Through The Wall (6 page)

She didn’t want to see him again.

This thought shocked her so much that she felt giddy. She leaned right out, and heard voices from the window next to hers. This window was on the other side of the wall which divided the two houses, but it was only three or four feet away, and it was open. There were two voices—two women’s voices. One said, “It would be a good thing if she was dead.” And the other said, “People don’t die just because you want them to.”

Ina felt a kind of stinging horror. She drew back, and saw Penny smiling at her from the doorway.

“There’s some tea in the study. I expect you’re dying for it. Marian couldn’t come up for you because Mactavish won’t get off her lap.”

Miss Silver looked up from her writing-table as a slight sound met her ear. After a pause had convinced her that the client whom she was expecting had not yet arrived, and that the sound must have proceeded from some cause other than the opening and closing of her front door, she sat back in her chair and returned to the letter which she had been reading. It was from her niece, Ethel Burkett, whose husband was a bank manager at Birleton. Her three boys now attended the excellent grammar school in that town. After some preliminaries in which a recent illness of little Josephine’s was described—the one cherished girl, a good deal younger than the boys—she wrote:

“When Dr. Anderson said sea air if possible, you can just imagine how I felt, because of course I could not see any way in which it could be contrived. And then, the next morning, there was Muriel Lester’s letter—you may remember I was at school with her. She had heard about Josephine. A cousin of hers has a flat in this building—Muriel wrote to me, and I was able to tell her about it before it got on to house-agents’ books, so they have always felt very grateful. Well, Muriel wrote so very kindly and said she and her husband were obliged to go over to the Channel Islands to settle up his mother’s estate—quite complicated under the old French law—and she wondered if I would care to occupy their house while they were away. They would not care to let, but would be glad not to leave it empty—really the number of burglaries is quite dreadful. It seemed like a direct answer to prayer, and I wired my grateful acceptance. She rang up last night after seven, and it is all fixed. John’s unmarried sister, Mabel, will come in and take full charge here. Josephine and I go south tomorrow.

“Dearest Auntie, can you, will you, join us at Farne? It would be so delightful. Could you possibly shut the flat and bring Hannah? I cannot tell you what a comfort it would be. Farne is a small seaside place not very far from Ledstow but farther along the coast. I think you have friends in the neighbourhood…”

There followed an address, details of trains, and the request that a reply should be sent by telegram.

Since this had already been done, and an affectionate acceptance indicated, Miss Silver was able to continue her rereading of Mrs. Burkett’s letter without any sense of hurry. When she had finished she put it back in its envelope and bestowed the envelope in a drawer.

Her client had still not arrived. She allowed her gaze to rest with pleasure upon the comfortable sitting-room of her flat in Montague Mansions. As always when her thoughts turned that way, they became penetrated with gratitude to the Providence, which had so blessed her work as to establish her in this modest comfort. When she left school to become a governess at the scanty salary then obtaining, she had had no other expectation than to work hard all her life in other people’s houses and in the end retire to some sordid back room. The contrast of this expectation with her pleasant four-roomed flat, served by a convenient lift and kept in spotless order by her faithful Hannah Meadows, never failed to stir her deepest feelings.

She sat there, her neat mousy hair arranged in a deep curled fringe very competently controlled by a net, her small slight person arrayed in a dress of olive-green wool made high to the chin by means of a cream net front with a collar supported by small strips of whalebone after the manner of her Edwardian youth. There was an old-fashioned gold chain about her neck from which depended a sizable locket upon which the initials of her parents, long deceased, were entwined in high relief.

The events which had led her to abandon what she herself called the scholastic profession for the much more lucrative work of private detection had long ago receded into the quite distant past. Her comfortable room was a subject for present gratitude. She considered it, as she always did, with approval. The carpet was getting shabby, but everyone’s carpets were shabby now, and the really worn edge was well hidden by the bookcase. The affair of Lady Portington’s pearls had enabled her to replace the old peacock-blue curtains which had weathered the war. After much faithful service they had suddenly shown signs of complete disintegration, and she had been most fortunate in finding some stuff of very nearly the same colour in a shop at Ledbury. It really toned in very well indeed with the upholstery of her walnut chairs and with the old carpet. The chairs were Victorian. They had spreading laps and odd-shaped arms and legs with a good deal of yellow carving about them, but they were surprisingly comfortable to sit in.

Miss Silver glanced at the watch which she wore pinned to the left side of her dress by an old-fashioned bar brooch set with small seed pearls. Her client was late.

As the thought passed through her mind, the door opened and Hannah announced, “Miss Adrian—”

Helen Adrian brought the scent of violets into the room. Her large blue eyes took in Miss Silver and her surroundings at a glance. With no perceptible pause she smiled and said, “How do you do?” and took the chair on the other side of the writing-table, all with an air of being very completely at her ease.

Miss Silver had not risen. She said, “Good-morning,” and she inclined her head. Then she picked up the useful grey stocking which she was making for her niece Ethel Burkett’s second boy, Derek, and began to knit, holding the needles in the continental manner, her hands low in her lap and her eyes quite free to observe her visitor.

They told her a good deal. First, and quite obviously, Helen Adrian was a rather spectacularly beautiful young woman. About thirty years old, or perhaps a little less. Or even perhaps a little more. Rather fairer than most fair women, with eyes that were larger and bluer than most blue eyes, and a complexion which may have been originated by nature but had been most exquisitely cultivated by art. It was really impossible to say which of the two owed more to the other. A perfectly tailored black coat and skirt displayed the excellence of Miss Adrian’s figure. A glimpse of the ivory tailored silk of the shirt bespoke the excellence of Miss Adrian’s taste. A small black hat in the latest mode emphasized the burnished gold of Miss Adrian’s hair.

Miss Silver took in all these things and waited for her client to speak. She had not long to wait. In the manner of one who endeavours to put a social inferior at her ease, Miss Adrian said,

“It is very kind of you to see me, but I am afraid I may be just wasting your time. A friend of mine told me that Lady Portington—I don’t know her myself, but she is a very intimate friend of my friend’s—”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I was able to be of some help to Lady Portington.”

Miss Adrian smiled encouragement.

“Oh, you are too modest. The pearls are heirlooms.”

Miss Silver knitted for a moment in silence. Then she said,

“I think you did not come here to discuss Lady Portington’s pearls. What can I do for you, Miss Adrian?”

Helen Adrian said, “Well, I don’t know—” She had the sensation that you have when you find that you have missed a step in the dark. She felt as if she had come down hard on something she didn’t know was there. She had been thinking that Miss Silver was a scream, and so was her room, and that she would get a good laugh out of the show if she didn’t get anything else. And then, with a cough, a something in her voice, an odd sort of look in those very ordinary greyish eyes, this governessy little old maid was making her feel snubbed, uncertain. She hadn’t felt like this since her first term at school. The thought just went through her mind, and was pushed out. She said, “Well, I don’t know,” and looked down at her immaculately gloved hands. They were holding her bag too tightly. It was Fred Mount’s latest present and very expensive—black suede, with ivory fittings. She relaxed her hold on it and looked up, to see that Miss Silver was watching her.

“In what way can I help you, Miss Adrian?”

She was startled into honesty.

“I don’t know that you can.”

“But you came here to find out, did you not?”

“Well—”

Miss Silver smiled gravely.

“We shall not get very much farther unless you tell me what has brought you here.”

The blue eyes looked away, looked down. The lashes which screened them were of really phenomenal length, and had been left to what appeared to be their natural shade, a very beautiful golden brown. The lips pouted for a moment, then took a line of resolve. Helen Adrian said,

“I’m being blackmailed. What do you advise me to do about it?”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked briskly.

“The best advice that I or any other responsible person can give you is to go to the police.”

“Did you ever know anyone who would take it?”

Miss Silver gave a regretful sigh.

“It is always extremely difficult to induce anyone to accept good advice.”

Helen Adrian gave a short hard laugh.

“It’s so easy, isn’t it? People don’t blackmail you unless there’s something you don’t want everyone to know. It mayn’t be anything much, it mayn’t be—anything at all. Everyone’s got things they’d rather keep to themselves, I suppose. After all, if you’re quite well known to the public you have got a private life, and it’s none of their business, is it? Easy enough to say go to the police. But how can you? Once you’ve done it you can’t go back. If it means bringing a case, you’ve got to go through with it, and a case means standing up and having mud thrown at you, and whatever you do, and however little there is in it, some of it’s going to stick. I can’t go to the police, and that’s that.”

Miss Silver coughed mildly.

“Since that is the case, perhaps you will tell me a little more. You must have had some idea that I should be able to help you, or you would not have come. I think you would do well to make up your mind to be frank with regard to the blackmailing attempt to which you have referred.”

The blue eyes dwelt on her in an appraising fashion.

“Well—I don’t know. I suppose it would all be—quite in confidence? My friend said I could rely on that.”

Miss Silver drew herself up a little. The distance between her and Miss Adrian appeared to have widened. She spoke across it.

“Certainly you may rely upon that.”

“Oh, well, one has to be sure.”

Miss Silver was knitting at a high rate of speed.

“If you cannot make up your mind to trust me, I can be of no possible assistance to you.” She had recourse to a Victorian poet whom she revered. “ ‘Trust me not at all or all in all,’ as the late Lord Tennyson says.”

Helen Adrian stared. She really was a scream! The thought drifted away. Something else took its place—an odd touch of fear—the underlying pressure of necessity.

Miss Silver looked at her very steadily and said,

“It is for you to choose, Miss Adrian.”

Helen Adrian made her choice. She had been leaning a little forward. Now she sat back.

“Well, I suppose you’re right. Not that there’s anything very much to tell—it’s just the use that might be made of it. I expect you know my name. Most people do now, and I’ve worked pretty hard for it. Perhaps you have heard me sing?”

“No, I have not had that pleasure.”

“Well, I did a good bit with concert parties at the end of the war—and of course broadcasting. I’ve had offers to go on the stage—musicals and revues—but—well, the fact is, I’m not much good at the acting part of it. There—you said to be frank, and if that isn’t frank, I don’t know what is.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“You are doubtless wise to confine yourself to what you are sure of doing well.”

Miss Adrian nodded in a casual manner.

“Yes—there’s that. And then—you wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I’m not out of the way strong. I get cold rather easily. I was near having pneumonia in the autumn, and they say I’ve got to be careful—I’ve had to rest my voice as it is. So now we come to what’s really at the bottom of the whole thing. I’ve had to think very seriously of whether it wouldn’t be better to play safe. At the best of it, my sort of voice doesn’t go on for ever, and why should I knock myself up travelling all over the place in goodness knows what sort of weather, when I could make a comfortable marriage, and have my own car, and nothing to worry about for the rest of my life?”

Miss Silver knitted thoughtfully.

“You have the opportunity of making such a marriage?”

Helen Adrian laughed a little scornfully.

“Any time the last two years. He’s a big business man up in the north. He heard me sing and went in off the deep end. Any amount of money, and I’ve only got to say yes. Well, ever since I was ill I’ve been thinking about it. Chances like that don’t go begging—if you don’t pick them up, somebody else will. So I made up my mind I would. And that’s where the blackmail comes in.”

Miss Silver’s needles clicked, the grey stocking revolved. Helen Adrian leaned forward and opened her bag. She extracted from it a rather creased envelope which she passed across to Miss Silver, who put down her knitting and opened it. There was a half sheet of cheap white notepaper inside. On it was printed in rough capitals:

WHAT ABOUT BRIGHTON LAST MAY?

WOULDN’T MOUNT LIKE TO KNOW!

“That’s the man I’m thinking of marrying—Fred Mount.”

Miss Silver read aloud with a touch of primness in her voice,

“What about Brighton last May?”

Helen Adrian’s colour had risen a little. It did not amount to a blush, but the tint in her cheeks was certainly deeper. She said quickly,

“There wasn’t anything in it at all. I was singing at a concert, and naturally my accompanist went down with me.”

“A man?”

“Of course—Felix Brand. He’s a marvellous accompanist, and such a good contrast—the dark tragic type. It all helps, you know—throws me up.”

“Did you stay at the same hotel?”

“A friend asked me to stay. Look here, I’ll tell you the whole thing. There wasn’t anything in it, but it could be made to look funny. My friend asked us to stay, and when we got there one of her children was ill at school and she was just off. What were we to do?”

“What did you do?”

“We stayed for the week-end. What else was there to do? The place was packed. I couldn’t put Felix out into the street.”