Endless Night (16 page)

“Doesn't seem any reason why she should be, I agree, but you never know with ladies.”

“I suppose—” I began and then stopped because what I was going to say would seem perhaps rather odd.

“Yes, Mr. Rogers?”

“I believe that Claudia Hardcastle was originally married to an American—an American named Lloyd. Actually—the name of my wife's principal trustee in America is Stanford Lloyd. But there must be hundreds of Lloyds and anyway it would only be a coincidence if it was the same person. And what would it have to do with all this?”

“It doesn't seem likely. But then—” he stopped.

“The funny thing is that I thought I saw Stanford Lloyd down here on the day of the—the accident—Having lunch in the George at Bartington—”

“He didn't come to see you?”

I shook my head.

“He was with someone who looked rather like Miss Hardcastle. But probably it was just a mistake on my part. You know, I suppose, that it was her brother who built our house?”

“Does she take an interest in the house?”

“No,” I said, “I don't think she likes her brother's type of architecture.” Then I got up. “Well, I won't take any more of your time. Try and find the gipsy.”

“We shan't stop looking, I can tell you that. Coroner wants her too.”

I said good-bye and went out of the police station. In the queer way that so often happens when you suddenly meet someone you've been talking about, Claudia Hardcastle came out of the post office just as I was passing it. We both stopped. She said with that slight
embarrassment that you have when you meet someone that's been recently bereaved:

“I'm so terribly sorry, Mike, about Ellie. I won't say any more. It's beastly when people say things to you. But I have just—just to say that.”

“I know,” I said. “You were very nice to Ellie. You made her feel at home here. I've been grateful.”

“There was one thing I wanted to ask you and I thought perhaps I'd better do it now before you go to America. I hear you're going quite soon.”

“As soon as I can. I've got a lot to see to there.”

“It was only—if you
were
putting your house on the market I thought it might be a thing you'd set in motion before you went away…And if so—if so, I'd rather like to have the first refusal of it.”

I stared at her. This really did surprise me. It was the last thing I'd expected.

“You mean you'd like to buy it? I thought you didn't even care for that type of architecture?”

“My brother Rudolf said to me that it was the best thing he'd done. I dare say he knows. I expect you'll want a very large price for it but I could pay it. Yes, I'd like to have it.”

I couldn't help thinking it was odd. She'd never shown the faintest appreciation of our house when she'd come to it. I wondered as I'd wondered once or twice before what her links with her half-brother really were. Had she really a great devotion to him? Sometimes I'd almost thought that she disliked him, perhaps hated him. She spoke of him certainly in a very odd way. But whatever
her actual emotions were, he
meant
something to her. Meant something important. I shook my head slowly.

“I can see that you might think I'd want to sell the place and leave here because of Ellie's death,” I said. “But actually that's not so at all. We lived here and were happy and this is the place I shall remember her best.
I shan't sell Gipsy's Acre
—not for any consideration! You can be quite sure of that.”

Our eyes met. It was like a kind of tussle between us. Then hers dropped.

I took my courage in both hands and spoke.

“It's no business of mine, but you were married once. Was the name of your husband Stanford Lloyd?”

She looked at me for a moment without speaking. Then she said abruptly:

“Yes,” and turned away.

C
onfusion—That's all I can remember when I look back. Newspapermen asking questions—wanting interviews—masses of letters and telegrams—Greta coping with them—

The first really startling thing was that Ellie's family were not as we supposed in America. It was quite a shock to find that most of them were actually in England. It was understandable, perhaps, that Cora van Stuyvesant should be. She was a very restless woman, always dashing across to Europe, to Italy, to Paris, to London and back again to America, to Palm Beach, out West to the ranch; here, there and everywhere. On the actual day of Ellie's death she had been not more than fifty miles away, still pursuing her whim of having a house in England. She had rushed over to stay in London for two or three days and gone to fresh house agents for fresh orders to view and had been touring round the country seeing half a dozen on that particular day.

Stanford Lloyd, it turned out, had flown over in the same plane ostensibly for a business meeting in London. These people learnt of
Ellie's death, not from the cables which we had dispatched to the United States but from the public Press.

An ugly wrangle developed about where Ellie should be buried. I had assumed it was only natural that she'd be buried here where she had died. Here where she and I had lived.

But Ellie's family objected violently to this. They wanted the body brought to America to be buried with her forebears. Where her grandfather and her father, her mother and others had been laid to rest. I suppose it was natural, really, when one comes to think of it.

Andrew Lippincott came down to talk to me about it. He put the matter in a reasonable way.

“She never left any directions as to where she wished to be buried,” he pointed out to me.

“Why should she?” I demanded hotly. “How old was she—twenty-one? You don't think at twenty-one you're going to die. You don't start thinking then the way you want to be buried. If we'd ever thought about it we'd assume we'd be buried together somewhere even if we didn't die at the same time. But who thinks of death in the middle of life?”

“A very just observation,” said Mr. Lippincott. Then he said, “I'm afraid you'll also have to come to America, you know. There's a great deal of business interests you'll have to look into.”

“What sort of business? What have I got to do with business?”

“You could have a great deal to do with it,” he said. “Don't you realize that you're the principal beneficiary under the will?”

“You mean because I'm Ellie's next of kin or something?”

“No. Under her will.”

“I didn't know she ever made a will.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Lippincott. “Ellie was quite a businesslike young woman. She'd had to be, you know. She'd lived in the middle of that kind of thing. She made a will on coming of age and almost immediately after she was married. It was lodged with her lawyer in London with a request that one copy should be sent to me.” He hesitated and then said, “If you do come to the States, which I advise, I also think that you should place your affairs in the hands of some reputable lawyer there.”

“Why?”

“Because in the case of a vast fortune, large quantities of real estate, stocks, controlling interests in varying industries, you will need technical advice.”

“I'm not qualified to deal with things like that,” I said. “Really I'm not.”

“I quite understand,” said Mr. Lippincott.

“Couldn't I place the whole thing in your hands?”

“You could do so.”

“Well then, why don't I?”

“All the same, I think you should be separately represented. I am already acting for some members of the family and a conflict of interests might arise. If you will leave it in my hands, I will see that your interests are safeguarded by your being represented by a thoroughly able attorney.”

“Thank you,” I said, “you're very kind.”

“If I may be slightly indiscreet—” he looked a little uncomfortable—it pleased me rather thinking of Lippincott being indiscreet.

“Yes?” I said.

“I should advise you to be very careful of anything you sign. Any business documents. Before you sign anything, read it thoroughly and carefully.”

“Would the kind of document you're talking about mean anything to me if I do read it?”

“If it is not all clear to you, you will then hand it over to your legal adviser.”

“Are you warning me against somebody or someone?” I said, with a suddenly aroused interest.

“That is not at all a proper question for me to answer,” said Mr. Lippincott. “I will go this far. Where large sums of money are concerned it is advisable to trust
nobody.
”

So he
was
warning me against someone, but he wasn't going to give me any names. I could see that. Was it against Cora? Or had he had suspicions—perhaps suspicions of some long standing—of Stanford Lloyd, that florid banker so full of bonhomie, so rich and carefree, who had recently been over here “on business?” Might it be Uncle Frank who might approach me with some plausible documents? I had a sudden vision of myself, a poor innocent boob, swimming in a lake surrounded by evilly disposed crocodiles, all smiling false smiles of amity.

“The world,” said Mr. Lippincott, “is a very evil place.”

It was perhaps a stupid thing to say, but quite suddenly I asked him a question.

“Does Ellie's death benefit anyone?” I asked.

He looked at me sharply.

“That's a very curious question. Why do you ask that?”

“I don't know,” I said, “it just came into my head.”

“It benefits you,” he said.

“Of course,” I said. “I take that for granted. I really meant—does it benefit anyone else?”

Mr. Lippincott was silent for quite a long time.

“If you mean,” he said, “does Fenella's will benefit certain other people in the way of legacies, that is so in a minor degree. Some old servants, an old governess, one or two charities but nothing of any particular moment. There's a legacy to Miss Andersen but not a large one for she has already, as you probably know, settled a very considerable sum on Miss Andersen.”

I nodded. Ellie had told me she was doing that.

“You were her husband. She had no other near relations. But I take it that your question did not mean specifically that.”

“I don't know quite what I meant by it,” I said. “But somehow or other, you've succeeded, Mr. Lippincott, in making me feel suspicious. Suspicious of I don't know who, or why. Only—well, suspicious. I don't understand finance,” I added.

“No, that is quite apparent. Let me say only that I have no exact knowledge, no exact suspicions of any kind. At someone's death there is usually an accounting of their affairs. This may take place quickly or it may be delayed for a period of many years.”

“What you really mean,” I said, “is that some of the others quite likely might put a few fast ones over and ball up things generally. Get me perhaps to sign releases—whatever you call the things.”

“If Fenella's affairs were not, shall we say, in the healthy state they ought to be, then—yes, possibly her premature death might be, shall we say, fortunate for someone, we will name no names, someone perhaps who could cover his traces more easily if he had a fairly simple person, if I may say so, like yourself to deal with. I
will go that far but I do not wish to speak further on the matter. It would not be equitable to do so.”

There was a simple funeral service held in the little church. If I could have stayed away I would have done so. I hated all those people who were staring at me lining up outside the church. Curious eyes. Greta pulled me through things. I don't think I'd realized until now what a strong, reliable character she was. She made the arrangements, ordered flowers, arranged everything. I understood better now how Ellie had come to depend upon Greta as she had done. There aren't many Gretas in the world.

The people in the church were mostly our neighbours—some, even, that we had hardly known. But I noticed one face that I had seen before, but which I could not at the moment place. When I got back to the house, Carson told me there was a gentleman in the drawing room waiting to see me.

“I can't see anyone today. Send him away. You shouldn't have let him in!”

“Excuse me, sir. He said he was a relation.”

“A relation?”

Suddenly I remembered the man I'd seen in the church.

Carson was handing me a card.

It meant nothing to me for a moment. Mr. William R. Pardoe. I turned it over and shook my head. Then I handed it to Greta.

“Do you know by any chance who this is?” I said. “His face seemed familiar but I couldn't place it. Perhaps it's one of Ellie's friends.”

Greta took it from me and looked at it. Then she said:

“Of course.”

“Who is it?”

“Uncle Reuben. You remember. Ellie's cousin. She's spoken of him to you, surely?”

I remembered then why the face had seemed familiar to me. Ellie had had several photographs in her sitting room of her various relations carelessly placed about the room. That was why the face had been so familiar. I had seen it so far only in a photograph.

“I'll come,” I said.

I went out of the room and into the drawing room. Mr. Pardoe rose to his feet, and said:

“Michael Rogers? You may not know my name but your wife was my cousin. She called me Uncle Reuben always, but we haven't met, I know. This is the first time I've been over since your marriage.”

“Of course I know who you are,” I said.

I don't know quite how to describe Reuben Pardoe. He was a big burly man with a large face, wide and rather absent-looking as though he were thinking of something else. Yet after you had talked to him for a few moments you got the feeling that he was more on the ball than you would have thought.

“I don't need to tell you how shocked and grieved I was to hear of Ellie's death,” he said.

“Let's skip that,” I said. “I'm not up to talking about it.”

“No, no, I can understand that.”

He had a certain sympathetic personality and yet there was something about him that made me vaguely uneasy. I said, as Greta entered:

“You know Miss Andersen?”

“Of course,” he said, “how are you, Greta?”

“Not too bad,” said Greta. “How long have you been over?”

“Just a week or two. Touring around.”

Then it came to me. On an impulse I went in. “I saw you the other day.”

“Really? Where?”

“At an auction sale at a place called Bartington Manor.”

“I remember now,” he said, “yes, yes I think I remember your face. You were with a man about sixty with a brown moustache.”

“Yes,” I said. “A Major Phillpot.”

“You seemed in good spirits,” he said, “both of you.”

“Never better,” I said, and repeated with the strange wonder that I always felt, “Never better.”

“Of course—at that time you didn't know what had happened. That was the date of the accident, wasn't it?”

“Yes, we were expecting Ellie to join us for lunch.”

“Tragic,” said Uncle Reuben. “Really tragic….”

“I had no idea,” I said, “that you were in England. I don't think Ellie had any idea either?” I paused, waiting for what he would tell me.

“No,” he said, “I hadn't written. In fact, I didn't know how much time I should have over here, but actually I'd concluded my business earlier than I thought and I was wondering if after the sale I'd have the time to drive over and see you.”

“You came over from the States on business?” I asked.

“Well, partly yes and partly no. Cora wanted some advice from me on one or two matters. One concerning this house she's thinking of buying.”

It was then that he told me where Cora had been staying in England. Again I said:

“We didn't know that.”

“She was actually staying not far from here that day,” he said.

“Near here? Was she in a hotel?”

“No, she was staying with a friend.”

“I didn't know she had any friends in this part of the world.”

“A woman called—now what was her name?—Hard—something. Hardcastle.”

“Claudia Hardcastle?” I was surprised.

“Yes. She was quite a friend of Cora's. Cora knew her well when she was in the States. Didn't you know?”

“I know very little,” I said. “Very little about the family.”

I looked at Greta.

“Did
you
know that Cora knew Claudia Hardcastle?”

“I don't think I ever heard her speak of her,” said Greta. “So that's why Claudia didn't turn up that day.”

“Of course,” I said, “she was going with you to shop in London. You were to meet at Market Chadwell station—”

“Yes—and she wasn't there. She rang up the house just after I'd left. Said some American visitor had turned up unexpectedly and she couldn't leave home.”

“I wonder,” I said, “if the American visitor could have been Cora.”

“Obviously,” said Reuben Pardoe. He shook his head. “It all seems so confused,” he said. He went on, “I understand the inquest was adjourned.”

“Yes,” I said.

He drained his cup and got up.

“I won't stay to worry you any more,” he said. “If there's anything I can do, I'm staying at the Majestic Hotel in Market Chadwell.”

I said I was afraid there wasn't anything he could do and thanked him. When he had gone away, Greta said:

“What does he want, I wonder? Why did he come over?” And then sharply: “I wish they'd all go back where they belong.”

“I wonder if it was really Stanford Lloyd I saw at the George—I only got a glimpse.”