"Yes," Joanna said, knitting her brows, "I see that well enough. But this… well, I'm not sure it should wait. He might even want to know."
"Let me be the judge of that."
Joanna seemed to weigh this in her mind before she said, reluctantly, "Very well, I will, providing you'll give me your solemn word to tell nobody but him, no matter what. Will you give me that promise?" She smiled again, adding gently, "You aren't all that good at keeping secrets, Mother."
"I can keep certain secrets," Henrietta said, grimly, and led the way into her sewing-room, carefully shutting the door.
* * *
It was Mary's restlessness that accounted for Joanna's inability to drop off to sleep that particular night. The doctor had not been summoned then and the girl's flushed face and temperature had been put down to a feverish cold, so that Joanna, finding at one o'clock in the morning that sleep was likely to evade her, slipped out of bed and stole along the corridor past Alex's room to take another look at her daughter before going downstairs and brewing herself some tea.
There was no other reason for her to be abroad, for she was usually an excellent sleeper and the evening, apart from some slight anxiety regarding her youngest child, had been a pleasantly convivial one. Both Alex and Helen were guests in the house and it was some time now since she had had such an opportunity for a family gossip. She saw Helen frequently, whenever her sister drove into the city, sometimes with Rory, now that he had lost his parliamentary seat, but more often with her maid in order to do some shopping. Alex, however, was a much rarer visitor, and the day she heard he was in Belfast she telephoned the mess, suggesting he spend the weekend with them. He agreed readily, promising to be there on Friday evening and stay until Sunday. It happened their conversation coincided with one of Helen's half-day visits to Dublin and Joanna, meeting her for an hour and telling her that Alex was due down for the weekend, suggested that she and Rory might like to come over again on the Saturday for lunch. She was surprised when Helen looked doubtful and said, "I'd like to, for I haven't seen Alex in a long time. But I should have to consult Rory first."
"About having lunch here? With your own brother?"
"Yes. Rory's funny that way. Maybe he has guests, and he hates to entertain in my absence. Suppose I telephone tonight and let you know?" And that was how it was left.
Helen rang through late that same evening, just as they were going up to bed, saying that she would not only like to come to lunch but asking to stay over for the night if that was convenient. Rory, it seemed, was due to speak at a political meeting in Tipperary and would be away from home. She added, after a long pause, "Will Lydia be with Alex?"
Joanna told her not. Lydia accompanied Alex on all his longer tours abroad but had not come to Ireland for Alex, she gathered, was not here on a regular tour of duty but on some special assignment to do with his territorials. "He'll only be in Ireland about three weeks," she added. "Then he goes back to London to prepare for another tour in Malta or Cyprus, I forget which… But I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you. It's a pity Rory can't join us."
It was not, she reflected, all that regrettable. On the few occasions they had met, she noticed that Rory Clarke, who came as close to embodying the traditional elements of the stage Irishman as anyone she knew, and Colonel Swann, the dedicated, humourless professional soldier, had very little in common, either as relatives or acquaintances. For herself she was sorry Lydia would not be present, for Lydia had a mellowing effect upon stuffy old Alex, but it would be pleasant, she thought, for the three of them and Clinton to have a cosy little dinner party at home, with the odd man out in Tipperary. She put Alex in the best guest-room and Helen in the old nursery on the other side of the house, a comfortable enough billet for the one night, and Helen duly arrived by train about midday on Saturday and was met by the family Belsize and driven back to the house for luncheon.
The two sisters and brother had little in common beyond memories of Tryst, in the days before either of the girls were married. Alex was six years Joanna's senior and nine years older than Helen, and they had seen very little of him in their girlhood, when he was away campaigning in various parts of Africa and India. Sometimes he had been absent for years at a stretch.
Alex seemed to get along very well with Clinton, however, and the two men talked animatedly over the political aspects of impending Home Rule, with particular regard as to how it was likely to be received in Ulster. Joanna would have thought this political talk would have bored Helen, but this was far from being so; indeed, Helen seemed better informed on the subject than either of them. She remarked also a subtle change in her sister of late, wondering why it had escaped her during recent meetings. She was tense and animated and talked incessantly of Ireland's prospects of settling down once Home Rule, now in the process of becoming law, was a fact, so that Joanna thought, ruefully, Time was when she was only interested in clothes, bicycling, tennis, and beaux, but some of Rowley's terrible earnestness must have rubbed off on her after all. She's beginning to sound like a regular bluestocking… And then, watching her sister closely, One thing is for sure—she doesn't know that husband of hers, despite all the billing and cooing they do whenever I see them together. She obviously takes his political claptrap seriously. It sounds as if they talk Irish politics in bed… But then, being Joanna, she chided herself for uncharitable thoughts, for the truth was that Rory Clarke had undoubtedly been the saving of Helen a few years back.
All the same, in view of the way Irish politics dominated the occasion, and the time Alex took answering the complicated questions Helen put to him, it proved a dull weekend for her as hostess, particularly as Mary, her youngest, had come home from school complaining of a headache, and had been hustled to bed with a temperature before dinner.
They all went upstairs at about half-past eleven and Clint, who had drunk more than his nightly quota of port, Madeira, and brandy, was snoring in a matter of minutes. Joanna heard the clock at the far end of the crescent strike midnight, then all the quarters through to one-fifteen before she got up without disturbing him, slipped into a gown, and went along the corridor to look in on Mary.
Her eleven-year-old was asleep but very flushed, she thought, telling herself she must call Doctor Connolly in first thing in the morning and leave Clint to drive Helen and Alex to the station to catch their trains.
She had moved over to the window with the object of raising the sash an inch or two, when her attention was caught by a motionless vehicle parked almost opposite, close against the gardens. There was no cab rank there and at first she thought it must be a private conveyance awaiting a passenger higher up the crescent. But then, as she turned away, a vague familiarity with this particular cab made her take a closer look.
It was drawn by two horses, the hindquarters of which were revealed in the circle of light thrown by the street lamp but the cab itself was in shadow. She thought, wonderingly, But it can't be! For what on earth would Rory's fancy equipage be doing out there at one-thirty in the morning? If Rory had driven it there he would have knocked, and if he hadn't why had Helen come to Dublin by train, when the coachman could have driven her here as usual?
Without precisely knowing why, the very presence of the motionless vehicle disturbed her, the more so as there did not appear to be a driver in attendance and the fact that the curtains of the interior were closely drawn. It almost surely was Rory's cab, for she had always thought of it as one of her brother-in-law's stage properties, a low-slung, extremely elegant little carriage, shaped like a shell, with gilt mountings now reflecting gleams of lamplight. It was usually drawn by a pair of matched bays, fast-movers but superbly trained by Rory himself. The horses, unfortunately, were in so much shadow that she could not be absolutely sure, but if Rory's cab had been copied by one of the fashionable Dubliners, it was curious that the owner should station it almost opposite the house in the middle of the night.
She stood there a moment longer, coming to no conclusion, but then her ear detec
ted the scrape of a foot on the back stairs, hard left of her daughter's room, and she moved over to the door, watching through a chink the section of corridor opposite the all-night gas jet that illuminated this side of the first storey. If it was not one of the servants she could only suppose the person climbing the stairs, and very cautiously by the sound of it, could only be Rory, although how he had gained entry into the house without knocking she could not imagine.
It was not Rory's shadowy figure that came into view, however, but Helen's, moving a step at a time and without benefit of candle, and Joanna was so surprised that she came close to hailing her but checked herself. She followed her out, however, as soon as Helen had passed beyond the gas jet and watched her progress as far as the next circle of light thrown by the outside lamp through the landing window opposite the guest-room occupied by Alex. And here, to Joanna's increased bewilderment, Helen stopped, hand on the door-knob, head on one side as though listening intently.
It flashed through Joanna's mind that her sister was sleep-walking and the memory returned to her of a woman teetering on the edge of nervous collapse, whom she had encouraged to climb into bed with Clint when they were at Tryst shortly after Helen's return from Peking. And yet, there was no real indication of sleepwalking here. Indeed, her sister's carriage and movements were those of a person thoroughly alerted to her surroundings. And then, while Joanna still watched, Helen turned the knob and slipped inside, leaving Alex's door ajar.
She was not out of sight for more than twenty seconds, hardly time enough for Joanna to come to terms with the fact that she was not dreaming herself, and when she emerged, recrossing the shaft of light adjoining the main landing, Joanna saw that she was holding something flat and bulky close against her breast.
The strangeness of what she had witnessed—a sister prowling about the house like a burglar, seemingly for the purpose of purloining her brother's luggage—did not register on Joanna at first. She told herself, standing there with one hand gripping the edge of the door, that there had to be some innocent explanation of what she had seen and again the thought that Helen was acting under some mysterious pressure returned so that she thought, desperately, I can't challenge her here, right outside Alex's door, and within earshot of Mary… She might scream or struggle and that would rouse the servants as well as Alex and the child… And yet, I can't leave it there, without finding what she's taken from Alex's room and why… But then Helen herself decided her next move by passing round the wide curve of the stairhead to descend by the main staircase. This served to increase the mystery, for her own quarters, in the old nursery, lay in the east wing of the house approached by the corridor matching this one. Whatever purpose Helen had in mind it was clearly not to take her spoil back to her own room and, realising this, her sister's eccentric behaviour made a connection with the presence of that motionless cabriolet outside.
She knew then, with a small spurt of relief arising from decision, precisely what she must do. If Helen had some notion of leaving the house, and passing whatever she had stolen to the driver of that cab in the crescent, she must be headed off and this was still possible, providing she moved quickly and quietly. The back stairs led directly to the kitchen quarters at the rear of the house, and these were partly on ground-floor level occupying a semibasement area, with one door opening on the tradesmen's alleyway and another into the enclosed yard bounded by high brick walls. Access to this part of the house—already, or so it would appear—visited by Helen that night, was direct by the back stairs but indirect by the front hall to which Helen was now descending. Moving quickly, Joanna passed into the corridor and hurried down the stairs as far as the green baize doors, double doors here to prevent cooking smells rising to the bedrooms. She passed one and put her hand on the other, holding it open an inch or so, to give her a clear view of the kitchen.
She was just in time. Steps, less cautious now, approached from the servery and the door opposite opened, revealing Helen holding what looked like a small leather portmanteau fastened with a brass lock in addition to straps. There was a light in the kitchen and she could see her clearly. In the old days, Joanna had always been known as "the pretty one" for Helen's complexion was sallow and her eyes were deepset, emphasising high cheekbones, but seeing her now, with her dark hair streaming and a flush of excitement on her cheeks, she looked, Joanna thought, beautiful. She stood framed in the aperture for a moment before gliding into the room, putting the case on the scrubbed table, and emitting a kind of sigh that enlarged itself into a startled gasp as Joanna flung open the second door and stepped through it.
For a moment they stood regarding one another and then Helen's expression crumpled so that she suddenly looked like a child, caught in an act of mischief. "You've been following me?"
"Why not? This is my house and I've a right to know what you're about taking things from Alex's room," and she laid a hand on the case, anticipating Helen's swift movement towards it. There was a silence. She could see her sister's breast heaving under her ruffled nightgown and loosely-tied robe. Helen said, slumping down in a chair, "What's the use? How could you possibly understand?"
"I understood last time."
"That was different."
"And this, whatever it is, concerns Rory Clarke, and all those fancy ruffians he consorts with? Well, I realised you were committed to him, but not to this extent, not to the extent of raiding your brother's room in the middle of the night. It is Rory's cabriolet outside? And he's waiting, waiting for you to hand him this, whatever it is."
"He doesn't intend stealing it. We aren't pickpockets."
"Great God!" Joanna burst out. "How can you do this? Creeping about the house and taking things from the luggage of a guest in someone else's home? What on earth has Rory done to you to make you so much as think of behaving in this way? Keep it, copy it, or look at it, what does it matter in Heaven's name?"
"As I say, you know nothing about these things. Nobody English does, not even people like Clint, who have lived and worked here all this time."
"You're English, aren't you?"
"Not any longer."
Joanna sat down facing her. She kept both her hands on the case and noticed that they were trembling. "Then tell me. Tell me if you can. What's in this case that makes a thief out of you?"
Helen looked across at her, very levelly. "A list of the military depots he's visiting, with inventories of the arms and ammunition held in each of them. I said I'd get it for Rory to look at, no more than that I swear. Then I was to return it and Alex wouldn't have known a thing about it. No one could have held him responsible for the information in there getting to us, for no one would have known how we came by it."
"'Us'! 'We'! You talk as if you were fighting some kind of war and Alex was the enemy."
"We are fighting a war, or will be the moment the British implement the Home Rule Bill. Doesn't it mean anything at all to you that those people up north are buying guns from Germany and drilling openly in the streets? With encouragement from Parliament and the army? Haven't the Irish the right to know what's going on, when more than half the senior officers at the Curragh sympathise with the Protestants in Ulster and won't even try and stop them when they start a civil war?"
"No, it doesn't matter to me. All I know is I can't ever ask you into my house again. That matters terribly, to me if not to you!" She took a deep breath. The kitchen was large but it felt unbearably close tonight. "I saw you on the back stairs before you went to Alex's room. That means you were down here earlier, so you'd best tell me why, before I rouse Alex and Clint. And I'll do that, I swear, unless you tell me exactly what you had in mind. Well?"
"Don't do that, Jo."
"You're saying Rory and his friends are prepared to do violence to get at these papers?"
"I'm not saying anything of the kind. All I want you to understand is why I took it, what it could mean in terms of other people's blood. I did come downstairs earlier, to unbolt the back door, for Rory won't stir from the cab unti
l I give the signal."
"What signal?"
"What does it matter what signal? I can't give it now. You've spoiled everything by interfering."
"Interfering? Wouldn't anyone in my position interfere in these circumstances?"
She was some time answering. Finally she said, in a low voice, "Yes, I suppose they would, Jo. In your circumstances, that is." She turned away, her expression infinitely troubled. "You've always been good to me. I hate hurting you, and I realise how it must look to you but… this… it means everything to me, just everything, you understand?"
"No, I don't, Helen. You tell me if you can."
"It proves I'm with them, don't you see? It would make all the difference to my life. And nobody need ever know. Alex is asleep and I could give you my word of honour that case will be back in his room in less than an hour."
Joanna jumped up, tucking the case firmly under her arm. "It'll be back in five minutes. And no one, least of all Rory, is coming into this house to pry. I'll make sure of that," and she went into the scullery and reshot the top and bottom bolts on the door leading to the alley. "Now you can make whatever signals you please, for I shan't leave you until you're dressed, packed, and out of the house."
Give Us This Day Page 69
