.’
Ella hadn’t finished. ‘But he took you all over Europe and pretended that you were engaged. Oh, I know all about that, I asked Mother…’
Beatrice began to fill the water bowls. ‘Oh, I see. Oliver did that to help me
, and his fiancée knew about it. He told me that she didn’t mind—that she understood. You see, Ella, it was to stop Colin thinking that I might still marry him.’
‘You don’t want to any more?’
‘No. It was infatuation, nothing more. I dare say you know more about that than I do,’ she added drily.
‘I expect I do. All the same, I wish that you and Oliver…’ She caught Beatrice’s eye. ‘You like him, don’t you?’
Beatrice didn’t quite meet the eye. ‘Yes, he has been kind to me, and I’m grateful.’
In the car later, driving to Oliver’s home, Beatrice said, ‘I don’t think I’ll come out with you again, if you don’t mind.’
‘I shall mind, unless you can give me a good reason.’
She fidgeted around in her seat. ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult to explain. I don’t think it’s fair to your fiancée. I can’t believe that she doesn’t mind—not about me going to Utrecht and all those other places with you and Ethel, because that was just to get away from Colin, but now—today—there’s no reason…’
‘Today is rather an exception, isn’t it?’ His voice was cool. ‘You had an unpleasant experience this morning. You may not realise it, but it gave you a shock; the best cure for that is to do something to take your mind off it, hence my invitation to spend an afternoon snoozing in the sun and eating one of Mrs Jennings’ splendid dinners. Look upon it as medical advice, Beatrice.’
She deplored his impersonal manner, while at the same time feeling relieved at his assumption that he had offered her a kind of therapy for shock. She said, ‘Very well,’ in a meek voice, and made a pointless remark about the weather.
