The Tiger in the Well (16 page)

Find out everything I can. If he's doing anything criminal, they wouldn't give him custody.

And that clergyman. Mr. Beech. (Mem: Let Rosa know new address as soon as we're safe.) That's his weakest point, that lie in the register. If I can find out why

She broke off, hearing Harriet stir, but she was only muttering in her sleep. She put another couple of coals on the fire and sat down again.

then I'll know how to beat him. It's the only chance.

A LITTLE EARLIER in the evening, Ellie had heard a ring at the door of Orchard House. She looked up from the game of patience she was playing at the kitchen table and said, "Who can that be.-^"

"You'll never know if you don't go and see," said Mrs. Perkins, who was dozing over her newspaper in the rocking chair.

Ellie got up uneasily. She'd already had an awkward interview with the police, and so had Sarah-Jane Russell; she was beginning to wonder if she hadn't said too much to someone about where Sally had gone. Perhaps the sergeant had thought of some more questions, or perhaps they had a warrant to search the house.

But it wasn't a policeman. It was a dark-haired young man in a rough-looking overcoat. She took him at first for a tramp, especially as he had a funny accent of some kind, but he seemed polite enough.

"I am trying to find Miss Lockhart," he said. "Is she at home.?"

"No, sir," said Ellie. "I don't know where she is."

"Who is in charge in her absence.-*"

Ellie heard Sarah-Jane behind her and looked around.

"May I know your name.?" said Sarah-Jane.

"Daniel Goldberg. I'm a journalist. I know what's hap-

pened to Miss Lockhart, and I think I can help her, but FU have to talk to her personally."

Ellie stood aside. Sarah-Jane didn't come any closer to the door; they were both a little afraid of strangers now.

"I can't tell you where Miss Lockhart is because I don't know," Sarah-Jane said. "She hasn't been home since this morning. I don't know when she's coming back. I don't think I ought to tell you even if I did know, but I really don't."

"May I leave a message for her here.^*" said the stranger.

"I suppose that can't hurt," said Sarah-Jane. "You're not going to write about this, are you.f* Is it going to be in the newspapers.'"'

"Not yet." He was scribbling something in a pocket book. He tore the sheet out, folded it, and wrote Sally's name on the back. "Please see she gets this. It's important. Good night."

He raised the wide-brimmed dark hat and turned away. ElHe shut the door after him.

Sarah-Jane was looking at the note dubiously.

"D'you think he's telling the truth.''" said Ellie.

"I don't know. I just don't know anything. I suppose I could send this on to Mrs. Molloy's. . . . But if she's not there either, like that policeman said, she won't get it anyway."

"Better leave it, perhaps," said Ellie. "Till we hear from her."

Sarah-Jane nodded. She put the note on the hall stand, and Ellie went back to the kitchen.

The Bank Manager

Sally woke up several times in the night, for Harriet was restless and the bed was narrow. Once she cried out, but Sally's warmth soon lulled her into quiet again.

When she judged it was time to get up, she got out of bed stiff and tired, putting on her dressing gown and leaving Harriet to sleep on while she lit the fire and put a kettle on to boil. Was it going to be possible to continue like this for long.^ she wondered. It was all so temporary. They must find a better place as soon as they could; then she could send for Sarah-Jane and start looking seriously for whatever lay behind this business.

She made some tea and then went back to wake Harriet. In that little time, she'd wet the bed. Sally stood indecisively. What did Sarah-Jane do.? She couldn't remember. Well, what should she do.''

She pulled back the covers to keep them dry and then lifted the child out. Harriet protested and struggled to go back, but Sally took her into the parlor and stood her by the fire before taking the sheet off the bed. Now what.? She'd have to wash her, but could she leave her by an open fire while she fetched some water.? Next time she'd know: have the water ready before she got her up. And make the tea afterward; it would be cold now before she drank it, and she could have used that water to wash her with.

"Stay there, darling," she said. "Mama's going to get some water. Don't go near the fire. . . ."

Taking the jug, she hurried down to the bathroom. It was occupied. More indecision; and then a door opened next to the bathroom and a man came out, dressed in an overcoat and a bowler hat. He looked at her, in her dressing gown, in open-mouthed amazement before looking away and going downstairs. She stood there blushing. Then the bathroom door opened and another man came out, also fully dressed. He paused like the first man and looked as if he'd say something, but frowned and went downstairs without a word.

She gritted her teeth and went in quickly, filled the jug from the gas heater, and hurried back up to Harriet, shutting the door firmly behind her.

*'Come on, Hattie-face, let's get you clean," she said, pouring the water into the basin.

"No," said Harriet sleepily, and stamped her foot, nuzzling into Sally's thighs.

Sally removed the wet, clinging nightdress and sponged Harriet clean, and then wrapped a towel around her while she searched for clean clothes. But they'd left in such a hurry that she hadn't packed any stockings for Harriet.

"You'll have to wear yesterday's," she said. "Today we'll buy some more. And I think Mama will have to wear yesterday's as well. Come on, stand up now. ..."

She coaxed the child into her clothes, and then saw that the fire had gone out. There was no more paper to relight it with.

"Oh, Hattie-face, this is going to be difficult, isn't it.?" she said, sitting Harriet in the armchair.

The child looked at her with eyes that were still half-asleep, and then closed them as if in disdain, shrugging herself around to get comfortable on the cold, slippery leather.

"Yes, you stay there for a while," Sally said. "Mama will get dressed and then we'll ... I don't know. We'll have breakfast."

She mopped the oilcloth on the bed dry with the sheet she'd taken off, and then got dressed. She'd go down and

get some more water and then wash, but she didn't want any more encounters on the stairs in her night clothes. She must have more privacy.

And cleanliness. Until they found somewhere that was more their own, where they could settle for a while and send their washing out, she'd have to buy several pairs of stockings for both of them, and underclothing. Make a list after breakfast. Find another place.

She dressed, fetched water, undressed, washed, dressed again, and then felt a little better. Her watch told her it was eight o'clock, and the morning outside was damp and misty. She could hear the traffic from the Strand, and she lifted Harriet up to the window sill, holding her close, to point things out.

"Listen!" she said. "Can you hear the train.'"'

An engine was whistling somewhere behind the black wall of Charing Cross Station across the way. Harriet pointed down the street.

"Tommy!" she said.

A man with a milk cart was pouring milk into two large jugs held by a maidservant. His horse stood placidly by and shook its head.

"No, it's not Tommy, but it looks like him," Sally agreed. "It's a different milkman. It's the Charing Cross milkman."

There was plenty ta see out of the window: a crossing sweeper, a news vendor, lots of cabs. Harriet liked the hansom cabs best, because of the stylish way they swung along. Then there was a policeman, big and fat as they should be, and two sparrows, and a pigeon, and a lady with a little black bouncy dog that made Harriet laugh. And then by pressing their faces to the glass they could just see the Strand and read the advertisements on the sides of the omnibuses going past. At least, Harriet thought she was reading them; she looked at them and said something while Sally spoke them clearly.

At half past eight there came a knock on the door, and the landlady came in with a tray of tea and toast and butter and

marmalade. Harriet, not sure again where they were or who this was and not liking frowns, sat very still and suspicious while Sally explained about the sheet and asked for some paper and wood to make the fire.

Then they went into the bedroom. Harriet looked at the tray. It was very thin toast. She wondered if it tasted like thick toast, or different. Then Mama and the lady came out of the bedroom, and Mama's face was angry, and the lady was carrying the wet sheet and her face was cross. They were cross with her, thought Harriet, and felt frightened.

But then the lady went out and Mama came and kissed her and they had some toast. It didn't taste different, but the marmalade did, and so did the milk.

What had happened was that the landlady had told Sally of various complaints she had received, to the effect that Sally had appeared improperly dressed in front of several gentleman lodgers. This was an intolerable state of affairs and she would have to leave that very day.

Sally's protests had done no good at all. The landlady's mind was made up, fixed, resolute, even to the extent of refunding Sally's rent for the rest of the week. Sally would have to leave as soon as the two of them had had breakfast.

Once the row (very decorous, no raised voices, grim politeness on both sides) was over, and she was sitting down buttering Harriet's toast, Sally felt almost light-hearted. Kismet, she thought. Fate. We didn't like this place anyway.

"We're going to find another house today," she said to Harriet. "And then we'll send for Sarah-Jane to come and live with us, shall we.^"'

"And Lamb."

"Oh, and Lamb, yes. Of course. We'll write to Mrs. MoUoy, and she can give Lamb to the postman, remember.? Eat up now. We'll pack all our things and then we'll go and do that. We've got all day this time."

Three quarters of an hour and a frosty exchange with the landlady later, Sally and Harriet found themselves in the

Strand. It wasn't quite drizzling, but it was cold and damp, the air so saturated with moisture that Sally saw it condense and settle on the fur of her purse-muff even before they'd left Villiers Street.

She wanted first to go to her bank, the London and Counties, which was only a few hundred yards away. Clutching the bags tightly in one hand and holding Harriet with the other, she made her way through the jostling crowd—newsboys, bootblacks, clerks hastening to work, ladies shopping, commissionaires on duty, messenger boys racing through the throng like fish through gray weeds—conscious all the time that Arthur Parrish's office was not far from here, and that she must not be seen.

She told herself that that was ridiculous, that in a busy street like the Strand she was as safe as anywhere in the world, but still she felt nervous; and conspicuous, too, with her heavy bags.

She reached the bank and turned inside, and sat Harriet on a chair beside the luggage.

"You look after that," she said. "Mama's going to get some money."

There was two hundred pounds in her account. If she withdrew it and opened another account somewhere else in another name, she'd be able to take out a year's lease on a small house or a flat and live quite comfortably. She wasn't altogether happy about the idea of carrying around that much cash, but there was no need to go far—there were plenty of banks nearby; and if she asked for a check to be drawn, they might be able to trace her. Cash was untraceable.

She went to the cashier and explained what she wanted. She was about to write a check when she saw his expression.

"Excuse me a moment, Miss Lockhart," he said, and stood up. "I must just check something with the manager."

With a curious glance at her, he left for an inner office. Sally felt alarm bells ringing in her heart. She looked around; Harriet was playing quietly, counting the rings on the turned

mahogany leg of the table beside her. The doorman, resplendent in his uniform, stood benevolently by, lifting his cap as he opened the door to a lady going out. Would he stop her if she had to run out with Harriet?

"Miss Lockhart?"

The manager was standing behind the counter, together with the embarrassed-looking cashier. The manager was a middle-aged, balding man with a condescending smile; Sally had spoken to him on only two occasions before, neither of them in the last year.

**I want to draw some money out of my account," said Sally. "Is there anything the matter.'"'

"I think I should speak to you privately," he said. "Would you be kind enough to come into my office.'*"

Sally thought: This is bad news. He's going to tell me something bad. The cashier exchanged a glance with the manager and then went and spoke to the doorman, as if he were sharing a joke.

She picked up Harriet and followed the manager through the door at the end of the banking hall. He sat down behind his desk before he spoke. Sally sat opposite, Harriet on her lap, feeling frightened.

"What is it, Mr. Emes.'' Why can't I have my money.?"

"There is no money in your account," he said. "In fact, the account is now closed."

She felt her jaw drop. // really does drop, she thought foolishly, and then gathered herself.

"I beg your pardon.'' What's happened to my money.? There was two hundred pounds in that account. Where is the money now.?"

"Your, ahem, your husband came in as soon as the bank opened this morning, with documents from the court empowering him to . . .1 was not in a position to, you understand . . . He was accompanied by his solicitor, and—"

"You gave him my money.?"

"His money. In the eyes of the law, a wife's personal

property is the husband's, to dispose of as he will. Unless there was a marriage settlement, that is to say. And the solicitor—"

"But I'm not married to that man! I never have been! He is not my husband!"

Harriet was looking up at her, wide-eyed, alarmed. Sally stroked her hair automatically.

"Miss, er, Miss Lockhart, there was no possible doubt. The solicitor had all the necessary papers. I was astonished when the, ah, information first came to me, as you can well imagine. But I have taken every step I could to make sure I was doing the right thing."