The Brading Collection (2 page)

Miss Silver showed that she had taken the allusion in the manner of the governess who commends a pupil. She murmured,

“Poisson d’avril being, of course, the French equivalent for an April fool.”

A slight bleak pinching of the lips replaced the slight bleak smile. He had a feeling that he had been set down, but could not believe that that had been her intention. Miss Silver’s gaze remained mild and enquiring. He said,

“In addition to Moberly’s technical qualifications, I considered that his antecedents would give me a useful hold over him. He had never been brought to book, and if he behaved himself in my employment he never would be, but if he put a foot wrong, if he abused his position in the slightest degree, he would expose himself to prosecution.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me!” again. The busy needles checked for a moment in the middle of the lemon-coloured stripe. She observed,

“It seems to me that you have embarked upon a very dangerous course.”

The grey eyebrows rose. He laughed.

“He won’t murder me,” he said. “You must give me credit for a little intelligence, you know. If anything were to happen to me, James Moberly’s dossier would come into the hands of my cousin Charles Forrest, who is also my executor. If he is not satisfied that everything is above-board, the dossier will go to the police. There is a letter with my will instructing him to that effect, and James Moberly knows it.”

Miss Silver’s needles moved again. She did not comment. To anyone who knew her it would have been evident that she disapproved.

If Mr. Brading was not aware of this, it was because it did not occur to him that there was matter for disapproval. He was, in fact, quite pleased with himself and his expedient for ensuring his secretary’s fidelity. He even invited applause.

“Quite a good idea, don’t you think? I’ve got the whip hand, and he knows it. As long as he stays honest and does his job, I pay him well and he is all right. Self-interest, you see. That’s as powerful a motive as you can have. It pays him to be honest and to do his job to my liking. You can’t have a stronger motive than that.”

Miss Silver reached the end of her row. She said in a tone of great gravity,

“You are engaged upon a dangerous course, Mr. Brading. I think you must be aware of this yourself, or you would not be here. Why have you come to see me?”

He had a sudden frown.

“I don’t know. I have been—how shall I put it—obsessed. Yes, I think that is the right word—” he repeated it with a good deal of emphasis—“obsessed with the idea that something is going on behind my back. I am neither nervous nor imaginative, but I have that feeling. If there is any foundation for it, I should like to know what it is. If there is none—well, I should like to be assured about that.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Have you nothing more to go upon than a feeling?”

She saw him hesitate.

“I don’t know—perhaps—perhaps not. I have thought—” He broke off.

“Pray be frank with me, Mr. Brading. What have you thought?”

He looked at her, at first curiously, and then with some intensity.

“I have thought once or twice that I have slept rather too heavily—and I have waked with the feeling that something has been going on.”

“How often has this happened?”

“Two or three times. I have no certainty about it—it just presents itself as a possibility. I have had the feeling that someone else has been in the annexe—” He broke off with a shake of the head. “No, that’s putting it too strongly. I can’t get farther than what I said before—it presents itself as a possibility.”

Miss Silver made an almost imperceptible movement. It did not get as far as being a shake of the head, but to anyone who knew her—let us say, to Inspector Abbott of Scotland Yard—it would have conveyed dissatisfaction if not dissent. She said after a slight preliminary cough,

“You will forgive me, Mr. Brading, if I do not see why you are consulting me.”

“No?”

She repeated the word in a quiet thoughtful manner.

“No. You seem to have some vague suspicions, and I assume that these are directed against your secretary.”

“I did not say so.”

She laid down her knitting for a moment and said briskly,

“No, you did not say so. But you and Mr. Moberly are alone in this annexe which you have described. I suppose, like yourself, he has a key?”

“Yes, he has a key.”

“Then what you have said amounts to this. You suspect that he admits, or has admitted, someone to the annexe after taking the precaution of drugging you.”

“I have not said any of those things.”

“You have implied them. May I ask what you had in your mind when you asked me to see you? In what way did you think I could be of any service?”

The smile was still there. If it afforded any evidence of pleasure, it was not the kind of pleasure of which Miss Silver could approve. He lifted his hand and let it fall again.

“I thought it might not be a bad thing to have Moberly watched.”

Miss Silver had resumed her knitting. She was upon a grey stripe rather wider than either the lemon or the blue. Over the needles she contemplated Mr. Brading and his smile.

“I am afraid I cannot be of any help to you there. The case would not be at all in my line. I could give you some advice, but before I do so—” she broke off—“there is a question I should like to ask.”

The grey eyebrows lifted a little.

“What is it?”

“Your secretary, Mr. Moberly—has he ever asked you to release him?”

“He has.”

“Recently?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Urgently?”

“You might put it that way. And now what is your advice?”

“That you should let him go.”

The hand lifted again.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t suit me.”

She said with some urgency,

“Let him go, Mr. Brading. I do not know what your motive may be, but you are keeping a man against his will, and you are keeping him by means of a threat. That is not only wrong, it is dangerous. I have said this before. If I repeat it now, it is because I feel it my duty to warn you. Resentment may pass into hatred, and hatred produces an atmosphere in which anything may happen. You would, I think, be well advised to house your Collection in a museum and adopt a more normal way of life.”

“Really? Is that all?”

She looked at him steadily.

“Opposition stiffens you, does it not, Mr. Brading? Is that why you came to me? Did you, perhaps, feel the need of something to stiffen you? If that is the case, I think it is a pity that you came.”

She laid her knitting down upon the table at her side and rose to her feet. The audience was over.

Lewis Brading had no choice but to follow her example. He took a formal leave and went out. A good deal against his will and his intention, he had been impressed.

Stacy Mainwaring stood at the window looking out. She stood because she was feeling too restless to sit, and she looked out because she was expecting a client and she wanted to see her arrive. Sometimes you can get quite a good idea of what a person is like from walk, carriage, manner of approach. When two people meet, each is to some extent affected by the other, neither is quite the same as when alone. Stacy had a fancy to see Lady Minstrell before they met.

She looked down from her third-floor window and saw the London street, very hot in the afternoon sun. It was a quiet street, the tall old-fashioned houses mostly let out in hastily improvised flats to meet the pressing need for accommodation. Stacy had two rooms and the use of a bath. A great many people only had one, and thought themselves lucky.

She looked down the street and wondered if the woman in the bulging coat was going to be Lady Minstrell. Even if the temperature was nearing ninety, London could always produce a fat woman swathed to the chin in fur. If this particular woman stopped at No. 10, Stacy was going to say no. Perhaps she would say no anyhow—she hadn’t made up her mind. Ever since Lady Minstrell had rung her up and made the appointment she had been trying to make up her mind, but it just wouldn’t play. Every time she got within sight of saying yes or saying no it balked and she had to start arguing with it all over again. Ledshire was a big county. You could probably live for years in Ledshire and never run up against Charles Forrest. You might even live there for years and never run up against anyone who knew him. On the other hand you might meet him pointblank in Ledlington High Street any day of the week, or find yourself at a cocktail party, or having tea with people who were discussing the divorce. “I see Charles has got rid of that girl. What was her name? Something rather odd, but I don’t remember what.”… “Walked out and left him, didn’t she? Something rather new for old Charles—what? It’s generally been the other way on.” That was the sort of thing people said, and if she went down into Ledshire to do a miniature of old Mrs. Constantine she might have to hear them saying it.

Her right hand closed hard upon itself. So what? If you did things, people talked, and if they talked, you had just got to get used to what they said. What did it matter? She had left Charles, and he had divorced her for desertion. What of it? It was three years since she had seen him. She had kept her head above water, she was making a name with her miniatures. There was no reason on earth why she shouldn’t go down into Ledshire and paint Mrs. Constantine. There was, in fact, every reason why she should. The old thing was a celebrity. It would be a feather in her cap, she could do with the money. And London was baking hot. Quite suddenly she felt as if she couldn’t bear it any longer. Two rooms, and a row of grey houses to look at. Her feet ached at the mere thought of the August pavements. The hand which she had clenched relaxed. If she took this on, there would be a garden—grass, trees, shade. What did it matter if she met Charles or didn’t meet him? They could say “Hullo!” and get on with whatever they were doing. They didn’t matter to each other any longer. They weren’t married any more.

A taxi came up the street and stopped at No. 10. A tall woman got out. Stacy saw the crown of a small black hat, the flutter of a thin flowery dress, and that was all. She stepped back from the window and waited. After all, the first view had told her nothing.

Lady Minstrell came into the room like a ship in full sail. If she hadn’t had the money and the sense to put herself into the hands of a first-class dressmaker she would have been just a big raw-boned woman. As it was, she was imposing—a good six foot of her, with a lot of vigorous dark hair just threaded with grey and a set of handsome features. She made Stacy feel inconsiderable and wispy. When she spoke she had the carefully trained voice of the class into which she had married. No one could have found any fault with it, except that it might have been any other woman’s voice.

“Miss Mainwaring—I am so glad you were able to arrange to see me. Letters are so unsatisfactory, don’t you think, and a conversation on the telephone always seems so one-sided.” She settled herself without haste, fixed her dark eyes on Stacy, and went on as if there had been no interruption. “You see, as I was trying to explain, this is not just an ordinary case of commissioning a portrait. My mother has always refused to have her portrait painted. Of course when she was on the stage she used to be photographed, but only in character. She has never had a private photograph taken in her life, and my sister and I are naturally most anxious to—to—” she broke off and made a little gesture with her hands—“I am sure you understand.”

Stacy said, “Yes, of course.” Her voice sounded cool and detached. Three years ago it would have been different. She could hear the difference herself. She hated it, and it pleased her. If you don’t wear armour you get hurt, but sometimes the armour feels stiff and not to be borne.

Lady Minstrell went on talking.

“My mother saw some of your work in an exhibition. There was a miniature of an old man—Professor Langton. She liked it very much, and when she came home she said, ‘You are always pestering me to be painted. Well, if you can get hold of that young woman, I don’t mind if I do.’ ” She made the same little gesture as before. “I hope you don’t think I’m too blunt, but the fact is my mother is a character and that’s the way she talks. It wouldn’t be any good your going down to paint her if you thought she was going to be like other people, for she never has been and she never will be.”

Stacy found herself laughing.

“I shouldn’t want to paint her if she were!”

“Do you want to paint her? I do hope you do.”

“You are making me want to.”

“Oh, I’m so glad! That is just what I hoped, because it’s such an opportunity. My mother is really interested. She still has the most wonderful energy, you know. If you had said no, she would have been perfectly capable of coming up to town and planting herself in this chair until she had persuaded you to say yes, so it will be much less tiring all round if we can come to an arrangement. Now, what about it? When could you come?”

Something in Stacy said, “I can’t—”

The voice was a fainting one. When she told it not to be a fool it died away. She felt quite a little glow of triumph as she settled with Lady Minstrell about the fee and arranged to go down to Burdon in two days’ time.

“It’s seven miles from Ledlington, and we will meet the three-forty-five.”

When Lady Minstrell had gone Stacy went down and borrowed a map of Ledshire. Colonel Albury on the ground floor had all the maps in the world. In the days when he had a car he had driven it at a high rate of speed over most of the roads which were marked upon them. Now that he couldn’t drive any more he spent a good many hours a day going over his maps, calculating things like mileage, and just where you could save petrol by coasting down a slope. Stacy did not want to become entangled in these calculations, so she was glad to catch Mrs. Albury, who gave her the map without asking any questions and was only too anxious to hurry back to the washing, or the cooking, or the cleaning, which she did so badly, and which took up all her time.

Back in her own room, Stacy unfolded the map and laid it out on the piece of furniture which was a sofa by day and a bed by night. She certainly had two rooms, but the one at the back was too small and hot to sleep in.

She spread out the map and kneeled down to look at it. There was Ledlington, with Ledstow seven miles away and a wavy line of coast beyond. Burdon wouldn’t be marked, but the village was Hele, and that was seven miles from Ledlington too. She found it almost at once, on the opposite side from Ledstow, and drew in her breath. That would make it a good fourteen miles from the coast. Warne lay right on the coast. Even if Charles was there, she could go down to Burdon with a light heart. Fourteen miles was quite a long way. Besides, why should Charles be at Warne? He couldn’t possibly afford to live at Saltings.

She stopped for a moment to think about the big grey house standing amongst the old trees which screened it from the Channel winds. She wondered if it was sold, or let, or parcelled out into flats. She wondered whether Charles would mind if it were. If he did he would never show it. He never showed anything. Perhaps that was because there was nothing to show. He kept a smiling face to the world and charmed it at his will, but whether he cared for anything more than that it should be charmed, she had not known and she would never know.

Stacy got up quickly. She bundled the map together and pitched it on to a chair in a manner which would have made Colonel Albury see red. Granted she was a born fool, she wasn’t quite such a fool as to go all maudlin over a map and start thinking back about Charles. It didn’t matter to her what had happened to him or to Saltings. She was going to Burdon to paint old Myra Constantine, and Burdon was fourteen miles from Warne.

She made herself very busy for the rest of the day. There was plenty to do if she was to get off in two days’ time. She did it in a rush of energy which sent her to bed so tired that she fell asleep almost as soon as her head was on the pillow. And then she must needs dream about Saltings.

It was a most extraordinarily vivid dream. She was walking on the cliff path. There really was a cliff path, and she had hated it because the drop went down so steeply to the sea and the way was narrow, but in her dream it was narrower still. The drop was sheer, and on the landward side, instead of a bank easy and sometimes no more than head high, there towered a long unbroken wall. There was quite a lot of light, but she couldn’t see the sea or the top of the wall. She could hear the waves come crawling up across the sand and go dragging back into the sea, and she could hear a landward wind that buffeted the wall, but she couldn’t see the tide or feel the wind. She had to walk straight on. She didn’t know why she had to—she was compelled, without knowledge or choice. The wall was Colonel Albury’s map standing up on end with all the towns and roads and rivers marked on it. The cliff path was marked on it. Every step her feet were taking was marked. She had passed Saltings, and presently the path would bring her to Warne. The path would stop there, because the cliff dipped to the village. Any minute now it would begin to run downhill, and she would see the trees which protected Warne House, and the roofs of the village houses below. Only there was something wrong—the path kept going on and not getting anywhere. A voice called from high overhead, “Where, Stacy—where?” and she said, “To Warne.” The voice said, “Don’t go. I’m warning you—don’t go to Warne.” Then it died away, and she saw Charles coming towards her along the narrow path. They would meet if neither of them turned. They couldn’t turn, because the path had shrunk to less than a foothold, to one of those narrow lines traced upon Colonel Albury’s map. Charles smiled at her as he used to do, and she fell down the face of the rustling map and woke.

For a moment she had no sense of where she was. There should have been rocks, and the sea. They were gone, and Charles was gone. All her armour was gone too. She put her face into her pillow and wept.