Four Strange Women (6 page)

Colonel Glynne came back into the room. Accompanying him was a tall, grey-haired man, with a thin, intellectual face; a shy, retiring manner; mild, blinking blue eyes. One could have taken him for an Oxford professor who had never known a danger more deadly than that of making some slip in a learned article and so exposing himself to equally learned criticism. In fact he was, as Bobby learned to his surprise, General Sir Harold Hannay, with the right to tag most of the alphabet to his name. He had the reputation of being the cleverest man in the army—it was said he read Professor Whitehead for recreation and had discussed on equal terms mathematical problems with the gentleman who does not wish to be known as Lord Russell. He had, too, to his credit a series of reckless exploits in the last war, on the North-West frontier, in various other quarters of the globe, and yet in independent command he had not always been a success. Apparently he lacked that fierce, untiring energy of will great commanders need, and he was also always more willing to risk his own life than the lives of others. Bobby regarded him with a good deal of awe, and was reduced to speechless embarrassment when he found the general appearing to regard it as a high privilege to meet a young man of such promise and achievement as he knew Bobby to be.

With him was his daughter, Hazel Hannay, in many ways an odd contrast to her father. Where he was fair, tall, and lean, she was tall, dark, bigly made, with dead black hair, and, beneath heavy, strongly marked brows, dark, passionate eyes whose glance seemed to engulf and absorb all it rested on. Nor was there much that was shy or retiring in her manner, or in the heavy, questioning, somewhat haughty gaze she directed full upon Bobby. In her dress she seemed more inclined to bright and contrasting colours than is usual and a jacket she wore of glittering gold sequins had a striking effect. Bobby noticed also that in her movements she showed much of that grace and ease he had observed both in Becky Glynne and in Gwen Barton and that he supposed they learned from playing tennis.

There was a little small talk. The general refused the sherry his host offered him, but Hazel accepted a cocktail and drank it eagerly. Bobby thought her manner strained and uneasy, and he began to think, too, that in the way in which she still looked at him, there was something not only questioning but both doubtful and defiant, as though she were asking herself whether he were friend or foe. He was conscious of an impression that with her it had to be very completely either one or the other, and that where she gave either her love or her hate she gave it wholeheartedly. He remembered having heard that her mother was a Spaniard, so possibly it was from her she had inherited her hair that seemed like night itself, those dark and passionate eyes under their heavy brows, that intense manner as of bubbling fires beneath. Bobby felt he could understand better now he had seen her the references tennis commentators often made to the fierce intensity of her play, and their criticism that until she learned not to throw all she had into her first games, keeping nothing in reserve, she would never win the championship.

But then, Bobby reflected, if she ceased to give her all at once, if she thought about guarding reserves, she would cease to be herself, and those who cease to be themselves lose far more than they gain. He reflected, too, how entirely and utterly different were these four types of modern girlhood he had met in the last twenty-four hours—Lady May, the society beauty; Becky Glynne, bitter and frustrated; Hazel Hannay, dark and passionate, caring evidently very little for the conventions; Gwen Barton, something of an enigma with her apparent insignificance, her devotion to her lover, the odd fascination of her own to which that lover had so plainly and so utterly succumbed.

Dinner was announced and they went in. Len Glynne and Lady May were already in the room and Becky Glynne appeared just as her father was asking where she was. She and her brother exchanged scowls, and Bobby would hardly have been surprised to see them start throwing the plates and knives at each other's heads. Bobby found himself seated between the general and Lady May, who was next to their host and opposite Len Glynne. The general, noticing that Len had his thumb bandaged, blinked at it mildly and asked how it had happened, with much such an air of concern as a maiden aunt might show over a small boy's damaged knee. Len answered loudly that he had been bitten by a vicious cat. Bobby, busy with his soup, saw how Becky went first red and then white with rage, and the general seemed quite distressed and said that was bad, because a cat's bite was often infectious and might lead to blood poisoning. Len answered that he knew that, that it was because cats were fond of raking dirt over, and therefore he had been very careful to have the bite carefully disinfected. Becky said nothing and appeared to take no notice, but Bobby was very certain that it was all she could do to control the pale fury her features showed. He noticed that she did not finish her soup but put down her spoon and hid her hands under the table, and he knew this was because she could not master their trembling and did not wish it to be noticed.

“Looks like bad trouble brewing,” Bobby told himself uncomfortably; “and what's more, their father knows it. A nice hornet's nest I've got myself pushed into.”

In fact the only two at the table who seemed unaware of the feeling between brother and sister were the mild- mannered general, whose short-sighted eyes appeared to notice so little, and Lady May, who had not, Bobby thought, much of that quick and ready intelligence and alertness of mind most of the others seemed to possess. At any rate she remained quite placid, showed considerable interest in her food, now and again gave a gentle smile round the table, and occasionally lapsed into contemplation of her ring. Half way through the meal Colonel Glynne made some comment on it, and Lady May held up her hand for all to admire.

“Isn't it marvellous?” she said. “I daren't tell you how much I gave for it, only it was less than half what it cost because it's such a perfect model. It's an exact reproduction of the Blue John diamond they couldn't sell the other day. No one offered the reserve. Highams made it to show at the Paris Fine Arts Exhibition because they didn't want to risk sending the real thing.”

“It looks awfully genuine,” said Becky, speaking almost for the first time, and Bobby thought so, too, and shared the doubt Becky had made little effort to keep from her voice.

“I had to give nearly all I'm getting for being photographed holding a glass of Neo-champagne (British make),” Lady May explained. “Isn't it awful? Neo-champagne, I mean. I don't know how people can. But they write marvellous cheques.”

“I wish you wouldn't do that sort of thing,” growled Len.

“Why not, darling?” inquired Lady May, to whom all the world was darling. “If people are such sillies and drink the awful stuff because they think I do, I think it serves them right. Don't you, Mr. Owen?”

Bobby, thus suddenly appealed to, choked and stammered out something to the effect that it was only natural for all to follow where Lady May Grayson led, which earned him, from Lady May, one of those famous smiles, of which it has been so rudely said that she always kept them on tap; from Len, a formidable scowl; and a strong mental impression of his own that every one else thought it awful cheek for him to have said anything at all. Fortunately Becky relieved his embarrassment by remarking that most people would have thought it was the genuine Blue John, but no doubt Len, as an expert, would have been able to tell at once it was only a sham.

“I'm not an expert,” growled Len very angrily.

“You spotted old Lady Train was wearing artificial pearls anyhow,” Becky pointed out. “Cost you an invite to the Train shoot, too,” she added, not without satisfaction.

“Any fool could see those pearls were Woolworth's,” snarled Len, with whom the loss of the Train invitation was evidently a sore point. “And any fool could see that isn't the genuine Blue John—the tint is far too pronounced. You don't get the delicate colouring of the real thing.”

Len might not be an expert but he certainly spoke with authority, Bobby thought. After that the dinner, much to Bobby's relief, passed without further incident. The meal finished, they went into the drawing-room where Sir Harold Hannay, who had a passion for bridge, Lady May, who by some odd freak of nature possessed what is called ‘card sense', and the two young Glynnes sat down to cards. Hazel went to the piano and played there softly and contentedly, choosing, as Bobby noticed with surprise, exactly those sugary, sentimental tunes he would have expected to possess for her small attraction. Having seen his guests comfortably settled, the colonel took Bobby into his study, a large room with two big writing tables, a card index cabinet, a big safe, a book-case containing many law books, easy chairs and so on. On the whole a comfortable though somewhat severe and official-looking apartment.

“I get through some of my work here,” the colonel explained, producing cigars and a box of cigarettes. “You understand card indexing?”

“I've never had to keep one, sir,” Bobby answered, “but I know how important they are. I've heard it said that card indexing is to organization what newspapers are to publicity.”

“Well, there's something in that,” the colonel agreed.

He lapsed into silence and for a little they sat and smoked, the colonel with his cigar, Bobby with the cigarette he had preferred. Then Bobby said:—

“I think there's something, sir, I ought to mention. Lord Henry Darmoor—his father is Lord Whitfield—came to my rooms in London last night, rather late. I had never met him before but I knew his name from seeing it in the papers—he is a well known sportsman; polo, I think. He brought a Miss Gwen Barton with him. He said they were engaged.”

Bobby went on to describe briefly the interview. Colonel Glynne made no comment, never interrupted, sat so still, his eyes half closed, his neglected cigar smouldering on the table near, one might have thought he was not listening, but for the hard pressure of his clasped hands upon each other, so that the knuckles showed white; but for the air of tension that somehow his humped-up figure in the big arm-chair seemed to show. When Bobby finished he sat for a time in the same silence and immobility, almost as .if he did not even know that Bobby had ceased to speak, and then he got slowly to his feet and went out of the room, coming back in a moment or two with Sir Harold Hannay.

“Might have been a slam,” the old general sighed, blinking mildly around, “if partner had played up. Probably she wouldn't. Becky's not as good at bridge as she is at tennis, Glynne.”

He settled himself comfortably in a chair, refused a cigar the colonel offered him, remarked that he had already smoked his day's ration, except for the one cigarette he reserved for the last thing before bed, took out a pair of spectacles and fixed them on his long, thin nose. Colonel Glynne said to Bobby:—

“I think you know General Hannay is chairman of the Watch Committee. I consulted him when your appointment was first suggested. I believe Sir Harold intends to recommend its confirmation at the next meeting. Of course, your appointment is outside ordinary routine.”

“Good record,” said the general. He took off his spectacles, looked at them with distaste, and replaced them. “We all come to it,” he sighed. “Lady Markham pressed it. Your father, Lord Hirlpool, isn't he? I don't think I ever met him.”

“Not my father, sir,” said Bobby uncomfortably. He knew that to admit any relationship meant that he became instantly open to an accusation of snobbishness, that he at once exposed himself to a suspicion of nepotism, in fact that he would have to suffer all those disadvantages aristocratic birth imposes when there is no cash to support it, since, curiously enough, no blood is blue for long unless its hue is sustained by the yellow glint of gold. All the same, the connection was there and had to be acknowledged. “My uncle,” he explained.

“Good birth,” said the general approvingly. “Nothing in it,” he added, sternly now. “My family's got a pedigree goes back to the Conqueror. Faked, of course. None of us ever done a thing except nose out good land and buy it up cheap.”

“I want you,” the colonel interposed, speaking to Bobby, “to tell Sir Harold what you have just told me.”

Bobby repeated his story, as nearly as possible in the same words that he had used before. Both men listened closely. Bobby had the impression that every least word he uttered was to them full of a dark and horrid threat. Neither of them moved or spoke, moved not a finger, breathed not a syllable. The room was brightly lit. There was the ceiling light, a floor lamp, a table lamp. Yet Bobby had the impression, though he knew it was only fancy, that as he talked a darkness crept about them, that his slow speech, for he spoke deliberately and with care, called up strange powers of evil that lurked in the darkness of the night without, that hid in the corners of the room, menacing and mocking. As he finished, the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour, and Bobby heard the clear, silver chimes as though they were the muffled drums of doom. To his astonishment he found that he was trembling slightly. Colonel Glynne remained motionless, immobile in the frozen tension of his attitude. General Hannay took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead and his wrists. They had been damp with perspiration. He said, or rather whispered:—

“I think I'm afraid.”

Neither Bobby nor the colonel answered. General Hannay said again:—

“Done anything to your clock, Glynne?”

“No. Why?” answered the colonel, surprised.

“Nothing. There's a tale in our family that when we are threatened with death or disgrace, we hear muffled drums, the drums the General Hannay of that time had played when he shot a number of prisoners after Sedgmoor.”

“What's the connection with my clock?” Glynne asked. “Nothing,” the other answered. Then he said abruptly:—“Nice ring that of May Grayson's. You remember? She showed us. You saw it, Owen?”