The Gazebo (20 page)

ON THE FOLLOWING morning, Althea being provided with the company of Nicholas Carey, Miss Silver took a bus into the town. She got out half way down the High Street and made her way to the offices of Martin and Steadman, House-Agents. Asking for Mr Martin by name, she was presently ushered into his pleasant room at the back of the house. The day being very mild, a glass door stood wide upon a garden which fairly blazed with autumn flowers. If Miss Silver’s exclamation of admiration and pleasure was not quite uncalculated, it was entirely genuine. She had, it is true, been informed by Althea Graham that praise of his garden was the one sure way to Mr Martin’s heart, but her appreciation was perfectly sincere. The display of dahlias, chrysanthemums, late roses, carnations, and michaelmas daisies, was quite a dazzling one. There was warmth in her voice as she said,

‘What a lovely garden!’

Mr Martin accepted the tribute. It was a not unaccustomed one, but repetition had no power to render it less pleasing. In the course of a short interchange on the subject of suburban gardening she informed him with regret that she herself could not speak from experience, since she lived in a flat.

‘But the gardens here are delightful. The soil must be good. I am staying with Miss Althea Graham at The Lodge, Belview Road.’

Mr Martin’s look changed to one of concern.

‘Then perhaps you can tell me how she is bearing up. I was very much shocked by Mrs Graham’s death. We attended the same church, and I usually pass the house on my way to business. I have known Miss Graham since she was a child. I am glad too, that she has someone staying with her. There are no near relatives, I believe.’

‘I believe not. I am very glad to be here. My name is Silver – Miss Maud Silver. Miss Graham has told me how kind you have always been.’

He moved a paper on his desk and said with a trace of embarrassment,

‘I have tried to do my best for her. I expect she will have told you that I have a client who has been very anxious to purchase the house. It is perhaps too soon to expect Miss Graham to come to any decision in the matter, but from the business point of view it might be better if she did not delay too long. Mr Blount’s last offer was a very handsome one, but I cannot be at all sure that it will stand. A tragedy like this – a murder – well, there is nothing which can so depreciate the value of a property. In Mr Blount’s case his reason for being willing to make such a good offer for the house was the fact that Mrs Blount, who is more or less of an invalid, has taken the greatest possible fancy to it. She seems to be very difficult to suit. He doesn’t want to be too far out of London, and he tells me they have looked at above a hundred houses, first in one suburb and then in another, and that Mrs Blount has turned them all down. He said he could hardly believe it when she took such a fancy to The Lodge. “I give you my word, Mr Martin,” he said, “if I can get her into a house that she likes and she’ll settle down there, it will make the whole difference to my life. Peace and quiet, that’s what I want, and I’ll pay anything in reason to get them.” And of course when you come to think of it, what is the good of anything if you can’t have a bit of peace in your home?’

Miss Silver agreed, after which she inquired whether he had had any communication from his client since Mrs Graham’s death.

Mr Martin took up a pencil, poised it as if he were about to write, and put it down again.

‘Well, no. No, I haven’t. And that is what makes me a little uneasy. You see, Mrs Blount being the kind of nervous invalid he says she is, she may have gone right off the house. These nervous ladies are like that, I am afraid – all over a thing one minute, and right off it the next. Miss Graham will probably not wish to stay on in the house, especially if it is true that she expects to be married very soon. If I may say so, I think that everyone who knows her would be very glad to hear that this is the case. I remember Mr Carey very well. We put through the sale of Grove Hill House for his aunt, Miss Lester. It was a family arrangement, but we saw to the business side of it. Mr Harrison who bought the place is a cousin, but it is always wise to leave professional details in professional hands. Mr Carey used to be about a good deal before Miss Lester moved – spent his holidays here, and always great friends with Miss Graham.’

Miss Silver gave a gentle cough.

‘They are on very friendly terms now, but it is perhaps not quite the moment to make any announcement.’

‘No, no, of course not – I quite understand. But in the circumstances, I feel that if Mr Blount repeats his offer, or comes anywhere near to repeating it, there should be no unnecessary delay. His offer is, or rather was, an outstanding one. Miss Graham could not expect as much from any other quarter. Even if he were to make a much lower offer, I think she would do well to consider it.’

Miss Silver surprised him. She gave a bright sideways look which reminded him of a bird, and said,

‘You expect the price to come down, not so much on account of Mrs Graham’s tragic death and its possible effect on Mr Blount as because Mr Worple is no longer competing.’

Mr Martin repeated the second of the two names.

‘Mr Worple?’

Miss Silver inclined her head.

‘Yes. I happened to meet him when he called to inquire after Miss Graham.’

Mr Martin frowned. Every time Fred Worple’s name was mentioned it gave him the idea that there was something shady going on. Where had Fred got the money to go bidding a house up to something quite above its market value? A lucky win on an outsider – that was Fred’s answer. But why sink the money in buying a house in Grove Hill where he would be nothing but a fish out of water? He wished with all his heart that Fred would clear out. Mr Martin’s suspicions about him had a nasty way of spreading to his own client Mr Blount. The more he thought about any of it, the less he liked it. And here was this Miss Silver saying,

‘Mr Worple is a relation of yours, is he not?’

Practice had perfected Mr Martin in a formula which set Fred Worple at as great a distance as possible. He produced it now.

‘He is my step-mother’s son by a former marriage. I really know very little about him.’

‘I see. I understand from Miss Graham that your family has a long connexion with Grove Hill.’

Mr Martin smiled for the first time.

‘My grandfather started the business, but we had connexions here before that.’

Miss Silver beamed.

‘Then you are probably an authority on the local associations. I have come across an interesting book on the subject whilst staying at The Lodge – a history of the neighbourhood by the Reverend Thomas Jenkinson.’

‘Oh, yes. I remember my father had a copy, but I don’t know what has become of it. Curious how things disappear, isn’t it? Of course my stepmother may have it knocking about somewhere. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had. Curious your mentioning it now – I haven’t thought about that book for years. Rather a prosy old gentleman Mr Jenkinson, but there was a piece about the Gordon Riots… Now let me see, my father thought there might be something in that – some story his grandmother used to tell. She was from these parts, and came back again as a widow. She remembered the old Grove Hill House being burned down by the rioters. She had some kind of post there, I don’t know what, and my father could remember her telling him about the mob breaking in and Mr Warren losing his life – a very nasty business, and a lot of property destroyed. A good job we don’t have that sort of thing now!’

There was a little more talk during which Mr Martin kept the conversation firmly away from Mr Worple. In the course of doing so he dwelt on the recent growth of the suburb and said that his father remembered the High Street as very little more than a row of village shops.

‘Those houses in Belview Road, they were the first to be built somewhere in the nineties – ninety-six, ninety-seven or thereabouts. That was when the Lesters began to sell off parts of the old Grove Hill Estate. The house had been rebuilt, you understand, after the Riots – but I think not for some time after, and they kept that and the garden, but most of the park land was sold and built over. Land was getting expensive to keep up, and of course once we were into this century and Lloyd George came along with his land duties and his death duties all these estates started to break up. Wonderful to think of income tax ninepence in the pound on earned income and one-and-three on unearned! Well, we shall never see that again, shall we?’

Still discoursing in this safe strain, he escorted Miss Silver to the street door, produced a final message for Althea Graham, and was just about to step back into the outer office, when he changed his mind and hurried after her.

‘Miss Silver – if you’ll excuse me – you might perhaps be interested. That is Mrs Blount just getting off the bus.’

MISS SILVER WAS very much interested. The woman whom Mr Martin had pointed out as Mrs Blount did not at all correspond with his description of her as the spoiled delicate woman so much indulged by her husband that he was willing to pay an extravagant price for her fancies. Mrs Blount really did not look like that at all. She had unmistakably the air of a woman who has lost interest in everything. Her hair and skin quite obviously received no attention. Her clothes, originally of a fair quality, had a neglected look. There were wisps of hair on the collar of the coat, and the hem of the skirt sagged lamentably. Her stockings were twisted, and her shoes had not been cleaned for at least a week. But above and beyond all these things it was her face which fixed Miss Silver’s attention. Under the limp felt hat, it had a lost and hopeless expression. Someone past emotion, beyond any expectation of relief, might look like that. In the course of her experience, Miss Silver had seen a great deal of trouble, suffering, fear, and guilt, but even against this background there was something about Mrs Blount which gave her a feeling of dismay. Moving slowly towards her, she saw that she remained standing at the bus stop. The other passengers were dispersing, but Mrs Blount just stood as if the effort that had brought her there had petered out. Miss Silver was reminded of a child’s clockwork toy that has run down. She came up close and said in her pleasant voice,

‘You are a stranger here. Can I help you at all?’

Mrs Blount looked at her vaguely. She picked out one word from what Miss Silver had said and echoed it.

‘Help…’

Miss Silver put a hand on her arm.

‘I think you are not very well. Can I help you?’

The vague look persisted. The dry lips said,

‘No one – can – help me.’

Miss Silver regarded her with compassion.

‘There is a very nice café at the corner. If you can walk as far as that, we could have some tea or coffee together. A hot cup of tea is very refreshing.’ She kept her hand on Mrs Blount’s arm and took a step in the direction of the café.

Mrs Blount moved too. She did not seem to be either faint or giddy. In Miss Silver’s opinion she was suffering from shock. She was certainly in no fit state to find her way alone in a strange town. It would do her good to sit down quietly in one of the shaded alcoves at the Sefton Café and have a nice cup of tea. She guided her kindly and firmly in that direction and met with no resistance.

The time being now a little after twelve, the midmorning rush was over and it was as yet too early for anybody to be thinking of lunch. Miss Silver ordered a pot of tea and conducted Mrs Blount to the end alcove at the back of the room. Since there were four empty spaces screened off from one another by curtains in a vivid shade of emerald green between this alcove and the one in which an aggressive lady appeared to be laying down the law to a meek friend over coffee-cups whose dregs had long since congealed, Miss Silver could feel assured of privacy. She had not at that time any idea of how valuable this might be.

The waitress brought the tea on a green tray and departed. Mrs Blount leaned back in one of the ornamental wicker chairs, her eyes fixed as if upon some image of despair. Miss Silver poured her out a cup of tea and inquired whether she took milk and sugar.

The stiff lips moved, but they did not relax. They said first ‘No,’ and then ‘Yes’, and then ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Miss Silver added milk and sugar and set the cup before her. Mrs Blount put out a hand to take it, lifted it as an automaton might have done, and drank from it in a series of spasmodic gulps. When the cup was empty she put it down. Miss Silver filled it again. The lifting and the gulping were repeated.

When the cup had been put down for a second time Mrs Blount leaned back again and closed her eyes. She had not slept since midnight. She had not been able to swallow any breakfast. Mr Blount had gone out early, upon what business she did not know. By half past eleven she could no longer bear the solitude of her room, nor could she face the lounge. She had dressed and gone out. The bus happening to stop at the corner just as she came to it, she had got in and allowed it to take her down into the town. Once there, she had no idea what to do next. At the first sip of the hot tea she had realized how parched her mouth was. She drank eagerly, and was a little more aware of her surroundings. Her eyes opened and she looked at Miss Silver and said,

‘You are – very kind.’

‘I do not think you are well enough to be out alone.’

‘I am – quite well.’

‘You have had a shock.’

‘Yes – a great shock. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Is there any way in which I could help you?’

Mrs Blount’s head moved in a slow negative gesture.

‘I don’t think so. You see – he is my husband…’

Miss Silver said nothing. The slow, heavy voice went on,

‘Perhaps he will kill me – I don’t know. If he thinks I heard what he was saying, I think he will. I don’t think I mind – not really. It’s just not knowing when it will happen or how he will do it. It’s dreadful not to know, but I haven’t got – anything to live for.’

Miss Silver said firmly,

‘There is always something to live for.’

Mrs Blount made that slow movement of the head again.

‘Not for me…’

Miss Silver took one of the hands which lay ungloved in the shabby lap. It felt cold and slack.

‘Have you no family of your own – no relations?’

‘They didn’t want me to marry him. I would do it. They said I would be sorry.’

‘Mrs Blount, why are you so much afraid of your husband?’

She pulled her hand away and stared with eyes that were definitely frightened now.

‘I don’t know you! How do you know my name?’

‘I am staying at The Lodge with Miss Althea Graham. Your husband is trying to buy the house. You were pointed out to me.’

The frightened eyes shifted, looked away.

‘I shouldn’t have said – anything. He doesn’t like me to talk about his business.’

‘Why are you afraid of him?’

Mrs Blount stiffened.

‘There isn’t anything – to be afraid of. He is – very good to me. He is buying the house because I like it so much.’

Miss Silver felt a deep compassion. The poor thing was repeating what she had learned by rote. It was a lesson in which she had been drilled. She said,

‘That is what you have been told to say, is it not?’

Mrs Blount looked at her, and suddenly she broke down. That large flat face of hers began to crumple and quiver. Her hands went up to cover it and she said in a shaking whisper,

‘Oh, I can’t go and live there – I can’t – I can’t – I can’t! I’d rather he killed me – I would – I would!’

Miss Silver looked anxiously about her. The dogmatic lady and her acquiescent friend had gone. There really was no one within hearing, and fortunately Mrs Blount had her back to the shop. She leaned forward and said,

‘Are you not perhaps being a little fanciful? Is there any reason why your husband should want to harm you?’

Mrs Blount’s hands dropped back into her lap. Her tears were running down without restraint. She said in that whispering voice,

‘Oh, there’s reason enough – reason enough and to spare. He always said to keep out of his business, and reason enough for that. I’ve known for a long time there was reason enough and I’ve kept out. I’ve always known I’d do better to keep out, and I’ve done it. Only last night… last night…’ She choked on a sob and began to grope for a handkerchief.

Miss Silver said,

‘What happened last night?’

Through the folds of a large crumpled handkerchief Mrs Blount’s voice came in a succession of gasps.

‘It’s not – my fault – if he talked – in his sleep – but he’ll kill me for it. I wish I was dead – before he does it! Oh, God, I wish I was dead! And he’ll kill me – as sure as death he’ll kill me – if he ever comes to know what he said!’

Miss Silver said in a calm, even voice,

‘Why should he know, Mrs Blount?’

Mrs Blount stared at her.

‘He’s got ways,’ she said.