The Gazebo

THIRTY-THREE

ON THE FOLLOWING morning, Althea being provided with the company of Nicholas Carey, Miss Silver took a bus into the town. She got out half way down the High Street and made her way to the offices of Martin and Steadman, House-Agents. Asking for Mr Martin by name, she was presently ushered into his pleasant room at the back of the house. The day being very mild, a glass door stood wide upon a garden which fairly blazed with autumn flowers. If Miss Silver’s exclamation of admiration and pleasure was not quite uncalculated, it was entirely genuine. She had, it is true, been informed by Althea Graham that praise of his garden was the one sure way to Mr Martin’s heart, but her appreciation was perfectly sincere. The display of dahlias, chrysanthemums, late roses, carnations, and michaelmas daisies, was quite a dazzling one. There was warmth in her voice as she said,

‘What a lovely garden!’

Mr Martin accepted the tribute. It was a not unaccustomed one, but repetition had no power to render it less pleasing. In the course of a short interchange on the subject of suburban gardening she informed him with regret that she herself could not speak from experience, since she lived in a flat.

‘But the gardens here are delightful. The soil must be good. I am staying with Miss Althea Graham at The Lodge, Belview Road.’

Mr Martin’s look changed to one of concern.

‘Then perhaps you can tell me how she is bearing up. I was very much shocked by Mrs Graham’s death. We attended the same church, and I usually pass the house on my way to business. I have known Miss Graham since she was a child. I am glad too, that she has someone staying with her. There are no near relatives, I believe.’

‘I believe not. I am very glad to be here. My name is Silver – Miss Maud Silver. Miss Graham has told me how kind you have always been.’

He moved a paper on his desk and said with a trace of embarrassment,

‘I have tried to do my best for her. I expect she will have told you that I have a client who has been very anxious to purchase the house. It is perhaps too soon to expect Miss Graham to come to any decision in the matter, but from the business point of view it might be better if she did not delay too long. Mr Blount’s last offer was a very handsome one, but I cannot be at all sure that it will stand. A tragedy like this – a murder – well, there is nothing which can so depreciate the value of a property. In Mr Blount’s case his reason for being willing to make such a good offer for the house was the fact that Mrs Blount, who is more or less of an invalid, has taken the greatest possible fancy to it. She seems to be very difficult to suit. He doesn’t want to be too far out of London, and he tells me they have looked at above a hundred houses, first in one suburb and then in another, and that Mrs Blount has turned them all down. He said he could hardly believe it when she took such a fancy to The Lodge. “I give you my word, Mr Martin,” he said, “if I can get her into a house that she likes and she’ll settle down there, it will make the whole difference to my life. Peace and quiet, that’s what I want, and I’ll pay anything in reason to get them.” And of course when you come to think of it, what is the good of anything if you can’t have a bit of peace in your home?’

Miss Silver agreed, after which she inquired whether he had had any communication from his client since Mrs Graham’s death.

Mr Martin took up a pencil, poised it as if he were about to write, and put it down again.

‘Well, no. No, I haven’t. And that is what makes me a little uneasy. You see, Mrs Blount being the kind of nervous invalid he says she is, she may have gone right off the house. These nervous ladies are like that, I am afraid – all over a thing one minute, and right off it the next. Miss Graham will probably not wish to stay on in the house, especially if it is true that she expects to be married very soon. If I may say so, I think that everyone who knows her would be very glad to hear that this is the case. I remember Mr Carey very well. We put through the sale of Grove Hill House for his aunt, Miss Lester. It was a family arrangement, but we saw to the business side of it. Mr Harrison who bought the place is a cousin, but it is always wise to leave professional details in professional hands. Mr Carey used to be about a good deal before Miss Lester moved – spent his holidays here, and always great friends with Miss Graham.’

Miss Silver gave a gentle cough.

‘They are on very friendly terms now, but it is perhaps not quite the moment to make any announcement.’

‘No, no, of course not – I quite understand. But in the circumstances, I feel that if Mr Blount repeats his offer, or comes anywhere near to repeating it, there should be no unnecessary delay. His offer is, or rather was, an outstanding one. Miss Graham could not expect as much from any other quarter. Even if he were to make a much lower offer, I think she would do well to consider it.’

Miss Silver surprised him. She gave a bright sideways look which reminded him of a bird, and said,

‘You expect the price to come down, not so much on account of Mrs Graham’s tragic death and its possible effect on Mr Blount as because Mr Worple is no longer competing.’

Mr Martin repeated the second of the two names.

‘Mr Worple?’

Miss Silver inclined her head.

‘Yes. I happened to meet him when he called to inquire after Miss Graham.’

Mr Martin frowned. Every time Fred Worple’s name was mentioned it gave him the idea that there was something shady going on. Where had Fred got the money to go bidding a house up to something quite above its market value? A lucky win on an outsider – that was Fred’s answer. But why sink the money in buying a house in Grove Hill where he would be nothing but a fish out of water? He wished with all his heart that Fred would clear out. Mr Martin’s suspicions about him had a nasty way of spreading to his own client Mr Blount. The more he thought about any of it, the less he liked it. And here was this Miss Silver saying,

‘Mr Worple is a relation of yours, is he not?’

Practice had perfected Mr Martin in a formula which set Fred Worple at as great a distance as possible. He produced it now.

‘He is my step-mother’s son by a former marriage. I really know very little about him.’

‘I see. I understand from Miss Graham that your family has a long connexion with Grove Hill.’

Mr Martin smiled for the first time.

‘My grandfather started the business, but we had connexions here before that.’

Miss Silver beamed.

‘Then you are probably an authority on the local associations. I have come across an interesting book on the subject whilst staying at The Lodge – a history of the neighbourhood by the Reverend Thomas Jenkinson.’

‘Oh, yes. I remember my father had a copy, but I don’t know what has become of it. Curious how things disappear, isn’t it? Of course my stepmother may have it knocking about somewhere. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had. Curious your mentioning it now – I haven’t thought about that book for years. Rather a prosy old gentleman Mr Jenkinson, but there was a piece about the Gordon Riots… Now let me see, my father thought there might be something in that – some story his grandmother used to tell. She was from these parts, and came back again as a widow. She remembered the old Grove Hill House being burned down by the rioters. She had some kind of post there, I don’t know what, and my father could remember her telling him about the mob breaking in and Mr Warren losing his life – a very nasty business, and a lot of property destroyed. A good job we don’t have that sort of thing now!’

There was a little more talk during which Mr Martin kept the conversation firmly away from Mr Worple. In the course of doing so he dwelt on the recent growth of the suburb and said that his father remembered the High Street as very little more than a row of village shops.

‘Those houses in Belview Road, they were the first to be built somewhere in the nineties – ninety-six, ninety-seven or thereabouts. That was when the Lesters began to sell off parts of the old Grove Hill Estate. The house had been rebuilt, you understand, after the Riots – but I think not for some time after, and they kept that and the garden, but most of the park land was sold and built over. Land was getting expensive to keep up, and of course once we were into this century and Lloyd George came along with his land duties and his death duties all these estates started to break up. Wonderful to think of income tax ninepence in the pound on earned income and one-and-three on unearned! Well, we shall never see that again, shall we?’

Still discoursing in this safe strain, he escorted Miss Silver to the street door, produced a final message for Althea Graham, and was just about to step back into the outer office, when he changed his mind and hurried after her.

‘Miss Silver – if you’ll excuse me – you might perhaps be interested. That is Mrs Blount just getting off the bus.’