Miss Silver Comes To Stay

CHAPTER 11

Carr and Fancy came back by the six-thirty and took a taxi from Lenton. They were hungry and cheerful. Fancy had had a marvellous time, because she had met a friend who had not only taken her out to lunch but had introduced her to three separate people, each one of whom had declared that he or she could get her a job with simply no difficulty at all. “And one of them was in films. He said I’d be too photogenic, and I told him I was, because I do take marvellously. So I showed him the photos I had in my bag-wasn’t it lucky I got them-only I shouldn’t dream of going up to town without them, because you never can tell, can you? And he said he’d show them to a friend of his who is the big noise at the Atlanta Studios, and of course what he says goes. Wouldn’t it be simply marvellous if I got a job in films?”

Carr put his arm round her shoulders quite affectionately and said,

“Darling, you can’t act.”

The big blue eyes opened in surprise.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen you try.”

“So you have.” There was no rancour in her voice. “Do you think it matters? And, you know, you’re sort of funny that way-a lot of people liked me. And it wasn’t a proper part either-I only had two sentences to say.”

He laughed again.

“Darling, you were rotten.”

Rietta, helping sausage loaf and a mixed salad, thought, “I haven’t heard him laugh like that since I don’t know when. I wonder if they’re engaged. She isn’t the right sort for him. I wonder how it will turn out. I think she’s got more heart than Marjory had-she couldn’t very well have less. Oh, God-why does one bring up children!”

Whatever the future was going to be, there was no doubt about Carr’s access of spirits in the present. He had been into the office and found Jack Smithers elated over a very advantageous sale of film rights. He also described, with a good deal of verve, a manuscript which they had had pressed upon them as a discovery of the age by a pontifical gentleman with something of a name in politics.

“It’s written by a child of ten without stops or capitals, and he says it’s absolutely the last word in the pure genius of simplicity. Smithers says it’s tripe, but of course you never can tell whether that sort of thing mayn’t come off. There’s a sort of borderline between tripe and genius, and there have been hits before now which have had a foot on either side of it.”

He and Rietta produced instances and wrangled joyously about them. It was all very much like the old times before Marjory happened. If Fancy felt left out in the cold she didn’t show it, and acquired merit with Rietta, who conceded that she seemed to be very sweet-tempered. As a matter of fact Fancy was quite pleased not to have to talk, her mind being entirely taken up with a model she had seen at Estelle’s- twenty-five guineas, and it looked every penny of it, but she knew one of the girls who modelled there, and if she could coax the coupons out of Mum, and Maudie could give her the low-down on how the pleats went, she thought she could copy it. And talk about hits, it would be just about smashing.

She was still thinking about it when they had finished the washing up and Henry Ainger came in, as he did a dozen times a week for the perfectly simple reason that he couldn’t keep away from Rietta Cray. It was a reason which was patent to everyone in the village. Henry himself displayed it with perfect simplicity. He loved Rietta, and if she ever consented to marry him, he would be the happiest of men. He didn’t mind who knew about it, which was one of the things that exasperated his sister. She had tried scolding him as she had scolded Mrs. Grover about the bacon, but you cannot really make a success of scolding a man who merely smiles and says, “I shouldn’t worry, my dear.”

Henry came in cheerfully, put down a bundle of picture-papers-“Had them sent to me-thought you’d like to see them”-wouldn’t take coffee because he was on his way to see old Mrs. Wingfold at Hill Farm, wouldn’t sit down for the same reason, and ended by taking the cup which Rietta put into his hand and drinking from it standing up in front of the fire.

“She thinks she’s dying. Of course she isn’t. It happens about three times a month, but I must go or she might, and then I’d never forgive myself. You make the best coffee I know, Rietta.”

She smiled, her face softening. It is agreeable to be loved when the lover demands nothing except the privilege of worship, and she was very fond of Henry Ainger. He was, as she had once said, so very nearly an angel. Not that he looked like one, or like a parson either, in a pair of old grey flannel slacks, a thick white sweater, and a disreputable raincoat. Above it his rosy face, round blue eyes, and thick fair hair gave him rather the look of a schoolboy in spite of his forty-five years. In daylight you could see that there was a good deal of grey in the hair, but the look of youth would be there when he was ninety. He finished his coffee, had a second cup, and said goodnight.

At the door he turned.

“Mrs. Mayhew’s back early. I came out in the bus with her from Lenton. I thought she looked worried. I hope it isn’t Cyril again.”

Carr came back from the bookcase where he had been dallying.

“I saw Cyril Mayhew at the station. He came down on the same train that we did.”

Rietta held out a cup of coffee to him.

“Did you speak to him?”

“No-I was going to offer him a lift, but he slipped away.”

“He may not have been coming here. He doesn’t-” she paused and added, “officially.”

Carr raised his eyebrows.

“Anything the matter?”

She said, “Some trouble-I don’t want to rake it up.” She turned to Henry Ainger. “Mrs. Mayhew couldn’t have known he was coming, or she’d have met the train and they’d have come out together.”

“She might. I hope there’s nothing wrong. I was surprised to see her hurrying back like that on her evening out. Mayhew wasn’t with her.”

Rietta frowned a little.

“James Lessiter’s up at the House. I expect she felt she had to come back and give him something to eat. I don’t suppose he’s in the way of doing anything for himself.”

Henry agreed.

“I don’t suppose he is. He seems to have made a lot of money. There’s a picture of him in one of those papers. He’s just pulled off some big deal. I must see if I can get something out of him for the organ fund.”

The door slammed after him-the banging of doors was one of Henry’s less angelic habits-and almost at the same moment the telephone bell clamoured from the dining-room. As Rietta went to answer it she saw Carr stretch out his hand to the pile of picture-papers.

She shut both doors, picked up the receiver, and heard Catherine’s voice, blurred and shaken.

“Rietta-is it you?”

“Yes. What’s the matter? You sound-”

“If it was only sounding-” She broke off on a choked breath.

“Catherine, what is it?”

She was beginning to be seriously alarmed. None of this was like Catherine. She had known her for more than forty years, and she had never known her like this. When things went wrong Catherine passed by on the other side. Even Edward Welby’s death had always been presented as a lack of consideration on his part rather than an occasion for heartbreak. The ensuing financial stringency had not prevented her from acquiring mourning garments of a most expensive and becoming nature. Rietta had listened to her being reproachful, complacent, plaintive. This was something different.

“Rietta-it’s what we were talking about. He rang up- he’s found that damned memorandum. Aunt Mildred must have been out of her mind. It was written just before she died. You know how forgetful she was.”

“Was she?” Rietta’s tone was dry.

The line throbbed with Catherine’s indignation.

“You know she was! She forgot simply everything!”

“It’s no use your asking me to say that, because I can’t. What does the memorandum say?”

“It says the things were lent. She must have been mad!”

“Does it mention them by name?”

“Yes, it does. It’s completely and perfectly damnable. I can’t give them back-you know I can’t. And I believe he knows too. That’s what frightens me so much-he knows, and he’s enjoying it. He’s got a down on me, I’m sure I don’t know why. Rietta, he-he said he’d rung up Mr. Holderness.”

“Mr. Holderness won’t encourage him to make a scandal.”

“He won’t be able to stop him. Nobody ever could stop James when he’d made up his mind-you know that as well as I do. There’s only one thing-Rietta, if you went to him- if you told him his mother really didn’t remember things from one day to another-”

Rietta said harshly, “No.”

“Rietta-”

“No, Catherine, I won’t! And it wouldn’t be the least bit of good if I did-there’s Mr. Holderness, and the doctor, to say nothing of the Mayhews and Mrs. Fallow. Mrs. Lessiter knew perfectly well what she was doing, and you know it. I won’t tell lies about her.”

There was a dead silence. After it had gone on for a long minute Catherine said,

“Then anything that happens will be your fault. I’m desperate.”