Miss Silver Deals With Death (6 page)

Mrs. Spooner’s letter arrived at breakfast time next day. Meade read it, and enquired in a laughing voice,

“What on earth is a spencer?”

It was a bright sunny morning. Her heart laughed and sang. Her cheeks had colour and her voice lilted. Everything in the garden was quite extraordinarily lovely.

Mrs. Underwood, looking across the table, said,

“Good gracious—he’s not writing to you about underwear, is he?”

“It’s not Giles—it’s Mrs. Spooner. She wants a spencer out of her chest of drawers, and I shouldn’t know one if I saw it. What do I look for?”

“It’s an underbodice—long sleeves and high neck—at least they’re generally that way. What does she want it for?”

Meade’s eyes danced.

“To wear under her uniform now that the evenings are getting chilly.”

Mrs. Underwood dropped a saccharine tablet into her tea and stirred it.

“Funny what a difference men make,” she observed with apparent irrelevance. “If you had got an invitation to Buckingham Palace the day before yesterday it wouldn’t have raised a smile out of you. Now Mrs. Spooner writes and asks you to find her a spencer—and if there’s anything duller than that, I don’t know what it is—and anyone would think you’d just had a love letter. Why, I thought so myself. And all because you’ve got your young man back. I suppose it’s all right and you’re quite sure of him now?”

Meade nodded.

“Has he said anything about getting you a ring? I wouldn’t make too sure unless he has.”

Meade laughed and nodded again. Giles wanting to give her a ring so that she could break off their engagement with the proper trimmings—what would Aunt Mabel make of that? She resisted the temptation to find out and said,

“Yes, he wants to give me a ring. But I won’t let him buy one—not in war time. He’s going to see about one of his mother’s. Her things are all in a bank somewhere. He wants me to go down with him and get them out.”

Mrs. Underwood nodded approvingly. That certainly looked like business. A man doesn’t give a girl his mother’s jewellery unless he means to marry her. Then she said sharply,

“Oh, he remembers about his mother’s rings, does he?”

“He remembers everything before the war. Then it gets fainter and fainter—all the personal part of it—”

She stopped because Mrs. Underwood was tossing her head.

“Well, that’s what he tells you—and perhaps better not look into it, so long as he means to do the right thing now.”

Meade went down to the basement and got the key of Mrs. Spooner’s flat. Bell was busy, so he called out to her to take it.

“Hanging on hooks right along the front of the old dresser, all the keys in a row—that’s where you’ll find it, miss, if it isn’t a trouble. Can’t make a mistake—one to eight they run, all along the front of the dresser—put my hand on them in the dark I can. Number seven’s the one you want.”

He was down on his knees scrubbing the old stone floor. As she passed him with the key in her hand, he looked up, nodding and smiling.

“Rare old job these floors, and the water goes cold on you that spiteful or I wouldn’t have troubled you. Just put it back when you’ve finished, will you, miss?”

Meade said she would and it wasn’t any trouble. Then she went up in the lift and let herself into Mrs. Spooner’s flat, which was No. 7 at the top of the house.

She found the spencer at once. It was a horrible affair of natural wool with mother-of-pearl buttons down the front and a crochet edging round the high neck. It smelled of naphthalene. It would certainly be warm, but oh dear, how it would tickle! She hung it on her arm and came out upon the landing, to find the door of the opposite flat wide open and Miss Roland standing there.

“Oh, Miss Underwood—good morning. I saw you come up. That’s the Spooners’ flat, isn’t it? They had gone before I came here. Rather nice to have the floor to oneself, I think. Come in and see my place.”

Meade hesitated.

“Well, I ought to send this off—” She indicated the spencer.

Carola Roland looked at it. It might have been a black beetle. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed.

“How foul!” she said frankly. “Here, hang it on the door knob and just take a look at my flat. Not bad, is it? You’ve no idea what it was like when I came.”

Meade didn’t want to be rude. She felt friendly towards the world. She was also a little curious. She ignored the suggestion about the spencer, but she crossed the little lobby and followed Carola into a highly modernised version of the current Vandeleur sittingroom. Ceiling, walls, and floors had been painted with a matt grey paint. The colour scheme was blue and grey— pale blue carpet, blue and grey brocaded curtains and upholstery, pale blue cushions. On the mantelshelf a silver statuette— a naked dancer poised on one foot, faceless, curveless, arms outstretched. Meade’s first thought was, “How strange—”; her next, “How beautiful!” because it had the beauty of flight. Yes, that was it—the beauty of flight. And then she stopped seeing it, because at the end of the shelf, leaning back against the wall, there stood a large unframed photograph of Giles.

Carola Roland came past her and picked it up.

“Good—isn’t it?” she said. “I suppose you’ve got one too.” She set it down again.

Yes, it was good. It was Giles. It had his signature across the corner—“Giles.”

Carola turned a smiling face.

“Well? Did you ask him if he remembered me?”

Meade said, “Yes.”

“And did he?”

“I’m afraid he didn’t. He doesn’t remember anything since the war.”

“How very, very convenient!” said Carola Roland. Her bright idea was fairly blazing. She had meant to have some fun out of it, but it looked—yes, it really looked as if there might be money in it too. “Nothing at all? Do you really mean it? Why, I’d love to be able to do that! Wouldn’t you?”

“No—I should hate it.”

Carola Roland laughed.

“Want to keep your memories? I don’t. Fun while they last, but what’s the good of remembering them? Anyhow Giles and I are all washed-up.”

Meade put out a hand and took hold of the back of one of the brocaded chairs. The smell of naphthalene from Mrs. Spooner’s spencer was suddenly more than she could bear. She let it slip down on the floor. Then she said in a steady enquiring voice,

“Giles and you?”

Miss Roland smiled a brilliant scarlet smile.

“Didn’t he tell you about me? Oh, no—of course he’s forgotten all about everything. But he might just have happened to mention me before he lost his memory. Sure he didn’t?”

Meade shook her head.

“Was there any reason why he should?”

Carola was helping herself to a cigarette from a shagreen box. She struck a match and set the tip glowing before she said,

“Reason? Well, that’s just as you happen to look at it. Some people might think he would mention that there was one Mrs. Armitage already before he asked you to marry him? I suppose he did ask you to marry him? Your aunt seems to think so.”

Meade’s hand closed tightly on the back of the chair. She said,

“We are engaged.”

The scarlet lips emitted a puff of smoke.

“Did you hear what I said? I don’t believe you did—or you didn’t take it in. I expect it was a shock, but that’s not my fault, is it? You can’t expect me just to hold my tongue and let Giles go on forgetting me. I’ve got my allowance to think about. What about that? He was giving me four hundred a year. And can I do with it—oh, boy!”

Meade felt nothing. It was just as if it was happening to somebody else. It couldn’t be happening to her—and Giles. She looked at the photograph on the mantelpiece and she looked at Carola. There are things you can’t believe.

She said, “Miss Roland—” and was met by a bright glance and a wave of the cigarette.

“But I’m not. I said you hadn’t been listening. Roland is just my stage name. Rather good, don’t you think? But my real legal name is Armitage. That’s what I’ve been telling you—I’m Mrs. Armitage.” She turned back to the mantelpiece, picked up the photograph, and slightly altered its position. “He’s not handsome, but there’s something attractive about him, don’t you think? At least I used to think so till I found out what a cold, grasping devil he could be.”

Meade stared at her, her eyes wide and blank. It didn’t seem to mean anything. It didn’t seem to make sense. She said in a horrified whisper,

“It doesn’t make sense—”

Carola dropped the photograph and came back. She was angry, but there was amusement behind the anger. She had always wanted to get a bit of her own back on Giles, but she couldn’t have hoped for a chance like this. There was a packet of letters lying on a little gimcrack table with twisted silver legs and a glass top. She picked up the one that lay uppermost and said, with the Mayfair accent gone,

“Oh, I’m a liar, am I? All right, Miss Meade Underwood, you take a look at this, and then perhaps you’ll be sorry you spoke! I suppose you know Giles’ writing when you see it.”

A sheet of paper was being held up in front of her. The writing on it was Giles’ writing, very black and distinct. Everything had become quite extraordinarily clear and distinct—the edge of the paper; the way it was creased; Carola’s hand, long fingers, and scarlet nails; and a ring with a single diamond, very bright— Giles’ letter.

The writing said,

“You are making a mistake if you think that sort of argument will have any effect on me. You are just appealing to sentiment, and I haven’t any use for it. To be completely candid, it makes me see red, so I advise you to drop it. I will allow you four hundred a year provided you undertake to stop using the name of Armitage. If I find that you are breaking this condition I shall have no hesitation in cutting off supplies. You have, as you say, a perfect legal right to the name, but if I find that you are using it the allowance will stop. It’s a good name, but I hardly think it is worth four hundred a year to you. And that, my dear Carola, is my last word.”

Meade lifted her eyes to Carola Roland’s face and saw the malice there. She said on a quick-caught breath,

“He doesn’t love you.”

The blonde head was shaken.

“Not now. But isn’t that just like Giles? Blows hot and cold— falls for you one day and forgets all about it the next. He did that to you too, didn’t he? Well now—am I a liar, or am I Mrs. Armitage and do you apologise? It’s there in Giles’ own writing—you can’t get away from that.”

Meade stood up straight and stiff.

“Are you divorced?”

Carola laughed.

“Oh, no, nothing like that—just all washed up—like I said. Some day perhaps he’ll remember and tell you all about me. That’ll be something for you to look forward to, ducky!”

Meade stooped and picked up the woollen spencer. She turned with it in her hand. There seemed to be nothing to say. The door to the lobby was open, and the outer door beyond that again. Perhaps she really would have said nothing if the sound of Carola’s laughter had not followed her. Everything in her fused in a white hot flame. She stood on the threshold and said in a ringing voice of anger.

“No wonder he hates you!”

After that it was the most frightful anticlimax to find Mrs. Smollett only a yard or two away on her knees, doing the landing. She had a seething pail of soapsuds and she was swishing away at the cement floor with her scrubbing-brush. Just how much had she heard of that frightful conversation with Carola Roland? The scrubbing-brush was making a lot of noise, but Meade had a dreadful conviction that the noise had only just begun. With those two doors wide open, she would have heard it. And if it had only just begun, she was quite certain that Mrs. Smollett must have heard every word. Nothing to do but to walk past her with a “Good morning, Mrs. Smollett”, and so down the stairs.

Mrs. Smollett told Bell all about it over an elevens in the basement. She was a large woman with hard apple red cheeks and little dark eyes which saw everything. As she sipped from her cup of tea she observed that the skirting under the dresser had not been dusted, and that one of the eight keys was missing from its hook. When she remarked upon the key, Bell told her about Miss Underwood coming down to fetch it.

“She’s got something to get out for Mrs. Spooner seemingly.”

Mrs. Smollett took a lump of sugar out of a screw of paper and dropped it in her tea. War or no war, tea without sugar was a thing she couldn’t abide. She stirred vigorously and said,

“Well, that wasn’t where she was coming out of, Mr. Bell. Miss Roland’s flat she was in, and both doors open right through to the lounge so I could no more help hearing what they was saying than if I was in the room with them. And ‘Giles and I are all washed-up’, she said—that was that Miss Roland. And, ‘Didn’t he tell you about me?’ she says.”

Bell shook his head.

“You shouldn’t have listened, Mrs. Smollett—you really shouldn’t.”

Mrs. Smollett set down her cup with a bang.

“Oh, I shouldn’t, shouldn’t I? Then perhaps you’ll tell me what I ought to ha’ done! Put cotton wool in my ears which I hadn’t any handy, or gone away and got all behind with my scrubbing?”

“You could ’ave coughed.”

“And give myself a sore throat? Not likely! If people don’t want you to hear what they’re saying they should shut their doors! Here, this Giles, he’ll be Major Armitage—he’ll be Miss Underwood’s fiongsay, won’t he? Fancy it’s turning out he’s been carrying on with Miss Roland!”

“It’s none of our business, Mrs. Smollett. She’s a very nice young lady that Miss Underwood, and I’m sure I wish them happy.”

Mrs. Smollett gave a loud snorting laugh.

“Likely, isn’t it, with them two girls both wanting ’im and ready to scratch each other’s eyes out! ‘We’re engaged,’ says Miss Underwood, and, ‘I’m Mrs. Armitage,’ says Miss Roland, and she gives her a letter to read.”

“Oh dear me, you shouldn’t say things like that—you really shouldn’t.”

Mrs. Smollett tossed her head.

“It wasn’t I that said them! It was them two. ‘I’m Mrs. Armitage,’ Miss Roland says, and Miss Underwood says, ‘He don’t love you.’ And when I heard her coming out I got down to my scrubbing so as not to upset her by letting her know I could hear what was going on. And she turns right round in the doorway and calls out to Miss Roland something about hating her, and then off down the stairs all in a flash. Funny ain’t it— I mean that Miss Roland calling herself Mrs. Armitage. I mean that would be bigamy, wouldn’t it? Or do you suppose it’d make a difference him having lost his memory? What do you think, Mr. Bell?”

Bell pushed back his chair and got up.

“I think I got my work same as you got yours.”

There was distress in his wrinkled, ruddy face. A talker, that’s what Mrs. Smollett was. And he’d no objection to talk provided there wasn’t any tittle-tattle or nastiness about it, which he didn’t hold with and never would—taking away people’s characters and such.

“I got a nice lot of hot water on the stove for you. I’ll just fill your pail,” he said.

But when he had filled it, Mrs. Smollett was in no hurry to go.

“Funny how Miss Garside stopped having me in to clean up her place, wasn’t it? She don’t have anyone else, I suppose— evenings when I’m out of the way?”

Bell shook his head. He wasn’t any too happy about Miss Garside, and he didn’t want to talk about her affairs.

Mrs. Smollett flounced—if the word can be applied to so large a woman.

“Well, I’ve got the right to know whether I give satisfaction, haven’t I? Used to have me in regular three times a week, and stopped dead as you may say. ‘I shan’t be wanting you any more, Mrs. Smollett,’ she says, and, ‘Here’s your money for today,’ and goes into her room and shuts the door.” She bent to the handle of the pail but straightened up without lifting it. “ Here, Mr. Bell—did she ever get those bits of furniture of hers back again? Told me they’d gone to be mended but I couldn’t see anything wrong with them myself. Very nice pieces they was, like what you see in the antique shops—walnut cabinet and writing-desk, and a set of chairs with backs like a lot of ribbon plaited. Funny if they all wanted mending together, isn’t it? Here now, you might as well tell us, has she had any of them back again?”

Bell looked distressed. This was tittle-tattle. He didn’t like it.. He said as sharply as he could bring himself to speak,

“I got something else to do than take notice of what people has mended. And water don’t stay boiling, Mrs. Smollett— yours will be cold.”

He got a toss of the head.

“I’ve no call to scald my fingers, have I?” She lifted the pail. “Nasty marks those things left where they’d been standing— that wallpaper isn’t half faded, only you didn’t rightly notice it till they’d gone. And if you ask me, Mr. Bell, I’d say she’d sold them.”