But she had. It was Basil who opened the door, in a maroon silk dressing gown and looking very pleased with himself, very much master of the establishment. He listened carefully to Rosamund’s problem, ignored the Shang Low aspect of it, but offered at once to drive her down to Ashdene.
‘I’ve got to meet a chap in Rochester,’ he explained. ‘So it’ll be right on my way, and I don’t mind getting there a bit early—give me a chance to spy out the land a bit before I have to commit myself.’
Rosamund still didn’t know what Basil’s job was—she had never remembered to ask him at any of the appropriate moments. Perhaps she had heard right originally, and he was a Shell Shelder, and perhaps Shell Shelders do have to meet chaps in Rochester for lunch, why not? Anyway, this didn’t seem the moment to find out, so while he went off to get dressed, she once more enlisted the help of the obliging Dawsons for Shang Low’s daily routine.
By ten o’clock they were on their way in Basil’s small, spitting car, about which he talked the whole time. He was still young enough to feel it was a status symbol to have bought the vehicle for only five pounds; and while he described with self-absorbed gusto all the things that had been wrong with it and that he had managed to put right, Rosamund was able to devote her thoughts almost entirely to her own problems. In all the bustle and arrangements of this morning she had almost forgotten that she might be a murderess; and now, speeding through the familiar countryside, the whole idea seemed more than ever ridiculous. While Basil’s voice went soothingly on about the gear-changes or something, she set herself yet again to review her situation.
For one brief, unpleasant second the weight, the immensity of the evidence piling up against her filled her with a sick terror, quite out of keeping with the bright morning … then, almost at once, she found herself able to treat its very immensity as a challenge, a positive stimulus to her powers of repudiation. To be able to defy effectively such a mountainous array of undisputed fact seemed to her this morning like a sign of returning health, a successful convalescence of the spirit. As if the acceptance of undeniable facts was a sort of illness from which she was recovering rapidly, thank you very much, in this bright winter sunshine. The sight of her grey skirt, her smart black shoes, helped her a lot in her solitary battle against the evidence. Murderesses just don’t dress like that; and they don’t worry about leaving cold suppers ready for their husbands and sons, either; nor about the laundry, nor about feeding the neighbours’ dogs…. It was all so madly out of character, Rosamund told herself, that there must be some other explanation. Even the story about the millionaire uncle in Australia seemed more plausible … though of course Norah would have to be fitted into it now, as well as all the others; and the fourth form chaps from Peter’s school, too, who said they’d seen a body by the line. All these people, all bent on incriminating Rosamund by means of these elaborate lies! The fourth form chaps, of course, could have been bribed by a secret agent, or persuaded that they were doing a patriotic service by pretending to have seen a body: but what about Norah? She seemed a sadly un-ruthless character to get mixed up in such an affair; and a muddle-headed one, too; she’d tell all the wrong lies to the wrong people. Perhaps she had, of course; perhaps Rosamund wasn’t the person she’d been supposed to lie to at all? Oh, but wait: supposing it was Ned who was heir to the Australian millions, not the wicked nephew who’d married Jessie’s niece at all? But in that case, where did Jessie’s niece come into it? By now, the author had quite forgotten by what process of reasoning Jessie’s niece had been cast in her unhappy role; and anyway, Basil was now saying ‘isn’t it?’ for the second time, so the least she could do was start attending to him for a little.
It was the noises made by his little car to which he was drawing Rosamund’s attention, lots and lots of rare and wonderful noises, every one of which meant something to him, though to Rosamund they all sounded the same. He looked utterly happy and self-absorbed, like a mother displaying a baby who is just learning to talk, bedazzled by the unrealistic assumption that other people, too, will regard this as speech.
They had left home in bright winter sunshine, but by the time Basil dropped Rosamund outside her mother-in-law’s house, there was no doubt that the fog was coming back. The sun was still shining, but there was a haze over it: soon it would be a mere silvery disk in the gathering greyness, and after that it would be gone.
Rosamund shivered. The air was damp, and growing colder. She hurried up the short gravel drive, past the winter evergreens, and rang thankfully on the familiar old door, heard Jessie’s familiar steps crossing the hall, unhurried but without delay.
‘Oh, Miss Rosamund! It’s good to see you!’ The old servant’s pleasure was even more marked than usual, and Rosamund responded warmly.
‘It’s good to see you, Jessie, too,’ she said. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘Pretty fair, thank you Miss Rosamund,’ replied Jessie, as she always did. ‘And you, Miss…’ she stopped, examined Rosamund’s face more closely. ‘You don’t look too good, Miss Rosamund, you don’t look too good at all. Haven’t you been quite the thing lately?’
Rosamund felt oddly put out by Jessie’s concern. No woman likes to be told that she doesn’t look well, of course; but Rosamund, for some reason, found the comment not merely unflattering, but somehow unnerving. It gave her an inexplicable little shock of fear … spoilt the familiar pace and enjoyment of arriving here.
‘Oh, I’m all right, Jessie, thank you,’ she brushed it aside quickly. ‘I had a touch of ’flu, you know, at the beginning of the week, but I’m all right now.’
‘Oh, the ’flu, was it, Miss Rosamund?’ Jessie seemed, for some reason, greatly relieved. ‘So that was why you never come when you rung, last Tuesday. We was wondering, just a little, Mrs Fielding and me. But it’s a funny thing, Miss Rosamund, the minute after you’d rung up and told me it was you coming and not—not that other one—I had the feeling it wouldn’t somehow happen. I just felt it, in my bones: I said to myself: there’s something funny about it, I said…. But you know, Miss Rosamund, Mrs Fielding was a little bit put about when you never turned up, not you nor that other one. But I told her, I said I’d had a feeling all along it would end up like that.’
Rosamund could have hugged the old woman. ‘That other one’—what wonderful, restrained, dignified disapproval the title conveyed! Rosamund realised how much she had feared that by now it would be ‘Miss Lindy!’ Dear, faithful Jessie, how could she have suspected her of such treachery?
Mrs Fielding senior came out of the drawing room.
‘Ah, there you are, Rosamund!’ she exclaimed. ‘Isn’t it turning cold? Come along in here, dear, and get yourself warm. Some coffee, Jessie, please, for both of us. Nice and hot.’
‘Yes, Madam. Thank you, Madam.’ Jessie melted into the kitchen; and soon Rosamund and her mother-in-law were settled one on each side of the bright log fire, sipping coffee, and talking about Mrs Fielding’s book.
‘She’s been such a help to me, you know, dear, your friend Lindy. Such a pity she’s gone away like this, without warning any of us, just when I was beginning to get my notes about the First Period in order. But of course you young people are so busy nowadays, always rushing about … and no doubt she’ll be back very soon. It’s the charts, you see; and then there’s this second section all ready for typing any time now—— Not in it’s final form, you understand, Rosamund, but it’s such a help to see it clearly typed out, even if it’s only rough notes.’
‘I’m sure it is. But, Mother, why didn’t you ask me to do it? I can type, you know.’
Rosamund tried to speak lightly, not to show how hurt she had been. Mrs Fielding looked surprised.
‘Why, my dear, of course I’d have asked you, but you weren’t there, were you? And then when your friend Lindy told me how busy you were, and how you wouldn’t have any time for it till after Christmas….’
‘Did she say that? As a message from me?’
Mrs Fielding seeme
d a little impatient.
‘Yes, yes; but it didn’t matter, dear, not the least bit. I know what a lot you must have on your hands, all you young people have; and all I wanted was that someone should do it. She turned out to be most capable—and so kind. The only nuisance is, that she should have gone away just now.’
‘But—I mean, she doesn’t know much about it all, does she?’ Rosamund blurted out, unable to keep the jealousy out of her voice. ‘She doesn’t know Greek, or anything?’
‘Well, dear, nor do you,’ replied Mrs Fielding equably. ‘But that hasn’t stopped you being the greatest of help to me all these years, has it? She helped me in the same sort of way as you do—she seemed to have just the same knack. I suppose that’s why you’re such good friends—a similarity of outlook—the way your minds work. A splendid basis for friendship….’
‘I suppose so,’ replied Rosamund evenly, bending down and throwing a sliver of bark on the fire so as to hide her face. Here was yet another person finding likenesses between herself and Lindy! What nonsense—it was just that Lindy was cunning, was able, for her own purposes, to act a part. But then so was Rosamund—goodness, what else had she been doing over these past months? But that was different. To try and hide from your husband that you are jealous is in a different category from pretending to be kind and helpful to an old lady when really you are a scheming, two-faced …
Pretending? A dreadful uncertainty seized Rosamund. How did she know that Lindy was pretending? Suppose Lindy really was a kind and helpful person, but just a bit sharp-tongued? Her small kindnesses in the past had been legion, if one was simple-minded enough to take them that way; and as for her sharp tongue—that, too, was susceptible of more than one interpretation. Looking back, Rosamund could remember dozens of times when Lindy’s remarks could have been taken either way—at their kindly face-value, or as subtle shafts and jibes. Always, Rosamund had interpreted them in the latter way; but could this have been just her own jealous imagination? Could it, possibly?
Again, waves of unreasoning anger swept Rosamund; as if Lindy had deliberately been a kind and helpful character in order to make it all the wickeder of Rosamund to have murdered her: and again Rosamund understood—though she could not feel—the absurdity of such anger. The absurdity of it all, really, because of course she hadn’t murdered Lindy, and of course Lindy hadn’t been either kind or nice, no indeed she hadn’t: no need to rake the past for facts and proofs, to summon in review all those double-edged conversations. Instinct was enough….
‘… So if you wouldn’t mind, dear, since you are here, I’d like to go through just this last page. Geoffrey’s old typewriter’s still upstairs, you know, in the boxroom, if you wouldn’t mind fetching it, then we could get down to it before lunch.’
‘Of course, Mother. I’d love to.’ Rosamund was wholly relieved at this interruption to her thoughts, which now seemed to be revolving fruitlessly in circles. She was also delighted at being pressed into service once more—why, it must have been for this that her mother-in-law had rung up so urgently last night! As she carried the heavy, old-fashioned typewriter downstairs she smiled at the old lady’s impatient zest for her ambitious venture.
‘I’m so glad you asked me to come,’ she said, as she eased the great clumsy thing onto the polished table. ‘I’ve been feeling awfully left out of all the excitements!’
‘Asked you?’ Mrs Fielding looked vague for a moment. ‘There’s no need for you to wait to be asked, Rosamund, I’m sure you know that, dear; I’m always delighted to see you. I’m certainly very glad you’ve come, particularly glad this time, because it’ll set Jessie’s mind at rest; at least I hope so. She’s been worrying about you the last few days, I’m sure I don’t know why. She’s got some idea that you’re in some sort of trouble or something—I don’t know. I sometimes think Jessie is getting rather fanciful, but of course I don’t like to upset her, telling her so. Anyway, she seems to be worrying about you, wondering if you are all right, all kinds of nonsense. There isn’t anything wrong, is there, dear?’ She glanced up sharply for a second, then began busying herself with her papers once more. ‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if there was anything wrong? Not that I’d be much help, I’m too selfish, and I get more selfish as I get older, I know it very well. But I’d always be on your side.’
From such an undemonstrative woman the words were extraordinarily moving, and Rosamund was filled with comfort.
‘I know you would, Mother,’ she said gratefully. ‘But it’s all right. There isn’t any trouble … exactly. It’s just that we’re worried about Lindy disappearing….’
‘Oh, is that all!’ Mrs Fielding seemed greatly relieved.
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it; she’s sure to be back soon. Such a nice girl, and with a little home of her own to come back to, though it’s a pity, in a way, that she’s never married. Still, I’m sure she knows her own mind best, and marriage does mean a woman’s giving up her freedom, even nowadays, there’s no getting away from it. As you know, Rosamund, I loved Geoffrey’s dear father very dearly, and no one could have been more deeply grieved than I was when he passed away, but all the same, I wouldn’t go back to it, not for anything in the whole wide world. Well, anyway, dear, if you’d just have a look at this page—from here onwards. And then I’ve just got a couple of paragraphs of the introduction I could get into shape while you’re here….’
Under the stimulus of Rosamund’s presence and typewriting skill, the couple of paragraphs expanded into a number of forceful quarto pages. They worked steadily until one o’clock, when the soft peal of the gong summoned them ceremoniously to veal cutlets, mashed potatoes and sprouts, followed by treacle sponge. Like many women of her generation, Mrs Fielding had retained an immense gusto for nursery puddings of all kinds; and in this particular setting Rosamund found that she enjoyed them too.
After lunch they went back to the typing, and so absorbing did the task become that it seemed hardly any time before the early winter dusk began to fall, and Jessie came in with her gently clinking trolley, made up the fire with fresh, sparkling logs, and drew the curtains cosily against the encroaching night.
For a second Rosamund remembered that, for her, this secure and cherished cosiness was but a temporary thing. Soon—very soon—she would have to go forth into the gathering damp and fog that was being so deftly obliterated by this soft, heavy swish of curtains. Then she relaxed, resolved to enjoy to the full her last hour or two in this enclosed paradise of safety and comfort.
After tea, as was her settled custom, she went out to Jessie in the kitchen, and settled herself at the kitchen table in readiness for the usual talk about Jessie’s nieces. Everything seemed exactly as usual; the Aga murmuring; the kitchen warm and neat and shining; Jessie enjoying her hour of leisure.
Yet there was something that was not the same. The first inkling Rosamund had of this was when she found that Jessie seemed, for the first time ever, to have nothing to say about the Australian nieces. Rosamund tried one lead after another, asking about this one and that one … the one whose husband was on night work … the one whose little boy was ever so smart, top of his class in everything … the one who was to be X-rayed to see if she was having twins: but even this met with no awakening of interest. What was the matter? Was Jessie ill?
‘Are you ill, Miss Rosamund?’ Jessie blurted out, suddenly and bewilderingly; then, evidently overcome by the temerity of such a direct question, she began to apologise. ‘… If you’ll excuse the liberty, but you aren’t looking the thing at all, not at all. You look real poorly.’
Why must Jessie say all this, all over again? Even if it was true, did she have to harp on it? Rosamund’s irritation at the old servant’s concern was out of all proportion … and quite suddenly she knew that it was not irritation at all, but fear. What, exactly, did Jessie mean by all these befogging circumlocutions—‘not the thing’ and ‘poorly’? Did she really mean that Rosamund looked ill, or did she mean …
did she sense …?
‘Oh, I’m all right, Jessie…. Is that a new picture of Queenie’s wedding…?’ On pretence of wanting to examine the photograph in question, Rosamund got up and studied herself surreptitiously in the mirror that stood on the same shelf as the photographs.
Did she look ill—pale—as one might after ’flu? Or was it something else that Jessie had noticed? A look in her eyes of guilt … of fear …? The hunted look, the haunted look of newly committed murder? Did Jessie perhaps even know something of what had happened on that vanished Tuesday afternoon … the afternoon when it was alleged that Rosamund had arranged to come here, and then had failed to come …? When instead she had lain in bed at home dreaming savage dreams … or had she, savage dreams and all, sallied out into the fog?
How much did Jessie know—or guess—or wonder? And how much of what she knew would she ever venture to put into the restrained, respectful language that was the only speech she knew?
Rosamund stared deep into the shadowed mirror, trying to see in her face what Jessie saw, to guess what Jessie guessed: and the longer she stared into her own eyes, the queerer they seemed, the more meaningless, like a word that one reads over and over too many times. Round, and blank, and empty of all human feeling, like a doll’s eyes … and now, with such intensity of looking, they had fallen out of focus … the headache was coming back. Rosamund drew away from the mirror, rubbed her eyes.
‘She’s very pretty, isn’t she?’ she remarked of Queenie’s photograph, without a single glance at it; and came back to her place.
The Jealous One Page 18
