Hole and Corner (23 page)

Shirley raised an indignant head.

“I expect everyone in the house knew! I'm dead certain that girl Bessie did. She's the sort of girl who knows everything, but I suppose I oughtn't to say that, because she had a very good character. But, Anthony—it's definitely grim for me, because when Mrs Hathaway came to tea on Wednesday she was talking about the emeralds, how valuable they were, and Mrs Huddleston sent me up to fetch them. Possett took them out of the stocking drawer in front of me, and I helped her put them away again afterwards. It's
frightfully
grim.”

“Yes—she told me that,” said Anthony.

They moved a little apart and looked at each other. Shirley sat down on the bottom step but one because her knees were shaking. Anthony sat down beside her.

“I gather you've got the emeralds. Where did you find them?”

She put her head on his shoulder again.

“In the hem of my coat—same like the diamond brooch, only the other side. I suppose I was a perfect fool not to find them before, but I hardly ever stopped running away for ten seconds except just when you were proposing to me, and—”

“When did you find them?”

Shirley took a long breath and considered.

“It was only this morning really—it seems like weeks and weeks ago.”

“Where are they now?”

“Didn't Jas tell you? They're in your suit-case—in the pocket of your pyjamas—the ones you lent me. Because I thought, supposing I was arrested—well, it was your suit-case, and your pyjamas, and your aunt, and I thought it might look a little better than if I had them. Besides I wanted to get rid of them. Suppose they'd been stolen—I mean suppose someone had stolen them from me—it would just about have put the lid on. But, darling, where's Jas? Because he was to find you, and give you the cloakroom ticket so that you could fetch away the suit-case—and if he didn't find you, and you haven't seen him, how did you know I was here?”

“He found me all right. He got me on the telephone. I told him he'd better go and collect the suit-case whilst I came straight here.”

Shirley giggled against a masterful shoulder.

“Poor Jas!”

“Why?”

“Well, it isn't his suit-case.”

“And you're not his girl!”

There was an interlude. Then Shirley said,

“What are we going to do next? I mean when Jas comes along with the emeralds. What are we going to do about them?”

“Ah!” said Anthony. “That's where we're up against it. Speaking roughly, we can either tell the truth or think up a really good lie.”

“I'd rather tell the truth,” said Shirley in a tone of modest virtue.

Anthony sat back against the banisters and surveyed her. There was a lot of dust on the side of her hair, and two or three fierce smears on her forehead and cheek. Her nose was still rather pink from being pinched. He had never seen her look so plain before, but as he loved her more than ever, the smudges and the pinkness were rather gratifying, because they made him feel quite sure that he wasn't just in love with Shirley, he loved her. He looked at her, all pale, and dishevelled, and dusty, and loved her dreadfully.

“I'd
rather
tell the truth,” she said again, and this time her voice didn't sound priggish, but quite simple and a little frightened.

He took one of her hands and held it.

“All right, you take the emeralds, and walk in on Aunt Agnes and tell her where you found them.”

Shirley blinked rather hard.

“I'd l-like to—but I d-don't think I can.”

“Well, I wouldn't like to, and I'm quite sure I'm not going to try. Aunt Agnes doesn't know the truth when she sees it—she never has, she never will. You know what she's like as well as I do—she talks all the time, and she doesn't say what she thinks, she thinks what she has just heard herself say. I don't think she's got anything to think with. She just talks, and when she hears herself talking she believes what she hears—every word of it. And you see, she has said several times that you must have taken the emeralds, so now she believes it firmly. If we told her the truth, she'd simply ring for Possett and tell her to call up the police-station.”

It was all quite true—one of those depressing truths. Shirley said in a discouraged voice,

“Well, what
are
we going to do?”

“Get the things back into the house and persuade her they never left it.”

“But you did that with the diamond brooch.”

“I know, I know—you needn't rub it in. It was a perfectly sound scheme, and if it hadn't been for Possett being in such a devil of a hurry to turn the room out, and the emeralds being missing, and one thing and another—”

Shirley made a fleeting Woggy Doodle—not one of her best—a mere hurried sketch.

“I know—it went wrong on you. Plans do. But, darling, you can't put any more brooches and necklaces and things down the sides of the chairs and sofas, because even Possett would smell a rat if you did—especially if she's had all the covers off. And I expect she's turned out everything in Mrs Huddleston's bedroom. She's a sort of human ant, you know—
frightfully
thorough and persevering. So it's all very well to say get them back into the house, but what are you going to do with them when you've got them back? That's the question.”

Anthony laughed.

“And the answer is I haven't the slightest idea, but something will probably turn up. And now I've got something really important to talk to you about.”

Shirley clapped her hands together.

“Oh, but so have I! And she may be back at any minute
with
the police—only, I don't really think so, because I'm practically certain she must have gone before I began to sneeze or she wouldn't have been going round the corner by the time I got to the window, if you see what I mean.”

“I don't in the least. How can I? I don't know what you're talking about.”

Shirley caught him by the arm and pinched.

“The Maltby, darling. Where's the trained legal mind? Because it had better get going on the Maltby. She's got a key to this place, because she went to school with Jas's aunt, or cousin, or whatever she is. And she and Jas look after the canary when Miss Pocklington's away—at least Jas looks after it really, and the Maltby snoops round to make sure he's doing it properly. And this was one of her snooping days, only when she got here she didn't snoop—she just walked up and down and raved about Jane Rigg, and how she'd done her out of millions by dying six months too soon. You've no idea how she went on. She must be absolutely mad—”

Anthony put out a hand and stopped her.

“Wait a minute—this is important. I want you to try and remember exactly what she said.”

Shirley stared at him.

“She was just raving. I've never been so frightened in my life. I quite
longed
for a policeman.”

He said quickly, “Do you mean she saw you—she knows you're here?”

“No. I was behind one of the Pocklington woman's pictures—a most frightful thing—and I'm practically sure she had gone before I began to sneeze. You've no idea what a lot of dust there is in that studio. Jas isn't at all a good housemaid.”

Anthony leaned forward and shot the bolt at the bottom of Miss Pocklington's bright blue door.

“Is there a back way out?”

She nodded.

“Because you mustn't be caught here in case she
has
gone to the police. Now listen! Was your mother's name Jane Lorimer?”

“Yes. Why? I told you.”

“I remembered the name when I saw it in the paper to-day.”

“In the paper?”

Anthony took both her hands and held them.

“Don't talk—listen. Listen, Shirley! Jane Lorimer had a cousin named William Ambrose Merewether. He went to America and made a lot of money there, and he's left that money first to Jane if she's alive, and secondly to Jane's children if any of them are alive, and thirdly to Jane's grandchildren—all
on condition
—”

“
What?
” said Shirley in a whisper. Her hands were shaking.

“
On condition
that none of them has ever been in prison on a criminal charge. No, I put that badly—any one that's been in prison is disqualified, and the others take the lot.”

“
What?
”

“Yes,” said Anthony. “So you mustn't go to prison.”

“I mustn't?”

“You most particularly mustn't. You see, your mother Jane Lorimer is dead, and all her six children are dead except you, so all William Ambrose Merewether's money is due to come to you, provided—
provided
you can keep out of prison until after the will has been proved.”

Shirley pulled away her hands and pressed them over her eyes. She wanted to be in the dark and think, but her hands didn't make a darkness, and she didn't seem to be able to do anything with her thoughts. She looked at Anthony and said,

“Say it again.”

He said it again, and added,

“If your half-sister Jane Rigg had lived another six months she would have had half. That's why Miss Maltby raved—Jane left her everything, and the everything might have been half the Merewether millions.”

Shirley said, “I see—” And then, “But she wouldn't get anything
now
—if I went to prison.”

“That's just it,” said Anthony. “Who would?”

She frowned in a puzzled way. He went on insistently.

“You're the last of the children. If you're disqualified, who comes next? The will says Jane Lorimer's grandchildren. But are there any? That's what I want to know. Did any of Jane Lorimer's children marry and leave a child or children?”

“Perrine did,” said Shirley.

“Perrine—” Anthony searched his mind.… Of course—the French child of Jane Lorimer's second marriage.

They were facing each other on the narrow stair, Anthony on the outside, Shirley against the wall. He leaned forward a little.

“Yes—Perrine—you said she was dead.”

“Ages ago.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Ages, and ages, and ages ago. But she got married first, and she had a baby—Aunt Emily told me.”

“Who did she marry?”

“He was French—or Swiss—I don't know which. He had a French name—Meunier. And she died when her baby was born.”

“And the child—what happened to it? Was it a boy or a girl?”

“Girl,” said Shirley. “Pierrette—Pierrette Meunier. I don't know what's become of her. Aunt Emily didn't know.”

“We'll have to find out. It won't be difficult. If she's alive she'll come forward. She'll want to find out whether she's got a claim under this will.”

But suppose she knew too much already—then she wouldn't come forward. She'd lie low for a bit and allow herself to be found. Only she had no claim unless Shirley was disqualified. It all came back to that. Someone was undoubtedly trying to land Shirley in prison. If Shirley went to prison, Shirley was disqualified. If Shirley was disqualified, Pierrette Meunier would get the Merewether millions. He wanted to know a lot more about Pierrette Meunier.

“You can't tell me anything more about her? Do you know how old she is?”

“Yes—I can tell you that. Perrine was born in '86, and she married when she was only seventeen. She died on her eighteenth birthday—Aunt Emily always remembered that. So how old does that make Pierrette?”

“You said Perrine was born in '86? That would put Pierrette's birth in 1904, so she's thirty-one.”

Shirley nodded.

“Isn't it grim to have a niece of thirty-one?”

Anthony's jaw fell.

“Of course—she's your niece! Good lord, darling—what a family!”

“Isn't it! It depresses me frightfully when I think that for all I know she's been married for years and I'm a great-aunt. If she got married at seventeen like her mother, I could have ten or eleven great-nephews and nieces. It makes me feel about three hundred and fifty. I don't see how you can possibly marry a great-aunt, darling. Do you? Especially a great-aunt who is trembling on the verge of a prison cell.”

Anthony put his arms round her again.

“You're not to talk like that—I don't like it.”

“Shall talk any way I want to,” said Shirley in rather a submerged voice, because she was being kissed. “Shan't marry you at all if you're going to be a trampler. What's the good of being a great-aunt if you're not respected?”

Anthony rubbed his cheek against hers.

“Do you want to be respected?”

“
Frightfully.
”

“Well, you won't be. Anyhow I'm not marrying you because you're a great-aunt.”

“Perhaps you're not marrying me at all.”

“Oh yes, I am.”

“Why?”

If Shirley was fishing, she fished in vain. Anthony said firmly,

“For the Merewether millions of course.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Miss Maltby was not on her way to the police-station. Her thoughts were still in a state of agitated confusion, and she was, as Shirley had surmised, pattering, but she had nevertheless quite a definite idea of where she was going and what she was going to do when she got there. She was going to see Alfred Phillips at his hotel, and she was going to tell him quite plainly,
and
firmly,
and
decidedly that what he was offering her was not enough. It was not enough. It was not nearly, nearly, nearly enough.

She turned another corner and pattered on, her head poking forward in its shabby black hat with the faded bunch of heliotrope on one side of it. Jane had had the heliotrope on a summer hat five, no six, years ago—1929, a very fine summer. Jane had thrown the flowers away. Wasteful, because they were perfectly good. Always a little inclined to be wasteful, Jane Rigg. And here were the flowers, still perfectly serviceable, perfectly good.