The Clock Strikes Twelve

Chapter 8

The numbness lasted through his interview with James Paradine. It was not a long one. He had, in fact, made an excuse of it. James was neither expecting him nor desirous of keeping him. He sat grim and sarcastic at his writing-table and said,

“Come to confess, have you? Go away! I’m busy, or I’d tell you just what a fool I think you are.”

“Thank you, sir- Lydia has just been telling me that.”

“She’s too free with her tongue. Wants a husband who’ll keep her in order. Richard won’t. But I’m talking about you. You’re a fool to come visiting me tonight. It’s compromising, that’s what it is- damned compromising.” He gave a short, hard laugh. “If anyone saw you, your character’s gone. They’ll be sure you came to confess.”

“To what?”

“Folly of some kind,” said James Paradine. “There are more fools than wise men, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the devil made the fools. Anyhow be off with you! You’ll get your plans in the morning.”

He went out, and was aware of Albert Pearson in the offing, looking earnest.

“If I might have a word with you, Wray-”

Nobody in the world with whom Elliot less desired to have a word than Albert, but impossible to refuse. He did say, “I thought you had work to do,” but it produced no effect. Albert merely remarked that he could do it later and followed Elliot to his room. It was on the farther side of the bedroom floor, and was the same which had always been assigned to him before he married Phyllida-a fair-sized room which would have looked larger if it had not contained so much furniture. Mahogany bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, dressing-table, and wash-stand encroached upon the floor space. There was a writing-table, an armchair, and two or three smaller chairs.

Albert came in, shut the door, and said,

“Do you mind if I stay here till after twelve?”

“What?”

Albert repeated the horrible remark.

“Do you mind if I stay here till after twelve? You see, he’s made it very awkward for me, living in the house. It’s all very well for the Ambrose lot-they can go home and be alibis for each other, and so can Richard and Mark. Cousin Grace and Phyllida can stick together if they want to. But what about me after what he said? ‘I’ll be in my study till twelve’- well, who’s going to say I didn’t go and have an interview with him and confess to what he was hinting about at dinner? I’m the one the family would rather see in a spot than any of themselves-wouldn’t they? If you can’t see them tumbling over one another to put it on me, I can. And I’m not having any. My character is my capital, and I’m not risking it. I’ll have a witness to prove that I didn’t go near him till the time was up.”

Elliot leaned against the footrail of the bed with his hands in his pockets and said with a spice of malice,

“Well, you had a minute or two to confess in before I came along-didn’t you?”

Albert shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. Lane was in the study when I got there, putting out a tray of drinks-he can speak to that. And I wasn’t there half a minute behind him. I suppose nobody imagines I had time to confess to whatever it is in about thirty seconds.”

“It would be quick work.”

“Very well. Then if I stay here till after twelve, they can’t put it on me.”

Elliot raised his eyebrows. The hands on the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to a quarter past ten. He had never cottoned to Albert, he was not cottoning to him now. Nearly two hours of Albert neat was a stupefying prospect. Of all things in the world, he desired to be alone. He said in the driest tone at his command,

“I should cut it out and go to bed.”

Albert looked obstinate. All the Paradines could be obstinate, but it was his mother, born Millicent Paradine, who had been nicknamed Milly the Mule.

“I have my character to consider.”

Elliot produced an agreeable smile.

“I could always lock you in and take away the key.”

Albert’s resemblance to the late Mrs. Pearson was intensified. He walked over to the easy chair and sat down.

“I might have another key. I’m not taking any risks. Besides, have you thought about your own position? Cousin Grace doesn’t exactly love you, you know, and what goes for me goes for you. If we sit here together, she can’t put anything on either of us. See? I can say you weren’t in long enough with him to do any confessing. So it will be all O.K. for both of us.”

The situation could hardly have been more tersely summed up. The facts were as stated. That there was a certain humour attaching to them was obvious to Elliot. He resigned himself to the inevitable.

Albert having annexed the only armchair, he seated himself upon the bed and prepared to endure. He would at least not be called upon for very much in the way of conversation. No one in England could better sustain a monologue than Albert. A competent analysis of Japanese foreign policy for the last twenty years led on by a natural transition to a résumé of the personal history and career of Marshal Chiang Kai-Shek. The words flowed over Elliot without really impinging upon his mind or impeding the processes of his thought. They were even vaguely soothing. Albert’s voice rose and fell. There was not the slightest need to listen to what he was saying. Elliot did not listen.

He came to the surface at intervals and was aware of Albert discoursing on Communism, on Proportional Representation, on the life history of the eel, but for the most part he remained submerged beneath the flow of his own thoughts and of Albert’s persistent monologue.