Anne Belinda (13 page)

“By outsiders—that's what you're getting at, isn't it? I'm to mind my own business. Now, this is what I've got to say—I consider that this is my business, and I don't admit that I'm an outsider. If Anne had a father or a brother, it would be his business all right. Well, she hasn't—but she's got me. I'm a damned poor substitute, but I regard myself as a substitute. That's what I want you to tumble to—I'm the nearest male relation she's got—I'm in Tom Waveney's place. I didn't know Courtney, the elder one, but I knew Tom—served in his company when I joined up. He was a thundering good chap. If he were here, I shouldn't have to butt in. But he isn't here, and the way I look at it, I've got to do what he'd do.”

“You're the head of the family, in fact,” said Nicholas with the faintest possible inflection of sarcasm.

“Yes, I am. I didn't want to be; but as it happens, I am. Now will you explain?”

“You'd better let it alone, John. You can take it from me that you won't do any good—”

“I won't take it from anyone. You've got to explain.”

Nicholas looked at him with curiosity. Was it just obstinacy that made him so insistent?

“Well,” he said, “I'll explain. But you won't much like the explanation. As I said, every family's got its black sheep. One doesn't exactly enjoy talking about them. Anne's a bad lot—a rotten bad lot. I dare say you've guessed as much.”

John did not know whether he spoke or not. He was one raging protest. He did not know whether he spoke, or whether the sound that broke from his lips was wholly inarticulate.”

“You must have guessed there was something.”

“Go on,” said John. His lips felt stiff.

“It's a damned unpleasant thing to have to say,” said Nicholas, frowning; there was a note of sharp distaste in his voice. “It's damned unpleasant. But there's no getting away from it. Anne's a wrong 'un right through—a thief, if you want to know.”

The word was like a blow. It wasn't what he had expected. He did not know quite what he had expected—but not this, certainly not this. A thief! The word left a cold, sick feeling. He had not been looking at Nicholas; but he looked at him now, and found something of his own repugnance in the dark, withdrawn look which met his own, only to elude it.

“Inconceivable, isn't it?” said Nicholas. “You can't believe it any more than any of us could believe it—at first. You'd better hear the whole thing whilst we're at it. It's not the sort of thing one wants to talk about very often.”

“No.”

“It happened just before Jenny and I were married. It nearly killed Jenny. It did kill Sir Anthony.”

“What happened?”

“Jenny was in town staying with her godmother, Mrs. Courtney. At the end of her visit Anne came up for a couple of days. Mrs. Courtney couldn't put her up—as a matter of fact, she never cottoned much to Anne. She's a dashed clever woman—she never liked Anne.”

“Well?”

“Anne stayed at an hotel with her old nurse, Mrs. Jones. She and Jenny were to meet and go down to Waveney together. Well, Jenny started, picked Anne up, and took her off for a final fitting of her bridesmaid's dress, whilst the nurse took the luggage to the station. They were driving along, when Anne suddenly called out. Jenny couldn't make out what was the matter. Anne said she must stop the taxi and let her get out. She said, ‘Go on down to Waveney. I'll come by the next train. And if I can't come, I'll write.' She got out of the taxi and legged it. Jenny was most awfully frightened—she didn't know what had happened, and she didn't know what to do. In the end she went to the station and met Mrs. Jones, and they went down to Waveney together. Anne didn't come by the next train, or by any other train. Jenny didn't dare tell her father. She said Anne was staying with friends. Two days afterwards there was a letter from Anne, addressed to Mrs. Jones at her married daughter's address in Clapham. Anne said she'd been arrested—for stealing.”

“Stealing what?”

John found his mind extraordinarily clear. All the time Nicholas was talking he was picking out one detail here and another there, and filing these details—they must all be gone over very carefully later on. He said, “Stealing what?” and watched Nicholas with a hard, steady gaze.

“A string of pearls. You may have noticed that Jenny doesn't wear pearls. That's why. Anne went into a shop belonging to a little Jew man called Levinski, and she took a string of pearls worth about eight hundred pounds and left a sham lot in their place. This was in the morning, and she got clear away. When she was driving with Jenny, they passed the shop, and Levinski saw her. He'd come out to have a look at his window. He jumped into a taxi just as he was and gave chase. She'd just enough decency not to drag Jenny into the business—or she may have thought she'd more chance of getting away on foot. Anyhow, Levinsky came up with her and gave her in charge. The pearls were in her bag. She gave her name as Annie Jones, thank the Lord.”

“Go on,” said John.

Nicholas raised his eyebrows.

“Jenny tried to keep the whole thing from her father. He was pretty shaky—never really held his head up after the sons were killed. Mrs. Jones helped. They told the old man that Anne was ill—in a nursing home in town—not allowed to see anyone. Poor Jen! It must have been the most awful strain. They used to pretend to telephone for news every day. It was pretty ghastly. We were married in the middle of it all. Jenny told me about it when we'd been married a week, and the next thing was a wire from Mrs. Jones, calling us back. Sir Anthony'd found out, and it just smashed him. It nearly smashed Jenny too. It's a pleasant bit of family history, isn't it?”

John's gaze did not shift.

“Damnable!” he said. “Go on.”

“That's about the end. She pleaded guilty, and she got a year. She's just out, and she had the audacity to come down here and force herself on Jenny.”

There was a pause.

“Who knows?” said John.

“Jenny and I, the nurse, Carruthers, and yourself.”

“And Miss Fairlie?”

“Jenny told her yesterday—she had to, because when people press her too hard, she's been telling them that Anne was abroad with Aurora.”

“I see.” John looked away.

There was a long pause. Then, as Nicholas began to find the silence awkward, John jerked his head up and shot a question at him:

“Sir Anthony altered his will before he died?”

“Yes—fortunately; it gives us the whip hand. Apparently Anne expected to be received as if nothing had happened. I'm prepared to let Jenny go halves with her, provided she takes herself out of England and stays there for good.”

Another silence. This time John didn't look away; instead, he studied Nicholas Marr's face critically—a hint of sarcasm in the eyes; a hint of fastidious disgust; something set and implacable about the line of mouth and chin.

“Have you made this offer?” he asked.

“Jenny made it yesterday.”

John put that away with other things.

And what did she say?”

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders.

“She went off to catch her train. She didn't give any answer, and Jenny was naturally too much upset to press for one.”

Just for an instant John felt again the cold agony of Anne's grip, and saw again her blind and anguished eyes. Then he said:

“You think she didn't answer. I think you're wrong.” His tone was rather abstracted.

“What on earth—”

“You say Jenny offered her money to stay away. You say she didn't answer. I think she did. She never went back to the hotel. Do you know where she is now?”

“Not at the moment. But I don't flatter myself we're quit of her.”

John nodded.

“You don't know where she is; and you won't know where she is—that's what I think. I think you've had your answer—I think you had it when she didn't go back to the hotel.”

“Oh, you think that. I wish I did!”

John's jaw set rather grim.

“I want to know how much money she's got.”

“I haven't the least idea.”

“She hasn't any of her own?”

“No.”

“But she'd have had some on her, I suppose?”

“I suppose so.” Nicholas did not seem to be greatly interested.

“The few shillings a girl would have in her purse—perhaps a pound or two. And she'd been to an hotel, and she'd paid her way down here, and had a taxi and kept it waiting. There wouldn't have been very much left when she'd taken her ticket back to town.” John got up. “Thanks. I'll be getting along.”

“Where on earth are you going?” said Nicholas staring.

John looked back over his shoulder as he moved towards the door.

“I'm going to find Anne,” he said.

CHAPTER XVII

Anne was in the middle of an interview with Miss Pettigrew. Miss Pettigrew sat at a table on which there was a typewriter, a cyclostyle, a telephone, and a large ledger. She had greyish-brown hair, done in the fashion of the later nineties, and a round and rosy face, out of which there looked two kind but searching eyes. The eyes were of the brightest possible shade of blue.

“You came out yesterday?” Her voice was exceedingly clear and brisk.

“Yes.”

“Now, I wish you'd just looked in. It was a pity you didn't—yes, really a pity. Why didn't you?”

“I was going to friends.”

“Yes?”

Anne said nothing. Miss Pettigrew allowed about thirty seconds to pass; then she said:

“Well, the trouble is that we've nothing for you to-day. Are you staying with your friends?”

“No.”

The very bright blue eyes were not blind to Anne's change of colour. A brisk voice inquired:

“And where did you sleep last night?”

Anne looked up with a hint of humour.

“I didn't sleep very much. I sat on the Embankment.”

“No money?” asked Miss Pettigrew.

“Eightpence,” said Anne with a little smile.

“They didn't send you out with only eightpence?”

“Oh no. I thought I had plenty—and I'm afraid I squandered it.”

Miss Pettigrew gave a sharp little nod. “Thought her friends were going to take her in, and then found they wouldn't,” was her summing up of the situation.

“Well, that won't do,” was what she said aloud. “I'll try and get you in somewhere for to-night. It's not so difficult at this time of year. It's the winter that's the bother. Now, let me see—what can you do?”

“I don't mind what I do—to start with.”

“Any experience?”

“I'm afraid not.”

The telephone bell rang, and Miss Pettigrew picked up the receiver.

“Yes—that's right. Yes, Miss Pettigrew speaking. What name did you say? Oh, good morning.”

A buzzing murmur began, and went on for some time, Miss Pettigrew punctuating it with such remarks as “I see,” “Yes, yes,” and “Well, I'm very sorry.” Presently she threw a quick glance at Anne and said, speaking into the telephone:

“If you will wait for a few moments, I'll ring you.” Whereupon she hung up the receiver. “That,” she said, “was Mrs. Yates. She always comes to us. She wants a house-parlourmaid.”

Anne looked hopeful.

“I could do that,” she said.

“Without experience?” said Miss Pettigrew, and saw Anne's colour rise.

“Yes, I'm sure I could.”

“I'll send you to see her. She's desperate for someone, because the last girl I sent her walked out yesterday without notice. She's very much annoyed—naturally. It's not an easy place.” The last sentence was as dry as you please.

Again a spark of humour kindled in Anne's eyes.

“How long do they usually stay?” she asked.

Miss Pettigrew's own sense of humour was a quality which she was at some pains to keep under sound control. Her rosy face was quite grave as she replied:

“From three days to three months.”

“Why?” asked Anne.

“That, I think, you'll have to discover for yourself. They don't complain—”

“But they don't stay.” Anne paused. “I can't very well afford to pick and choose,” was her conclusion.

Miss Pettigrew nodded approval.

“That's sensible. I don't give advice; but if I did—”

Anne gave the encouraging smile which belonged to Anne Belinda Waveney, and not to Annie Jones. It startled Miss Pettigrew a little.

“I should be very grateful for the advice.”

“Well, it doesn't amount to much. I don't advise, as I said; but if I did, I should say, ‘Just cultivate being a little deaf.' People who talk a lot don't always mean everything they say. Don't be too thin-skinned, and remember that six months' good character will make it a lot easier for me to get you something better.”

Anne said “Thank you” out of a really grateful heart.

CHAPTER XVIII

John drove his car slowly back to town. He drove slowly because he wanted to think. He wanted to stand away from his interview with Nicholas and get it in focus. At present it was so much out of focus as to appear monstrous. The one horrible word “thief” stood out like a deformity thrust right into the lens of the camera; he could see nothing clearly for it, and whenever he looked at it he felt the same old sickness. “Thief”; “prison”—words like these had no reasonable connection with oneself, with one's family, with the women of one's family. That they should be brought into relation with them was monstrous.

He drove in clear, pale sunlight between hedges where the hawthorn blossom hung like a heavy fall of snow. The sky overhead was the pale, pure blue that speaks of clean air and a freshening breeze. There were clouds coming up out of the north-east—clouds like blown feathers, as white as the thorn blossom.