Anne Belinda (3 page)

“Snakes? Yes, I've got him. But where do you come in?”

“When I got demobbed I went back to Canada. I'd been out there two years when the war started, so I thought I'd go back. I hadn't any people over here, and Sir Anthony—well, he'd given me pretty plainly to understand that he didn't want to set eyes on me. I don't blame him, poor old chap; it must have been a most frightful knock for him, losing both his sons and feeling that I'd got to come in instead of the daughters. I must say it's a pretty rotten law, and I don't wonder he never wanted to see me.”

“I think he ought to have seen you. The whole thing would have come easier if you hadn't been an absolute stranger.”

John made a quick, impatient gesture with his right hand.

“I wasn't keen myself. Hanging around waiting for dead men's shoes is a beastly job. But I'd a pretty rough time over there.” He jerked his head in the supposed direction of Canada. “First I got cheated out of my gratuity like the veriest tenderfoot. It makes me sick to think what a mug I was; and it used to make me a great deal sicker when I was absolutely on my beam ends, doing any sort of beastly odd job to get a meal.”

“As bad as that?”

“Worse, because I didn't always get one. That's how I ran into Peterson. I wanted to carry his bag for him; and he wanted to carry it himself, and went on saying ‘No' in his funny cracked voice. And then, all of a sudden, he said, ‘You are hungry? No? Yes?' And I said, ‘Damned hungry,' and the old man looked at me as solemn as an owl and said, ‘It is wrong to swear, but it is damn wrong to be hungry. Come and eat, young man, come and eat at once. Carry my bag, and come and eat with me, and tell me why you are hungry. You are not a drunkard—no?' Well, I went along with him, and about twelve hours later I woke up in a decent bed and thought I had dreamt the whole thing.”

“And had you?”

“It was rather hard to realize that I hadn't. I remembered a frightfully good dinner, and being asked where I was at school, and what I'd done in the war—‘the so much to be regretted and calamitous world catastrophe,' as the old man called it. And the last thing I remembered was being engaged as his secretary to go round the world with him and correct his English whenever I wasn't taking photographs of snakes. You must admit that it didn't seem very probable.”

Lewis Smith leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter.

“Was he mad?”

“Not in the least—one of the best—one of
the
very best. We knocked about together for five years, petting material for his book on snakes. Pretty hot work some of it. I assure you the trenches aren't in it when it comes to slithering on your tummy through a crawling swamp, trying to get a close-up of a puff-adder in the bosom of his family, or stalking one hamadryad whilst another one stalks you. Old Peterson was a wonder. He was too fat to crawl himself, but his pluck and endurance were amazing. We were in the thick of his book when I saw your advertisement; and, naturally, I couldn't have left him then. Besides, I had no money to keep the place up on—and of all beastly jobs in the world, I should think the beastliest would be to sit down in a mouldering old place and wait for it to fall about your ears. I would rather tout for jobs in the street again—there's more life in it.”

Lewis Smith looked puzzled.

“Aren't you going to stay over here now? My uncle seemed to think—”

John shifted his position rather abruptly.

“Well,” he said, “I haven't made up my mind. I've got the money now. That ripping old chap just lived to see his book come out, and when he was gone I found he'd left me every cent he'd got. I don't believe he knew himself how much it was—money didn't interest him. Well, I've got plenty.”

“What a stroke of luck!”

John's eyes went bleak. That he would have given the money twice over to hear old Peterson say “My boy,” with his funny accent, was a thing which Lulu Smith couldn't be expected to understand. He leaned forward with a sudden change of voice and manner.

“Well, that's that. About Waveney—I haven't made up my mind. I got an order to view from your uncle and went down incog. to have a look at the place.”

“What did you think of it?”

John wasn't going to say. He laughed, and drummed with his heels against the side of the chair.

“The housekeeper's the grimmest female I ever met—absolutely. Now look here, Lulu, I want to ask you some questions.”

“Fire away.”

“Well, the estate comes to me. But most of the money went to Sir Anthony's daughters?”

“Daughter.”

“What?” The word came out very short and sharp. John felt, in fact, as if he had been hit.

“Daughter,” repeated Lewis Smith.

“But there are two, aren't there?” He still spoke quickly. “I saw a picture of them down at Waveney.”

“Yes—twins. But the money went to Lady Marr.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, all of it.”

John stared at the carpet, but he didn't see the pattern; he saw a girl looking into a mirror at a reflection which was yet not a reflection—fair, short hair cut close to the neck; and long dark plaits hanging down until they were lost in the shadow. Jenifer Anne and Anne Belinda—which of them was Lady Marr? He looked up with a frown and said the words aloud:

“Jenifer Anne and Anne Belinda—which of them's Lady Marr?”

“Oh, Jenifer. They call her Jenny.”

“And which is she? One of 'em had fair hair, cut short the way everyone's wearing it now; and the other one had long dark plaits.” His voice changed ever so little. With all his conviction that it was the fair-haired girl that was Lady Marr, he waited impatiently for Lewis to say so.

“I don't know that I noticed. We drew up the marriage settlement; but my uncle attended to it mostly. I only saw the sisters together once, and they were awfully alike—what you'd expect of twins. Lady Marr was in here about a month ago, and I saw her then, because my uncle was out.”

“Well?” The impatience was in John's voice now.

Lewis laughed. “You can't see anyone's hair nowadays. She'd on one of those sort of extinguishers women wear, just let you tell how much lipstick they use. But now I come to think of it, I
could
see one of her eyes; and it was brown, if that's any help.”

John felt a quick relief. Impatience and relief were both quite out of proportion to the incident.

“Oh, then she's the fair one. The other one had blue eyes.”

They came up before him vividly—dark, solemn eyes like dark blue water. The eyes, and the long plaits, and the oval face were Anne Belinda's. From that instant she ceased to be the funny kid of nine years ago, the dim reflection in her sister's mirror; she became an astonishingly realizable creature; she became Anne Belinda.

“Where is she?” he said, and was, not unnaturally, misunderstood.

“Lady Marr? Oh, they've a place down in Sussex—Waterdene.”

“No, the other one—Anne Belinda.”

CHAPTER III

There was just the very slightest pause before Lewis Smith said, “I don't know.” As soon as he had spoken, he pulled his chair up to the table and reached for pencil and paper.

“By the way, I've made an awful break. You've just reminded me. That picture you saw at Waveney—Lady Marr wanted it removed before you came over; and it went right out of my head. I've been pretty busy with all my uncle's work to see to.”

“Why didn't she take it away before if she wanted it? It's a year since Sir Anthony died.”

“She doesn't want it. As a matter of fact, she wanted us to have it destroyed.”

John made a sharp sound of protest. Lewis swung round in his chair.

“Yes, I know. She changed her mind when I told her that it was probably worth at least five thousand pounds. There's been a boom in Amorys, and this is considered one of his best.”

“She wanted it destroyed? Why? Why on earth?”

Lewis Smith began to be conscious of indiscretion. He drew in the corners of his mouth and hesitated before he answered.

“I don't know. Don't ask me.”

John's glance took in the hesitation; his mind refused the spoken words.

“Destroyed? That picture! She must have had a reason.”

“She probably thinks it doesn't do her justice,” said Mr. Smith suavely.

“Rot! Why did she want it destroyed?”

Lewis turned to his scribbling-block without answering. John was leaning forward, elbow on knee, chin in hand, eyes very intent. Where was Anne Belinda? Why had Sir Anthony left all his money to Jenny Marr? Why had Lulu dried up like that all of a sudden? And—back again to the first question—where was Anne? Where was Anne Belinda?

“Look here, Lulu,” he said, “what's the good of being so poisonously discreet all at once? You know something; and I want to know
what
you know. It's all in the family, anyway. I want to know why Sir Anthony left all his money to one of his daughters—and the one who didn't need it. Nicholas Marr's rolling, isn't he? I was at school with a cousin of his, and he used to talk about Nicholas and say he'd got money to burn—that's how I know.”

“He made a very generous settlement on Lady Marr. Sir Anthony was still alive then, of course.”

John's expression hardened a little. Lewis wasn't writing, though he was pretending to write. The writing-pad showed a meaningless scribble.

“Yes, I'm not feeling anxious about my cousin Jenny,” he said drily; “I'm thinking about my cousin Anne. Why did her father cut her out of his will? Where is she? What is she doing? And what is she living on? More particularly, what is she living on? I've had a shot myself at living on nothing a year. There aren't any points about it at all. Where is my cousin Anne?”

“I don't know.”

“Look here, Lulu, I mean business. What
do
you know?”

Lewis Smith pushed his pad away.

“I really don't know anything.”

“Then tell me what you do know. I won't give you away.”

“I tell you I don't know anything. I can give you a few disconnected facts, most of which are public property.”

“That's better.”

“They don't amount to much. We drew up Lady Marr's settlement, as I told you. She came in once to sign some papers, and brought her sister with her. Sir Anthony wasn't able to come to town, so my uncle went down to see him once or twice.”

“Yes?”

“There's really nothing I can tell you.”

“Go on! Get it off your chest!”

“Lady Marr was married in April—at least I think it was April—last April year. She was married in London, from an hotel. Her sister wasn't at the wedding.”

John's “Why?” was a sharp exclamation. When he got no answer, he repeated the word in a more ordinary voice.

“Why wasn't she?”

Lewis Smith shrugged his shoulders.

“Illness, I think. I know next time I saw Lady Marr she went out of her way to tell me that her sister had gone abroad for her health.”

There was a pause. Then John said:

“What about the will? Where does that come in? When did Sir Anthony make the will that left everything to one daughter?”

“He made it within a month of Lady Marr's marriage. My uncle went down to see him. I don't mind telling you that he came back a good deal distressed. He hoped, I know, that the dispositions were not final—he said as much to me. Of course, this is all very confidential.”

“Of course.”

“He told me he hoped Sir Anthony would change his mind. But there was no time for that; Sir Anthony died just a week after he signed the new will.”

John got up and walked to the window. He stood there looking down into the wet street. An interminable procession of shiny, dripping umbrellas passed, crossed, and jostled each other.

“Why did Sir Anthony change his will?” said John, watching the umbrellas.

“I don't know, Maurice—really I don't know.”

“Does Mr. Carruthers know?”

“I don't think so. He was distressed; and I remember his saying that he couldn't understand it, and that Sir Anthony was not in a frame of mind to listen to reason.”

John turned round. He could watch the street and throw a glance at Lewis too if he leaned like this against the window jamb.

“Did Sir Anthony send for him suddenly?”

“Yes, very suddenly—he telephoned.”

“And Mr. Carruthers found him excited?”

“I suppose so. He said he wouldn't listen to reason.”

John turned a sharp look on him.

“What d'you make of it?
Honest,
Lulu.”

Lewis Smith looked up quite coolly.

“Do you really want me to say what I think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don't want to hurt your family feelings.”

“Fire away.”

“Well, it seems to me that it's one of two things—the girl may be off her head; or else she came a cropper of some sort and Sir Anthony found it out. In either case, it would probably be as well to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Just for a moment an extraordinary, scorching anger flared in John. It surprised him very much, and it was gone as suddenly as it had come. He said:

“That's all very well. You mean it's no business of mine. I suppose it isn't, personally. But I can't help feeling responsible all the same. I mean I've stepped into her brother's place, and in that way I think it is my business. Hang it all, Lulu, the girl can't live on nothing.”

Lewis Smith lifted his eyebrows.

“Well, there's Lady Marr.”

John looked out of the window. He counted eight black umbrellas and a green one. Then he said:

“What's Lady Marr like?”

“Very pretty—knows it too.”

John jerked impatiently.