Pursuit of a Parcel (14 page)

Delia herself supplied him with an answer to the puzzle. Without any preamble she came out with what was uppermost in her mind.

“Oh, Mr. Rossiter—he isn't dead!”

Her meaning did not reach him. His mind was full of its own picture and could not at once relinquish it. He said, reacting only to her first words,

“If you do not mind, it will be better if you call me Mr. Brown.”

Delia could have shaken him. She came a step nearer and raised her voice.

“You said he was dead. But he isn't—Antony is alive!”

A shock is a shock whether it is pleasant or unpleasant. Joy has been known to kill. Whatever this big man felt, he kept it to himself. If Delia had been watching his hand she would have seen it stiffen and clench, but she was looking at his face, which remained quite without expression. He spoke at once with some severity.

“What are you talking about?”

Delia had the feeling that she had tried to shake him and failed. She beat her hands together and said in her high, clear voice,

“Antony—your brother Antony. He isn't dead—he's alive.” The colour had come into her face. Just to say it made her feel radiantly alive herself.

He said, “Who told you that?” and she cut in joyfully,

“He
did—Antony did. He rang me up—so you see he couldn't be dead, could he?”

If he had any natural feeling he did not show it. His tone was hard and businesslike as he demanded,

“Are you sure that it was Antony?”

Delia laughed. She had been wanting to for some time. Laughter had been bubbling up inside her for just no reason at all but being alive—she and Antony.

She wanted to laugh, as a bird wants to sing on a sunny morning.

“Of course I'm sure! I talked to him—he rang me up. Aren't you glad—aren't you pleased? He's your brother. Don't you mind about his not being dead?”

He put up a hand as one does to a child. His accent became a little more marked as he said,

“Naturally. How can you think anything else? But I am finding it hard to believe that it is true. I think you are deceived, or that someone is trying to deceive you. You see, I saw him head.”

Delia looked at him with astonishment and a little scorn. What was the good of saying that sort of thing? But there was a ring of conviction in his voice. He really did think that Antony was dead. But how stupid—how stupid! She heard herself saying it out loud.

“But that's stupid—it doesn't make sense. You couldn't have seen him dead, because he's alive, and I've just been talking to him.” She broke out laughing again. “And it's quite mad to go on arguing about it, because you'll be able to see for yourself any time now.”

He repeated her words.

“See for myself? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean he's coming down here.”

“Impossible!”

The word seemed to break from him.

“Why should it be impossible? It isn't. Look at the clock—it's a quarter to ten. He was catching the half-past-eight bus, and that means he'll be up at the house before ten.”

She had moved him at last, but she was not to see how. He turned away from her and went to the window. Standing there with his back to her, looking out as if he was looking for Antony's arrival, he gave her an odd impression of disturbance. There was nothing that she could take hold of, but she had a sense that the room was full of anger. It came against her like waves.

The impression passed as he turned round and came back.

“See,” he said—“you are going to think this strange, but I cannot help it. I find it difficult to believe that Antony is alive, because, as I tell you, I saw him lying dead. He had been shot—he had been in the river three days. He was certainly dead. And if there was a mistake—I tell you he had been in the river, and there was also a face wound—if Antony is really alive, I must tell you that I cannot meet him. I am here on dangerous business, and it is impossible for me to meet him. It would not be safe for either of us.”

Delia's gaze was more critical than he cared about. A young girl should not be critical—she should believe what she is told. Delia had a most unbelieving air. Her voice was clearer than ever as she said,

“But I told him you would be here. He is coming down on purpose to see you.”

He had come up quite close now and was standing over her.

“I do not wish to see him,” he said. His voice was louder than was at all necessary. “I do not wish to see him, and I do not intend to see him. I will ask you to put on your hat and to come with me now to the bank.”

“It doesn't really open till ten,” said Delia. She was beginning to be angry herself.

“By the time we get there it will be opening.”

“I would rather wait for Antony.”

His voice became even louder.

“I have told you that I will not wait for Antony! You will come with me now!”

Delia stepped back from him, her temper sparking. If Cornelius thought he could come into her house—well, Uncle Philip's house, but it was all the same thing—and throw his weight about like this, he would just have to be shown. She proceeded to show him.

Her head came up, her eyes brightened. She smiled and said coldly and sweetly,

“I think we will wait for Antony.”

Just for a moment something looked out of his eyes. She thought, “He'd like to murder me,” but instead of being frightened she had a sense of exhilaration. The look passed so quickly that she might have thought she had imagined it. He said with a change of manner,

“I have offended you, and I do not want to do that. If I had more time I could explain, but time is just what I have not got. My business is very pressing indeed, and to carry it out I must have the papers which are in that box—I should have had them yesterday. If I cannot be in London with them by just after eleven, there is great danger that the whole business will fail. And that means men's lives—my own—others whom you do not know—perhaps Antony's. I cannot explain, but that is how it is. For God's sake, Miss Merridew, come with me now and give me my parcel out of the bank! Antony would be the first to say, ‘Do it.'”

Delia's eyes sparkled.

“What Antony did say was that I was to wait for him here.”

“You will take the responsibility of those lives—of Antony's life?”

Delia stuck her chin in the air.

“I'm going to wait here for Antony,” she said in a sweet, frosty voice.

He could recognize defeat when he met it. He could not force Delia into his car, hale her to the bank, and coerce her into handing over a parcel which was addressed to somebody else. There was really nothing he could do but cut his losses and avoid disaster by clearing off before Antony turned up. He bowed correctly in the foreign style—odd to have a man bowing to you when you felt quite sure that he would like to cut your throat—reached for his hat, and then walked to the door.

XI

Delia stood a long time at the drawing-room window looking for Antony. It was a cold day, but she opened the casement wide and leaned out, listening for the first found of his feet on the gravel of the drive. But half an hour went by and there wasn't any sound to catch. One of those horrible niggling whispers began in her mind—“He said he'd be here before ten o'clock. It's half past ten. Why doesn't he come?” She countered that firmly with “The bus is late,” and then, unable to leave well alone, ran into the study and rang up Mrs. Giles.

Mrs. Giles was the grocer's wife. She stood behind her counter from opening time till closing time, with an hour off between one and two for a dinner cooked by Mr. Giles after he had done his rounds. Mr. Giles was a bright, breezy little man with a light hand for pastry and a profound admiration for his wife. “There's nothing else Mrs. Giles can't do, Miss Delia, but she can't cook, and that's a fact. Dreadful thin we was getting, the two of us, and the business going downhill at a gallop, because a head for figures is what I've never had nor never shall. So I took and put a stop to it. I'm wonderful fond of cooking, you know, and if there's a business head in England, Mrs. Giles has got it.”

So Mrs. Giles stood behind the counter, and nothing that came and went through Wayshot escaped her eye. She knew when Mrs. Canterbury had a new hat, and when Mrs. Barrock turned her dark grey tweed as a war economy. She knew when Cynthia Kyrle had a new young man, and could tell you to within a week when the affair had reached its climax and was due to fade. She knew just by looking at them who had had letters from sons and husbands, and who hadn't. She knew when one of the Ladies' Guild was late for her turn at doing the altar flowers and polishing the candlesticks which had been presented by Mr. Canning in memory of his son who was killed in the last war.

She was therefore entirely the right person to ask about the bus. It it hadn't come, she would know.

Delia rang up, and then felt a sick hesitation, because if the bus had come—if it had come—

And it had. Mrs. Giles said so at once with the bright voice in which people say devastating things when they have no idea that they are devastating.

“Punctual to the minute,” said Mrs. Giles, holding the receiver to the ear which hadn't pink cotton wool in it, but never taking her eye off the street. Even as she spoke, she could see Gladys Parkin making eyes at Mrs. Canterbury's new manservant, who had fallen arches and couldn't get passed for the Army. A real fast girl, that, and she'd be thankful to anyone who got her out of the way before Tommy came home. Boys are that silly—

Having Tommy in her mind, she couldn't let Delia go without talking about him.

“We haven't had no more than the one postcard since he was taken prisoner, Miss Delia, and of course they can't say nothing to set your mind at rest. Says he's well, but Tommy 'ud say that if he was dying. And what's on my mind, Miss Delia, is do they give him enough to eat whether or no. There's no saying, is there?”

Delia took time from being frightened about Antony to be sorry for Mrs. Giles. Tommy had been such a fat boy, and rather a mother's darling.

“They're supposed to have the same as the German soldiers.”

“Supposed,”
said Mrs. Giles darkly. Then, in a brisker voice, “I was wondering if you would ask Mr. Antony next time he's down this way. Flying over Germany like they do—”

Delia saw her chance and got in.

“He's coming down today, and of course I'll ask him, but I'm afraid he won't know very much. Mrs. Giles—he didn't get off the bus, did he? Because that's how he said he was coming.”

“Nobody got off—only Ivy Parkin, Mrs. Parkin's daughter that's come back home to live—the one she says got married in London.”

Delia hung up. If he hadn't come by the bus, then he hadn't. And in a way it was a relief, because there were quite a lot of good reasons why anyone might miss a bus. She went back to the drawing-room window.

At eleven Mrs. Barrock rang up to say all over again what a shocking thing it was about Miss Murdle. Pressed by Delia, she conceded that Dr. Kyrle had said she was getting on very well.

“Of course she remembers nothing. I hope you are very careful to be in before dark. It is exceedingly unpleasant to think that we have a homicidal maniac roaming through our lanes. Quite like Jack the Ripper—which of course you won't remember anything about, but my father used to talk about him. And they never found out who he was. That was the really horrible part of it—he might have been anybody. As I said to the police inspector, ‘If this man isn't traced, suspicion might fall upon anyone in Wayshot—even Colonel Barrock and the Vicar if it were not for the fortunate circumstance that they were together in the Vicarage study going through the Clothing Club accounts at the time when the outrage must have taken place.' And do you know what the Inspector had the hardihood to say? He winked—actually winked at me—and said, ‘Well, I hope you've got as good an alibi, Mrs. Barrock.'”

Antony arrived at five minutes past twelve, by which time Delia had made up her mind that something had happened. When the Daimler drew up she was on the steps, and when Antony jumped out she ran down them into his arms. Bill grinned, and Ellen, at the spare-room window, goggled with all her eyes. Here was a little something to go home with this afternoon. Like as not Mrs. Parker 'ud bite her nose off if she mentioned it in the servant's hall, but nobody can't tell you what to talk about on your afternoon out, and it'd be a real old treat for Mum—kissing and hugging right out there in the front where anyone could see them.

Delia didn't care who saw them. If Mrs. Barrock, and the Vicar, and Mrs. Canterbury, and Mrs. Giles, and the bank manager, and Uncle Philip, and all her snoopiest relations had been standing there in rows, she would have hugged and kissed Antony just the same, because he had been dead and he was alive again, and what did anything in the world matter except that? His arms were round her—his strong, living arms—

And then all at once the grinding of brakes. Another car drew up behind the Daimler and there alighted from it, majestic in a fur coat, Cousin Leonora Maddox.

Delia had once had a nurse who was very fond of talking about tempting Providence. You tempted Providence if you assumed that your birthday was going to be fine, or if you said, either aloud or privately in your own mind, things like, “I don't care what happens, I'm going to do it.” Here, right on the doorstep, was one of those manifest judgments foretold by Nanna. Of all her relations Lady Maddox was the one Delia would least have desired to see. For one thing, Cousin Mervyn Maddox was her co-guardian with Uncle Philip, and though he was as mild and easy-mannered a person as you could wish to have for a co-guardian, Cousin Leonora was not. As long as she had three daughters of her own at home, the menace was remote, but after Delia had been bridesmaid to Dilys two years ago, to Enid six months later, and to Bronwen last August, it had begun to impend.