Poison In The Pen (11 page)

It was Florrie’s afternoon out. Her mother worked at the George because Mr. Stokes enjoyed bad health. There were three daughters and a son, and they all lived at home and contributed to Dad’s upkeep. They were a very affectionate family, and if it was fifteen years since Mr. Stokes had earned anything, he was at any rate a very good cook and always had something tasty ready for tea when the family came home. He had a very light hand with pastry, and as Florrie said, though not in Mrs. Glazier’s hearing, he could cook bacon and sausages and fry fish to beat the band. It was well known that alluring offers had been made to him from several quarters, but Mr. Stokes was not to be lured. He had mysterious turns which no doctor had ever been able to diagnose. He had not, in fact, a great deal of faith in doctors, an attitude fully reciprocated, Dr. Taylor going so far as to allude to him as an old humbug. This was doubtless the case, in spite of which the whole family was a very cheerful and united one. When Florrie came in he was reading the paper and sipping herbal tea, a quite horrid beverage the recipe for which had been handed down in his family for a hundred years and was a closely guarded secret. Nothing would have induced any of his children to touch it. Florrie wrinkled her nose at the smell, kissed the top of his head, and plunged into gossip.

“There’s been ever such a row up at the Manor.”

Mr. Stokes allowed his paper to slide onto the floor. It contained nothing as exciting as what might have been termed The Repton Serial. What with the talk there had been about Mrs. Repton—her clothes, her make-up, the rumours about her having been a model, to say nothing of what he stigmatized as her carryings on, and then Miss Valentine’s wedding being broken off—and anyone could guess why that was—and Connie Brooke dying off sudden as she had, and the police looking into it—well, there hadn’t been a dull moment. He enquired with avidity,

“Why—what’s up now? Been any more of that poison pen?”

Florrie shook her head.

“Not that I know of.”

“Miss Valentine had a letter Thursday?”

“I told you she did.”

“And the Colonel too? And Sam Boxer says there was one went to the Parsonage—all of them the spit and image of each other. And the police been at him about them. I told him straight, what he did ought to have done was to face up to ’em and say, ‘I’m a postman, that’s what I am—I’m not a detective. I got enough work to do delivering of my letters. It isn’t no part of my business to be studying of ’em.’ That’s what he did ought to have said and saved himself a lot er trouble. It’s got nothing to do with him, and so I told him. Or anyone else that I can see. Spilt milk won’t go back in the jug, nor broken-off weddings won’t come on again, not for the police nor yet for no one, so what’s the row about now?”

Florrie was bursting with it, but it wasn’t any good for her to start anything till Dad had had his say. You might just have been seeing a murder, but if there was something Dad wanted to talk about, you had to let him get in first.

But as soon as the coast was clear it all came tumbling out.

“Colonel and Mrs. Repton have had ever such a row. I could hear them in the study. Their voices was ever so loud— at least not the Colonel’s but there was something about it— it seemed to come right through the door. I was coming through to draw the curtains, and I could hear him say she could go to Mr. Earle, or she could go to her friend Mamie Foster—that’s the one she’s always writing to—or she could go to hell.”

Mr. Stokes sat with a cup of herbal tea in his hand. He had been going to take a sip, but the movement had been checked. His eyes fairly sparkled and his small monkeylike features displayed the liveliest interest as he said,

“He never!”

Florrie nodded.

“Cross my heart he did! And told her to get out of his house, and the sooner the better—at least that’s what it sounded like—and threw open the door and told her to go and pack.”

“Well, I never!”

Florrie nodded again, even more emphatically.

“And I got caught as near as a toucher. I don’t know how I got out of the way in time, I don’t reelly. I wouldn’t have, only they didn’t come out—not then. And the door stayed open, so I could hear all the rest of it—and my goodness if it wasn’t a Row! There was something about a letter he’d had—and that would be the one that came Thursday morning—and he said it was a filthy letter about a filthy thing.”

“He didn’t.”

“He did, straight! And she screaming out that it was all a lie! And then he said he knew quite well who it was as had written all those letters, and she said who was it, and he said wouldn’t she like to know. And then—Dad, what do you think he said then? He said maybe she’d written the letters herself! It didn’t sound sense to me, but that’s what he said. He said it would be one way of breaking off Miss Valentine’s marriage and getting out of her own, only she’d better make sure Mr. Gilbert would marry her before she walked out!”

Mr. Stokes took a sip of the sickly looking greenish fluid in the cup he was holding and swallowed it with relish. He said,

“Who’d er thought it! Has she gone?”

Florrie shook her head.

“No—nor doesn’t mean to, if you ask me. Said how was he going to make her go if she didn’t want to? And I’d say that brought him up with a bit of a turn, but I didn’t rightly hear any more, because that’s where he shut the door, and I didn’t like to go near it again.”

“Then how do you know she isn’t going off?”

Florrie giggled.

“I’ve got eyes and ears, haven’t I? The Colonel, he banged out—took the car. He just told Miss Maggie he wouldn’t be home to lunch and off he went. Mrs. Repton, she come down as if nothing had happened, and she hadn’t been packing neither, for I looked in her room. And at lunch, when Miss Maggie was talking about poor Miss Connie’s funeral and saying of course they would all go, and had they anything like mourning that they could wear, Miss Valentine said she hadn’t anything but grey, but she could wear a black hat with it. And Mrs. Repton—you know how bright she dresses— she said all she’d got was a smart navy suit which wouldn’t be at all right, but she supposed it would have to do. So the funeral not being till Tuesday, it doesn’t look as if she was thinking of getting off in a hurry, does it?”

“She wouldn’t want to make talk,” said Mr. Stokes. “There’d be a lot of talk if she went away before the funeral. Not but what there’ll be a lot of talk anyway.”

It would not be the fault of the Stokes family if there were not. When Florrie’s elder sister Betty came in the whole story had to be gone over again. And when Ivy was added to the family party, and the son Bob, and presently Florrie’s boy friend and Betty’s boy friend dropped in, it was all repeated. And with each repetition there was a tendency to place more and more emphasis on the fact that Colonel Repton had said he knew who had written the anonymous letters.

Later on that evening Florrie and her boy went over in the bus to Ledlington to the pictures. Waiting in the bus queue were Hilda Price and Jessie Peck. After such preliminaries as, “You know how I am about not talking,” and, “You won’t let it go any further, will you?” Florrie passed from hinting to narrative, the story lasting most of the way over in the bus, with the result that the boy friend, who was not really very much interested in anything except himself and his motorbike with Florrie a bad third, began to show signs of temper. How many people Hilda and Jessie told is not on record, but they were competent news-mongers.

Betty Stokes, who had been going steady with Mrs. Gurney’s son Reg for the past two years and was expecting to be engaged at Christmas, went round with him to his mother’s, where they spent the evening. In the intervals of playing rummy she related the latest instalment of the Manor serial. It was received with a good deal of interest.

Ivy, who was only sixteen, ran over to a girl friend who was also one of a large family. Her version of the row at the Manor was certainly the least accurate of the three, but not on that account the least interesting. She had a lively imagination and a good deal of dramatic sense. Her performance in a play got up in aid of the local Women’s Institute had been noticed in the Ledshire Observer. Her rendering of the Repton quarrel was an exciting one.

“Florrie, she was right next the door and she couldn’t help hearing him tell her he knew all about the way she’d been carrying on, and she could go to hell. Those were his very words, and they didn’t half give Florrie a turn. She came over ever so queer, because she thought whatever should she do if the Colonel got reelly violent. She couldn’t just stand there outside the door and let Mrs. Repton be half killed—now could she? And the Colonel might have turned on her if she’d come between them. Just like something out of a film it was. Florrie said her heart beat ever so. And the Colonel says, ‘Leave my house!’ he says. And she says, ‘How are you going to make me, I’d like to know.’ And they get on to those poison-pen letters, and he carries on something dreadful and he says he knows who wrote them…” And so forth and so on, the girl friend’s family coming in with appropriate responses and a good time being had by all.

It was not until late that night and just before she dropped asleep that the girl friend’s mother was suddenly visited by the thought of Connie Brooke. It was a vague ghost thought without clarity or definition, but it went with her into her sleep and it was still there when she woke in the morning. If she could have put it into words they would have been something like this, “Connie Brooke knew who wrote those letters, and she is dead.”

There are days which come up so bright and fair that they hardly seem to belong to the workaday world. When Miss Silver rose next morning to golden sunshine and an unclouded sky she reflected that it was doubly pleasant and appropriate that such halcyon weather should adorn a Sunday. She recalled George Herbert’s words:

“Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky—”

The end of the verse, with its reference to the dew which would weep the fall and death of the lovely day, she considered to be morbid, and did not therefore allow her thought to dwell upon it. She found the service in the old church most pleasant and restful, the lessons read plainly and well, a simple sermon, hearty untrained singing, and Mettie Eccles at the organ.

As they walked home afterwards, Miss Renie said in a plaintive voice,

“Mettie has always played. She has so much energy, but my dear sister used to say that her touch was hard. Esther had a very cultivated musical taste.”

Miss Silver remarked that she had liked Mr. Martin’s sermon. Miss Renie’s very slight sniff might have escaped a less acute observer.

“He has been here a long time, and people are fond of him, but he does not keep up his dignity,” she said. Then, with an abrupt transition, “I suppose you noticed that there was no one in the Manor pew?”

The following day was dull and rainy. It was Miss Maggie’s afternoon for the Work Party which, begun during the war, had proved so pleasant a social gathering that it had established itself as a permanency. There were, unfortunately, always the displaced and the distressed to work for, and no lack of piteous appeals for their relief. The party met at a different house each week, and its members vied with each other in the provision of simple refreshments. There had been some considerable speculation as to whether Miss Maggie would take her turn this time or allow it to pass to someone else. Opinion was divided on the subject, some ladies considering that the Reptons had really had enough on their hands, and that it would really be more delicate if they remained in retirement until after Connie’s funeral, whilst others held the view that the Work Party was not so much a Party as a Good Work and as such nothing should be allowed to interfere with it. Mettie Eccles made herself the mouthpiece of this second view, and not without authority, since she allowed it to be known that Miss Maggie had consulted her.

“She asked for my advice, and I had no hesitation in saying that if she felt up to it, the Work Party should go on. After all, none of us know when some distant connection may pass away! If a charitable activity like the Work Party is to be chopped and changed whenever anything like that happens, we shall none of us ever know where we are. I told Maggie very decidedly indeed that she ought not to let it make any difference, always provided she felt up to seeing us all, and she said at once that it would be the greatest help. And I said to her, ‘It isn’t as if poor Connie was anything but the most distant connection. It was your grandfather’s sister Florence who married Connie’s great-grandfather on the mother’s side as his third wife. And she never had any children of her own, which was just as well, because there were fifteen already, but I believe she made the most admirable stepmother.’ ”

After which there was no more to be said.

In spite of the damp afternoon there was quite an unusual attendance. The Manor had been the centre of interest all the week, and now on the top of everything else there was a perfect buzz of talk about the Reptons having had a really terrible quarrel.

“It came from one of the maids… It came from Florrie Stokes… All the Stokes family are such terrible talkers, and Mr. Stokes is the worst of the lot… They say Scilla Repton was carrying on with Gilbert Earle, and that’s why the wedding was broken off… My dear, how dreadful!… They say Colonel Repton is going to divorce her… He was crazy to marry her in the first place—he was old enough to know better… Oh, my dear, no man is ever too old to make a fool of himself over a woman…”

And first, last, and all the time,

“He said he knew who had written the anonymous letters… Florrie heard him with her own ears… The door was open and he shouted it out quite loud… He said he knew who had written the letters, and perhaps it was Scilla herself…”

Nobody in Tilling Green was going to miss an opportunity of mingling with the characters in so exciting a drama. Not that they really expected Roger to mingle with them. The utmost that anyone expected to see of him would be a brief encounter in the hall on arrival or when going away. Scilla Repton was also not to be counted upon. She would occasionally make a brief appearance in corduroy slacks, crimson or emerald, worn with a vividly contrasting jumper, drawl out a few bored sentences, and then vanish from the scene. When the Work Party was actually in the Manor she did as a rule come in at tea-time. If she absented herself to-day, Florrie’s story would be confirmed. And anyhow Miss Maggie would be there, and Valentine, and it should be perfectly possible to tell from their looks and manner whether anything was going on.

When Maggie Repton was worried she couldn’t keep her fingers still. She had to be fidgeting with this and that and the other. As she received them this afternoon, it was quite obvious to these people who knew her so well that she had something on her mind. Her long sallow face twitched, and when she was not actually shaking hands, her bony fingers were plucking at the cut steel chain about her neck or feeling for the handkerchief which she as constantly mislaid.

She had thought that she could manage to get through the afternoon, but now she didn’t feel as if she could. Roger had said that she ought to do it, and Mettie had said that she ought to do it, so here she was in the drawing-room in the dress which she always wore on these occasions. Not her best, because that would look pretentious, and though it was only purple and that counted as half mourning, she wouldn’t quite like to wear it until after the funeral. Her usual dress was fortunately quite suitable—two years old, and of a very dark grey with a little black fancy stitching on the yoke and cuffs.

She had consulted Roger again, a few minutes ago, just to reassure herself about the party. He had said very emphatically,

“Oh, yes, yes—go on and have the Work Party! What difference does it make? Except that if you don’t have it, you will start everyone talking all over again.” He went as far as the door, put his hand on it, and spoke without turning round. “There’ll be plenty to talk about, but let us get this funeral over first.”

Miss Maggie gave a little gasp.

“What—what do you mean?”

He threw her a brief glance over his shoulder.

“Divorce—Scilla is clearing out. You may as well know it now as later.”

“Clearing out—”

“And not coming back. She has been having an affair with Gilbert Earle—if that’s the worst of it. I’ve come to the end. She must go.” He jerked at the handle of the door and went out, shutting it sharply behind him.

Maggie Repton felt her way to a chair and sat down. It was quite a long time before she went through to the drawing-room. When she did so, people were already beginning to arrive. They glanced uneasily at her and at one another. Maggie Repton was always sallow, but this afternoon her skin had a curious greyish tinge. It might have been partly due to the light, the rain having turned into the kind of mist which drains the colour out of everything, but it wasn’t the light that gave her that wandering look and set her fingers shaking.

Valentine, on the contrary, did not look in the least like a deserted bride. She was not in colours—she wore a cream jumper and a grey tweed skirt, a compromise which was very generally approved. But there was a kind of bloom and glow about her which had been rather noticeably absent during the days preceding what should have been her wedding. After no more than a single glance there was a warm and unanimous feeling that whoever was plunged in gloom and distress, it was not dear Valentine.

Miss Silver had by now met quite a number of the ladies present. She found herself impressed by the efficiency with which Miss Eccles appeared to be presiding in what was, after all, someone else’s house. Certainly no one who did not know would have taken Miss Maggie for the hostess. It is true that she was not wearing a hat, but after the first few minutes this failed to distinguish her, since Mettie Eccles and quite a number of the other ladies had preferred to remove their headgear before sitting down to do needlework. For this purpose they adjourned to the hall, either by ones and twos or in small groups. There was a mirror there, and a chest upon which coats, hats and scarves could be piled.

They came back into the room and disposed themselves on the comfortable old-fashioned chairs and sofas. Thimbles were put on, scissors laid ready, half-made garments produced, knitting-needles and wool extracted from capacious bags. Miss Silver found herself on a sofa next to a large and important looking lady in black and white tweeds. She wore pearl studs in her ears, and she had very fine dark eyes. She was also the only woman in the room who was not provided with some sort of work. At first occupied in exchanging nods and greetings with some of the other women, she turned presently to her immediate companion and remarked,

“How very well you knit. Let me see, you are Renie Wayne’s p.g. aren’t you? Miss Silver isn’t it? I’m Nora Mallett—Lady Mallett. I’m a relation of the Reptons, and I’m here under completely false pretences, because I really came over to see Maggie. This poor girl Connie dying so suddenly and Val’s wedding being put off, I thought I had better just make sure that Maggie hadn’t packed up altogether. If I had had any idea that there would be this Work Party business going on I shouldn’t have come. As it is, I’m just waiting for a chance to get Maggie to myself for five minutes, so I don’t want to get involved with anyone it will be difficult to get away from.”

Oddly enough, this bluntness did not give offence. There was so much warmth in voice and manner, so strong an expression of kindness, as to make her seem merely frank. Miss Silver found herself forming a favourable impression. She said with a smile,

“My own work, I am afraid, is of quite a private character. I am making a twin set for my niece’s little girl. The jumper is finished. This is the cardigan.”

Lady Mallett admired the stitch, asked a number of questions about little Josephine, about her brothers, her parents. Always ready to talk of her dear Ethel, Miss Silver responded, and it was not until some time had passed that they reverted to their more immediate surroundings, Miss Silver reproaching herself for having been led into taking up too much of Lady Mallett’s attention.

Nora Mallett gave her rolling laugh.

“Oh, I’m always interested in people, you know, and there isn’t really any particular hurry.” She carefully dropped her voice as she continued. “I just don’t want to get buttonholed by Mettie Eccles. We’re some sort of cousins, you know, and she always tries to lay down the law to me. As for getting Maggie to myself, I don’t suppose there’s a hope.” She turned to look across the room to where Miss Repton drooped over a pattern which she and at least three other people were endeavouring to accommodate to what was obviously too short a length of material. With a laugh and a shrug she turned back again. “They might as well give it up—and so might I! I wonder how long before Mettie—Oh, she’s going over to them. And now, my dear Miss Silver, you will see that the pattern will be made to behave itself and come out right. If Mettie wants things to go a certain way, well, they go that way. The only time she didn’t bring it off was the one that mattered the most to her, poor thing.”

Nora Mallett’s tongue was notoriously indiscreet, but she would probably not have proceeded any farther if it had not been for that something about the quality of Miss Silver’s listening which had caused her to receive so many confidences. And after all, there really wasn’t any secret about the fact that Mettie Eccles had always been devoted to Roger. The words slid off her tongue.

“Odd, isn’t it, but you stop being clever when you care too much, and that’s a fact. She would have made Roger just the sort of wife he ought to have had, and I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him. Men are so horribly stupid! There she was under his nose—he saw her every day of his life— and so he really never saw her at all! Have you met his wife?”

“I have seen her.”

Lady Mallett shrugged the ample shoulders under the black and white tweed.

“Oh well, then, there isn’t much need to say any more, is there?” Like so many people who make this type of remark, she then proceeded to say quite a number of things. “Thirty years younger than he is, and a great deal too ornamental! What was it one of those old poets said about someone being too bright and good for something or other? I don’t know that I should use the word good, but she is certainly too bright for Tilling Green.”

With a slight preliminary cough Miss Silver supplied the information that the poet was Wordsworth, and that what he really said was:

“Not too bright or good

For human nature’s daily food.”

Nora Mallett laughed good humouredly.

“Daily food! My dear, what a cannibal! You know, I’m being horribly indiscreet, but sometimes it’s a tremendous relief just to let go and say what you feel, and if you do it to a stranger it matters so much less than giving yourself and everyone else away to an intimate friend who is quite certain to pass it on.”

Miss Silver’s needles were moving briskly. She looked at the blue frill which was lengthening there and said,

“It is sometimes much easier to talk to a stranger.”

Lady Mallett nodded.

“The looker on who sees most of the game! Now tell me— what is everyone saying about the wedding? Do they think it’s just put off, or what?”

“Mr. Earle’s absence has occasioned some comment.”

Lady Mallett laughed.

“Well, it would, wouldn’t it! Gilbert goes off, the other young man stays put, and Val has got stars in her eyes. I don’t mind saying that I like Jason the better of the two, though I’m sure I don’t know why. He can be shockingly rude, and he has been making Val unhappy, but if she wants him she’d better have him, so long as he doesn’t go off into the blue again and leave her to break her heart.”