The Listening Eye

Chapter 10

MEREFIELDS lay in the spring sunshine with a sprinkle of daffodils in its shrubberies and a broad band of many coloured hyacinths where the drive spread into a wide sweep and half a dozen grey stone steps went up to the front door. The hyacinths looked across the gravel at the house, and from every room which faced that way you could look back at the hyacinths. Lucius Bellingdon pointed them out to Miss Silver with pride.

“Gardeners like cutting holes in the grass and putting in skimped-up mats of flowers. Donald was a bit obstinate when I said I wanted hyacinths all the way along opposite the house, and that sweet-smelling stuff my mother used to call cherry pie to come along after them.”

Miss Silver smiled.

“But you got your way.”

He nodded.

“Smell nice, don’t they-but a bit heavy if you have them in the house. Well now, come along in and meet everyone. Lunch is at one and I’m ready for it, so I hope you are too.”

They encountered Miss Bray in the hall. Bellingdon had expanded his original account of her on the way down.

“Ellen is what she was christened, but don’t say I told you. She thinks Elaine sounds better. Personally I think it’s silly, but what’s the odds so long as it makes her happy? There’s no reason why it should but it seems to, and I ought to be used to it by now.”

She came towards them in a grey woollen dress with a dreary-looking black scarf trailing down below the waist on either side and a jet chain looped two or three times about her neck, which was long and thin. She had fair hair with a good deal of grey in it worn gathered into a loose untidy knot quite insufficiently controlled by an unusual number of hairpins. A further attempt to confine it with a piece of black velvet ribbon could not really be said to be successful. She peered at Miss Silver as if she were shortsighted, but her manner was perfectly amiable as she said,

“Oh, how do you do? I am afraid it is a great rush for you coming down here like this. Lucius did tell me your name, but I am afraid I have forgotten it. Names are so very difficult, don’t you think? And so often they are very misleading. Now I find I so rarely think of my friends by their names. I always feel that there is something much more personal-something that cannot really be put into words-something which I have heard compared to the scent of a flower-”

Lucius Bellingdon said briskly,

“This is Miss Silver, Elaine, and I expect she would like to go to her room before lunch.”

Miss Bray talked all the way up the beautiful staircase with its shallow steps and along a panelled corridor to a room which, she informed Miss Silver, was opposite to her own. It had a good view of the hyacinths and was most comfortably furnished with bright chintzes, a moss-green carpet, and what she was very pleased to see, a small electric fire. Previous experiences in the country had left her under no illusions as to the icy temperatures to which many habitual residents had apparently become enured. Her warmest clothing invariably accompanied her on a country visit, but it would be more comfortable not to require it. There was not only this convenient fire, but the sight of a radiator and the genial warmth of the temperature informed her that the house was centrally heated.

Miss Bray was assiduous in her attentions.

“The bathroom is next door. I cannot tell you how relieved I was when Lucius rang up and said that he had induced you to come down. Even in two days the letters and appeals have piled up in the most trying way. Poor Mr. Garratt is still far from well. I cannot think what can have brought on such a shocking attack. The begging letters are the worst, but Lucius does not think it right to tear them up unread. He tells me you are particularly well adapted to deal with them. It is work which I could not possibly undertake- it would upset me too much. I am afraid I am foolishly sensitive to anything sordid. The seamy side of life-it does not do for me to allow myself to come in contact with it. It haunts me. Now I’m sure you are very strong-minded!”

In her private capacity Miss Silver might have wished to unpack and to tidy herself in privacy. In her professional capacity she could welcome any flow of words however tedious. People who talk all the time are seldom discreet. She owed no small part of her successes to the fact that she was outstandingly easy to talk to. Miss Bray found her a most sympathetic listener as she discoursed upon the difficulty of staffing a house like Merefields.

“Men really have no idea! Take the butler and the cook. Because they have been here for twenty years Lucius thinks they are perfect! And of course they think so too! I am sure I daren’t say a word! And the girls from the village-of course quite untrained-one has to be after them every minute! And they don’t like it! Only the other day Mrs. Hilton told me that Gloria Stubbs was thinking of giving in her notice, and when I wanted to know why, she said it might be better if I were to leave the training of the girls to her! It just shows, doesn’t it!”

Miss Silver observed tactfully that the staffing and running of a big house must be very difficult indeed.

“And Moira is no help at all! I brought her up, you know, after my cousin died-at least she was sixteen, so I didn’t really have the training of her, and she has been married since, which of course makes a difference, don’t you think? But if I suggest her doing anything she only says that there are too many fingers in the pie already. She said that only yesterday, and I’m sure I can’t think what she meant, because if the Ball is going to be put off-you know, I suppose, that Lucius was giving a fancy dress ball at The Luxe next month? That is why he was getting the necklace out of the bank-Moira wanted to see it. And I can’t help feeling intensely thankful that it was stolen before it got here if it was going to be stolen at all. Lucius wasn’t going to keep it here of course-it’s too valuable. Moira wanted to see it, and then they were going to take it up to town and leave it at the jeweller’s to be cleaned and taken care of until the day of the Ball. Of course it is terribly shocking about poor Arthur Hughes, but when I think it might have been Lucius and Moira I really can’t be too thankful! I don’t suppose Lucius will think it necessary to put off the Ball-there were such a lot of people coming. Moira thinks it would be absurd, but young people are so apt to be callous. I often think it would be so much more comfortable not to have such sensitive feelings, but on the other hand does one really want to be insensitive?”

Miss Silver opining that there was a happy mean and introducing a quotation from Lord Tennyson in support of this, they went down to lunch together on the best of terms.

Lucius Bellingdon and three other people were waiting for them-a girl in smoky blue who was Moira Herne, someone taller and older who was Mrs. Scott, and Mr. Hubert Garratt. Introduced by Bellingdon, Miss Silver found herself regarded with as complete a lack of concern as she could have desired.

Her own interest was, however, warmly engaged. Every person in this household had some part in the problem she was here to investigate. Because one of them had talked young Arthur Hughes lay dead. The leakage could have occurred through inadvertence, heedlessness, lack of self-control. It could have been the result of fear, of some burst of confidence, or of malice aforethought, but somehow through one of these people it must have come about. She could not neglect Mr. Bellingdon’s secretary, Mr. Bellingdon’s daughter, or Mr. Bellingdon’s guest.

Moira Herne would have been remarked on anywhere for her ash-blonde colouring. As to her features, they were of the kind you really hardly notice. It was the gleaming hair with its soft full waves, the rather light eyes with a dark ring about the iris, and the fine white skin, which fixed and held the attention. The lashes and brows were slightly and artistically darkened to a golden brown. The mouth, which might have been too pale, had been deepened to a delightful rose, the pointed fingernails matched it to a shade. She allowed the eyes to rest upon Miss Silver in an indifferent stare and did not speak.

Mrs. Scott could hardly have exhibited a greater contrast in looks and manner. She was a tall, slim creature with smooth dark hair, dark eyes, a skin warm with colour, a wide mouth, and teeth as white as hazel-nuts. She might have been anything between twenty-five and forty. Her voice as she said “How do you do?” had a quality of youth which it would probably never lose. She smiled, showing the white teeth, slipped into her place by Lucius Bellingdon, and began to talk to him about this and that. She had an easy charm of manner, a trick of saying things that made them sound interesting, a way of laughing with her eyes. It took Miss Silver rather less than a minute to discern that Lucius Bellingdon’s feeling for her was something out of the ordinary.

Mr. Garratt was middle-aged and inclined to put on weight. He took the foot of the table opposite Mr. Bellingdon and sat there pale and depressed, eating little and talking less, with Moira Herne on one side of him and Miss Bray on the other. Miss Silver, between Miss Bray and her host, could hardly have been better placed. She need not talk, because Mr. Bellingdon was quite taken up with Mrs. Scott. She was therefore free to look and to listen.

The conversation might have been confined to that end of the table if it had not been for Elaine Bray. She appeared to be able to eat and talk at the same time, and was most solicitous about Mr. Garratt’s loss of appetite.

“These eggs-now you really should! They are done in onion sauce-a Portuguese recipe, I believe. The cheese in it neutralizes the onion to a very great extent. Now how do you suppose you are going to get up your strength if you do not eat?”

Mr. Garratt said, “I don’t know.” He took about a dessertspoonful from the proffered dish and left it on his plate.

Moira Herne took a large helping and said in a drawling, husky voice that she adored onions. Her way of speaking was so much at variance with the ethereal fairness of her colouring as to heighten its effect. Miss Silver found herself wondering whether this was deliberate.

“Mrs. Hilton is a marvellous cook,” said Annabel Scott. She smiled warmly and unconventionally at Hilton as she spoke, and turned back again to Lucius with a laughing “I shall put on pounds if I stay here too long!”

As the butler went back to the serving-table, Moira said in exactly the same voice and manner as before,

“Wilfrid is coming down for the weekend.”

Miss Bray echoed the name in a fitful manner. Lucius said,

“That fellow Gaunt? He was here last week, wasn’t he? I don’t remember being struck with him.”

Moira said, “I don’t suppose you would be. I’ve been dancing with him quite a lot in town. He is a dream.”

Elaine said, “My dear!” and Lucius enquired, “As a dancer?”

“Of course.”

“Does he make it his life work?”

“He paints. He has two pictures in the Masters galleries.”

Bellingdon’s attention was caught.

“I bought a picture there the other day-a very good one.”

Moira said “Oh-” And then, “Who was it by?”

“Not your friend Wilfrid, I’m afraid. A young man of the name of Moray-David Moray.”

The large blue eyes gazed at him without expression. There was no expression in the husky voice as she said,

“Wilfrid hates him.”

Lucius burst out laughing.

“Then that will be nice for them both! Because Moray is coming down for the weekend too. I asked him if he would like to see my pictures, and he said he would.”

Moira just went on gazing.

“Wilfrid’s picture is about a tombstone and an aspidistra. The tombstone is in a sort of blue mist, the aspidistra is in a pink pot, and there are some bones.”

Annabel laughed and said, “Why, darling?”

“I don’t know. He painted it like that. It doesn’t really mean tombstones and aspidistras-it means things going on in your Unconscious.”

“Darling, I should hate to have a pink aspidistra in my Unconscious!”

Moira shook her head.

“It was the pot that was pink.”

It was at this point that Miss Bray came in on a worried note.

“Oh, my dear! Oh, Lucius! Do you really think-a party-just at this moment-is it really suitable?”

Moira’s gaze shifted to her. She said without hurry,

“What do you call a party? Two men for the week-end? Not my idea of one, Ellen.”

An unbecoming magenta flush spread over Miss Bray’s face. To call her Ellen was Moira’s way of punishing her. As a rule she avoided giving occasion for it, but at the moment her feelings of propriety were engaged. In the spirit of the proverb that you might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb she added to her offence.

“I think we should be as quiet as possible- I think it will be expected of us. The house is full enough as it is.” Her glance touched Annabel Scott, fell away, met Lucius Bellingdon’s frown, and withdrew. “Of course”- the words came tumbling out-“the inquest was adjourned, and the funeral is over. I don’t mean that we have to shut ourselves up, or that there is anything wrong about having a friend or two down quietly.”

“Then what do you mean?” said Moira Herne. “Do you know?”

Miss Bray was twisting her long jet chain. She said in a nervous hurry,

“I was really thinking about the Ball. I don’t know whether anything has been decided yet, but of course with all those people coming-”

Moira said, “There is nothing to decide.”

Miss Bray tried a second look at Lucius Bellingdon and found him frowning still. He said with some accentuation of his usually decided manner,

“There can be no question about the Ball. It will take place as arranged. The date is still a month away. No one could possibly expect us to call it off.”

“No-no-of course not. I only thought we ought to know what is going to happen. I wasn’t really suggesting-Naturally, as you say, a month is quite a long time.”

He laughed.

“Did I? I don’t remember. Anyhow there is nothing to worry about.”

Hubert Garratt had taken no part in this interchange. He crumbled the slice of bread beside him and drank from a glass of water. The arrangements might have had nothing to do with him at all, yet the brunt of the work in connection with the Ball would fall to his share. As soon as lunch was over he disappeared.

The rest of the party adjourned to the drawing-room for coffee. Miss Silver found herself next to Mrs. Scott. She was about to remark on the view from the windows, where a smooth green lawn sloped gently to the windings of a stream, the banks all set with daffodils, when Moira Herne walked up to them coffee-cup in hand and said,

“I shall have to get another dress for the Ball. What a bore!”

Annabel laughed.

“Why should getting a new dress be a bore? And why do you have to get one anyway?”

Moira just stood there.

“The other dress was a copy of one Marie Antoinette really wore. I’m not going to wear it without the necklace-why should I! Anyway they say her things are unlucky.”

Annabel Scott looked up at her appraisingly. It was rather as if she were looking at a picture or a statue.

“I don’t know about unlucky, but definitely not in your line.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The appraising look vanished. A wide flashing smile took its place.

“But, darling-with your colouring! Why smother it with powder? Fancy having hair like yours and covering it up with a wig!”

Moira frowned.

“I didn’t think about that. I wanted to wear the necklace. If it’s gone, there doesn’t seem to be much point about the rest of it. Now I don’t know what to wear.”

“Oh, you must be Undine! I didn’t say anything before, because you’d got it all settled.”

“Who was she? I’ve never heard of her.”

Miss Silver was shocked. She was aware that the classic authors of her youth were now mere shadows from the past, but that La Motte Fouqué should have ceased to be even a shadow shook her. It appeared that Mrs. Scott at least knew something of his most famous creation.

“Undine was a water spirit. It’s a German legend. She fell in love with an earthly knight and married him, but in the end he was false to her and she disappeared in a cloud of spray from a fountain. One of the Chopin ballades puts the story into music.”

“You do know a lot, don’t you?” said Moira Herne. And then, “What would she wear?”

Miss Silver considered that Mrs. Scott showed an amiable temper in her reply. Mrs. Herne’s manner had been abrupt to the point of rudeness, but Annabel only laughed and said,

“Undine? Well, it might be rather enchanting, I think. Transparent green draperies like water flowing, and your hair brushed out into a sort of cloud like spray. Lucius, give me a pencil and paper and I’ll show her.”

There were both on an ornamental table in the window. She took them, drew rapidly, and held up the result to Moira. The sketch had caught a likeness, but it was a likeness with a twist on it. It was, in fact, Undine with her unearthly lightness and grace, her hair blown by some wind of glamour, her dress flowing with the lines of flowing water. Moira studied it attentively. In the end she enquired,

“Green chiffon?”

“Green and grey-very pale grey, to get the water effect. You could have crystal drops where the points of the dress come down. No, not diamonds-they mustn’t be too bright.”

She went across to the piano at the far end of the room and began to play the Undine ballade.

“Listen-this will give you the idea.”

She had an exquisite touch. The rocking melody came on the air with real enchantment. When the storm of Kühleborn’s anger broke she gave it only a few wild chords and dropped her hands from the keys.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Moira Herne said in a grudging tone,

“It mightn’t be bad, but no one will have the foggiest idea what it’s meant for.”

As Annabel Scott came back to her seat she was saying to herself, “She hasn’t a spark of imagination. Why did I suggest Undine?”