Pearla received her with pleasure. She was doing her face, and she rather liked someone to talk to. The eighteenth-century fashion of receiving admirers at the dressing-table would have appealed to her. She was young enough to have nothing to conceal, and was so much interested in herself that she took the interest of others for granted.
Terry sat down, and watched the removal of one cream and the patting-in of another. The room was very warm and full of delicate blended scents. Even with her face shiny and with nun-like swathings to protect her fair hair from any possible touch of cream or powder, Pearla looked extremely lovely. She gazed earnestly at her own reflection, and thought so herself. She thought how much lovelier she would look if she had pearls like Emily’s. She wondered whether James Cresswell would rise to giving her pearls, and how far it would be necessary to go if he did. Business men were apt to demand value for money—
Terry’s voice broke in.
“Mrs. Yorke, I’m so worried. Can I tell you something?”
“Me?” There was genuine surprise in the angel voice. Girls were not apt to confide in Pearla Yorke.
Terry said, “I’m so worried,” and proceeded to tell her why.
Pearla, still gazing at her reflection, gave the greater part of her mind to a cream she was trying for the first time. Mona Lasalle swore by it, but her skin wasn’t nearly so delicate. She wondered if it was really wise, but there was no doubt that Mona’s complexion had cheered up quite a lot lately. And it might be the cream. It was certainly a scandalous price.
With the small balance of attention left over she considered Terry’s story. And really it all seemed a ridiculous thing to be worried about, because if the girl really had seen anything, well, the police were the people to confide in, and actually she had probably imagined the whole thing. Pearla didn’t say so, but she hinted at it.
“Of course it’s all terribly sordid, and I’m so glad it was all over before I knew anything about it. And one feels for poor Mr. Cresswell losing his lovely picture like that, but I suppose the police will get it back for him, and if you can help them, I truly think you ought to. So if you want my advice, there it is.”
Pearla leaned forward and began to apply just the very faintest trace of eye-shadow. A thought too much and it put five years on to your age. It must be no more than the merest hint to give depth and mystery to her eyes. She heard Terry’s voice, but without giving any attention to it. And then suddenly she was shocked, because the girl was actually saying,
“I won’t go to the police unless I have to.”
Pearla Yorke turned from the charming picture in the glass.
“Oh, but you ought to. Poor Mr. Cresswell—he does love his pictures so much.”
Terry said, “Yes.” And then, “Perhaps it will be found, or—” she hesitated—“returned. I don’t think I’ll do anything about the police for a day or two. Of course if nothing happens by the day after tomorrow—” She got up and went to the door. “I really do think your advice is good, only I don’t think I can take it—at least not before Tuesday.”
She had meant her next conversation to be with one of the men, but when she emerged upon the passage she saw Norah Margesson look round the door of her room and draw back again. After all, Norah was going to be the worst, and it would be better to get her over. When you hate doing a thing very much, the only way is to do it quickly. She ran along the passage, knocked without giving herself time to think, and went straight in upon her knock.
Miss Margesson was looking out of the window. She appeared surprised, and Terry thought that stupid, because if Norah had seen her, she might have been supposed to have seen Norah. Miss Margesson’s eyebrows went up. She said “Well?” and Terry found herself suddenly angry. This helped a lot, because it is almost impossible to be embarrassed and angry at the same time. She found herself looking Norah straight in the face and saying quite loudly and clearly,
“You know I followed you last night.”
Miss Margesson had the light behind her. She was always pale. It was impossible to say that she was any paler now. Her voice was casual as she said,
“Oh, did you? May I ask why?”
Terry’s cheeks burned.
“To get Emily’s pearls back of course.”
Norah said, “Oh?” and then, “Did you get them?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What a good thing. She’d hate to lose them—wouldn’t she? But I don’t quite know why you’re talking to me about it.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, my good child, I don’t.”
Terry was glad she was so angry. She said,
“It’s no use—I saw you. You came out of Emily’s room and went downstairs. It was about one o’clock. I looked over the banisters and saw you in the hall. You had the pearls in your hand. You went through the drawing-room and out on to the terrace, and I followed you.”
“Did you? I must have been walking in my sleep—I do sometimes.”
Terry said, “Rubbish! You went down the steps and called, ‘Jimmy!’ You pushed the pearls at someone, and then you looked around and saw me and ran away.”
Norah said, “Have you told the Cresswells this peculiar story?”
Terry shook her head. She wasn’t so angry as she had been, and she was beginning to think what Norah Margesson must be feeling like.
“Are you going to tell them?”
Terry found her voice.
“I don’t know.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“Look here, Norah,” said Terry, “this is all perfectly horrid. I got Emily’s pearls back, and I don’t want her to know you ever took them—she’d hate it frightfully. But if they ever went again, I should have to tell her. And then there’s something else. After I put the pearls back I couldn’t sleep, and just before two o’clock I was looking out the window and I saw something. I’m not telling anyone what I saw—not yet—but if Mr. Cresswell hasn’t got his picture back by the day after tomorrow, I shall tell the police, and if I have to do that, there’s no saying what else may come out, whether I want it to or not.”
Norah looked at her. The skin of her face seemed to have tightened. There was a terrifying cold anger in her eyes. She said in her husky voice,
“So I took the picture—and if I don’t give it back, you’ll tell the police about the pearls—”
Terry shook her head.
“I didn’t say that. I don’t want to tell anyone about the pearls, but if Mr. Cresswell doesn’t get his picture back by Tuesday, I shall tell the police what I saw when I was looking out of my window just before two o’clock. And if they start asking questions and making enquiries they may come across your friend Jimmy, and they may find out about the pearls. It would be much better if the picture came back—it really would.”
Norah Margesson made a step towards her. It was only one step, but her voice seemed to spring at Terry.
“Get out of my room! Get out, I say—get out!”
Terry was extraordinarily glad to find herself in the passage again.
CHAPTER XIV
She found Joseph Applegarth in the garden. He was god-fatherly, kind, and emphatic. Terry ought without the slightest delay to place the police in possession of any evidence which she might have. Very nice feeling on her part to want to give a thief the chance of restoring the stolen property, but actually what she would be doing was to give him just what he wanted, time to cover up his tracks and get away with it. And then he laughed, and said it wasn’t very flattering of her to jump to the conclusion that one of her fellow guests had a hand in the matter.
Terry found herself feeling young and confused, and the plan not quite so clever as it had seemed when she was talking to Emily.
Joseph Applegarth’s eyes twinkled at her embarrassment.
“Come, come—I won’t tell them you’ve been suspecting them. But I’d dearly like to know which of us you thought was the most likely to be getting up in the night and stealing Turne
rs. I’m afraid you must knock me out, because I sleep from the moment my head touches the pillow, and I couldn’t wake at two in the morning if my life depended on it.”
Terry coloured brightly.
“Oh, but I didn’t say I suspected anyone in the house. Why should I?”
Behind the twinkle his eyes were very shrewd.
“I don’t know why you should, but you do. If you have got a reason, you ought to give it to the police, and if you haven’t, my dear young lady, I don’t think you ought to come round telling us what you’ll do if James doesn’t get his picture back within forty-eight hours.”
Terry felt miserably abashed. Put like that, it sounded dreadful. And it had seemed such a bright idea. She raised candid eyes to Joseph Applegarth’s and said so.
In a way it was a relief to hear him laugh, but it made her feel foolish too.
“Well, we’re none of us very likely picture-thieves, I’m afraid,” he said with a chuckle in his voice. “There’s James himself—he might have done it for the insurance, you know. And Emily—well, you may be able to think up a reason for Emily stealing one of their own pictures, but I can’t. And your uncle—now if it had been a rare stamp, I don’t know that I should trust him. These collectors are all alike—no morals at all when it comes to their own especial hobby. And that long fellow Roxley—he’s some sort of Foreign Office policeman—intelligence or something of that sort. Were you suspecting him? I should have said he was a bit lazy for getting up in the middle of the night myself. And then there are the two ladies. Just between you and me and the garden roller, I could imagine that pretty Mrs. Yorke being tempted by a diamond ring or a string of pearls, but I don’t think she’d take any stock in paint unless she was going to put it on her face. And that leaves Miss Margesson to the last, and I’m going to ask you straight out—what makes you think it was she?”
The blood rushed violently to Terry’s face. She said,
“I don’t. Oh, Mr. Applegarth, please. You see, I don’t know.”
“You know something,” said Joseph Applegarth drily, “or you think you do, and what you think you know has given you the idea that the job was done by someone inside the house—and that means one of the guests, because nothing would ever persuade me or anyone with a head on his shoulders that Barnes and his wife had any hand in it. I employ his brother, and I know the stock they come from—Yorkshire, and honest as the day.”
“Oh, yes,” said Terry.
“And none of the others sleep in, so that brings us back to the guests again—unless you’re going to put it on James and Emily.” He laughed with obvious enjoyment, and then was suddenly grave. “Look here, my dear, if you’ll take my advice—which I don’t suppose you will—you’ll leave the police to do the job they’re paid for and forget whatever it was you thought you saw last night.”
Terry said, “I can’t,” found nothing more to say, and ran away from him across the lawn to the rose garden, where the October roses wore pale copies of their brilliant summer petals. They were still sweet, and they were still lovely, but the departing glory had left them faint and fragile.
Terry walked among the roses, and tried to feel clever and grown-up and practical again. Mr. Applegarth had put her back to ten years old and her first day at a new school. He had called her my dear, and she felt that for twopence he would have patted her on the head. She was very glad indeed to see Fabian Roxley coming towards her, because she was practically sure that Fabian was in love with her, and if anything could make you feel grown-up after being talked to in the most shattering way as if you were a little girl, it would be the company of someone who was at least thirty, and who might propose to you at any moment.
Just what she would say if Fabian Roxley did propose to her Terry didn’t know. She hadn’t got past the agreeable fact that he admired her and quite obviously wished her to know it. He got a welcoming look, and the whole poured-out story of the plan, to which he listened with admirable if rather lazy attention.
“Emily and I really did think it was a clever plan,” said Terry with mournful zest, “but so far everyone has either told me to go to the police or else got frightfully angry.”
“Which am I going to do?” said Fabian, looking at her with half closed eyes.
“Well, I hope you won’t do either.”
“I shall probably tell you to go to the police, Terry.”
Terry shook her head.
“It’s no good—I won’t—not until day after tomorrow.”
“And why day after tomorrow?”
They were sitting on a bench recessed into the hedge which surrounded the rose garden, Fabian Roxley lounging as was his wont, Terry sitting bolt upright and rather flushed with her hands in her lap. She had on a blue tweed skirt and a periwinkle jumper which made her eyes look blue. Her head was bare, and the bright brown curls stood up all over it. The hands in her lap were small, and square and brown, and she had put on a new bright cherry-coloured nail-polish which she thought might be exciting. Now that it was on, she didn’t really like it very much. She had not used either lipstick or rouge, so there was nothing, as it were, to take your mind off the nail-polish. Mr. Roxley thought she looked like a little girl who had been dressing up. Like Peter Talbot he felt an urge to pick her up and kiss her, and like Peter he restrained himself.
He said, “Why the day after tomorrow?” and Terry said firmly, “To give the picture time to come back.”
“I see. And suppose it doesn’t come back?”
“Then I shall go to the police.”
“And tell them that you were looking out of your window in the night and you saw—well, what did you see?”
“I’m not telling.”
He smiled, dropped his voice, and said,
“Not even me?”
Terry shook her head.
“Not anybody at all. Why, I didn’t even tell Emily.”
“So young and so secretive,” sighed Fabian. “I thought you were going to confide in me. Rather nice to have a secret together—what do you think?”
Terry shook her head again.
“Not till the day after tomorrow.”
“And then it won’t be a secret at all. What’s the good of a confidence which I shall have to share with the village policeman and the whole of Scotland Yard?”
“Perhaps it won’t be quite the whole of Scotland Yard,” said Terry kindly.
She was rewarded by seeing Mr. Roxley assume a more or less upright position.
“I don’t believe you saw anything at all.”
“Well then, I did,” said Terry with energy.
“Just as you like. But since, I gather, you didn’t actually recognize anyone—” There was a slightest questioning inflection in the lazy voice.
“I didn’t say so.”
Fabian Roxley laughed.
“If you had, you would have gone to that person and tackled him—or her. There would have been no need to go the round. No, if you did see someone, you were not sure who it was—that it quite clear. But I should like to know why you are so sure it was one of the Cresswells’ guests. Why cut out the servants?”
Terry hesitated. Then she said,
“It couldn’t have been any of the servants.”
“Why couldn’t it?”
“There are only the Barnes who sleep in the house. The footman and the housemaid are brother and sister and they come up from the village, and the between maid comes and goes with them. Her mother is cook at the Vicarage and she sleeps there.”
“But the Barnes sleep in the house,” said Fabian Roxley.
“It wasn’t the Barnes,” said Terry. “Mr. Applegarth said at once it couldn’t be they, because they come from Yorkshire like he does, and he knows all about them and they’re as honest as the day. But the police mightn’t take any notice of that.”
Fabian Roxley smiled.
“For the matter of that, most of us have known each other for years, and if we’re not all as honest as the day—rather an
archaic expression, don’t you think?—we have presumably paid our income tax, our rates, and our card debts up to date, and none of us has been in prison so far as I know.”
“But it couldn’t have been the Barnes,” said Terry earnestly, “because—well, do you know Mrs. Barnes?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Terry spread out her arms to encircle an imaginary bulk.
“Vast,” she said—“immense. Honestly, she has to be seen to be believed. She’s older than Barnes, you know, and a perfectly angel cook. And if I’d seen her, I couldn’t possibly have thought it was anyone else. No, it wasn’t Mrs. Barnes.”
“And why wasn’t it Barnes?” said Fabian gently.
Terry leaned forward.
“Because he’s left-handed. You couldn’t have stayed in the house without noticing that.”
Fabian’s eyes opened suddenly.
“You’re not telling what you saw—but you saw quite a lot, didn’t you? Enough to be sure it wasn’t a fat woman or a left-handed man.” He dropped his voice to a low persuasive tone. “Terry, what did you see?”
There was a pause. She had an impulse to tell him—she had an impulse to tell no one. The two impulses pushed at her. It was like being caught between two doors—she couldn’t go back, and she couldn’t go on. She didn’t know that she had turned very pale. She got to her feet and stood looking at him strangely.
He said “Terry!”
And she said, “No, no—I’m not going to tell anyone,” and turned and ran away from him as she had run away from Joseph Applegarth.
CHAPTER XV
“A Little quiet, Terry?” said Basil Ridgefield. It was Sunday evening, and they were driving back to London with Terry at the wheel.
She said, “Am I?” and hoped she hadn’t blushed.
Of all words in the language she thought that “quiet” least described her feelings. The sky overhead was quiet, a low grey sky drawing down into a dusk that might presently turn to fog, and all the country under this dusk was quiet too—very tame, and grey, and quiet, and dull; no colour, no life, no light and shade. But Terry’s mind wasn’t quiet. It was full of rushing thoughts, hopes, fears, and suppositions. It was full of things she had said to Emily, Pearla, Norah, Mr. Applegarth, and Fabian, and the things that they had said to her. And the things she might have said if she had thought of them in time, and the things they might have said if they had all been living in the Palace of Truth. None of these thoughts was quiet company. Some of them shouted at the tops of their voices, and then she had to try and shout them down. She kept her eyes on the long grey road under the dusk and said,
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