"Nonsense, dear. Anyway, there are no trains on Sunday. May I see whathe says, or----?"
Joan thrust the weak scribble into her hand. She read it, passed itback, and then began to unpin Joan's hat.
"Well, that's nothing to be alarmed about," she said. "He says just thesame as Philip. And he tells you you're not to go up. We shall hear allabout it to-morrow."
But she did not tell Joan that it was precisely because there was somaddeningly little in the letter she had received from Philip on Fridaythat, despairing of getting anything plain out of a mere man, the lettershe was now writing was to Audrey Cunningham.
IV
I hope you haven't got the impression that I didn't like Mrs.Cunningham. Indeed, if half I presently learned about her was true, itwould have been a hard heart that had not shown a very real andcompassionate consideration for her. Young as she was, she had had awretched story. As far as I know it it was this:--
The late George Cunningham, having contracted the dangerous habit ofgoing to bed every night comparatively sober and waking up in themorning very drunk, had one day arrived at the point when something hadhad to be done about it. I assume that he had tried the usual specificsto no purpose, since he had presently found himself with only twoalternatives left. The first of these was to have done with specifics,to go boldly forward, and to trust to the strength of his constitutionto land him high, and still dry, among the seasoned octogenarians. Theother was to marry, and to trust that the pure love of an innocent younggirl might work its traditional miracle.
Unfortunately, instead of choosing he had tried both courses at once. Anunjailed criminal of a father had either suggested the match himself orhad failed to throw Cunningham out of the window when it had beensuggested. So at seventeen-and-a-half Audrey Herbert had become the wifeof a man-about-town of forty-two, with a roomy house in St. John's Wood,a considerable private fortune, and a hole in every one of his pockets.
It had not taken Mrs. Cunningham long to discover that a man who goes tobed sober and wakes up drunk, frequently does so in other beds than hisown. But her father, to whom she ran, advised her to continue toexercise her influence for good. He seems to have thought that as longas Cunningham did not actually strike her the rest must be accepted aspart of marriage-as-it-is. He had passed out of the world in that beliefa couple of years after his daughter's immolation.
Cunningham never struck her. Nor, while it lasted, did he starve her ofmoney. Twice, when housekeeping debts had pressed, he gave her blankchecks which the bank duly honored. The third time (one of hismistresses appears to have been the occasion) he gave her a considerablywider permission.... No, he had never struck her. Instead he had merelydragged through the mud of alcoholism and unfaithfulness the hope andbelief in men he had found her with, and after five years of it haddied--not a day too soon, as she had discovered on going into hisaffairs. When his debts of honor, dishonor and at law had been paid,about a hundred pounds had remained. With this, her clothes, a fewpieces of furniture bought in from the sale and her experience ofmarried life, she had become her own mistress again at twenty-three.Most of the hundred pounds had gone in fees at a School of DramaticArt. She was now twenty-seven and on the eve of her second marriage.
I am telling you all this because of the part that Mrs. Cunninghampresently came to play in our Case. I think her unhappy history partlyexplained certain things. I would not go so far as to say that with theexception of Monty Rooke she disliked and distrusted all men, but Ithink that the sense of sex-hostility was latent and instinctive in her.This never took the form of gloom. Quite the other way. Lest it shouldbe thought for a moment that she mourned for the cur with whom she hadbeen kenneled, she was rather histrionically bright. She fell naturallyinto beautiful attitudes and gestures, which beauty her art enhanced. Ithink I mentioned the care she bestowed on her manicuring; in the wholeof her person and dress she was the same, as if to wipe out somesoilure. She was undoubtedly much in love with Monty--who at any ratewas a teetotaller. And, except as I have qualified, I think she likedthe rest of us well enough. But the history was always behind, and, inmy experience, if you like with however natural a reservation, there issomething of the same reserve in the liking you inspire.
So in this sense I was prepared to like Mrs. Cunningham, and without anyqualification whatever was sorry she had had so ghastly a time andhopeful that her marriage with Monty would expunge the memory of it.
V
And so we come to the episode of the wardrobe that Audrey Cunningham hadbought in from the St. John's Wood sale.
This wardrobe, with a number of dress-baskets and other articles, formedpart of the furniture of the bed-sitting-room in Oakley Street that shewas now on the point of leaving, and it had been Philip Esdaile himselfwho had suggested, some time ago, that there was plenty of room forthese belongings in his cellar. Nothing had since been said about it;Philip says that the matter had entirely slipped from his memory; andMrs. Cunningham, having no reason to suppose that he had changed hismind, had as a matter of fact had the wardrobe put on a light cart andbrought round to Lennox Street the day after the aeroplane accident,that is to say on the Friday afternoon. Philip himself, coming along thestreet at that moment, had found the cart at the gate and Monty and Mrs.Cunningham considering the best way of getting the wardrobe in.
"Ah, so you've got it round; good," he said. "I don't quite know whereyou're going to put it, but we'll find somewhere. Let me give you ahand."
"I thought you said it was to go into the cellar?" said Mrs. Cunningham.
"Eh?" said Philip. "Did I? I believe I did. Well, let's get it in first.We can settle that afterwards. Has Dadley come?"
So the wardrobe was got into the hall, where it was left for the presentamong Philip's corded and labeled painting-gear.
"Has Dadley come?" Philip asked again.
"Yes. He's been waiting for you for ten minutes in the studio," Montyreplied.
"Bon. I don't suppose I shall be more than ten minutes, but don't waitfor tea. I've had a cup as a matter of fact."
"Can't say I think much of old Daddy as a framer----" Monty wasbeginning; but Esdaile was already at the studio door, which he closedcarefully behind him.
You may remember the name of old William Dadley. It was he who, when Mr.Harry Westbury had held forth in the Saloon Bar about the danger toproperty from the air, had ventured to suggest that lives too had theirvalue. His shop was the little one in the King's Road with the allegedOld Master in the window, one half of it black with ancient grime, theother pitilessly restored; and, as Monty had said, artists who were inany hurry to see their pictures back again seldom took their framing toold Daddy. Unless they went farther afield, they were more likely topatronize the up-to-date establishment across the road, kept by the twopushing young men in the Sinn Fein hats and black satin bows and littleside-whiskers and hair bobbed like girls'.
And now for the discussion on picture-framing that took place betweenPhilip Esdaile and William Dadley, behind the closed studio door.
VI
"Was he drunk?" Esdaile asked. He was walking about, head down,frowning.
The old man stroked his grizzled beard.
"Well, I won't say he hadn't had a few. I saw him have two or threeliqueur brandies. And he's a crossish sort of man when he's at home,especially when it's wearing off a bit, but he isn't easily bowled over,isn't Harry. Well, as I was telling you. He gets home about tea-timethat day, and the first thing he sees is one of the children playingwith something or other in his mouth. He was popping it in and out. Youknow what children are, Mr. Esdaile--everything goes straight into theirmouths. So Westbury asked the child how much oftener he wants tellingabout putting things into his mouth, and takes it away from him. Andwhat do you think it was, Mr. Esdaile? It was a bullet!"
"A bullet?" said Esdaile with a show of astonishment.
"A bullet. And it had been fired, because
it was all out of shape. Well,you don't find bullets everywhere, like leaves off the trees, do you?"
"Where on earth did the child get it?" Esdaile asked.
"Ah, that's what Harry wants to know!" The gray old head was wagged afew times. "Shouts for his missis, and there's a bit of a scene. Thechild says he found the bullet in the bedroom. How did it get there?Harry wants to know. It seems the window was wide open to air the room abit. Then Harry asks what the child was doing in the bedroom, and whattime he went up, and what time he came down again, and I don't know whatelse. Then he has a bit of a sleep and a cup of tea and a wash and goesoff out again. I believe he went straight to Inspector Webster with thebullet, but he won't say either Yes or No. He's very mysterious aboutit. A man told me, though, that he'll be an important witness when theCase comes on."
"What Case?" Esdaile asked.
"Well, Westbury he looks at it like this, Mr. Esdaile: If that bulletcame in at his window it might have hit somebody, he says, and he'sgreat on the window being just opposite this house of yours. And he'sworked it out, from the time it was when his wife cleaned the bedroomand where the children were and all that, that the bullet must have comein at the same time that accident was."
"But what's a flying accident got to do with a bullet?"
"Ah, that I can't tell you; but he's very mysterious. And I know he'swritten a letter to the papers about dangerous flying, because I heardhim reciting bits of it. He says he'll make a Case of it or his nameisn't Harry Westbury."
"What paper has he written to?"
"I can't remember the name just for the moment, but it's one of thepapers. And I heard him reciting one bit about three million pounds'damage. I don't suppose he's written to the papers about the bullet;that's the tit-bit, that is, and he's keeping that to himself, exceptfor Inspector Webster. Westbury's a difficult sort of man once he getsstarted on a thing. Stares you down like. You say you don't know him bysight? It was him brought that ladder into your garden--he was therewhen Mr. Rooke went up on the roof----"
And that (to pass on) was the gist of the discussion on the framing ofEsdaile's _fetes-champetre_.
VII
A few minutes' reflection would have shown Esdaile that there was noimmediate reason why he should have hesitated to have that wardrobecarried down into his cellar. He himself admits this. But it is easy tothink of these things afterwards, and he was caught off his guard. Hedid allow reluctance to appear.
"Why not move this desk and let it stand here?" he said, pointing to thewriting-table with the mignonette-shaded lamp on it. "It's not abad-looking piece at all. Pity to hide it. What is it--Jacobean?"
It was either genuine Jacobean or else a passable copy, but, placedwhere Philip proposed to place it it would have been a little in the wayof anybody passing to the French window. Mrs. Cunningham pointed thisout.
"Do you think so? Let's measure it," Esdaile replied.
Measurement of the piece confirmed Mrs. Cunningham's view, and Philipnext suggested that it should go into the large studio.
"Why not have it where you can get at it and use it?" he said. "Ithought women complained they could never get hanging-space enough. Orwhat about upstairs in Mollie's room?"
But Audrey Cunningham's frocks, which she made quite wonderfullyherself out of almost nothing at all, were few, and Mollie had left herplenty of room for them. Besides, there were the dress-baskets. Thesewould hardly add to the beauty either of the annexe or the studio. Forthe baskets at any rate the most convenient place was certainly thecellar. And it was at this point that Philip, recognizing that furtherobjection would look rather like obstinacy, yielded.
He confesses that he felt awkward about the whole situation. Either hehad lent his house or he had not. If the former, Monty and his fianceeshould have had the complete freedom of it; if the latter, or if for anyreason he regretted his generosity, the position was even more obscure.To say that until the marriage he had lent it to Monty only and not toMrs. Cunningham was mere quibbling; he had made the offer in entire goodfaith, and had not made a lawyer's matter of it, with clauses andreservations about this, that and the other.
Yet here he not only was, but here very much master of the house whetherhe wished it or not. Audrey Cunningham would of course be very niceabout it, but he could see very plainly how it must strike her. He didnot even pretend to be working. He was merely hanging on, for a reasonunexplained and unexplainable to her. Monty knew his reason, of course;but the reason she supposed to be the truth (for she had been told thatone of the men who had crashed was their friend and Joan Merrow's morethan friend) by no means accounted for everything. It did not accountfor a quarter of his eccentricities; it did not even account for hislatest inadvertence, of proposing any place in the house except thecellar for the bestowal of that nuisance of a wardrobe. What an ass hehad been about that! The cellar could be made _perfectly safe_ at aninstant's warning; as a matter of fact it was _perfectly safe_ at thatmoment. There was no reason whatever why Audrey Cunningham should not godown there.
But things would get worse as time went on. Presently Audrey would beliving here, as Monty's wife, and it would be difficult for Philip todelay his departure after that. A honeymoon is a honeymoon even when itis spent in a borrowed studio, and newly-married couples don't commonlytake in fussy and fretful lodgers. Within a week or so he or they wouldmost certainly have to clear out.
Philip could have stated what had actually happened in one shortsentence. He had offered them one house, but was now called upon to handover to them the possession of quite a different one.
But this was impossible to explain without dragging in the thing of allthings that he wished to keep from Audrey, from Mollie, and above allfrom Joan--that beastly episode of the pistol, with all it involved.
And here at any rate he was quite firm. Chance what might, that must bekept the men's affair only. As far as the women were concerned atpresent the accident was a pure accident. Well, an accident it mustremain.
But what about that Police Inspector who had appeared so suddenly in ourmidst the night before, and for all Philip knew might be round again atany moment? Audrey Cunningham had been told nothing about that. Shemight have many opinions about Philip's delayed departure, but about aseries of domiciliary visits by the police she could have one only,namely, that the loan of a studio wasn't worth it. In suppressing thispiece of information Philip was actually doing his best to keep her inLennox Street. To have informed her would have been much the same thingas asking her to leave.
And what exactly had passed when Philip's tenor voice, interrupting theInspector's deep one, had said, "Well, perhaps you'd better come in"?
VIII
Of the four of us sitting there I alone had instantly realized what musthave happened. Our Nosey Parker of a Westbury had been at work already.I remembered the dull insistence of the man and how he had said in myhearing that he and Inspector Webster "would be having a bit of a talkthat evening." I recalled also the stupid but dangerous cunning withwhich he had repeated over and over again that Rooke had been the firston the scene of the accident. Well, he hadn't lost very much time. TheInspector had stood there in the doorway, and neither Esdaile, Hubbardnor Rooke had had the least idea why.
Now there are a good many of the commonly-accepted views on physiognomythat I for one don't share. One of these is about rather narrowly-seteyes. Webster, who was a very big red-and-black man, had these eyesunder a sort of bison-front of close-curling hair, but I did notassociate them with meanness and slyness at all. On the contrary, theyhad rather a kindly glint, and they reminded me of the infinitesimalslight cast that at certain moments makes some women irresistible. No, Idid not set Inspector Webster down as a bad sort. At the same time therewas no nonsense about him, and I should have thought twice beforetrying any tricks with him.
I was more thankful than I can tell you that Philip also, in spite ofthe emotional gamut he had run that day, still had resili
ence enough tosum the Inspector up very much as I did. There was no bland "Well,Inspector, and to what are we indebted for the pleasure of this visit?"nor anything of that kind. Perhaps that dangerous pistol, X-rayingitself so plainly in our minds through the top of the escritoire, hadforbidden any such attitude. I now know, as a matter of fact, thelife-line on to which he had immediately and instinctively laid hold.Inspector Webster, whatever he had come for, was to be treated exactlyas the women were to be treated, and the accident-theory was to hold thefield.
So this is what had happened:--
The Inspector, after a few conventional remarks about being sorry totrouble us gentlemen for the second time that day and so on, had comedown like a hammer straight upon our weakest point. This was the partthat Monty Rooke had played in that morning's events. First of all hewanted (with our permission) to put a few words to Mr. Rooke. I think heused the word "permission" in good faith, and not as any kind of aveiled threat.
I saw Monty moisten his lips. He has since explained the swiftness withwhich he also was able to come into line and to play up so really noblyas he did. Philip, if you remember, had forbidden him pretty gruffly tosay one word about all this to Audrey Cunningham; it is no light matterto dictate to another man what he shall say and what he shall not say tohis fiancee; and this it was that saved the situation. If Monty was tobe ordered to keep his mouth shut before his fiancee he was jolly wellnot going to be pumped by an outsider, Police Inspector or no PoliceInspector. On such hairs do our actions hang sometimes.
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