Have His Carcase (10 page)

Friday, 19 June

Harriet had almost forgotten the woman’s existence, but now the whole of the

little episode came back to her, and she wondered how she could have been so

stupid. The nervous waiting; the vague, enraptured look, changing gradualy to

peevish impatience; the inquiry for Mr Alexis; the hasty and chagrined

departure from the room. Glancing at the woman’s face now, she saw it so old,

so ravaged with grief and fear, that a kind of awkward delicacy made her avert

her eyes and answer rather brusquely:

‘Yes, certainly. Come up to my room.’

‘It is very good of you,’ said the woman. She paused a moment and then

added, as they walked across to the lift:

‘My name is Weldon – Mrs Weldon. I’ve been staying here some time. Mr

Greely – the manager, that is – knows me very wel.’

‘That’s al right,’ said Harriet. She realised that Mrs Weldon was trying to

explain that she was not a confidence-trickster or an hotel-crook or a white-

slave agent, and was herself trying to make it clear that she did not suppose

Mrs Weldon to be any of these things. She felt shy and this made her speak

gruffly. She saw a ‘scene’ looming ahead, and she was not one of those women

who enjoy ‘scenes’. She led the way in a glum silence to Number 23, and

begged her visitor to sit down.

‘It’s about,’ said Mrs Weldon, sinking into an armchair and clasping her lean

hands over her expensive handbag – ‘it’s about – Mr Alexis. The chamber-

maid told me a horrible story – I went to the manager – he wouldn’t tel me

anything – I saw you with the police – and al those reporters were talking –

they pointed you out – oh, Miss Vane,
please
tel me what has happened.’

Harriet cleared her throat and began searching her pockets instinctively for

cigarettes.

‘I’m awfuly sorry,’ she began. ‘I’m afraid something rather beastly has

happened. You see – I happened to be down on the shore yesterday

afternoon, and I found a man lying there – dead. And from what they say, I’m

dreadfuly afraid it was Mr Alexis.’

No use beating about the bush. This forlorn creature with the dyed hair and

haggard, painted face would have to know the truth. She struck a match and

kept her eye on the flame.

‘That’s what I heard. Was it, do you know, was it a heart attack?’

‘Afraid not. No. They – seem to think he’ – (what was the gentlest form of

words?) – ‘did it himself.’ (At any rate that avoided the word ‘suicide’.)

‘Oh, he couldn’t have! he couldn’t have! Indeed, Miss Vane, there must be

a mistake. He must have had an accident.’

Harriet shook her head.

‘But you don’t know – how could you? – how impossible it al is. But people

shouldn’t say such cruel things. He was so perfectly happy – he
couldn’t
have

done anything like that. Why, he—’ Mrs Weldon stopped, searching Harriet’s

face with her famished eyes. ‘I heard them saying something about a razor –

Miss Vane! What kiled him?’

There were no kindly words for this – not even a long, scientific, Latin name.

‘His throat was cut, Mrs Weldon.’

(Brutal Saxon monosylables.)

‘Oh!’ Mrs Weldon seemed to shrink into a mere set of eyes and bones.

‘Yes – they said – they said – I couldn’t hear properly – I didn’t like to ask –

and they al seemed so pleased about it.’

‘I know,’ said Harriet. ‘You see – these newspaper men – it’s what they live

by. They don’t mean anything. It’s bread-and-butter to them. They can’t help

it. And they couldn’t possibly know that it meant anything to you.’

‘No – but it does. But you –
you
don’t want to make it out worse than it is. I

can trust
you
.’

‘You can trust me,’ said Harriet slowly, ‘but realy and truly it could not have

been an accident. I don’t want to give you the details, but believe me, there’s

no possibility of accident.’

‘Then it can’t be Mr Alexis. Where is he? Can I see him?’

Harriet explained that the body had not been recovered.

‘Then it must be somebody else! How do they know it is Paul?’

Harriet reluctantly mentioned the photograph, knowing what the next request

would be.

‘Show me the photograph.’

‘It isn’t very pleasant to look at.’

‘Show me the photograph.
I
couldn’t be deceived about it.’

Better, perhaps, to set al doubt at rest. Harriet slowly produced the print.

Mrs Weldon snatched it from her hand.

‘Oh, God! Oh, God! . . .’

Harriet rang the bel and, stepping out into the corridor, caught the waiter

and asked for a stiff whisky-and-soda. When it came, she took it in herself and

made Mrs Weldon drink it. Then she fetched a clean handkerchief and waited

for the storm to subside. She sat on the arm of the chair and patted Mrs

Weldon rather helplessly on the shoulder. Mercifuly, the crisis took the form of

violent sobbing and not of hysterics. She felt an increased respect for Mrs

Weldon. When the sobs had subsided a little, and the groping fingers began to

fumble with the handbag, Harriet pushed the handkerchief into them.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mrs Weldon, meekly. She began to wipe her

eyes, daubing the linen with red and black streaks from her make-up. Then she

blew her nose and sat up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she began, forlornly.

‘That’s al right,’ said Harriet, again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had rather a shock.

Perhaps you’d like to bathe your eyes a bit. It’l make you feel better, don’t

you think?’

She supplied a sponge and towel. Mrs Weldon removed the grotesque

traces of her grief and made her appearance from within the folds of the towel

as a salow-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, infinitely more dignified in

her natural complexion. She made an instinctive movement towards her

handbag, and then abandoned it.

‘I look awful,’ she said, with a dreary little laugh, ‘but – what’s it matter,

now?’

‘I shouldn’t mind about it,’ said Harriet. ‘You look quite nice. Realy and

truly. Come and sit down. Have a cigarette. And let me give you a phenacetin

or something. I expect you’ve got a bit of a headache.’

‘Thank you. You’re very kind. I won’t be stupid again. I’m giving you a lot

of trouble.’

‘Not a bit. I only wish I could help you.’

‘You can. If you only would. I’m sure you’re clever. You look clever. I’m

not clever. I do wish I was. I think I should have been happier if I’d been

clever. It must be nice to
do
things. I’ve so often thought that if I could have

painted pictures or ridden a motor-cycle or something, I should have got more

out of life.’

Harriet agreed, gravely, that it was perhaps a good thing to have an

occupation of some sort.

‘But of course,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘I was never brought up to that. I have

lived for my emotions. I can’t help it. I suppose I am made that way. Of course,

my married life was a tragedy. But that’s al over now. And my son – you might

not think I was old enough to have a grown-up son, my dear, but I was married

scandalously young – my son has been a sad disappointment to me. He has no

heart – and that does seem strange, seeing that I am realy al heart myself. I am

devoted
to my son, dear Miss Vane, but young people are so unsympathetic. If

only he had been kinder to me, I could have lived
in
and
for
him. Everybody

always said what a wonderful mother I was. But it’s terribly lonely when one’s

own child deserts one, and one can’t be blamed for snatching a little happiness,

can one?’

‘I know that,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve tried snatching. It didn’t work, though.’

‘Didn’t it?’

‘No. We quarreled, and then – wel, he died and they thought I’d murdered

him. I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Somebody else did; but it was al very

disagreeable.’

‘You poor thing. But, of course, you are clever. You
do
things. That must

make it easier. But what am I to do? I don’t even know how to set about

clearing up al this terrible business about Paul. But you are clever and you wil

help me – won’t you?’

‘Suppose you tel me just exactly what you want done.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m so stupid – I can’t even explain things properly. But you

see, Miss Vane, I
know
, I know absolutely, that poor Paul couldn’t have –

done anything rash. He couldn’t. He was so utterly happy with me, and looking

forward to it al.’

‘To what?’ asked Harriet.

‘Why, to our marriage,’ said Mrs Weldon, as though the matter was self-

evident.

‘Oh, I see. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were going to be married.

When?’

‘In a fortnight’s time. As soon as I could be ready for it. We were so happy

– like children—’

Tears gathered again in Mrs Weldon’s eyes.

‘I wil tel you al about it. I came here last January. I had been very il and

the doctor said I needed a mild climate, and I was so tired of the Riviera. I

thought I’d try Wilvercombe just for a change. I came here. It realy is a very

nice hotel, you know, and I’d been here once before with Lady Hartlepool –

but she died last year, you know. The very first night I was here, Paul came

over and asked me to dance. We seemed to be drawn together. From the

moment our eyes met, we knew we had found one another. He was lonely, too.

We danced together every night. We went for long drives together and he told

me al about his sad life. We were both exiles in our own way.’

‘Oh yes – he came from Russia.’

‘Yes, as a tiny boy. Poor little soul. He was realy a prince, you know – but

he never liked to say too much about that. Just a hint here and there. He felt it

very much, being reduced to being a professional dancer. I told him – when we

got to know one another better – that he was a prince in my heart now, and he

said that that was better to him than an Imperial crown, poor boy. He loved me

terribly. He quite frightened me sometimes. Russians are so passionate, you

know.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Harriet. ‘You didn’t have any misunderstanding

or anything that might have led him—?’

‘Oh,
no
! We were too marvelously at one together. We danced together

that last night, and he whispered to me that there was a
great
and wonderful

change coming into his life. He was al eagerness and excitement. He used to

get terribly excited over the least little thing, of course – but this was a real, big

excitement and happiness. He danced so wonderfuly that night. He told me it

was because his heart was so ful of joy that he felt as if he was dancing on air.

He said: “I may have to go away tomorrow – but I can’t tel you yet where or

why.” I didn’t ask him anything more, because that would have spoilt it, but

naturaly I knew what he meant. He had been getting the licence, and we should

be married in a fortnight after that.’

‘Where were you going to be married?’

‘In London. In church, of course, because I think a registrar’s office is
so

depressing. Don’t you? Of course he’d have to go and stay in the parish – that

was what he meant by going away. We didn’t want anybody here to know our

secret beforehand, because there might have been unkind talk. You see, I’m a

little bit older than he was, and people say such horrid things. I was a little

worried about it myself, but Paul always said, “It is the heart that counts, Little

Flower” – he caled me that, because my name is Flora – such a dreadful name,

I can’t think how my poor dear parents came to choose it – “It is the heart that

counts, and your heart is just seventeen.” It was beautiful of him, but quite true.

I felt seventeen when I was with him.’

Harriet murmured something inaudible. This conversation was dreadful to

her. It was nauseating, pitiful, artificial yet horribly real; grotesquely comic and

worse than tragic. She wanted to stop it at al costs, and she wanted at al costs

to go on and disentangle the few threads of fact from the gaudy tangle of

absurdity.

‘He had never loved anybody til he met me,’ went on Mrs Weldon. ‘There

is something so fresh and sacred in a young man’s first love. One feels – wel,

almost reverent. He was jealous of my former marriage, but I told him he need

not be. I was such a child when I married John Weldon,
far
too young to

realise what love meant. I was utterly unawakened til I met Paul. There had

been other men, I don’t say there hadn’t, who wanted to marry me (I was left a

widow very early), but they meant nothing to me – nothing at al. “The heart of

a girl with the experience of a woman” – that was Paul’s lovely way of putting

it. And it was true, my dear, indeed it was.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ said Harriet, trying to put conviction into her tone.

‘Paul – he was so handsome and so graceful – if you could have seen him as

he was! And he was very modest and not the least bit spoilt, though
all
the