Through The Wall (9 page)

Miss Silver changed the library books. She was fond of a good historical novel, and found one by an author whom she admired. Her niece being one of those who prefer to read about people whose circumstances as nearly as possible resemble their own, she asked the girl at the counter to recommend a novel of strong domestic interest, and was provided with what proved to be a pleasantly written tale of family life. There was a father who was a solicitor, a mother of almost exactly Ethel’s age, and four children, made up of three boys and a girl. Hastily looking at the end to make sure that no harrowing incident cut short any of the infant lives, and finding the entire family very happily grouped round a Christmas tree on the last page, she bestowed one of her kindest smiles on the helpful assistant and said it would do very nicely indeed, thank you.

Coming out into the sunshine, she decided to walk the rest of the way down Cross Street, and then after turning to the left take a parallel road back to the Front. She had not yet located a fancy-work-shop, and would be pleased to do so. It was very agreeable to be able to saunter along in a leisurely manner and look in at the shop windows.

It was just before she came to the corner leading back to the Front that she came face to face with Helen Adrian. The recognition was mutual and immediate. Neither could, indeed, have been easily mistaken for anyone else. Miss Adrian appeared to be in very good spirits. She was accompanied by a dark moody-looking young man whom she introduced briefly as “Felix Brand—my accompanist.” After which she told him to go away and buy cigarettes, because Miss Silver was an old friend and she wanted to talk to her—“And we’ll be right over there in that shelter out of the wind.”

When he had gone away in gloomy silence she slipped a hand inside Miss Silver’s arm and took her across to the shelter. The sun was delightfully warm, and it really was pleasant to get out of the wind. Since it was now almost one o’clock, the Front was practically deserted. They had one side of the shelter entirely to themselves.

By the time they were settled Miss Adrian had explained that she was staying at Cove House. With a very little encouragement she was induced to explain a good deal more than that. Miss Silver was given a full account of the Brand family, the two households, and the iniquities of the will under which Martin Brand’s large fortune had passed to a hitherto unknown niece.

“And the extraordinary thing is this Marian Brand who comes in for all the money—well, it’s her sister Ina who turns out to be married to Cyril Felton. You remember I told you about him.”

Miss Silver coughed in an enquiring manner.

“Did you know of the connection?”

“Well, I did and I didn’t. Cyril didn’t exactly advertize that he was married. As a matter of fact, I was one of the few people who knew. He told me her name had been Brand, but I didn’t really connect her with Felix, you know. Actually, Cyril didn’t himself. There had been a family quarrel, and they didn’t know each other. It’s funny the way things turn out, isn’t it? If Felix had got the money instead of this girl Marian, I’d probably have been marrying him, but Fred Mount will be a lot easier to live with, so I expect it’s all for the best. And Felix has some pretty poisonous relations. That’s another thing to Fred’s credit—he hasn’t got any parents, and I always did say I wouldn’t marry anyone but an orphan.”

Her gaze was one of angelic candour, a fact of which she was perfectly well aware. She would have been very much surprised if she had known that Miss Silver was thinking what an extremely ill-bred young woman she was. She continued to gaze and to prattle.

“You remember I showed you those letters and told you I thought it might be Cyril who was trying it on. I actually did think so all the time. Blackmail isn’t exactly the sort of thing Felix would go in for, and it was bound to be one or other of them. At least that’s what I thought, because of what the letter said about last June. You remember, it said, ‘What about last June?’ So it was more or less bound to be either Felix or Cyril, because they were the only two who knew.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Was there anything to know?”

“Well, there was in a way,” said Miss Adrian in a nonchalant manner. “I expect I’d better tell you about it, or you’ll be thinking it was worse than it was. Actually, you know, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. I told Felix he’d done it on purpose, but I don’t think he did—he’s not that sort. You see, there’s a cave just round the point from the cove. All that bit of beach belongs to the Brands, and there’s this cave. It’s not very big, but a year or two ago Felix found a sort of crack through to a second cave. He widened it enough to get through, and it’s his own special place—not many people know about it. I was staying at Cove House in June last year, and we slipped out after everyone was in bed and went down on the beach. It was a lovely night, and we talked about bathing, but in the end we didn’t. We went into the cave instead, and—you know how it is—we rather lost count of the time. And there it was, we got cut off by the tide and had to stay there all night.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!”

“Oh, well, there wasn’t anything in it. And no one knew up at the house. We got home to breakfast, and they just thought we’d been out for an early bathe. That cook they’ve had for donkey’s years, I thought she had a nasty suspicious eye, but she didn’t say anything, and nobody could ever have done more than guess if I hadn’t been fool enough to let on to Cyril.”

It was by now quite apparent to Miss Silver that Cyril Felton’s relations with Miss Adrian were certainly not those of a mere casual acquaintance encountered some time ago in a concert-party. There was no expression to her voice as she said,

“And what made you do that?”

“Too many cocktails,” said Miss Adrian frankly. “It seemed a good idea at the time, if you know what I mean. We both laughed about it a lot—Mrs. Brand and Miss Remington being so out of the way proper, and not having any idea that we had been out all night. And then I more or less forgot the whole thing, but it looks as if Cyril didn’t. And you know, if he went and told Fred, it wouldn’t be anything to laugh about. Fred hasn’t got that sort of sense of humour.”

Miss Silver made up her mind. Miss Adrian had approached her as a client, and though she had not taken the case she felt a certain obligation to be frank. She said with some gravity,

“You intend to marry Mr. Mount?”

The blue eyes widened.

“I can’t afford to miss the chance.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“When you came to see me, I advised you to take those letters to the police. When you said you could not do that, I recommended you to tell Mr. Mount about them yourself.”

Miss Adrian shook her golden head.

“You don’t know Fred.”

Miss Silver continued as if she had not spoken.

“You now say you are sure that Mr. Cyril Felton is the person who has been attempting to blackmail you. I am inclined to agree with you. Are you aware that he is in Farne?”

Miss Adrian exclaimed in a manner which Miss Silver considered profane. Rightly conjecturing that this indicated surprise, she continued.

“I heard Mrs. Felton give her name in the library just now, and subsequently witnessed a meeting between her and her husband. From their conversation I received the impression that there had been some kind of quarrel which Mr. Felton was anxious to make up, since he was so short of money that it was a matter of urgency that he should be received at Cove House.”

Helen Adrian nodded.

“Yes—that’s Cyril. And, from what I’ve heard about Ina and seen for myself, she’s the kind of girl to let him walk all over her like a door-mat.”

Miss Silver gave her slight prim cough.

“Even a door-mat may become worn out in time.”

“Meaning?”

“That it is possible that Mr. Felton may be disappointed.”

Helen Adrian appeared to be considering the implications of this. The angelic look was replaced by a shrewd one as she said,

“If he’s as hard up as all that, I could have a stab at buying him off. Look here, it’s an idea! I don’t think Ina could hold out against him—once a door-mat, always a door-mat. But Marian Brand is a different proposition. According to Cyril, she’s been supporting his wife for years and taking him in whenever he was on the rocks, which is about the only time he went near them. But I don’t think he cuts any ice with her really. Ina is fond of him, and Marian is fond of Ina. If Ina cooled off, I don’t think Cyril would get yes for an answer, so if Ina is really peeved with him, this is the time for me to drive my bargain. I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll tell Cyril I know he wrote those letters. He can take ten pounds to hold his tongue, or I’ll go to the police. That’s just what I’m going to say to him, you know—I won’t really. If he’s as hard up as you say, he’ll take the ten pounds. Of course he’ll mean to come back for more, but he won’t get the chance. I’ll tell Fred he can see about a licence, and once we’re married, well, it’s done. And I shall tell Cyril that if he makes a nuisance of himself, all he’ll get is Fred will just about make him wish he’d never been born. And the worse he behaves, the less Fred will believe anything he says about me. How’s that?” Miss Silver’s neat features expressed none of the distaste which she felt. If there was a slight dryness in her tone, her companion did not notice it. She said, “It would appear to be quite a prudent course of action, Miss Adrian.”

When Richard Cunningham had gone away down the road to Farne, the part of Marian’s mind which had been troubled about Ina began to take charge. It was nearly seven o’clock. She had not realized that it was so late until Richard looked at his watch. He had exclaimed, and she had known very well that he would have liked to stay on, but she had not asked him. There had been a sudden withdrawal, a cold breath of fear not definitely attributable to anything special. It was just as if they had been sitting out in a sunny place and all at once the sun was gone and it was cold. She walked with him to the gate, and he said,

“When shall I see you again?”

“I don’t know. Would you like to come over tomorrow?”

“You know I would. What time?”

She said, “Lunch, if you like,” and watched him walk down the road before she turned back to the house and to the realization that she was definitely worried about Ina.

But she was only half way up the stairs when she heard a step going to and fro above. She came out on the landing, to see that the door of one of the two empty bedrooms was open and Ina standing there waiting. She looked pale and tired. As Marian came up to her, she said in a plaintive voice,

“What ages you’ve been.”

“But I didn’t know you were in. I’ve been worried.”

“You didn’t sound worried. I’ve been in my room, and I could hear you and that man talking. You just went on, and on, and on—I thought he was never going to go. I suppose it was Richard Cunningham?”

“Yes.”

Ina caught her breath.

“I heard you on the telephone.” She flung her arms suddenly round Marian’s neck. “Oh, darling, I’m a pig! Did you have a nice time? I do really hope you did. I saw him when he was going away, and I thought he looked terribly nice. Is he going to come again? Shall I see him? I wanted to come down, but I was afraid I was going to cry.”

Marian said, “Why should you cry?” But of course she knew.

Ina let go of her with a sob.

“I’m so unhappy!”

“You’ve been meeting Cyril?”

“Yes. He rung up when you were in the kitchen with Eliza. I went to meet him in Farne.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ina dabbed at her eyes.

“It really was partly because I didn’t want to spoil your day. I opened the study door when you were talking to Richard Cunningham, so I knew he was coming over—at least I didn’t think it could be anyone else.”

Marian said, “I wanted you to meet him.”

“I met Cyril.”

“And what did Cyril want?” Marian’s tone was dry.

There was a pause before Ina said,

“He hasn’t any money. He wants to come here.”

Marian thought, “Well, we’ve come down to brass tacks. Money—that’s all that ever does bring him back, but she’s never faced it before. Poor Ina!”

She saw the colour run up to the roots of Ina’s hair.

“Marian—”

“When does he want to come?”

“Now—tonight—for supper. I told him to wait till then. He hasn’t got any money at all. He was expecting some, but it didn’t turn up. He—he—said to tell you he was sorry— about the things he said. He didn’t mean them. Everybody says things they don’t mean when they’re angry—I do myself.”

It was a lame and faltering performance. There was no conviction in Ina Felton’s voice. She looked anywhere except at her sister. Marian couldn’t bear it. She never had been able to see Ina hurt. She said as lightly as she could,

“That’s all right. Of course he can come, and we’ll talk things over. But he must try and get a job.”

Ina nodded.

“He says he will.” She turned abruptly to the window.

It wasn’t until then that Marian noticed that the room had been got ready for a visitor. There was soap on the wash-stand, and two clean towels on the old-fashioned towel-horse. The carafe had been filled, and the bed made.

Standing at the window with her back to her, Ina said,

“I’ve put him in here.”

Cyril strolled in a quarter of an hour later with a deprecatory “My dear—” for his sister-in-law and a sunny smile for his wife. For eight years Marian had managed to keep her eyes shut to the fact that these manifestations really meant nothing at all. Cyril might not be a very good actor on the stage, but in private life he could play any part with ease and charm, and so convincingly as to be quite carried away by it himself. At the moment he was, in all sincerity, the careless, impulsive fellow whose tongue has run away with him, but whose heart is so very much in the right place. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that it overflowed with brotherly affection for Marian and devotion to his wife. He was wounded but uncomplaining over the spare bedroom, and exerted himself to be the best of good company at supper.

Penny, invited to come over and have coffee, was given what might be called a preview by Eliza Cotton, who had stepped in for the purpose, supper being cold and all put out on the table.

“Tongue like a leaky tap—drip, drip, drip, and nothing that’s any more good than what you’d let run down the sink. Darling this, and darling that!”

“He didn’t!”

Eliza snorted.

“Not to me, he didn’t.” Then, after an ominous pause. “Not yet. But I don’t doubt he’ll come to it. Darling, or sweet or both—they just run off his tongue. It’s ‘Marian darling,’ and ‘Ina my sweet,’ and arms round their shoulders, and bouncing up to open doors enough to turn you giddy. Tried it on Mactavish—called him ‘Puss’ which he hates like any poison—and who wouldn’t—and snapped his fingers at him to come.”

“What did Mactavish do?”

“Didn’t let on he so much as knew he was there—waved his tail and went out of the window. And if he’d touched him he’d have scratched.”

Penny’s eyes were round and serious.

“Poor Ina! Eliza, are you sure? Perhaps he just doesn’t know about cats.”

Eliza looked down her nose.

“Never was surer about anything in my life. There was one like him down at Bury Dene where I used to stay with my aunt. Jim Hoskins his name was—curly hair and blue eyes, and all the girls running after him. Joked with all of them, kissed a good few more than ever told, and married the one that had the most in her stocking foot, poor girl. She never was sorry for it but once, and that was all her days. Next thing anyone knew, the money was gone and so was he, and she was taking in washing to provide for his twins.”

Penny giggled.

“Well, Ina hasn’t got twins.”

“Not yet,” said Eliza, and departed in the odour of disapproval.

Penny went over. She wondered afterwards whether Cyril would have charmed her if Eliza hadn’t got in first with her Awful Warning. Perhaps he would, and perhaps he wouldn’t—she didn’t know. She saw that neither Ina nor Marian was being charmed. Marian was quiet and thoughtful, and Ina had smudges under her eyes. Nobody talked very much except Cyril, and the more he talked and the more charming he was, the less Penny liked him. Felix might have the worst manners in the world, but he didn’t smarm. He didn’t say darling unless he meant it, and if it didn’t happen very often, that was because he was so desperately unhappy, poor lamb. Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Felix was being shorn to the quick, and when there wasn’t any more to be got Helen Adrian would just toss it all away and go and look for somebody else. Like an odd sympathetic echo set off by the nursery tag, there slipped into Penny’s mind the words of a proverb she had heard Eliza use. Something about going out for wool and coming home shorn. She was to remember that afterwards.