Blue Murder (3 page)

“They are splendid little fellows, aren't they?” said Leda, smiling down at him from the corner of the hearth where she was standing. “They're easily the best of the terriers, in my opinion—such loyal chaps. These are very well-bred, as a matter of fact. I've two champions already in the kennels, and I was hoping that Cherub—that's the puppy you're stroking—would do well, too, but the war's knocked all the big shows on the head.”

“I think that you ought to get rid of them, Leda,” said Mrs. Hardstaffe, “With all this shortage of food, it's most unpatriotic, I think, to breed them. Don't you agree, Mr. Smith?”

“Well, I believe the question has been raised, and that the Government has asked breeders not to give up their stock,” said Smith.

Leda regarded him with interest.

“That's quite true,” she said, “although very few people seem to know it. I've done very well with my puppies since the war. My customers are mostly men in the forces who want to give their wives or sweethearts a present. Of course, they're fed on scraps. My Sealyhams will eat anything.”

“Sugar,” murmured her mother, but Leda ignored her, and went on.

“It's difficult to make people realise that if you've got valuable bitches, it's very bad for them not to be mated periodically.”

Mrs. Hardstaffe shuddered.

“That word!” she exclaimed. “And the way you discuss their family affairs in public! It's coarse!”

Leda laughed.

“Well, I'm not going to call them lady-dogs, even to please you, Mother,” she said. “You ought to be used to it by now.”

“I shall never get used to it,” replied Mrs. Hardstaffe, with dignity.

Leda turned to Smith.

“Are you waiting to see Daddy?” she asked.

Smith hesitated.

“Well, yes, in a way,” he said, “although I believe I had all the correspondence with you. I'm Arnold Smith.”

“Good Lord! You're our evacuee!” exclaimed Leda. “You must forgive me, but seeing you there, talking to Mother... It just didn't occur to me somehow. Do you mean to say you never even asked him to take off his coat, Mother?” she demanded.

“Evacuee?” murmured Mrs. Hardstaffe vaguely. “I'm sure he doesn't look in the least...”

“You mustn't mind my calling you that,” laughed Leda. “It's only my fun. You must have thought us very rude not to make you more welcome.”

“But Leda, you never said a word to me about an—about Mr. Smith. Briggs said he had brought a suitcase, but I never thought—”

“You never do,” sighed Leda. “That's the trouble. You really are most exasperating.”

“It's my head,” moaned Mrs. Hardstaffe, “I don't remember things. I feel so
ill
all the time.” 

“You'd better go and lie down, or you won't be fit for dinner,” returned her daughter, and Mrs. Hardstaffe, with an apologetic smile towards Smith, rose, and went out.

Leda seated herself in the chair just vacated by her mother, and, flinging off her black tin hat with the white- painted W. in front, began to run a small pocket-comb through the long bob of her waved, golden hair. Smith was old-fashioned enough to be irritated by this, for he considered that combs should be confined to use in dressing-rooms, but he admitted to himself that she looked much more youthful and attractive with her hair thus framing her face.

“I'm so tired of wearing that old tin hat,” she exclaimed. “We've been having a full-dress A.R.P. practice, and I'm a warden, so I had to be there. I really can't afford to spend the time on it, but it's our duty to Do Our Bit, isn't it? And Mother, of course, never does a thing. Do take your coat off, and make yourself at home. Park it anywhere. You'll find cigarettes in the silver box on the mantelpiece. I can't tell you how sorry I am that Daddy or I weren't in to welcome you, but you didn't say what train you were coming on, and we didn't know of one that could get you here before seven.”

“It's my fault,” Smith assured her. “I came by car. I'd saved my coupons specially.”

“Lucky creature! We've had to give our car up.” She pulled at her cigarette, and exhaled the smoke down her long, thin nose. “Look here, Mr. Smith,” she went on, “did you think it too awful of me to ask four guineas a week? If I could have my way, I'd have you here for nothing. I'd just love to throw the house open to all the people of our class who've been blitzed, but Mother wouldn't hear of it. She wouldn't have anyone in the house unless they paid their full share, and I couldn't possibly board you for less, with prices at their present height. We live very well here, and it includes drinks, of course. There's always whiskey on the dining-room sideboard.''

“No, no, that's all arranged,” returned Smith, in some embarrassment, “but I have been wondering whether it will be convenient for me to stay. It's lovely country, and a charming house, and I should think you never hear a night bomber, do you?”

“We had flares one night, and that was quite exciting,” she replied, “but we haven't a siren or anything like that. Still, that's no reason why we shouldn't keep up our A.R.P. and Red Cross Lectures: we've all got to Be Prepared: that's what I say.”

“Quite so. I quite agree,” said Smith hastily. “It really does seem a perfect spot for an author trying to forget air raids, and if you've changed your mind about having me here, perhaps I could find another house in the district.”

Leda jerked up her head in sudden suspicion.

“Changed my mind?” she exclaimed. “Why should I have gone to all the trouble of answering your advertisement and getting your room ready for you. Mother can't be trusted to do anything. She worries too much about herself. She's always like that. Thinks nothing but her inside, but there's really nothing the matter with her. Some damnfool of a doctor once told her to take care of herself, and she's been taking care ever since. Have a drink?”

Arnold Smith, having wallowed in a hot bath in the Hardstaffe's super-appointed bathroom, was still attired in his dressing-gown when the sounding of a gong in the hall below warned him that dinner was served.

He arrived downstairs ten minutes late.

“I'm so sorry—” he began, as he entered the drawing-room.

His voice faltered into silence, and he fingered his polka-dot bow tie with increasing embarrassment, as he thought that he might as well have saved himself the trouble of dressing, and walked down in his dressing-gown. For Mrs. Hardstaffe, still shivering with cold, wore a mink cape over just such a frilled evening gown as his imagination had pictured earlier in the day. Leda wore a period frock of gold brocade, Mr. Hardstaffe's trousers wore the side braid of a discarded fashion, his dinner jacket barely buttoned across his U-shaped waistcoat, and his shirt was soft and tucked: nevertheless his attire was sufficient to make Smith's striped grey suit look out of place. His look of annoyance made Smith think at first that he had noted and disliked this. But his words soon dispelled this idea.

“When you've had time to get used to our ways, Smith,” he said pompously, “you'll know that it's a fetish of mine to be punctual at meals. Eight o'clock breakfast, twelve-thirty lunch, five o'clock tea, and dinner at eight prompt.”

“That's what comes of being a schoolmaster,” smiled Leda. “It's my fault, Daddy. I forgot to tell him.”

Mrs. Hardstaffe nodded sympathetically.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” demanded her husband. ‘Why don't you go in?”

Mrs. Hardstaffe's face immediately assumed its look of mask-like petulance, as, shrugging her shoulders, she turned and walked through the opened folding-doors into the dining-room, followed in silence by the others.

Exhibition of Victorianism, thought Smith, in silent amusement.

Somehow, he had not, until then, thought of the schoolmaster as a Victorian. In the drawing-room, balancing a sherry glass in his hand, he had appeared to be too young, and Smith had estimated his age to be as near to the half-century as his own. But the low light from the glaring white electric bowl in the dining-room was less flattering than the rose-coloured shades of the room they had just left, and against the more solid background of walnut sideboard, high bookcases, and carved, plush-covered chairs, Mr. Hardstaffe looked a veritable Gladstone, albeit a diminutive and clean-shaven one.

Must be nearer seventy than fifty, thought Smith, He makes me feel quite a gay young spark.

And he winked at Leda, who responded with a girlish giggle.

“I can't think why you always give me ducks to carve when we have a visitor,” grumbled Hardstaffe. “If we can't have clippers to use on them, the least you can do is to have them disjointed in the kitchen.”

“It is just vat I say to Mees 'Ardstaffe—In Germany, I say to 'er, always ve...”

The carving knife clattered on the polished table as Mr. Hardstaffe jumped round.

“What on earth...? Who's this? Where's Briggs?”

Leda, barely stifling her laughter, replied.

“This is Frieda, our new maid. You remember that Mary left last week, to go on munitions, and Briggs is expecting to be called up any day. It's her evening out tonight.”

“Oh.”

Mr. Hardstaffe looked with some disgust at the beaming, perspiring girl who stood at his left side.

She was dressed in a flowered cotton frock whose short sleeves exposed fat, hairy arms. On her frizzy, wiry hair was perched an absurd circle of frilled lace, which bore more resemblance to a pin-cushion cover than to a housemaid's cap. Swarthy skin, black hair and eyes, and curved nose pronounced her to be of Jewish descent.

The fact that she was the cynosure of all eyes in the room seemed to cause her more pleasure than embarrassment, and, with a broad smile which showed her strong, white teeth, she said gutturally,

“Me gut parlourmaid.”

“Take this plate, and don't talk so much,” said Mr. Hardstaffe. “No, not to the gentleman: to Mrs. Hardstaffe.
This
lady.” Thumping the table in front of his wife until the trinity of silver condiments rang in their corner.

Why did you have to choose an untrained girl?” he demanded. “We seem to have had a procession of them all through the year.”

Leda raised her eyebrows.

“Blame Hitler. I didn't start the war,” she said. “You don't realise what a job it is to get anyone at all.”

‘No, indeed.” Mrs. Hardstaffe smiled sociably at Smith. “Girls are quite above themselves nowadays, with all these uniforms and high wages. I shudder to think what they'll be like after this war. Our other maid was christened Victoria Alexandra. Did you ever hear of such names for a village girl? Of course, we call her Briggs. But still, Leda, I did say it would be a mistake to have a refugee, especially a German.”

“She's Austrian,” retorted Leda.

“That's no recommendation,” said Hardstaffe. “So is Hitler.”

“Me gut parlourmaid,” repeated the maid, and the diners, exchanging glances, fell silent.

“You must forgive my not dressing for dinner,” said Smith, rushing into speech, then wishing that he had not done so. “I somehow thought that, as it's wartime, you wouldn't bother.”

He did not add that he had not anticipated that the family of a village schoolmaster would aspire to such social heights.

“I suppose I didn't mention it because we always do dress,” replied Leda, “and even though it is wartime, we've got to keep things going, haven't we? Business As Usual, you know: If Invasion Comes, and all that.”

“Yes, yes, certainly,” agreed Smith. “I must say that I like to see it, but everyone has given it up in London. It's not much use in an air raid shelter: too uncomfortable for men, and too cold for women. No, thanks, no spinach,” he said, as a proffered dish moved into view near his left shoulder.

“Go on, 'ave some! Ver' gut. I make eet,” replied Frieda.

Mr. Hardstaffe leaped to his feet, and dashed his table napkin on to his chair.

“We can't have this sort of thing at meals,” he said, pointing his finger at the amazed girl. “Go out! Go to the kitchen!”

Leda took the vegetable-dish from the maid.

“Go along,” she said, giving her a little push. “Tell Cook to give you something to eat: that ought to please you. We'll wait on ourselves.”

The girl stood obstinately still.

“Me no understand,” she said, and her mouth quivered.

“Oh yes, you do,” replied Leda, propelling her towards the door. “You told me you were fully trained, and you can't even wait at table.”

“Me gut parlourmaid—” the girl said again.

“I won't have any more of this nonsense,” stormed Hardstaffe. “Get out of this room, and don't come in again, do you hear? What do you think I am?”

“You bad man!” shouted the maid, and, bursting into a storm of weeping, she rushed out of the room.

Leda closed the door, then leaned against it, roaring with laughter, while Smith, who was hungry, wished she would return to her place at the table so that, he could sit down again.

“Do come and sit down, and let's get on with dinner,” said her mother fretfully. “It's half cold already, and you know how it upsets me to eat stale food. Of course, we shall have to get rid of the girl. I've never seen such an exhibition in my life. I really couldn't sleep knowing that anyone like that was in the house. She's quite irresponsible. Why, she's capable of murdering anyone she takes a dislike to. Do come and sit down, Leda.”

“We can't get rid of her, Mother,” said Leda, striding to her chair. “Who do you think we can get in her place? She was the only one on the books, and if Briggs leaves us, we've got to have a maid. You know it's quite impossible to run this house without one. I'll train her, as I've trained all the others. As for being murdered,
I
shall have a say in that.”