Miss Silver Comes To Stay (5 page)

James Lessiter drove back from Lenton. He liked driving at night in these country lanes, where the headlights made a bright path for the car and all you had to do was to take your way along it. It gave him a sense of effortless power. He did not make the conscious comparison, but he had a sense of life stretching before him just like that. He had made a great deal of money, and he expected to make a great deal more. When you had made a certain amount it went on making itself. Money was power. He thought of the boy who had left Melling more than twenty years ago, and his sense of well-being became something very like triumph. How right he had been. Instead of allowing himself to go down with a ship which had been foundering for three generations he had cut loose and made for the shore. He had no regrets. The house could go. If he wanted a place in the country, there were more amusing spots than Melling. Nowadays you didn’t want a great big barrack of a place built for the days when house-parties lasted for weeks and large staffs could be counted upon. Something modern and labour-saving—a big room where you could throw a party—half a dozen bedrooms. Meanwhile he rather thought he was going to enjoy himself. He had a score or two to pay off, and he was looking forward to the payment. Something very pleasing about being able to arrange one’s own private day of judgment.

He turned in between the tall pillars of Melling House and saw the beam of the headlights slide in front of him up the drive, whitening the neglected gravel, striking bright patches of green from holly and rhododendron. All at once the light picked up a movement in the crowded undergrowth. He thought someone had stepped aside into the bushes, but he couldn’t have sworn to it. It might have been a tradesman’s boy getting out of the way of the car, or it might have been someone coming up to see the Mayhews. Then he remembered that it was their half day out and that they would be in Lenton. Mrs. Mayhew had asked if it would be all right for them to go. There was to be cold supper left ready for him in the dining-room.

He drove right on into the garage, rather pleased at the idea of having the house to himself. It would be a good opportunity for a thorough search of his mother’s bedroom and sitting-room. He meant to find that memorandum. He had made up his mind that it would be somewhere in one of those two rooms. She had been getting feeble—not going downstairs any more.

He let himself in by the front door and clicked on the lights in the hall. The person who was just emerging from the drive stood still and saw the two hall windows spring into sight.

A good deal later the telephone bell rang in Catherine Welby’s charming room. She put down her book and lifted the receiver. Her hand tightened on it when she heard James Lessiter’s voice.

“Is that you, Catherine? I thought you would be glad to know that I have found that memorandum.”

“Oh—” For the life of her she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I was afraid it might have been destroyed, because of course Mr. Holderness collected all the papers he could find, and Mrs. Mayhew tells me that you were in and out a good deal.”

Catherine’s left hand came up to her throat.

“I did what I could.”

“I’ve no doubt of it. But it was—where do you think?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Her mouth was dry. She mustn’t let her voice sound different.

“You’ll never guess—you didn’t guess, did you? It was in a volume of the late Vicar’s sermons. I remember when he had them printed and gave her the copy—don’t you? She could be perfectly certain no one would meddle with it there. I only found it because after I’d looked everywhere else I took all the books out of her bookcase and shook them. Perseverance rewarded!”

Catherine said nothing at all. She took a quick breath. The sound of it reached James Lessiter and gave him a lively pleasure.

“Well now,” he said briskly, “you’ll be delighted to hear that the memorandum makes your position perfectly clear. You were originally supposed to pay a nominal rent of ten shillings a month, but after one or two payments nothing more was said about it and the rent question lapsed. Then as regards the furniture—Did you say anything?”

“No—” She got the one word out, but she couldn’t have managed another.

“Well, as regards the furniture the memorandum is quite explicit. My mother says, ‘I am not quite sure what furniture Catherine has at the Gate House. I have let her have things from time to time, but of course it was clearly understood that they were only lent. It was better that they should be used, and she is very careful. I think you might let her keep enough for a small house if it does not suit you to let her stay on at the Gate House. Nothing valuable of course, just useful things. She has the small Queen Anne tea-set which I lent her during the war when china was so difficult to get. It was, of course, understood that it was only a loan.’ ”

Catherine spoke from a tight throat.

“That isn’t true. She gave it to me.”

“Well, well. Do you know, if this case came into court, I’m afraid the memorandum would be taken as evidence that she didn’t do anything of the sort.”

Again Catherine only got out the one word.

“Court—”

“Certainly. You see, this is a business matter, and I am a business man. I don’t want there to be any mistake about that. I have just informed Holderness—”

With a shock of terror Catherine came to herself. The fear that had paralysed her became a driving force.

“James—you can’t possibly mean—”

He said, “Can’t I?” And then, “I advise you to believe that I do.”

Carr and Fancy came back by the six-thirty and took a taxi from Lenton. They were hungry and cheerful. Fancy had had a marvellous time, because she had met a friend who had not only taken her out to lunch but had introduced her to three separate people, each one of whom had declared that he or she could get her a job with simply no difficulty at all. “And one of them was in films. He said I’d be too photogenic, and I told him I was, because I do take marvellously. So I showed him the photos I had in my bag—wasn’t it lucky I got them—only I shouldn’t dream of going up to town without them, because you never can tell, can you? And he said he’d show them to a friend of his who is the big noise at the Atlanta Studios, and of course what he says goes. Wouldn’t it be simply marvellous if I got a job in films?”

Carr put his arm round her shoulders quite affectionately and said,

“Darling, you can’t act.”

The big blue eyes opened in surprise.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen you try.”

“So you have.” There was no rancour in her voice. “Do you think it matters? And, you know, you’re sort of funny that way—a lot of people liked me. And it wasn’t a proper part either—I only had two sentences to say.”

He laughed again.

“Darling, you were rotten.”

Rietta, helping sausage loaf and a mixed salad, thought, “I haven’t heard him laugh like that since I don’t know when. I wonder if they’re engaged. She isn’t the right sort for him. I wonder how it will turn out. I think she’s got more heart than Marjory had—she couldn’t very well have less. Oh, God—why does one bring up children!”

Whatever the future was going to be, there was no doubt about Carr’s access of spirits in the present. He had been into the office and found Jack Smithers elated over a very advantageous sale of film rights. He also described, with a good deal of verve, a manuscript which they had had pressed upon them as a discovery of the age by a pontifical gentleman with something of a name in politics.

“It’s written by a child of ten without stops or capitals, and he says it’s absolutely the last word in the pure genius of simplicity. Smithers says it’s tripe, but of course you never can tell whether that sort of thing mayn’t come off. There’s a sort of borderline between tripe and genius, and there have been hits before now which have had a foot on either side of it.”

He and Rietta produced instances and wrangled joyously about them. It was all very much like the old times before Marjory happened. If Fancy felt left out in the cold she didn’t show it, and acquired merit with Rietta, who conceded that she seemed to be very sweet-tempered. As a matter of fact Fancy was quite pleased not to have to talk, her mind being entirely taken up with a model she had seen at Estelle’s— twenty-five guineas, and it looked every penny of it, but she knew one of the girls who modelled there, and if she could coax the coupons out of Mum, and Maudie could give her the low-down on how the pleats went, she thought she could copy it. And talk about hits, it would be just about smashing.

She was still thinking about it when they had finished the washing up and Henry Ainger came in, as he did a dozen times a week for the perfectly simple reason that he couldn’t keep away from Rietta Cray. It was a reason which was patent to everyone in the village. Henry himself displayed it with perfect simplicity. He loved Rietta, and if she ever consented to marry him, he would be the happiest of men. He didn’t mind who knew about it, which was one of the things that exasperated his sister. She had tried scolding him as she had scolded Mrs. Grover about the bacon, but you cannot really make a success of scolding a man who merely smiles and says, “I shouldn’t worry, my dear.”

Henry came in cheerfully, put down a bundle of picture-papers—“Had them sent to me—thought you’d like to see them”—wouldn’t take coffee because he was on his way to see old Mrs. Wingfold at Hill Farm, wouldn’t sit down for the same reason, and ended by taking the cup which Rietta put into his hand and drinking from it standing up in front of the fire.

“She thinks she’s dying. Of course she isn’t. It happens about three times a month, but I must go or she might, and then I’d never forgive myself. You make the best coffee I know, Rietta.”

She smiled, her face softening. It is agreeable to be loved when the lover demands nothing except the privilege of worship, and she was very fond of Henry Ainger. He was, as she had once said, so very nearly an angel. Not that he looked like one, or like a parson either, in a pair of old grey flannel slacks, a thick white sweater, and a disreputable raincoat. Above it his rosy face, round blue eyes, and thick fair hair gave him rather the look of a schoolboy in spite of his forty-five years. In daylight you could see that there was a good deal of grey in the hair, but the look of youth would be there when he was ninety. He finished his coffee, had a second cup, and said goodnight.

At the door he turned.

“Mrs. Mayhew’s back early. I came out in the bus with her from Lenton. I thought she looked worried. I hope it isn’t Cyril again.”

Carr came back from the bookcase where he had been dallying.

“I saw Cyril Mayhew at the station. He came down on the same train that we did.”

Rietta held out a cup of coffee to him.

“Did you speak to him?”

“No—I was going to offer him a lift, but he slipped away.”

“He may not have been coming here. He doesn’t—” she paused and added, “officially.”

Carr raised his eyebrows.

“Anything the matter?”

She said, “Some trouble—I don’t want to rake it up.” She turned to Henry Ainger. “Mrs. Mayhew couldn’t have known he was coming, or she’d have met the train and they’d have come out together.”

“She might. I hope there’s nothing wrong. I was surprised to see her hurrying back like that on her evening out. Mayhew wasn’t with her.”

Rietta frowned a little.

“James Lessiter’s up at the House. I expect she felt she had to come back and give him something to eat. I don’t suppose he’s in the way of doing anything for himself.”

Henry agreed.

“I don’t suppose he is. He seems to have made a lot of money. There’s a picture of him in one of those papers. He’s just pulled off some big deal. I must see if I can get something out of him for the organ fund.”

The door slammed after him—the banging of doors was one of Henry’s less angelic habits—and almost at the same moment the telephone bell clamoured from the dining-room. As Rietta went to answer it she saw Carr stretch out his hand to the pile of picture-papers.

She shut both doors, picked up the receiver, and heard Catherine’s voice, blurred and shaken.

“Rietta—is it you?”

“Yes. What’s the matter? You sound—”

“If it was only sounding—” She broke off on a choked breath.

“Catherine, what is it?”

She was beginning to be seriously alarmed. None of this was like Catherine. She had known her for more than forty years, and she had never known her like this. When things went wrong Catherine passed by on the other side. Even Edward Welby’s death had always been presented as a lack of consideration on his part rather than an occasion for heartbreak. The ensuing financial stringency had not prevented her from acquiring mourning garments of a most expensive and becoming nature. Rietta had listened to her being reproachful, complacent, plaintive. This was something different.

“Rietta—it’s what we were talking about. He rang up— he’s found that damned memorandum. Aunt Mildred must have been out of her mind. It was written just before she died. You know how forgetful she was.”

“Was she?” Rietta’s tone was dry.

The line throbbed with Catherine’s indignation.

“You know she was! She forgot simply everything!”

“It’s no use your asking me to say that, because I can’t. What does the memorandum say?”

“It says the things were lent. She must have been mad!”

“Does it mention them by name?”

“Yes, it does. It’s completely and perfectly damnable. I can’t give them back—you know I can’t. And I believe he knows too. That’s what frightens me so much—he knows, and he’s enjoying it. He’s got a down on me, I’m sure I don’t know why. Rietta, he—he said he’d rung up Mr. Holderness.”

“Mr. Holderness won’t encourage him to make a scandal.”

“He won’t be able to stop him. Nobody ever could stop James when he’d made up his mind—you know that as well as I do. There’s only one thing—Rietta, if you went to him— if you told him his mother really didn’t remember things from one day to another—”

Rietta said harshly, “No.”

“Rietta—”

“No, Catherine, I won’t! And it wouldn’t be the least bit of good if I did—there’s Mr. Holderness, and the doctor, to say nothing of the Mayhews and Mrs. Fallow. Mrs. Lessiter knew perfectly well what she was doing, and you know it. I won’t tell lies about her.”

There was a dead silence. After it had gone on for a long minute Catherine said,

“Then anything that happens will be your fault. I’m desperate.”