Unknown (4 page)

She rang off and came out to join Rosamund, beaming all over her pleasant face.

“Yes, you did drop it there, just as you got back into the car. But Tom didn’t see it until you’d started off, and though he shouted to you, you didn’t hear. He’s put it in his safe. I told him we’d pick it up tomorrow.”

“O-oh! ” Rosamund breathed a deep sigh of relief.

'Yes, you’ve been lucky,” Miss Coates acknowledged. “Tom is as honest as the day. And his wife is a delightful girl—a first-class cook, too. Which reminds me, Tom asked me if we’d have a meal there as their guests and I said we would. All right?”

“Yes, of course,” Rosamund’s eyes sparkled. “You know, when I was there this morning there was something cooking which smelt quite heavenly—something with onions in it. It made my mouth water and I almost asked if I could have a meal there, only—” the sparkle faded, “I wanted to get on—”

“Well, we’ll make up for it tomorrow,” Miss Coates promised. “And now we’d better get back. It was fortunate for us that the rain stopped long enough for us to get here, but the clouds are blowing up again.”

Neither of them spoke much on the way back, Rosamund because the sense of sheer relief obsessed her to the exclusion of everything else, Miss Coates because she was genuinely glad that Rosamund had been proved to have told the truth and far from displeased that her own perspicacity had assured her that it would be so.

When they reached the gate in the hedge leading to the canal, they had a brief glimpse of John. He was swabbing down the deck and might or might not have seen them, but certainly he let: go of his mop and vanished inside with considerable speed.

Miss Coates 'gave an unregenerate little chuckle which made Rosamund turn and look enquiringly at her.

“Just I was thinking how pleasant it will be to inform that young man that I was right and he was wrong!”

“About me telling the truth?” Rosamund asked, and when Miss Coates grinned and nodded, she looked doubtful.

“But is it worth worrying about?” she asked. “I mean, it wasn’t only a question of my purse. I did do other things that annoyed him. I took his food and went to sleep on his bed and even though he hadn’t locked up, from his point of view—”

“Are" you defending him, by any chance?” Miss Coates interrupted in surprise. “Because, if so, I consider that uncommonly generous of you. He behaved like the oaf I’d already found him to be.”

“Yes—well, perhaps he did. But I’ve been wondering— le looks like somebody with a chip on his shoulder. So perhaps he’s had good cause not to trust anybody. And in my case, he was quite right about one thing. It
was
impossible for me to stay here.”

“True,” Miss Coates agreed absently, her mind suddenly off at a tangent.

For the first time she was reminded that many a love story has begun with conflict between the two people concerned and that almost invariably innocent bystanders were apt to get caught up in the maelstrom. She sighed. she liked what she had seen of Rosamund and she had her own reasons for being resolved to stand by her. All the same, it seemed likely that this summer the tranquillity of mind which she was accustomed to find here might be difficult, if not actually impossible, to come by.

Robert Dexter arrived during Saturday morning. He was a man in his early fifties and despite the fact that he was wearing extremely informal clothes, Rosamund’s first impression of him was one of essential spruceness. For one thing, old though as they were, it was evident that his clothes had been personally tailored. His brown hair, only lightly flecked with white at the temples, was short and well brushed. He wore a small Vandyke beard trimmed with professional skill and his hand, when Miss Coates introduced them and he took Rosamund’s in his, was warm and firm. In fact, she took an instant liking to him and as their eyes met she smiled with instinctive friendliness.

Dr. Rob—which was how Miss Coates had introduced him—smiled responsively and his grasp of her hand tightened very slightly.

“I’m very glad to meet you, my dear!” he told her, and the way in which he said it convinced her that it wasn’t just an empty, conventional remark. He really meant it, and even in that brief space of time she knew that she had made a friend.

“Well?” Alice Coates demanded.

The sun was shining gloriously now and freshened by the rain earlier in the week, hedgerows and flowers were more beautiful than ever.

But the two old friends, sitting together on the deck of the
Rosebud
_}
were barely aware of their surroundings.

Rosamund, thinking that they might enjoy their own company better if she was not there, had made the excuse of shopping to go to the village. Almost immediately Miss Coates had left her own craft to visit Dr. Rob.

“The likeness is undeniable,” he said slowly. “And of course, the eyes—” He paused. “Tell me what you know about her, Alice.”

“Not very much,” she acknowledged regretfully. “She’s far from being communicative. But what I do know all fits in. For example, she tells me that she’s twenty-three, and though I don’t know exactly when her birthday is, any time during that year would make it possible.”

“True enough,” Dr. Rob acknowledged. “What else?”

“Only odds and ends that I’ve pieced together,” Miss Coates explained. “But of course it’s possible that, having already jumped to a conclusion, I’m
making
things fit that really don’t. So check on my reasoning very carefully, Rob!”

“I don’t know that I’m the best person to do that,” he said a little wryly. “You see, I
want
your conclusions to be right! Still, go ahead.”

“Well, after the initial shock of realising the likeness, I looked out for anything she said or did that was in any way revealing. She admitted to me that she had run away from—somebody, but even before that I had thought it more than probable. You see, these days, most girls use make-up. Rosamund doesn’t. Yet her nails are most exquisitely manicured. Now, those two things contradict one another. Nails like that
go
with make-up—quite a lot of it, in my opinion. But to stop using it is the best disguise a woman can adopt. I’m quite sure that nobody who knows her with it would recognise her as she is at present.”

“Not even with those eyes?” Dr. Rob suggested, shading his own eyes with his hand. “They’re very unusual, you know.”

“Yes,” Miss Coates acknowledged. “They are, of course. But if I’m right about the make-up, then she would certainly use eye-shadow—probably green. But quite likely, just because green eyes are so unusual, most people, unless they were face to face with her, would conclude that her eyes were no more than greenish-blue, and that she was deliberately emphasising the green to make a gimmick out of the unusual. You see what I meant when I said I was trying to make things fit,” she added wryly.

“Well, as a mere man, I don’t feel I can criticise your reasoning. I’m frankly out of my depth. But your suspicions were at least confirmed by her own admission later. Let’s go on from there.”

“I’ll try to remember as nearly word for word as I can,” Miss Coates promised, and after a brief interval, with her eyes fixed unseeingly ahead of her, she delved back into the recent past.

Dr. Rob listened attentively, once or twice looking at her with keen, half-closed eyes as she made some point or other. “So we know that she’s doing work that she doesn’t enjoy and is both living with and working for a woman who can see no other point of view than her own.”

“You’re quicker on the uptake than anyone else I know, man or woman,” Miss Coates declared appreciatively. “I suppose it comes from sorting the grain from the chaff when your patients tell you their symptoms! Anything else?”

“By the way in which Rosamund referred to the
wrong
sort of publicity, it surely means that there is a
right
sort. In other words, that good advertisement is essential to— whatever sort of activity is involved.” He looked questioningly at his companion, who nodded without speaking. Clearly that was not the only conclusion she wanted him to draw.

Dr. Rob pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Yes. You made a correction in repeating something Rosamund said. First of all, you reported her as having said that she didn’t think
her
—and then altered it to
she.
Whose correction, Rosamund’s or yours?”

“Hers.”

“H’m! '
I don't think my
—’ Now, what did she nearly say? It would fit in if it was some group name for a special type of relative, wouldn’t it? I think we can dismiss the possibility of it being ‘mother’. There is a certain sentiment about avoiding such criticism. So—an older sister, do you think?”

"Possibly,” Miss Coates admitted, but without enthusiasm.

'But that doesn’t fit into your pattern?” Dr. Rob asked faintly. “Cousin? Or aunt?”

"It could be,” Miss Coates said, still in that non-committal way.

"But you’re still determined not to put ideas into my head?” Dr. Rob touched her hand gently. “You’re a woman in a thousand, Alice. In such circumstances most members of your sex would resent me doing any thinking my own, because a woman’s intuition is never at fault!”

"It isn’t very often,” Miss Coates said dryly. “Well, next?”

"Well, next, my dear, is that you’re withholding a vital portion of information, aren’t you?”

"Am I?"

"Oh yes, that is if you know it. What’s the child’s surname?”

"Hastings,” Miss Coates said briefly.

Dr. Rob stood up and walked to the side of the boat. His back was towards Miss Coates, but' she could see that as gripping the rail so tightly that his knuckles stood out white. Her eyes very tender, she waited in silence for him to speak.

"So it would seem to be possible that your little waif is my daughter!” he said at length in a deeply moved voice.

"That's how it seems to me,” Miss Coates said uneasily. “Of course, it’s not absolutely conclusive—”

"But it is sufficiently conclusive to warrant me making enquiries,” Dr. Rob asserted grimly. “And that I intend to do without delay!” And for emphasis, he lifted one hand and brought it down resoundingly on the rail.

"You mean—you’ll question Rosamund?”

He thought that over for a moment, then turned and went back to his chair.

"No, not in the first instance. I want the child to get to know me better and, if possible, to like me before she’s told —if, indeed, there’s anything to tell. I’ve got to face Alice, there may not be. Which is another reason for saying nothing to Rosamund at this juncture.”

“Yes,” Miss Coates nodded. “All the same, Rob, in your heart of hearts you do more than hope it’s true, don’t you? You think it very likely is !”

“Yes, I do,” he said slowly. “There’s too much coincidence otherwise. Besides, this could be history repeating itself!”

He slumped in his chair, his hands in his pockets, deep in thought. Miss Coates waited patiently, wondering if he was going to take her into his confidence, and made up her mind that much as she longed to know just what he meant, if he preferred not to, she would respect his reticence. But suddenly, and to her, surprisingly, he said: '

“How long have we known one another, Alice?”

“Since we were children. We’ve always been good friends.”

“Yes, always,” he agreed. “And yet I’ve never told you much about my married life, have I?”

“Not very much,” she replied evenly. “But then our work lay in such different spheres. It was almost inevitable that we should drift apart. But I did meet Celia, you know. We met by chance in Regent Street, and you introduced us. I’ve never forgotten what she looked like— I remember thinking that I’d never seen a lovelier face and that I’d love to paint it. In fact, when I got back to my studio. I did a painting of her from memory. I still have it.”

But she didn’t tell him just why she had painted it—to be a reminder of her own folly. Even now, after so many years, she felt that agonising pang when she had seen the lovely girl he had fallen in love with. No wonder, once he had met her, he had forgotten his old friend’s plain face! No, not forgotten. They were still the best of friends—but Celia was still enshrined in his heart.

“I’d like to see it some time, if you’d let me,” Dr. Rob said quietly. “Particularly now, to make a comparison.” He was silent for a moment, then, almost as if he was thinking aloud: “She was very lovely—and very young and inexperienced. As for me, I was a bumptious young cub!”

“Rob, you were never that!” Miss Coates disclaimed indignantly.

“Oh yes, I was, my dear! I had an extremely good
opinion of myself. I’d got on very well and I put that down entirely to my own brilliance instead of realising that I had incredible luck. The right opening always seemed to turn up at just the right time for me—”

‘Perhaps it did—but only because you were the right person!” she insisted.

Dr. Rob smiled rather wryly.

‘You always were a partisan where your friends were concerned, weren’t you? Well, we won’t argue about that, though my mentality at the time played a large part in the break-up of our marriage.”

‘It did break up?” This was news to Miss Coates. “I knew, of course, that you were in America when she died, but I had imagined that you were there only temporarily—that you thought you’d gain useful experience—”

“You were quite right. But that wasn’t the only reason.” He leaned forward, his hands dangling loosely between his knees. “The break was already imminent before I left and I, in my high and mighty way, thought that a temporary separation might bring Celia to her senses. But I’d reckoned without her sister—”

“Ruth Hastings,” Miss Coates supplied quietly.

He looked at her sharply.

“So you knew that! How?”

“Because even then she was making quite a name for herself in the world of fashion,” Miss Coates explained. "Not my world, of course—I’ve never met her. But very certainly an increasingly important person to more than one of my women clients. That’s the worst of painting women. They will chatter so when one wants to concentrate,” she added in parenthesis.