The Alington Inheritance (14 page)

Mac Forbes had spent four days of what he himself described as “plain hell.” He had done murder, and as he had learned, he had done it to no purpose. The girl whom he had killed was not Jenny. By what extraordinary accident she had been where he had expected to find Jenny it was fruitless to enquire. What mattered was that she had come out of the house in which Jenny was staying, and she had gone slowly up the road and on to the Heath. It had never crossed his mind for an instant that there could have been any mistake. If he had seen Jenny with his own eyes in the brightly shining light of day he could not have felt more deeply convinced as he drove away from Hazeldon Heath that he had killed her. He was not sorry. The thing was necessary, and it had been done. But he should have got back his note—that was where he had gone wrong. Thinking back on it after the first blind instinct of flight had asserted itself and had been expended, the possibilities emerged and he dwelt upon them. Jenny might have disregarded the instructions and torn the note up, or she might have done as he said and brought it with her. He regarded the two possibilities soberly. The third possibility that she might never have got the note at all did not enter his mind. He still thought of the girl he had killed as Jenny. The one piece of evidence that would connect him with her death was a half sheet of paper folded into a note. He remembered what he had put in it:

“Jenny, don’t say anything to anyone, but come out and meet me up on the heath as soon as it is quite dark.

Mac

Bring this with you.”

What he didn’t remember—what he couldn’t remember—was whether he had dated the note. He had the habit of dating things. Had he dated this? If he hadn’t, it could be any old note written days ago—written before she left Alington House. Surely he would have thought of that and left the date a blank. But he couldn’t remember.

The drive back to town was, if not enough punishment, yet a considerable first instalment. Sunday followed—a long, slow day. There was nothing in the papers. He had hardly expected that there would be. His mother rang up to know whether he was coming down. He said no rather curtly and rang off. He never remembered a week-end that passed so slowly. Yet by Sunday evening he had worked himself into a much calmer frame of mind. He was still thinking that he had killed Jenny, and he had won his way to thinking that she had got no more than her deserts. If she had stayed at Alington House, if she had married him, there wouldn’t have been any need for him to take the risk of killing her. What had happened was entirely her own fault. If she had not run away in the middle of the night it would not have been necessary to kill her. He was not to blame for her obstinacy and her lack of all proper feeling. She was dead and out of his way. Everything would be all right. Jenny was dead.

Then Monday morning, and the papers with the unbelievable news —MURDER ON HAZELDON HEATH. He was expecting that, and read on. The paper dropped from his grasp. He hadn’t killed Jenny. Jenny was alive. He had killed a stranger.

After a minute or two he picked up the paper again. There was something in his having killed a girl he had never heard of. He read all about her. She was Miriam Richardson, and she was the cousin of Mrs. Merridew whom he knew by name because she had a relation in Alingford— Miss Crampton, the late Vicar’s daughter, for whom he had a strong detestation. Mrs. Merridew stayed there occasionally. He hadn’t known that she was living at Hazeldon. There were too many old women in the world—that was a fact.

He went on reading about Miriam Richardson. She had gone up on to Hazeldon Heath to meet a man, one Jimmy Mottingley. A sense of her folly rushed upon him. Mrs. Merridew lived next door. What had possessed Miriam Richardson to come in where Jenny was before he arrived, and to leave the house in the dark to go up to the lonely Heath? What had possessed her? Well, he had only to read on to see. He read on…

So the girl had a lover. That was who Jimmy Mottingley was. And he had arrived late, and he had killed her—killed her. Well, it made quite a good story, and quite a likely one. A girl with a hot temper would be pretty wild if she had had to wait three quarters of an hour or so on a dark deserted heath. It was a black empty place for a girl to wait.

A sense of its blackness and emptiness swept over him as he read. He crushed it down. It had nothing to do with him. None of it had anything to do with him. Miriam Richardson was nothing to him. It was Jenny whom he had meant to kill, and it was Jenny who was most damnably alive.

A cold rage possessed him. He had made a fool of himself—had run into the utmost danger and had gained nothing. And somewhere in all this welter of mistakes—somewhere there was the note that he had written to Jenny. He crumpled the newspaper together and stood up. Such a rage possessed him that he could have done murder at its bidding without a thought but the dominating impulse, to kill. The keener, colder side of himself was alarmed. Alerted, it sprang back and took command. The rage subsided and reason held sway.

What must he do? That was what mattered now. That was all that mattered. He began to pace the room. What mattered most was the note. If he could only remember whether he had dated it or not—it had simply never occurred to him when he was writing it to think that Jenny would not do as he told her. He had that inflated sense of his own importance which is a little present in every young man who is the head of his family, and who has been flattered by an adoring mother and by the consciousness of his own talents.

As he paced the room he was not conscious of any remorse about Miriam’s death. He regarded her as negligible. He had meant to kill Jenny, both because she stood in his way and because she had turned from him to a stranger. No, if it had been a stranger he would have borne it better. It was because Richard Alington Forbes had the name and the blood— because he had not been turned down for someone outside the family. He jerked away from that. He wouldn’t think of that. What you did not think of did not exist for you. Jenny did not exist. Jenny was dead—

The revulsion came—a cold, deadly revulsion. Jenny wasn’t dead. Jenny was alive, and he would have to let her stay alive. It wouldn’t be safe to kill her now—not for a long time. No use dwelling on that

The note—what had happened to it? He saw no reason to suppose that it had never reached her.

And the note lay in Dicky Pratt’s pocket screwed up in a welter of the things boys carry in their pockets. No one had read it except Mac himself. There was no one to tell him that it was quite neatly and legibly dated in the top left-hand corner.

By Saturday Mac had made up his mind that no harm was going to come of his unfortunate note. Either it had not reached Jenny, or, having reached her, she had decided to take no notice of it. He inclined to the second of these theories, and though it roused his anger it was definitely the more likely of the two. He would get even with her some day, but not now. And there would be no more killing. The game was not worth the candle. The week that had just gone by had taught him that. There were other ways, ingenious ones, of venting a grudge. Jenny should be sorry enough for having flouted him! His mind toyed with this idea and that. There would be time enough for everything. Meanwhile he could relax, taste relief, and stretch himself in the consciousness of safety.

He went down to Alington House on Saturday. Mrs. Forbes looked up as he came in. He kissed her carelessly and went to stand in front of the fire. The day was a cold one for September, and he had driven fast.

“Any more news of Jenny?” he said.

Mrs. Forbes had been writing letters. She rose now and came to the fire.

“Jenny?” she said. “Why, my dear boy, haven’t you heard? She has managed to get herself involved in a murder case—that’s all.”

“A murder case? Good heavens!”

Mrs. Forbes bent down and put another log on the fire.

“I told you she was at Hazeldon—I’m sure I did. Well, a girl who was staying next door was murdered, and they say that Jenny will be a witness at the trial, because the girl went straight from Miss Danesworth’s house to meet the young man who murdered her.”

“My dear Mother, this sounds interesting. Jenny would be rather good in the witness-box, I should think. What has she got to say about it?”

“Oh, just that the girl had dropped in to see them—that is, Jenny and Caroline Danesworth. They didn’t know she was going to be murdered of course. I suppose they’ll be wanted at the trial.”

He said carelessly, “I can’t think why.”

“Oh, just to fix the time she left the house, I should think. I got a whole dose of it this morning in the village.”

“The village? This village?”

“Oh well, I’m sure I told you about Mrs. Merridew being a cousin of Miss Crampton’s. You remember?”

“Yes, I remember. A little squit of a thing with poison under a honeyed tongue.”

“Yes, that’s her. But don’t let anyone hear you say it. Miss Crampton is very much respected.” She made an impatient gesture.

Mac stooped down and adjusted the log.

“I saw something about it in the papers. I didn’t really connect it with Jenny. Come to think of it, it’s better for her to be away for a bit if she’s going to be called up in a murder trial, though I don’t mind betting that Meg and Joyce will get on to it.”

“Good heavens, I hope not!”

He laughed.

“It’s a wise parent who knows what his children are thinking about! Do you suppose that you really knew anything at all about Alan and me when we were that age?”

Mrs. Forbes felt a cold touch of fear, she didn’t know why. The words were nothing, and the tone in which they were said was light enough, but something swept over her like a dark shadow. It was gone again almost before she had recognized it. It was nothing—nothing at all. She couldn’t think why for a moment there had been that frightening blackness. In a revulsion of her feeling she laughed.

“My dear boy, how ridiculous that sounds!”

“Does it? I don’t mind betting that what fathers and mothers don’t know about their children would fill more books than what they think they do know. I could tell you all sorts of things.” He pushed the log with his foot and a sudden flame shot up. “But I don’t think I will. It might keep you awake at night.”

Mrs. Forbes smiled rather vaguely. The mood that had touched her was so completely gone that she couldn’t even remember it. She was thinking about Jenny. It was a very good thing that she should be away, with a murder trial coming on. Only if she hadn’t been away she wouldn’t have been connected with the murder at all. If she had still been in Alington House, this young Mottingley might have murdered Miriam Richardson without its being more than a paragraph in the papers as far as they were concerned. She had no knowledge, no instinct, to tell her that if Jenny had not left this house which was her home, Miriam Richardson would be alive and well, going about her own ill-natured affairs, and Jimmy Mottingley would be in no worse prison than was provided by his guilty conscience.

The door opened and there came into the room Meg, full of purpose.

Mac was rather pleased to see her. He didn’t really want to discuss Jenny with his mother, nor did he wish to talk about the girl whom he had killed. He felt a strong cold resentment against her for having deceived him. For she had deceived him, and she had done it knowingly. He had spoken Jenny’s name before he struck, and it was because she had accepted his “Jenny—” that she was dead. He felt no remorse at all. She had asked for what she had got. She had pretended to be Jenny. Let her take the consequences.

He turned from the fire at the sound of the opening door and said, “Hullo, Meg!”

Meg was very pleased to see him. If he was in a good mood he could help her very much. Joyce was a fraidy cat. If she pulled it off she would crow over her. She ran up to Mac and took his hand. She must get in quick before Mother sent her away.

“Oh, Mac,” she said, “I’m so glad you’ve come! Mother, if Mac says we can have the kitten, we can, can’t we?”

Mac put out a hand to her.

“What’s all this about a kitten?”

“It’s Nurse’s. Her cat had three kittens. They’re the dearest little things, and she’s saved the best one for us. Mother said she’d think about it. Oh, we do want it so much!”

Mac laughed. He had Meg’s hands and was swinging her to and fro. Mrs. Forbes, watching them, thought how handsome he was, and how much like her family. The height, the fairness, they were all from her side. She forgot to be angry with Meg for bursting in. Her heart swelled with pride and devotion.

“Well, what about it? Are you going to have it—or not? What about it, Mother?”

Meg pulled her hands away from his and clasped them under her chin. She didn’t speak. Some instinct told her not to. If Mac asked for the kitten she would get it, but if she asked herself— A creeping fear came over her. If she stayed quite, quite still and left Mac to talk, perhaps Mother would let her have the kitten. Perhaps—oh, perhaps—

“Well, what about it?” said Mac.

Mrs. Forbes gave the laugh which she kept for him.

“Oh, well—” she said. “But I won’t have it till it is housetrained. Well, Meg, you may thank your brother Mac for that. Now go along back to the schoolroom. And I don’t want to see you again.”

Meg controlled her feelings. She had won! How she would crow over Joyce! But for now she must remember her manners. She said, “Thank you, Mac—thank you, Mother,” and gave an exhibition performance of a grateful child leaving the parental presence.

But the moment she was outside and the door safely shut the decorum vanished. She gave a little skipping dance of satisfaction, and then away up the stairs with her. Bursting breathlessly into the schoolroom where Joyce was sitting rather gloomily dressing her old doll Madeline in the new clothes which Jenny had made for her, she danced right round the table, snatching at Madeline and making her dance too.

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him!” she chanted. “He’s my own furry purry one. He’s not yours at all. Because you were a fraidy cat. You wouldn’t go down and ask for him. But I did—I did. And who do you think was there?”

“I don’t know,” said Joyce. “I wish you would give Madeline back, Meg. She doesn’t like being jumped about like that.”

“She does! You do, don’t you, Madeline? There—she said ‘Yes!’ I heard her! And she and Patrick will be great friends. I’m going to call him Patrick.”

“You said you were all along. Madeline’s tired. I wish you’d let her rest.”

“All right, here you are. She’s rather a stupid really. What has she got to be tired about?”

“She doesn’t know,” said Joyce in a mournful voice. “There doesn’t have to be a reason for being tired. I’m tired often—I’m tired now.”

Meg stopped dancing round the table.

“Oh, Joicey,” she said, “are you really? You’re not ill-tired, are you?”

Two big tears rolled down Joyce’s cheeks.

“I d-don’t th-think so,” she said.

Meg went down on her knees beside the chair and hugged her.

“Oh, Joicey, don’t be ill again! I don’t want you to be ill. Patrick shall be yours and mine. Perhaps he’ll be a little bit more mine than yours, because I did get him for us. Oh, Joyce, don’t cry! And we’ll think of all the things we can do with him. Shall we?”

Downstairs in the sitting-room Mrs. Forbes was saying,

“Have you seen Alan at all this week?”

“Alan? No, I haven’t. He was staying with those friends of his, wasn’t he?”

She said, “Yes.” She was frowning. “He’s gone off with the son. It’s all very sudden, and I don’t know what to think of it.”

“How do you mean, he’s gone off?”

“I mean just that.” She went over to the writing-table and stood there turning over the papers on it. “No, I can’t find his letter. I must have torn it up. Yes, I remember I did. I was so provoked. But now I’ve had time to think about it I’m not at all sure it isn’t the best thing.” She came back to the fire. “Mac, did you ever think Alan was in love with that girl?”

He laughed with genuine amusement.

“With Jenny? My dear Mother! Of course he was! Everyone in the house knew about it!”

“Not Jenny!” Her voice had a startled sound.

“I should think Jenny most of all. You needn’t worry—she turned him down, you know.”

“Are you sure? How do you know?”

He laughed again.

“I have my methods. Well, I mean it was fairly obvious. You must have been very taken up not to be on to it yourself.”

His words struck home. She frowned. It was true—when he was there she had no eyes or thoughts for anyone else. For a moment she had a clear-cut vision of herself concentrated on the one image. She was not a stupid woman. She knew what she was doing. She knew very well that of the four children of her body only the eldest, only Mac, was the child of her heart. Alan, Meg and Joyce were physical accidents. In Alan’s case, he had been so linked with Mac that the realization of this fact had been, as it were, veiled. Mac and Alan were linked. For Meg and Joyce she felt only a decent family feeling. She would bring them up, and she would marry them off, and that would be the end of it. Meg was going to be pretty. Joyce… Too early to tell.

She came back to Alan. Just as well for him to be out of the way for a bit if he really had this stupid feeling for Jenny. She supposed she should have thought of the possibility before. She said so.

“I suppose I ought to have thought of it, but I didn’t. I oughtn’t to have had her here.”

Mac laughed.

“Oh, there’s no harm done. If he wasn’t in love with her, it would have been someone else. Where’s he going?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t really say—I don’t think he cared. I think the other boy wanted to go to Italy. He said they’d write when they’d settled on a plan.”