Before the Fact (29 page)

“Yes,” Lina nodded eagerly. “That’s just what I thought – think.”

“But with the footbridge, of course, he hasn’t,” firmly pursued Miss Sedbusk. “Yes, that’s the difference. And in a matter like that, of general knowledge, even if he did knowingly incite the other man, I should say the chances are that, legally, it wasn’t murder.”

“No,” Lina agreed comfortably.

“But I’ll ask my lawyer friend whom I always pester with this kind of thing, to make sure, if you like.”

“Oh, no; don’t bother,” Lina said hastily. “I’m really not in the least interested. In fact, I can’t think how you can wallow in all that kind of thing, Isobel. Personally, I couldn’t
bear
it.”

“Well, I got the information about Abbey from your own book on Palmer,” returned Miss Sedbusk.

“Mine?”

“Or Johnnie’s. He lent it me last summer.”

“Oh! Oh, yes,” Lina murmured. She had not had the least idea that Johnnie had a book like that. She made a note of the name: Palmer.

Usually Lina found a curious and rather horrid fascination in encouraging Isobel Sedbusk to talk about murder; though it made her shiver at times to hear Johnnie discussing it with her, in the bantering way he had adopted towards Isobel. But this was sailing rather too near the wind. She changed the subject.

When Johnnie had taken Isobel back to Maybury in the car, she went into the morning room and searched the book-shelf.

There it was.
The Life and Career of William Palmer, of Rugely;
on the same self as
Jorrocks
and
Ruff’s Guide to the Turf.
She felt quite angry with Johnnie. He really was too confidently careless.

She took the book away and hid it in her bedroom, to destroy later.

But she would read it first.

Of course Isobel had said that it wasn’t murder.

Lina had come to that conclusion herself, a very long time ago. It had been a great consolation to her. If one’s husband has not committed
murder,
then one’s husband cannot reasonably be considered a murderer. Poison, and pistols, and Isobel’s “blunt instruments,” are the ingredients of murder: not a silly bet between two drunken men.

It was the first time that Lina’s heart had beaten at all rapidly over that subject for months.

Not that she had come in the least to condone what Johnnie had done. It was horrible, even now, to think about. But it had not been murder; and that does make all the difference. It was surprising, too, how little she did think about it, consciously.

But in her subconsciousness Lina knew that it remained, and always would remain, as vivid as ever. Subconsciously it influenced all her thoughts, and most of her actions. The feeling that she and Johnnie were cut off from the rest of the world had now become natural to her. Other people did not know it, but she did, and took it for granted. It no longer distressed her, really. It just meant that Johnnie was not responsible for what he did and she was his keeper, with a trust that she must never relax for an instant; and no one else must ever, ever know anything about it. She still had her moments of rebellion against the responsibility that had been laid on her, but they were not many. Time can accustom one to anything.

And of course she had her compensations.

Johnnie had not relapsed again. This time he had stuck to what he said. The pages of the betting book remained blank. Johnnie had made no bet for nearly two-and-a-half years. Lina felt that to have caused such a reformation nothing could really have happened in vain.

At times Lina surprised herself with the way in which she had come to accept what had happened. She refused to suspect that she was taking the letter for the law. She was determined to believe the casuistry with which she consoled herself and defended Johnnie. And she did believe it. Johnnie, who could not distinguish right from wrong, had not thought that he was doing wrong; and therefore he had not done wrong. And in any case he had not committed murder, and that was a very great consolation.

Moreover, Johnnie did love her, devotedly; and that was a very great consolation too.

Johnnie and she had been married now more than ten years, and Johnnie still loved her devotedly. Lina knew that. Johnnie had not looked at another woman since she came back to him. He had got over all that sort of thing. Lina knew that too. She was no longer the blind wife; unconsciously she was now on the alert the whole time for Johnnie to stray. If he had strayed, she would have known at once. Johnnie had not strayed.

Lina loved him more than ever.

She loved him tenderly, maternally, and passionately. She loved him so much that sometimes, alone, the tears would come into her eyes at the thought of loving so much, and being so much loved. She actually loved Johnnie all the more for the terrible things he had done. It proved that she was so necessary to him, and she adored being necessary to him, even though Johnnie could never know just how necessary she was. Lina knew that she could never have loved Ronald like that.

Johnnie was such a model husband now too. He hardly ever left Dellfield at all. He gardened, played with his prize bulls and his roses, attended the county council, sat on the bench, and pottered. The complete country gentleman. Johnnie was absolutely no trouble at all.

But Lina never left him. She had not set foot in London since Beaky’s death, except for one or two visits with Johnnie. Her patient might be quite well again, but Lina knew she dared not leave her post. She did not want to leave it.

She was happy.

Incredibly, she thought sometimes, remembering everything; but she
was
happy. Johnnie needed her, and she needed Johnnie; and she was happy.

It increased her happiness to know that Johnnie was happy too. He was merrier in public, and more affectionate to her in private, than ever before. There was still more than a touch of the schoolmistress about his views of her, she knew; but that did not matter. Johnnie’s nature needed a schoolmistress; perhaps unconsciously welcomed one. It was far too inert to be able to remain upright without such a prop.

And being accepted as a schoolmistress, Lina could not help behaving rather like one. She tried not to speak sometimes too peremptorily, or even dictatorially; but it was now she who took all the decisions, as a matter of course. Johnnie did not seem to mind. Lina thought he preferred it. His mind was lazy too. Hers had been disciplined; Johnnie’s never would be.

So Lina now said what Johnnie was to do; and Johnnie, still with his schoolboy grin, did it.

Lina never realized quite how much, and how often, she said what Johnnie was to do.

Lina considered it a measure of Johnnie’s regeneration that he should suddenly, in the autumn between Miss Sedbusk’s two summers, have begun to take such an interest in insurance.

The old Johnnie had never thought beyond the moment. To skimp the present by safeguarding the future would have seemed to him madness. And yet here was the new Johnnie, his desk littered with the pamphlets of various companies, poring over them day after day, comparing, taking notes, working out premiums and figures, all as if insurance were one of the most absorbing things in the world.

Lina, coming into the morning room one rainy October afternoon, had to kiss the little new bald patch on the top of his head in order to bring him down to earth again.

“Yes, but there’s a lot in this insurance stuff,” Johnnie had told her earnestly. “No, there is really, monkeyface. Look here, for instance. Supposing I died to-morrow ...”

“Darling!” said Lina fondly.

“No, but supposing I did. You’d be left without ... Oh, no, you wouldn’t. I was forgetting the boot was on the other foot. Well, supposing
you
died to-morrow.”

Lina sat down on the arm of a chair. Johnnie really did mean business.

“I hope I shan’t. But all right, suppose it.”

“Well,
I
might be left penniless. Mightn’t I?”

“Not quite penniless, darling. I’m leaving you enough to buy the matches for your cigarettes.” Lina had made a will when she first inherited her money, leaving everything to Johnnie. She had never told him so.

“No, but I might.
I
don’t know what’s in your will. And as I’ve always said, I don’t want to. That’s your pigeon. But for all I know you may have left everything to Robert and Armorel. And even if you haven’t, there are the death duties. Everyone ought to insure against death duties. You ought really, monkeyface, you know.”

“Ought I, Johnnie?” Lina smiled.

“Yes. I mean it. Seriously.”

Lina knew perfectly well that she ought to be insured against death duties. Her solicitor had told her so repeatedly. She had never bothered to take the steps.

“I suppose I ought,” she said reluctantly. She did not at all like the idea of parting with income to save somebody else capital after her death, even Johnnie.

“Well, it’s about time, if you want anything like a decent premium. They get pretty high when you’re over forty.”

“I’m not over forty,” Lina said indignantly. “I’m not forty at all yet, as you very well know.” She was thirty-nine.

Johnnie began to explain the figures. A policy payable at death was very much cheaper than an endowment policy; it was not necessary to have a profit-bearing policy; and so on. Johnnie seemed to know all about it.

“I see,” said Lina, as intelligently as possible. “And how much ought I to take a policy out for? A thousand?”

“A thousand? Ten!”

“Johnnie! The death duties couldn’t come to anything like that.”

“I bet they would. Or pretty nearly. Wait a minute. I’ll look it up in Whitaker.” Johnnie fetched Whitaker from the shelf and ran through the pages. “Here we are. It’s fifty thousand, isn’t it? The duty on fifty thousand is – yes, I thought I was right. Ten per cent. Ten thousand. And a policy for ten thousand will cost – yes, you can get one for just over two-fifty a year.”

“But, darling, we can’t afford two hundred and fifty a year. It’s out of the question.”

“Can’t we?” Johnnie scratched his head. “Look here, monkeyface, it is important, you know. I tell you what you can do. Dock me a hundred off my little lot, and that will leave you with only a hundred and fifty to find.”

“Johnnie, that’s very sweet of you.” Lina was touched. “But you couldn’t manage on four hundred, could you?”

“It’d be a bit of a squeeze,” Johnnie said nobly, “but, after all, it’s only fair, isn’t it? I mean, considering it’s my advantage. That is,” he added, “if you are leaving me anything.”

“Oh, yes,” Lina smiled, “I am leaving you something. But I won’t take a hundred from you. I’ll manage it myself somehow.” She knew that really she could manage it quite well. She had never lived quite up to her income. The house was not expensive to run, and there were no children. “But what you shall do,” she added, “is to take out an endowment policy for yourself too. With a premium of about forty pounds a year.” Johnnie’s face fell.

“It won’t do you any harm to learn to save a little, my lad,” Lina laughed unsympathetically.

A few days later she paid the first premium on her policy. Johnnie could be business-like enough when he liked.

But Lina soon had cause to wonder whether she had been wise in forcing Johnnie to save against his will.

Chancing to be in the morning room a week or so later, she remembered that she had not looked at Johnnie’s betting book for some time. During the last year her examinations of it had become more and more perfunctory. She opened the little drawer and took it out.

There was a new entry, dated three days ago. It was only for ten pounds, and the horse had won, at four to one; but the danger was there. Johnnie had begun betting again.

Lina wasted no time.

She went at once to find Johnnie, potting bulbs in the greenhouse.

“Johnnie, do you remember my telling you nearly two years ago that if you ever had another bet I should leave you?”

“Did you, monkeyface? I believe you did say something like that. Look here, I’m putting the Grands Maîtres in this blue pot, for the drawing room. That all right?”

“And do you remember my saying that if you ever did bet again, I should know?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Only this. I’m leaving you.”

“
What?
”

“I gave you every warning,” Lina said angrily. “I told you I wouldn’t have it. Well, I won’t. I’m going.”

“But what the devil ...?”

“Do you deny that you’ve begun betting again?”

“Certainly I do,” said Johnnie with dignity.

“Then what about Attaboy last Wednesday, at four to one?”

“How the blazes,” gasped Johnnie, “do you know anything about that?”

“Never mind. I do know.” Lina knew too that Johnnie would never suspect her method of knowledge. Tampering with another person’s private papers, even one’s own husband’s, is one of the things that simply do not occur.

“Well, I’m blest! Anyhow,” said Johnnie candidly, “you’re perfectly right. I made forty quid on Attaboy. Got the tip from a man who really knows. It would have been a sin not to use it. I’d offer to blue it with you, monkeyface,” Johnnie grinned, “but it’s going to pay for my insurance premium.”

“Johnnie, did you hear what I said just now?” Lina was annoyed that Johnnie did not seem to be taking her threat in the least seriously.

“I heard you pulling my leg.”

“Indeed I wasn’t pulling your leg. I meant it. Still,” said Lina, with what dignity she could, “I’ll give you one more chance. And the next time I do go. Remember, Johnnie: I mean it. I don’t care who gives you the tip; I don’t care whether the wretched horse wins or loses:
you are not to bet.
If you do, I shall go.”

“Right,” said Johnnie. “And now we’ve settled that, tell me if the Grand Maîtres are all right for this bowl.”

Lina was worried.

Johnnie had been so offhand. He had not taken her threat seriously, and he had given no promise. She was very, very much afraid that Johnnie did intend to take up betting again. And if he did, she did not know what she would do. The bare thought was a nightmare.