The Black Cabinet (11 page)

Chapter XX

Mr. Fossetter got into his car and drove into Danesborough village. As he came slowly through the village street he saw, emerging from the post office, Miss Adderley, first cousin once removed to Sir James Adderley of Daneham Manor, and the most accomplished gossip in three counties. He stopped at once, got out, and was very warmly greeted.

“Good gracious, Martin, where did you come from? Where are you staying?—not at Danesborough this time, I suppose.” Miss Adderley had a very sharp nose and little, pale grey eyes that saw everything; her streaky hair floated in wisps under a magenta felt hat that was at least three sizes too large.

“Why not at Danesborough?” said Martin with his charming smile.

Miss Adderley laid her hand on his arm.

“I want to look at your car,” she said, and propelled him across the street.

“Why?”

“Nonsense!” said Miss Adderley. “I don't really in the least—you know as well as I do that I don't know one end of the murdering things from the other—but that post office woman can hear flies walking on the ceiling, and—”

“And you were going to be indiscreet.”

“How dare you, when you know I'm the soul of discretion? But if half one hears is true about Danesborough and the heiress,”—she dropped her voice to a stage whisper—“well, it naturally surprised me to hear you were staying there.”

“I'm not,” said Martin.

“Then why did you say you were? That's the way things get about. One can't be too careful. And goodness knows there are stories enough already.”

“How intriguing!” said Martin. “Do go on. What are the stories?”

“I
never
repeat gossip,” said Miss Adderley. “But of course everybody's saying—by the way, have you met Miss Dane?”

“I have.”

“Have you really? Then you can tell me—is it very obvious?”

“Is what very obvious?”

Miss Adderley looked all round her and dropped her voice a little more:

“Her being odd—queer in the head, you know. Did you notice anything?”

“I noticed that she was very pretty,” said Martin, laughing.

Miss Adderley tucked a long grey wisp behind one ear.

“That's all a man would notice,” she said with biting scorn. “Poor thing, I'm sorry for her, with all that money and no sense.”

“No sense?” said Martin.

“No—
really
. It's safe with you, I know, or I wouldn't say a word. But she really is”—she shook her head expressively, and the magenta hat slipped forward over one eye—“quite touched; quite, if one may say so,
peculiar
.” She pushed back the hat and again took Martin by the arm. “The head housemaid is a friend of my Mrs. Jones, and she says the poor thing sits up all night, writing letters and burning them.
There
, what do you think of
that
?”

Martin detached himself, still laughing.

“
Didn't you ever write love-letters and burn them?” he asked impudently.
“
It's much the
safest
thing to do with them, really.” He got into the car as he spoke, and started the engine. Miss Adderley was not in the least offended; she was much too full of her subject to take offence. She continued to talk, with one hand on the side of the car: “Temper too—outbreaks. And such queer ways. She's sent all the cars away because she doesn't like the smell of petrol, and discharged all the gardeners because she doesn't like to see men about the place. Even poor Bucket at the lodge has had to turn out; and I do call
that
a shame, if you don't. And the latest, the
very
latest,—what do you think the
very
latest?”

“I don't know, I'm sure. I'm afraid I must be getting on, Miss Adderley.”

The car began to move; but Miss Adderley was not to be done out of imparting her choicest bit of gossip. She kept her hand on the side, and actually ran with the car a yard or two, taking quick, trotting steps.

“The latest is—she's had the telephone disconnected because the bell disturbs her! There, what do you think of
that
?” She let go on the last word, and fell back, panting, but triumphant.

“Dreadful!” said Martin over his shoulder. “See you later on.”

Miss Adderley clutched at her hat, which was now resting upon her left shoulder. She thrust it back on her head, and saw the car recede. Then she returned to the post office and told Mrs. Brent what a charming man Mr. Fossetter was and what a pity it was that there were so many stories about him, to which Mrs. Brent replied darkly that it wasn't always the handsome one that was the worst. “There's some that's as ugly as sin, and not a good word to say for no one,” she continued, and met the little grey eyes with an innocent stare. Miss Adderley' armour was of triple brass; she gave no sign.

Chloe ran up to her own room, looked in the glass and was grateful with all her heart that she had not met anyone as she came upstairs. This flushed, bright-eyed Chloe could not have escaped a very unwelcome notice.
“
You can pinch your cheeks to make them pink; but how on earth am I to get pale enough to pass muster with the Wroughtons? It's dreadful—I look happy, and I've got no earthly business to look happy.” Then she laughed and tossed her head a little; “You needn't think that it's
you
,
and be conceited about it.”— She was apostrophizing the absent Mr. Fossetter— “It isn't you in the least, so there! It's just the desert island feeling and seeing a sail on the horizon—that's all it is.” If Chloe was right, the “all” still included a good deal. She had been so starved of common kindness and ordinary friendly ways since she came to Danesborough; and she was by nature the friendliest creature in the world. She had not known how lonely and starved she was until Martin Fossetter looked up from his car and said “Hullo!” The reaction was one which might carry her far, especially when stimulated by tender glances, a voice that said her name as no one else had ever said it, and the prospect of romantic deliverance. Martin Fossetter certainly had a good deal in his favour.

Quite suddenly, in the midst of her high spirits, Chloe remembered the letters. She had locked them last night in the black box; and this morning, before leaving her room, she had turned the key in the cupboard door. She locked the door of her room now, and went to the cupboard a little anxiously. The housemaids must lave been about, and surely even Wroughton would draw the line at forcing the cupboard door and the lock of her box.

She drew a breath of relief when she found the letters as she had left them. But the moment's fright made her cast about for a better hiding place. After racking her brains she could think of only one that was at all likely to baffle a real search. She unpacked the letters and carried them into the bedroom. Then she rolled back the mattress and bedding from the foot of her bed and spread the letters on the spring mattress beneath.

When the bedding had been tidily replaced, Chloe packed the box with her clothes and locked it again. Then she went downstairs. The letters, she thought, would be quite safe now until she had seen Martin Fossetter. She must of course put them somewhere else before the housemaids did the room next morning; but in her heart Chloe hoped ardently that she had slept her last night at Danesborough, and that by next morning the letters would be out of harm's way for ever.

Chapter XXI

Mr. Fossetter waited in Langton Lane from four to five with exemplary patience. The sky was dark with clouds, and the light failed rapidly. At five o'clock a rustle, a scramble, and a little gasp announced Chloe's arrival. She became visible as a black shadow on the top of the black wall.

“Mr. Fossetter, are you there?”

Mr. Fossetter climbed the bank.

“Of course I'm here,” he said.

“I couldn't get away before, and I simply daren't stay. Emily's been sticking like the worst sort of glue. Well?” The last word was breathlessly eager.

He hesitated, and Chloe beat her hands together.

“Have you done anything? What have you done? Did you go to the telephone exchange? Did you order my taxi?”

“Well, as a matter of fact—”

“Haven't you been? Haven't you ordered it?” Her voice was sharp with dismay. “You don't know what it's like, being cut off like this, and every minute is like the longest possible sort of hour.”

“Chloe, listen. I went to the exchange at once; and they'll send up a man to-morrow.”

“Not to-day?”

“They're short-handed. Then about the taxi— I thought I'd better just see you first. Have you any plans?”

“Yes,” said Chloe. “Yes, I'm going back to Maxton—I told you so this morning.”

“Chloe, don't be vexed. The fact is—well, I was wondering whether Maxton was the best place for you to go to.”

“It's the only place where I've got any friends,” said Chloe a little piteously. “I thought I would go and see the Gressons at once, and tell Sir Joseph what has been happening—he's a kind old thing, and I thought he would advise me and be a sort of stand-by.”

“The Gressons are abroad,” said Martin Fossetter quickly.

“Are they? Are you sure? When did they go?”

“I met them a couple of days ago on their way through town. They've gone to Mentone.”

“Well, it can't be helped,” she said. “Will you please order that taxi.”

“Yes, I'll order it.” His tone was a dubious one. “But Chloe, have you thought? Supposing they play this quarantine stunt and won't let it in?”

“It's worth trying. Please, please order it, Mr. Fossetter.”

“And if it doesn't come?”

“Then you'll take me to the station, won't you?”

“I'll take you anywhere you want to go—Maxton, London” He broke off, and then added rather vehemently: “I wish you'd make it London.”

“Why?” said Chloe in a very innocent voice.

“Guess!” said Martin. The word shook a little.

Chloe thrilled; and the thought of Maxton became less attractive.

“I must get some work. And I don't know anyone in London; I shouldn't know where to
go.”

“Work?” said Martin in a puzzled voice. “Why must you get work?” He was aware of Chloe leaning nearer to him. Her words came on a quick, whispering breath; they tumbled over one another a little.

“I can't keep Mr. Dane's money. I can't take it, or keep it, or use it. And I've only got about two pounds of my own; so I must get some work at once, you see,—at once.”

“But, my dear girl—”

“There aren't any ‘buts'—there aren't really. It's horrible money that I couldn't touch if I were starving.”

“Chloe!”

“I can't explain. But there it is—I can't touch it. So you see, I must have some work at once.”

“I see.” He dropped his voice to a quietly meditative tone. “Now, if you were coming to London, I think I might be useful. My aunt, Lady Wenderby—you've heard of her—, well, she runs all sorts of hostels and girls' clubs, and all that sort of thing, and she'd get you a job in no time. She knows all the ropes, and she could tell you where to go, and the right people see, and all that.”

Everybody in England knew Lady Wenderby' social activities. Chloe was certainly allured.

“I didn't know she was your aunt.”

“Well, as a matter of fact she's cousin; but I've always called her Aunt. I wish you'd let me take you to her instead of going to Maxton. I wish—”

But Chloe drew back.

“No, I'll go to Maxton first. But if you'll give me an introduction to her later on, I'd be ever so grateful. Mr. Fossetter, please,
please
, will you order that taxi?”

“And if it doesn't come?—you know, Chloe, I'm afraid it won't come; they won't let it in.” He heard her draw her breath in sharply. “Could you be here early, quite early in the morning?”

“Yes, of course. I could get out at six before anyone's about. Could you be here at six?”

“I would stay here all night if it would be any good,” said Martin Fossetter in the voice which made Chloe's heart beat. She prepared for flight.

“I must go.”

“Chloe,” said Martin quickly. “Come with me now! I can't bear your going back. Come with me now!”

Chloe was kneeling on the wall; her hands held the brick coping tightly.

“No, I can't,” she said very quickly. “I must bring the letters—I can't leave the letters behind.” “Chloe I” said Martin in the darkness.

“Good-bye,” said Chloe. “Six o'clock to-morrow morning—if the taxi doesn't come. If;—if it does—”

“Oh, I'll be at the station,” said Martin. He heard her drop down on the other side of the wall.

Chloe ran all the way back to the house, and then had to stand on the terrace to get her breath before going in. There was a little wind that came in gusts, a cold damp wind that promised rain.

She went in reluctantly, and sat in the drawing-room, her ears strained for the sound of wheels, and her fingers busy unravelling a tangle of silks for Emily Wroughton's interminable embroidery. She was at present engaged in working bright pink flowers, hybrids mercifully unknown to nature, upon a black satin ground. The silks on Chloe's lap were of every shade imaginable. She pulled out strand after strand, and sometimes said “Yes” or “No” when Emily paused in her prattle; but all the time she was listening, listening, until the strained sense mocked her by simulating each expected sound in turn. It was long before she gave up hope. But when the dressing bell rang, and no taxi had arrived, she turned resolutely to her plans for getting out of the house in the darkness next morning.

She went up to bed early, and considered very seriously the question of how to get the letters away. She could get out of the house herself, but she couldn't possibly carry her black school box as far as the kitchen garden; something smaller and handier must be found. There were some suit-cases at the back of her cupboard. They would be better.

She went into the cupboard and switched on the light. The suit-cases were marked with Mr. Dane's initials, and she would not have taken them if she could have thought of any other way of getting the letters away. She chose two of good size, and, by dint of squeezing, got all the letters into them. She couldn't lock the cases, of course, but she fastened the spring catches and did up the straps. Then she stood up and looked about her.

“I must have some clothes, but they'll just have to go in a parcel.” In the end she found a small cardboard dress-box which she filled with things that she really could not do without. All the rest of her clothes she packed in the old black box. Then she went to bed, and was asleep almost before she had finished saying to herself, “Five o'clock—I must be sure to wake at five.”

It was really on that last word that she passed into sleep, because in the middle of saying it, she saw herself standing in front of an avenue of enormous 5's, hundreds of feet high and glittering like icicles in the sun. She had to walk down the avenue to reach the bottom of Maxton High Street, where she would be quite safe. She began to run, and as soon as she came into the avenue she found that the 5's really were made of ice; a wind blew between them and shook the frost from them in flakes that cut her hands. She was carrying the suit-cases that held the letters, and they got heavier every moment. It was most frightfully cold. She wanted to leave the letters and run away, but she knew she mustn't. If she could only reach the very bright light at the end of the avenue, she would be safe. The light was the arc light outside the railway station; Maxton, and Chloe wanted to reach it more than she had ever wanted anything. She tried to run faster, but her feet would not do what she wanted them to; they stopped and would not move. And just behind her she heard Mr. Dane say in his soft, cold voice, “Don't love anyone, don't trust anyone. Never trust anyone, Chloe.”

“Oh!” said Chloe in her dream. It was not a scream, but a struggling, sobbing cry. “Oh!” she said again between sleeping and waking, and then the dream was gone; everything was gone except darkness—and some one moving in the darkness.