She Came Back (3 page)

A most extraordinary situation,” said Mr. Codrington. “Awkward—very awkward. You know, it would have been better if you had left the house.”

Philip Jocelyn smiled.

“Leave Miss Annie Joyce in possession? I’m afraid that doesn’t appeal to me.”

Mr. Codrington frowned. His father and he between them had known four generations of Jocelyns. They were an intractable family. He had attended Philip’s christening and known him ever since—liked him a good deal, and was not at all sure that he wasn’t the most intractable of the lot. Lawyers see a good deal of human nature. He said,

“These identity cases are always ticklish, and they attract a most undesirable amount of interest.”

“An understatement, I should say.”

Mr. Codrington looked grave.

“If she brings a case—” he said, and then broke off. “You know, I couldn’t go into the box myself and swear she wasn’t Anne Jocelyn.”

“You couldn’t?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“You think she’d win her case?”

“I don’t say that. She might break down under cross-examination. Short of that—” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know, Philip, the resemblance is amazing, and the trouble is we can’t get at the people who know Annie Joyce, and by the time we can get at them—if there are any of them left—accurate recollection will be dimmed. She’s been over there in France with Miss Jocelyn ever since she was fifteen, and that’s getting on for eleven years ago. I saw her just before she went—Miss Jocelyn brought her into my office. She was a year or two older than Anne, and thinner in the face, but there was quite a likeness—you’ve all got the same eyes and general colouring. But there it ended. Her hair was darker and quite straight—none of Anne’s wave.”

Philip smiled.

“Hair can be tinted and waves induced.”

“That, I think, would be susceptible of proof.”

Philip shook his head.

“Aunt Milly raised the point last night. Miss Joyce had her answer ready. Three years of privation had spoiled her hair dreadfully. She had had to have a permanent wave as soon as she landed. She said she had found a very good hairdresser in Westhaven—spent her last penny on it. And as to the colour, all these fair girls use a brightening wash, you know. Anne did herself, so there’s nothing in that.”

Mr. Codrington slewed round in his chair.

“Philip,” he said, “will you tell me just why you are so sure that she isn’t Anne? When I went into the room just now and saw her standing there under the portrait—well, you know—”

Philip Jocelyn laughed.

“She’s very fond of standing under Anne’s portrait. It’s a pity she can’t wear the fur coat all the time. She made a most effective entrance in it, I understand, but she can’t very well go on wearing it in the house. Everything else is most carefully reproduced—the hair, the dress, the pearls—Anne to the life at the time the portrait was painted. But don’t you see how that gives her away? Why should Anne dress to a portrait that’s four years old? Do you see her doing her hair the same way for four years? I don’t.” He gave a short laugh. “Why should she bother to reproduce Amory’s portrait, or to stop in Westhaven and have things done to her hair? If she was Anne she wouldn’t have to bother. She could come home in any old rag, with her head tied up in a scarf like half the girls do anyway, and it would never occur to her that she could be taken for anyone else. It’s the woman who’s putting on an act who’s got to dress the part and be particular over her make-up. Why should Anne think that her identity would be questioned? The bare possibility would simply never enter her head.”

Mr. Codrington nodded slowly.

“That’s a point. But I don’t quite know what a jury would think about it. Juries like facts. I’m afraid they don’t care about psychology.”

“Well, it’s one of my reasons for being sure she isn’t Anne. Here’s another—but I’m afraid you’ll call that psychological too. She’s astonishingly like Anne—as Anne might have been if she had lived to be nearly four years older—astonishingly like, to look at. But she’s not Anne, because if she were, she’d have flared back the moment I gave her the rough side of my tongue. I didn’t mince words, you know, and she turned the other cheek. I don’t see Anne doing that.”

“Three and a half years under German rule might very well have taught her self-control.”

Philip got out of his chair with an impatient movement.

“Not Anne—and not with me.” He began to walk to and fro in the room. “You’ve got to consider the way those two girls were brought up. Anne was the charming, spoiled only child of an heiress. At eighteen she was an heiress herself. She had such a lot of charm you wouldn’t find out she was spoiled unless you crossed her. I found out when I said she couldn’t possibly accept Theresa Jocelyn’s bequest. We had a very bad row about it, and she went to France. If this were Anne, she’d have simply boiled over when I said she was Annie Joyce. This is someone older, tougher, warier.”

“Nearly four years of German rule, Philip.”

“It would take more than four grown-up years to produce this woman who is pretending to be Anne. Just take a look at what has produced her. Her father was old Ambrose’s illegitimate son. But he only just missed being legitimate. If Anne’s grandmother had died a month sooner, there’s no doubt at all that Uncle Ambrose would have married his Mrs. Joyce, and young Roger would have been Sir Roger. As it was, the old man didn’t even bother to sign his will, and Annie didn’t inherit anything except a grievance. When she was fifteen Theresa tried to foist her on the family. I don’t suppose their very natural reactions helped the grievance to fade out. For the next seven years or so she was at Theresa’s beck and call. Very unstable sort of person, my cousin Theresa—the wretched girl would never know where she was with her. She’d be petted one minute, and snubbed the next—she’d always have to watch her step—she’d always have to think before she spoke—she simply couldn’t afford to lose her temper. She served a seven-years’ apprenticeship for Theresa’s money, and Theresa diddled her. Don’t you think the original grievance must have done some growing by the time it came to that? Don’t you think you’d get just the kind of woman who might think up a plan for getting her own back?”

“Quite persuasive. But it’s not an easy job impersonating someone. Of course it’s been done, and it will be done again, but there are a lot of pitfalls. In this case Annie Joyce would, of course, be quite familiar with all the family history, and with all the family photographs. Miss Jocelyn was an indefatigable gossip. She probably knew as much family tittle-tattle as anyone, and what she knew Annie would know. They stayed here too, didn’t they?”

“They did—for a week. Theresa insisted on bringing her. I was in my last term at school, so I missed the row, but I gather that Theresa surpassed herself. My father was livid, and my mother spent all her time picking up the bits—in fact, a pleasant time was had by all.”

“Quite so—rather hard on the child.”

Philip smiled, not too pleasantly.

“Well, there you have it. She had a week to memorize everything—the first big house she had ever been into, the first time she had ever been in the country. I remember my mother telling me that. Well, don’t you suppose it would stick? Those sort of impressions are strong, and they last. Miss Joyce finds her way with perfect ease all over the house and garden.”

“Oh, she does, does she?”

“That impresses you? It doesn’t impress me. I stayed with the McLarens in a shooting-box in the Highlands when I was fifteen—the same age as Annie Joyce when she came here. I’d back myself to find my way over it blindfold now, and I haven’t had the advantage of a refresher course—Annie Joyce has. Anne was three months at the château. I don’t say this was planned then—it couldn’t have been—but if you remember Theresa, you can imagine how she would have pumped Anne about everything.”

Mr. Codrington nodded.

“I agree that Annie Joyce would be in a better position to produce corroborative detail than most of the classic claimants have been. I gather that she is in possession of Anne’s fur coat and going-away dress, her pearls, wedding and engagement rings, also her passport and identity card. How do you account for that?”

Philip continued to walk up and down.

“I told them to get their valuables. Anne came down with the handbag that woman has got—it was one of her wedding presents. The papers and the jewelry must have been in it. One of the girls was carrying the fur coat—I ought to be able to remember which of them, but I can’t.”

“Unfortunately.” Mr. Codrington’s tone was dry.

Philip swung round on him.

“Look here, if I was lying I’d say Annie had it, wouldn’t I? I just can’t remember. All I do know is that Anne hadn’t got it when I carried her to the boat. If Pierre or Annie had it they could have got it back to the château. If Annie was as cold as she says she was she probably wore it. Pierre had a couple of suit-cases. I don’t know what happened to them. It was pitch-dark, and the Boche shooting at us. Anne was hit right away. Annie may have picked up the handbag, or she may have had it all along—I can’t say.”

“I see. There’s really no evidence there. It would cut either way. What about handwriting?”

Philip said gloomily, “She’s had three and a half years to practice Anne’s writing. It looks pretty good to me. I don’t know what an expert would say.”

“Juries don’t like experts.”

Philip nodded.

“I’ve always thought they did a good deal of hard swearing myself.”

“Juries distrust technicalities.”

Philip came over to the writing-table and sat down on the corner.

“For God’s sake don’t go on talking about juries! This woman isn’t Anne, and we’ve got to get her to admit it. She is Annie Joyce, and I want you to tell her that as Annie Joyce she is in my opinion entitled to Theresa Jocelyn’s thirty thousand pounds. I told Anne that I wouldn’t let her keep the money, and I told you after Anne’s death that I had no intention of keeping it myself unless I was sure Annie Joyce was dead. Well, she isn’t dead—she’s in the parlour with Lyndall. They are probably going through Aunt Milly’s collection of snapshots.” Mr. Codrington exclaimed, and Philip laughed. “They started on them last night. It was most tactfully done. ‘Dear Aunt Milly, have you been able to keep up your photography at all? Oh, yes—do let me see! You don’t know how starved I’ve been for a familiar face!’ And if they weren’t familiar before, you can bet she’s getting them by heart as quickly as she can.”

Mr. Codrington said quickly, “Why did you allow it? It shouldn’t have been allowed.”

Philip shrugged.

“A good deal of it happened before I came. Lyn’s following her round like a dog. Thinks I’m—” His voice changed, dropped almost to inaudibility. “I don’t know what she thinks.”

Mr. Codrington drummed on his knee.

“Mrs. Armitage ought to have had more sense.”

Philip got up and walked away.

“Oh, you can’t blame Aunt Milly. She and Lyn hadn’t a doubt—until I came. Aunt Milly is shaken now—at least I hope she is. But Lyn—” He turned round and came back.

“We’ve got right away from the point. I want you to go into the parlour and tell that woman she can have Theresa’s thirty thousand down on the nail for a nice safe legal receipt signed Annie Joyce.”

Lyndall came out of the parlour and shut the door behind her. For a moment there was a little relief, an illusory feeling of escape. And then Philip came down at the top of his angry stride and took her by the arm and marched her off.

When he had slammed the study door he leaned against it and said,

“Now you’re for it! What are you playing at?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re making a damned fool of yourself!”

Words sprang to her lips but were not allowed to pass them. They horrified her so much that she turned even whiter than she had been before, because she had so nearly said, “I wish I were.” Philip had said she was making a fool of herself, and she had almost said, “I wish I were.” And that would mean she wished that Anne had not come back to trouble them. She couldn’t wish that—she couldn’t ever wish that!

Philip looked at her with what she thought was contempt.

“You’re a damned little fool!” he said. “You’ve done your level best to queer my pitch, you know. What are you doing it for?”

She stood in front of him like a grieving child.

“What have I done?”

He laughed.

“It’s more a case of what haven’t you done. If there was anything she didn’t know, you’ve been down on your knees handing it to her. Haven’t you?”

“You mean about the photographs?” She spoke in a slow, troubled voice.

Philip took her by the wrists.

“Look at me! She isn’t Anne. Anne is dead. No—go on looking at me! Why do you think she is Anne?” His grasp tightened. “Do you really think so?”

She went on looking at him, but she hadn’t any words. He let go of her and stepped back, laughing.

“You’re not sure, are you? You stand there and you don’t say a word. Where have they all gone? You’d find them quick enough if you were really sure. Shall I tell you some of the things you can’t find those words for?” He drove his hands into his pockets and leaned against the door. “At first you were sure—you hadn’t a doubt. It was all ‘Oh, let us be joyful! Anne isn’t dead—she never has been!’ ”

She hadn’t looked away. She said,

“Yes—”

“And then it wasn’t quite so joyful, was it?” His eyes narrowed as he watched her. “Not—quite—so—joyful. You had to whip it up a bit. That meant tumbling over yourself to do anything she asked.”

“Yes—” again, but this time it wasn’t said by the pale lips. It was the eyes which said it, wincing away from Philip’s.

He said, “If I didn’t love you like hell I’d knock your head off!”

If it was possible to turn any paler, she did so. It may have been only a tensing of the muscles, giving that drawn look to a skin already blanched. Her hands took hold of one another and clung rigidly. She said,

“You mustn’t—”

Only very keen hearing could have caught the words. Philip’s hearing was keen. He said,

“Which?” Then, as her eyes came back to his face in a look of tragic reproach, “Mustn’t love you—or mustn’t knock your head off?”

“You know—”

His smile came, and went again. Just for a moment you could see how it would warm and soften the Jocelyn type. Just for a moment the hard lines about the mouth relaxed and a gleam of humour changed the eyes. It was a very fleeting affair. Before Lyndall could take any comfort from it he was saying,

“You’re quite right—I know. I mustn’t love you because Annie Joyce is putting up an act and pretending to be Anne. That’s it—isn’t it?”

“Because of Anne—because Anne is your wife.” A little louder this time, but the lips hardly moving.

Philip said in an icy, exasperated tone,

“That woman isn’t Anne, and she certainly isn’t my wife! Don’t you suppose I should know? You can’t be married to a woman for a year and not know her. Anne and I knew each other very well. Every time we quarrelled we knew each other a little better. This woman doesn’t know me any better than I know her. We don’t meet anywhere—she is an utter stranger.”

Lyndall’s eyes had been blank with pain. Something stirred in them now—some thought, some consciousness. Then the pain swamped it.

Philip said roughly, “You want to be a little martyr—don’t you? Just because I love you—Anne is alive. Just because she’s going to come between us—Annie Joyce has got to be Anne. Just because it hurts like blazes—you’ve got to do everything you can to put her between us. And I suppose you think I’m going to back you up. Well, I’m not.” He put out a hand. “Come here!” he said.

She came, moving slowly, until the hand fell on her shoulder.

“Did you think I didn’t know what you were up to? First of all, you were sure she was Anne. Then, when you weren’t so sure you thought how wicked it was—how wicked you were to have any doubts about it. And from there you got to thinking you had the doubts because you didn’t really want Anne to be alive—and after that of course you just had to do everything you could to show her and everyone else how glad you were. I don’t know how much damage you’ve done—quite a considerable amount, I should think. And I hope it’ll be a lesson to you not to try and hide things up, because you’ll never make a good liar, and I should always find you out.” He pulled her up against him and held her there, an arm about her shoulders.

She drew a long breath.

“Have I done a lot of harm?”

“I expect so.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to.”

“My child, ‘Evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart.’ ”

“You’re being horrid.”

“That was my intention.”

“Philip—how much harm have I done?”

“We shall go on finding out—or, qui vivra verra, if you’d rather have it in French. I expect you’ve probably told her quite a lot of things she ought to have known and didn’t, and wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t been there to oblige.”

“What sort of things?”

“Family things—but she’d have heard most of those from Theresa. Things about the neighborhood—that’s where she’d have been most likely to slip up, and I expect that’s where you came in.”

Lyndall turned in the circle of his arm.

“Philip, that’s not fair. You’ve got to be fair. If Anne had been away all this time and then come back, wouldn’t it be natural for her to ask about everyone—how they are, and where they are, and all that sort of thing?”

“It depends on how it was done. I’d like you to tell me how she did it. Cleverly, I’ve no doubt. She’s a much cleverer person than Anne. Anne wasn’t clever at all. She knew what she wanted, and generally speaking she got it—if she didn’t there was a row. All quite honest and open. She had never had to be anything else. Annie Joyce had. If she wanted to get her own way she had got to be clever about it. I expect she’s had plenty of practice. Now suppose you tell me just how clever she was about the neighbors.”

Lyndall bit her lip.

“Philip, it’s so horrid when you put it that way. It was all quite natural—it was really. She wanted to know which of the places round were empty. Wouldn’t Anne have wanted to know that? And who had lost anyone in the war, and what everyone was doing—well, Anne would have wanted to know all those things.”

“And then you got on to the photograph albums?”

“Philip, that was quite natural too. She asked me why I hadn’t been called up, and I said I was a Wren, but I’d been ill and was having sick leave, and she said she’d love to see a photograph of me in uniform—did Aunt Milly still take her snapshots? And I said she did when she could get the films. And—well, you see—”

Philip saw. The milk was spilled and couldn’t be picked up again. No good crying over it.

She was looking up at him.

“Philip—”

“What is it?”

“Philip—”

“What else have you done?”

“Nothing. I want to say you mustn’t think I agree with what you said. I don’t think anyone could know the things she knows unless she was Anne.”

His brows lifted ironically.

“But then you hadn’t the advantage of knowing my cousin Theresa. I assure you she made it her business to know everything, and Annie Joyce lived with her for seven years or so.”

Lyndall shook her head. She looked as if she were shaking something off.

“You’ve made up your mind. Philip, you mustn’t do that. It makes me go the other way, because somebody has got to be fair. I can’t help thinking about Anne. I loved her very much. I thought she had come back. If she hasn’t, it’s a dreadfully cruel trick. But if she has—if it is really Anne— what are we doing—how are we treating her? I keep thinking of that all the time. To come back home and find that nobody wants you—to find that your own husband doesn’t want you—it’s—it’s the most dreadful thing. I keep thinking about it.”

Philip stepped away from the door, stepped away from Lyndall.

“Stop harrowing yourself. She isn’t Anne.”