Blindfold (18 page)

He said, “Well, I did. You must understand that I'm only acting for Mr Macintyre. But as a matter of fact an aunt of Mrs Macintyre's left a lot of money to her or to her children if she had any.”

Mrs Palmer continued to look at him.

“It's getting on for twenty years since Mrs Macintyre died.”.

Miles nodded.

“This old Mrs Basing only died a few months ago. She made a will in Mrs Macintyre's favour at the time of Mrs Macintyre's marriage twenty-two years ago, and about a year later she went out of her mind. She was a certified lunatic until her death, so nothing could be done about getting her to make a new will after Mrs Macintyre died and the baby disappeared.”

“I see,” said Mrs Palmer. “And all that would come to Flossie?”

“If she's Miss Macintyre.”

“Is it a lot of money?” said Mrs Palmer very composedly.

“Yes, it's a lot of money,” said Miles.

“And the most of it's vanity and vexation of spirit,” said Mrs Palmer.

Miles grinned suddenly. He couldn't help it.

“Nobody worries very much about that,” he said.

Mrs Palmer's glance reproved his levity.

“You can speak for yourself, Mr Clayton. Money's not always a blessing. There was my own sister that was married to a man with a nice little cycle business, and he came in for five thousand pounds from an aunt that no one would have thought had a penny to leave to anyone. And what was the fruits of it? First thing, he bought a motor-car and went riding all over the country lunching at public houses and getting a taste for the drink. And the next thing, he took up with going to horse-racing and playing cards—and worse than that—and all my poor sister could do was to keep the business going as well as she could. And in the end he ran off with another woman and left her with four children to bring up, and I'm thankful to say they all turned out steady. But that's all that five thousand pounds did for my brother-in-law—led him into drink and riotous living that he hadn't got neither time nor thought for when he had to work. And if I hadn't had what I took to be a sign, I'd have held my tongue about Flossie. If you'll excuse me, Mr Clayton, I'll go and have a look at that kettle.”

The tea was excellent. The cups were old cottage Worcester, though only Miles knew it. An old cousin of his mother's had some. To Mrs Palmer they were her grandmother's tea-set, produced when occasion warranted. They had not been produced for Ernie. They lived in the oak corner-cupboard, which was not considered good enough for the parlour. It hung on the dark side of the kitchen, and Mrs Palmer had always refused to part with it, because she remembered it in Gran's cottage when she was a little girl.

Flossie came back in the middle of tea. She was white and silent, and she wouldn't eat anything, though she kept on passing up her cup to be filled. She said, in response to direct questions, that Ivy was all right, and yes, she'd got the bandages off. And then she was up out of her chair and saying she must be getting back, and Mr Miles would be coming too, wouldn't he, because what was she going to say to Mrs Gilmore? She passed behind Aunt's chair as she spoke, and fixed an imploring gaze on Miles' face. Her lips formed words, but the fact that they were trembling said as much as any words could have done. Miles was being implored to come with her. He responded by thanking his hostess and making his farewells.

As soon as they were out in the street Flossie clutched at his arm.

“Ooh, Mr Miles—I am frightened!”

“What's frightened you, Flossie?”

She looked over her shoulder nervously. The dusk was gathering, but there would be daylight of sorts for another twenty minutes or so.

“Ooh, Mr Miles—they know that it wasn't Ivy!”

For the moment Miles had forgotten all about Ivy Hodge. He felt slightly bewildered. Flossie's clutch tightened on his arm.

“Ivy, Mr Miles—Ivy Hodge that I went to 16 Varley Street instead of because of her making it up with Billy and wanting to get married. I told you I took her name and all. And when she got pushed in the river, I got a most awful turn, because she never done it herself—reelly she never—and it come to me like a flash that it was me they were trying to get rid of.”

Miles remembered all about Ivy Hodge. He said,

“All right, I've got there. What's happened?”

“They know it wasn't Ivy that was at 16 Varley Street.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because Ivy told me. She said there was a nurse came to see her in hospital, and the way she described her it was Nurse Long. And so soon as she saw Ivy she looked at her awful straight, and she said, ‘
Your
name isn't Ivy Hodge.' And Ivy said it was. And after that she asked her a whole lot of questions about her last place, and whether it was a good one, and why she left. And in the end she got Ivy so tied up that she let on about its being a friend that had gone to Varley Street to oblige her—only she didn't tell her the name because of getting me into trouble for using her character. And she wouldn't have said what she did only for being muzzy in the head—poor Ivy! But there, Mr Miles—they know, and 'twon't be long before they find out that it was me that took the job. And I'm frightened, Mr Miles—I'm
frightened!”

Miles did not speak at once. He had never felt at all clear in his own mind about Flossie's tale of what had happened on the night she ran away from Varley Street. The whole thing was so—the word
disconnected
slipped through his mind—that he couldn't really bring himself to believe in it. He thought Flossie was frightened, but he inclined to believe that she was frightening herself. It might have been her own face she had caught sight of in the mirror and some trick of the light or of her imagination, or both, had startled her into panic flight. She might have dreamed her blood-stained head and her man with the cruel eyes looking out from the hole in the wall. She might have had a momentary vivid memory-picture of something seen at the cinema or read about in a book. Any of these things was more probable than that she had actually seen what she said she had seen. If he believed her, it was his bounden duty to make her go to the police with her story, but quite frankly he did not believe her. As to Ivy Hodge having been pushed into the river, it was all nonsense.

He spoke soothingly to Flossie, and she lost her temper with him.

“Might as well call me a liar at once and have done with it!” she declared.

CHAPTER XXIV

At ten minutes to nine that evening Miles knocked on the area door of 16 Varley Street and Kay slipped out to him. He so very nearly kissed her that he spent the next five minutes in wondering, first, why he hadn't, and after that, what she would have said if he had. It had seemed such an extraordinarily natural thing to do that he had nearly done it without thinking at all. Kay and he—he and Kay. There was a belonging feeling between them. That was it, they belonged. He didn't know whether he was in love with her, but they belonged. He hadn't felt in the least like that about Angela. Being in love with Angela had been a heady, exciting sort of affair. He had been all strung up—everything working at top speed—a restless, racing fever in his blood. No, it wasn't at all like that.

He heard Kay saying in a reproachful voice,

“You know, you're not listening, Miles.”

He laughed. He didn't quite know why, but it was nice to laugh at Kay.

“No, I wasn't. But I was thinking about you.”

Kay laughed too.

“I don't believe you were.”

“Oh yes, I was. I was thinking you were a comfortable person to be with.”

“It sounds like a sofa cushion.”

“And very nice too.”

“Mushy!” said Kay.

“Reposeful,” said Miles.

They both laughed. Kay tugged at his arm.

“You didn't listen—and I was telling you about rescuing the kitten from the cellar. Wasn't it dreadful of Mrs Green to make it sleep down there? And oh, Miles, there
must
be rats. I think it must have bitten one, the little brave thing, because first of all I thought it had been bitten itself, and then I found it hadn't, and—oh, Miles, do you think Mrs Green could possibly find out if I waited till she was asleep—it's quite easy to tell, because she snores—and
then
fetched the kitten and had it in my room? Because in the morning she wouldn't know I hadn't just let it out—would she? Or do you think it would be very deceitful? It's so tiny and young, and I can't sleep when I think of it's being down there with the rats.”

Miles put his arm round her and gave her something between a hug and a shake.

“Oh, Kay—you little funny thing!” he said.

“I'm not! Miles,
do
you think it would be very bad of me?”

He burst out laughing.

“I should chance it. If the kitten got eaten, you'd probably never forgive yourself.”

“No—I shouldn't Oh, Miles, I've got something to tell you.”

He still had his arm round her. It seemed a good place for it to be. If Kay minded, she didn't say so. The Square was dark and unfrequented.

“Miles, you're not listening. Do listen! You know that man who spoke to me in the street—I've had a letter from him.… No, it's quite a polite letter, and I don't think you ought to say things like that, because perhaps it was silly of me to take it the way I did. He really did know Aunt Rhoda and—my mother. Come under a lamp-post and I'll show you what he says.”

Under the next lamp Miles took the sheet of stiff white paper and looked at it curiously. It was one of the more expensive makes of paper, but it was not stamped with any address. Instead there was a typed heading with yesterday's date. The body of the letter was also typed. It ran:

“Dear Miss Moore,

I fear I startled you yesterday, and I fear I offended you by using your name. I will not repeat my offense without your permission, but I saw you often as a child and it is natural for me to think of you as Kay. Your aunt, Mrs Moore, was a very old friend of mine, but it is as your mother's daughter that I feel, and always have felt, the deepest interest in you. Some day, if you will give me the opportunity, I should like to talk to you about your mother. You are quite right to be careful about what acquaintances you make, but I happen to know your present employer, and if you will ask Miss Long, she will, I am sure, tell you that I am to be trusted. It would give me great pleasure if you would have tea with me on Sunday. I understand that you will be free then. There is not much time to get an answer, so I will call for you at four o'clock.

Yours sincerely

A. Harris.”

“It's Sunday to-morrow,” said Kay. “How did he know I was going to have an afternoon out? He must have asked Nurse Long. I don't really want to go.”

Miles stared at the letter. The signature was typed too. That was unusual. He said,

“I don't want you to go, Kay.”

“But he's coming for me at four.”

“And I'm coming for you at half past two,” said Miles firmly.

Kay gave a little gurgling laugh.

“Oh, Miles—how lovely! But won't it seem rude?”

“Let it! You've got a previous engagement. You can tell him so. You can tell him you've got a young man who walks out with you reg'lar, as Flossie would say.”

Her colour brightened and her eyes shone.

“Oh, Miles—but—”

“But what?”

“I do want to hear about my mother.”

“Then he must ask us both to tea. You're not going without me. I want you to promise you won't.”

Kay said “All right,” with a sigh of relief. It was bad of her to dislike poor Mr Harris, but she couldn't help it. The thought of having tea with him gave her a little cold shiver down her back. She put the letter away in her pocket, and they walked on.

“Kay,” said Miles—“who was your mother? What exact relation was Mrs Moore to you? If you were her own niece, your name wouldn't be Moore—would it?”

Kay said, “I don't know. Miles, isn't that funny? I don't know anything at all about my father or my mother. Aunt Rhoda always got very angry if I asked. She said wasn't she enough for me? And—oh, Miles, you know what she was like when she was angry.”

Miles did know. He had a vivid recollection of Rhoda Moore's white face and burning eyes, and the abuse which she had poured out during the odious scene in his mother's hall when Kay was saying good-bye to them all. It was plain enough that the woman would tolerate no claim on Kay but her own. Poor little Kay …

He said, “Yes, I know. Never mind, darling.”

Kay pressed closer to him. His arm came round her again.

“Kay,” he said, “some rather odd things have been turning up. Do you know if your aunt ever had charge of any other children besides you?”

“I think so. She told me once that she knew all about babies because she used to take charge of them. She said she had a baby whose mother was in India, and another whose mother had died. She said it was a lot of trouble and people didn't pay. And then she said what she was always saying, that she didn't want anyone but me and I oughtn't to want anyone but her.”

What a woman! Flossie had been lucky to be adopted by Flo Palmer. His poor little Kay! He held her close to him, but he did not speak. He did not feel as if there was any need for him to speak.

After a minute Kay said, “Miles, I want to tell you something. Aunt Rhoda was ill for some time. I think she knew she was going to die. She said she hadn't any money to leave me, because what she lived on was an annuity, but she said I would be all right. She said some very funny things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Well, sometimes she spoke as if I was going to have a lot of money. Once she said, ‘Nobody will ever love you like I have. That's better than money. Don't you ever dare to look back and reproach me.' It—it was—rather frightening, Miles.”