Down Under (10 page)

“Who—Mrs Edwards?” he said, and got a shake of the head.

Mrs Edwards' hair had been grey when she came to the Place getting on eight years ago. A woman of fifty she'd be or thereabouts. No, it was the little girl's hair that was red, and to be sure, it must be in the family, because Mrs Edwards' son that come to visit her once in a way, he had red hair, and the wife he brought along the last time he came, she'd got hair like a Guy Fawkes bonfire so she had, so 'twas bound to be in the family.

Oliver walked up past the church, and wondered about Mrs Edwards. Florrie's aunt might be Mrs Garstnet's sister or she might not. She might be a married Garstnet, or she might be only an aunt by marriage. He supposed that the Mrs Rennard whose son had gone overboard between Boulogne and Folkestone and of whom all trace had afterwards been lost—well he supposed this Mrs Rennard would be aunt to Florrie Garstnet in some sort of way—a very far-fetched sort of way. He couldn't think why it should have come into his head, but there it was, and there he was bolstering it up with the thought that this remote village and this long deserted house would be an excellent hiding-place for a woman who wanted to disappear. Only why should Mrs Rennard want to disappear, and what possible reason was there for identifying her with Mrs Edwards?

He came round the corner of the churchyard upon stone pillars green with age and heavily overshadowed by low, sweeping boughs still brown with autumn leaf. Between the pillars hung an iron gate, a rigid affair like a section of park paling, and on the other side of it, holding to the bars and peering at him through them, was little Florrie Garstnet. He was irresistibly reminded of a monkey in a cage, perhaps because he had always thought that there was something of the monkey about Florrie. She had the long hands—the long, pale hands. Her small face was pressed against the bars. Her eyes regarded him in just the kind of stare with which an animal peers from its cage world into yours.

He said, “Hullo, Florrie!” and Florrie just went on staring.

He came right up to the gate, tried it, and found it locked, as indeed he had expected. Florrie edged away from him sideways, still holding to the bars. When she had reached the left-hand pillar she turned a little so as to face him and said,

“You can't come in.”

Oliver laughed shortly.

“I don't know that I want to come in.”

Florrie said, “Ooh!” and then “What do you want?”

Oliver leaned on the gate. He was fond of children, and as a rule they were fond of him. What he wanted was to win this odd little creature's confidence and get her to talk. If you could get a child started, there was as a rule no stopping it. But the very urgency of his need was a handicap. A child is as quick as an animal to sense fear or pain. As he hesitated, Florrie struck in.

“I know why you've come.”

“Do you?” He managed a friendly smile.

Florrie nodded so vehemently that her copper curls came bobbing down across her eyes. She took a hand from the bars to push them back.

“Yes, I do. And Mother said I wasn't to say a word to no one, no matter how they arst me.”

Oliver's heart gave a jump. He said as carelessly as he could,

“You haven't told me why I've come. I don't believe you know.”

Florrie nodded again.

“Yes, I do. And Mother said—”

“All right then—you know why I've come. Now suppose you tell me.”

Florrie stared at him.

“My auntie says people did ought to mind their own business.”

“Well, this is my business,” said Oliver. “Do you like chocolates?”

Florrie said, “Ooh!” Her mouth opened a little way, her eyes brightened.

Oliver produced from his coat pocket a most exciting bright blue box tied up with silver ribbon. He held it in one hand, balancing it, and looked at Florrie.

Florrie looked at the blue and silver box.

“Ooh! Is it for me?”

“Perhaps. I just want you to tell me about the night Miss Rose Anne came to see you.”

“My mother said I wasn't to tell no one,” said Florrie.

Oliver had a qualm. If it had been for anything except Rose Anne's safety, Rose Anne's life … He said quickly,

“What did she say you weren't to tell?”

Florrie looked sideways.

“I wasn't to tell nobody nothin' about Miss Rose Anne.”

“Florrie,” said Oliver, “if you loved someone very much, and they went right away and you didn't know where they were, or what they were doing, or whether they would ever come back, wouldn't it make you very unhappy?”

Florrie stared.

“Fanny went away,” she said.

“Your sister Fanny?”

She nodded.

“But I wasn't unhappy—I didn't cry.”

“You know Miss Rose Anne has gone away?”

A scared look went over her face. Then she said in a sort of sing-song,

“Miss Rose Anne's run off with a gentleman, and I expect they're married by now.”

“Florrie—who told you that?”

She stared without speaking.

“Someone taught you to say that. Who was it?”

No answer.

“Florrie, when you saw Miss Rose Anne, did she tell you she was going away?”

The red curls were shaken.

“What
did
she say to you? You were ill, weren't you?”

The curls were shaken again.

“I wasn't ill. I cried.”

“Why did you cry?”

“For Miss Rose Anne to come.”

“And when she came, what did she say to you?”

“She put her arms round me, and she said, ‘Oh, Florrie, don't cry,' same like she always does.”

“And then?”

“Then I stopped.”

“And then?”

“She sat on my bed and sang to me.”

“What did she sing?”

“She sang ‘Pussy's a Lady.' But I'm not really a baby now. Shall I sing it to you?”

She piped up in an untuneful little voice:

“Hush-a-bye, baby. Pussy's a lady.

Mousie's all gone to the Mill.

If baby won't cry, she'll come back by-and-bye.

So hush-a-bye, baby, lie still and don't cry.”

“Now can I have my chocolates, please?”

“In a minute,” said Oliver.

Why should Florrie have been forbidden this innocent recital? Why should she have been sent away to prevent her telling people that Rose Anne had sat on her bed and sung her a nursery rhyme? There was more—there must be more. Or was he merely mare's-nesting? He said as gently as he could,

“And then, Florrie—after she had sung to you?”

“She kissed me good-night, and she said, ‘Bye-bye blessings,' like she always does, and she went away, and now can I have my chocolates, please?”

“Not just yet. You say she went away. Do you mean she went out of the room?”

“Yes—out of my room.”

“And you didn't see her again?”

Florrie shook her head. The curls played bob across her face.

“Did you hear her ask for the green hat that she gave you?”

Florrie shook her head again. Her little peaked face began to quiver.

“It was my hat.”

“And Miss Rose Anne borrowed it?”

Florrie shook her head again.

“It was my hat. She give it me for my very own. She give it me for my own self. It was my green hat.”

“Who took it away?” said Oliver.

She gave him a secret look.

“Florrie—who took it away?”

“It wasn't her hat—it was mine,” said Florrie in a small, determined voice.

“Who took it away from you, Florrie?”

He got another of those looks—wary, secret—and something else—was it afraid? He said.

“Miss Rose Anne wouldn't want to take your hat away, Florrie.” And all at once Florrie's tongue was loosed. She began to pant as if she had been running, and to sob, and to say between those panting breaths.

“She didn't—she didn't—oh, she never! She give it me—for my very own—and it was my hat—and—Mabel—didn't—ought—to have—took—it—away!”

“Mabel?” said Oliver. “Mabel took the green hat?”

Florrie stopped crying, stopped half way through a sob, looked sideways, her eyes still bright with tears.

“I didn't say Mabel—I didn't say nothin'.”

“You said Mabel took your hat.”

Florrie gave a rending sniff, caught her breath, and recited in the same sing-song as before.

“Mabel came into my room and took my green hat to borrow for Miss Rose Anne that was going to run away with a gentleman and I expect they're married by now.”

“That's what your mother told you to say if anyone asked you?”

Florrie nodded.

“And now may I have my chocolates, please?”

Oliver opened the box.

“I'm not going to give them to you all at once. Look here, you can have six, and if you want some more you must come back for them. See?”

“When shall I come?”

“Tomorrow morning—ten o'clock.”

She shook her head.

“There's school.”

“Two o'clock?”

She nodded.

“But I don't know nothin' about Miss Rose Anne,” she said.

CHAPTER XII

Oliver walked back to Sindleby. Had he learned anything from Florrie, or hadn't he? Had she anything to tell, or was he merely wasting time that was the most precious thing in the world? As he went over his interview with Florrie, the thing that stuck out a mile was that the child had been coached. She had been taught the answers to two of his questions, and when they came along she was pat with her sing-song. Someone had taught her to say, “Miss Rose Anne's run off with a gentleman,” and someone had tried to explain why Mabel Garstnet had come into her room and taken the green hat—explain, or explain away. When Florrie, between violent sobs, accused Mabel of taking her hat, Oliver was convinced that she was speaking the truth. When she recited an explanation of why the hat had been taken, she was saying a piece that had been put into her mouth. It was a very good piece, and the explanation was a completely plausible one. But why had Florrie been coached with it, and why had Florrie been sent away from home? The more he thought about it the less he liked it. If there is only the truth to tell, why should it need so much dressing up? What need is there to coach a child unless the child knows something which must at all costs be covered up or explained away?

Mabel—and the green hat—Rose Anne's own hat which she had given to Florrie, and which Mabel had borrowed on that horrible evening. Mabel Garstnet had borrowed it, and Florrie had been taught to say she had borrowed it for Rose Anne. Mabel—Mabel and the green hat … She might, so far as description went, have passed for Rose Anne in a half light. They were of the same height, the same build. Mabel in the green hat might quite easily have been so described that the description would fit Rose Anne Carew, especially if she had worn Rose Anne's coat.

This last thought stabbed into his mind like a knife. He had not known that he could feel a keener pain, but this struck very deep. Rose Anne stripped, Rose Anne defenceless—and in whose hands? His own extreme helplessness filled him with despair. How could he go to the police and say, “I believe Rose Anne has been kidnapped by Amos Rennard, who has been officially dead for ten years. So far as I know, he never saw her or heard of her, but his late wife's brother married her old nurse, and they keep the inn at Hillick St Agnes. I want a search warrant.” Well, he supposed that, if he was sufficiently insistent, the search warrant might be forthcoming. Did he even dream that Rose Anne was hidden away at the Angel, where the house had been full to overflowing with her relations? He didn't think it, he didn't even dream it. Then what would a search warrant effect? Mr Smith's words came back—“I fear you would only put a very powerful and unscrupulous organization upon its guard.” Did he believe in this organization? He didn't know. Did he believe in Amos Rennard? He didn't know that either. He only knew with a deadly certainty that Rose Anne would never have left them all of her own free will. She was either dead, or she was under some restraint. If there was the slightest chance that one of Mr Smith's tangled threads might lead him to her, what did it matter what he believed or didn't believe? There was no chance that he dared neglect.

He went back to Hillick St Agnes, and put up at the Angel. They gave him his old room and a very good welcome. Matthew Garstnet was bluff and hearty, and his wife kind and attentive.

“You know we've had to send our little Florrie away, sir. Poor child, she took on so, and we thought a little change—she was that fond of dear Miss Rose Anne.”

Oliver hadn't noticed Florrie being very fond of anyone except herself. He tried a cast.

“Where have you sent her, Mrs Garstnet?” Now—if she lied—if she lied—

But Mrs Garstnet did not lie. She said in a grateful voice,

“I'm sure it's so very kind of you to take an interest, sir. It's my husband's sister-in-law she's gone to, and most kind of her it is, but the doctor we took her to—you know we took her to a London doctor a matter of a few weeks ago—he said most particular that it would be the best thing in the world for her to be away from home for a bit, only I couldn't bring myself to it, not till now, Florrie being my only one. And I'm sure it's most kind of you, sir, to ask when you're in such trouble yourself—I suppose you've no news, sir?” Her voice broke on the question, and when Oliver had said, “None,” she wiped her eyes and hurried from the room. It seemed to him impossible to suspect her. She was so entirely the concerned family servant, the doting, anxious mother. And on that he got an echo of Mr Smith's hesitant, cultured voice saying, “If the choice lay between Florrie and Miss Carew, what line would you expect Mrs Garstnet to take?” How could there be a choice? He had no answer to that. He had no answer to the hungry clamour of questions which filled his mind.