Grey Mask (7 page)

It was next day that Charles Moray walked into Miss Silver’s office by appointment. The exercise-book with his name lay open before her. The pages had been written on in a small neat hand.

Miss Silver sat upright and knitted. She appeared to have finished the grey stocking he had seen last time and to have embarked on a second one, for only about three inches of dark grey ribbing depended from the steel needles. She nodded to Charles in an absent way and let him take a seat and say “Good-morning” before she opened her lips. Then she said,

“It is a great pity you did not come to me before.”

“Why, Miss Silver?”

Miss Silver heaved a gentle, depressed sigh.

“It is a pity. You would like to hear my report? I will begin with Jaffray.”

“Jaffray?”

“The man you wished me to report upon, lodging with Mrs. Brown at 5 Gladys Villas, Chiswick.”

“Yes. What have you been able to find out?”

“You shall hear.” She glanced at the exercise-book, but continued to knit. “He was until recently in the employment of Mr. Standing the millionaire, on whose family affairs you also wished for a report.”

“In his employment?”

“Yes, as valet and general factotum when he was on board his yacht.”

“Do you mean that Jaffray remained on the yacht?”

“Yes, that is what I mean. Mr. Standing liked to have someone there who knew his ways. He used to wire: ‘Coming on board such and such a time,’ and Jaffray would have everything ready for him. He could afford to pay for his fancies. I found Mrs. Brown a very pleasant, talkative person. She seemed to have a very high opinion of Jaffray, who has lodged with her on and off for the last nine years.”

“Was he with Mr. Standing on his last cruise?”

“Oh yes—he has only just got back.” Miss Silver took out a needle, looked at it for a moment, and then began another row. “Mrs. Brown seemed to think it a little strange that Jaffray was not more upset at the loss of so good an employer. She said she wondered he didn’t trouble at not having any work. And I think she was worrying about whether he would be able to go on paying his rent regularly. I have always found worried people very willing to talk. The more worried they are, the more they will tell you.”

Charles leaned forward.

“Is Jaffray really deaf? Did Mrs. Brown tell you that?”

Miss Silver pressed her lips together for a moment.

“Mrs. Brown talked a good deal about what she called Mr. Jaffray’s affliction. She said he lost his hearing in the war at the time Hill 60 was blown up. She very much deplored the disadvantage to Mr. Jaffray in his search for a new situation, and she repeated more than once that she could not understand why he did not take it more to heart.”

“Is he deaf?” said Charles. ”

“Mrs. Brown spoke as if he were.”

“But is he?”

The needles flashed and clicked. Miss Silver said, “I don’t think so, Mr. Moray.”

Charles gave a violent start.

“You don’t think he’s deaf at all!”

“No, I don’t think he’s deaf. But I’m not sure. I will report to you again. I think I can find out. Now as to the other matter on which you wished me to report. I am really extremely sorry that you did not come to me before.”

“What has happened?” Charles spoke apprehensively.

“Miss Standing has disappeared,” said Miss Silver in mournful tones.

A hideous sense of responsibility weighted Charles to the ground. He had known that the girl was threatened, and because of Margaret he had held his tongue. He turned a hard face on Miss Silver.

“How can she have disappeared?”

“I will tell you what I know. She left her house in Grange Square yesterday afternoon. She had a trunk with her, and she took a taxi to Waterloo Station. There she took another taxi and drove to No. 125 Gregson Street. She had engaged herself to go there as secretary to a man who calls himself Percy Smith. It was extremely ill-advised of her to take this step. Mr. Smith is not a man of good character. He has been mixed up in one or two very nasty scandals.”

“Go on,” said Charles, “what has happened?”

Miss Silver dropped her knitting in her lap.

“I can only tell you what happened up to a certain point. Miss Standing had dropped her own name—she called herself Esther Brandon.”

“What!” said Charles. “No—go on!”

“She called herself Esther Brandon. And she arrived at 125 Gregson Street at seven o’clock yesterday evening. She was only in the house for about half an hour. She left in a great hurry and without any luggage, and no one has any idea of where she went. So far I have not been able to trace her; but I certainly hope to do so.”

Charles stared at the floor. Esther Brandon—what on earth had Margot Standing to do with Esther Brandon? Chance—coincidence—no, not by a long chalk. If Mr. Standing’s daughter had taken Esther Brandon’s name, it was because the name meant something to her. Now what did it mean?

“If you would tell me everything, it would be easier, Mr. Moray,” said Miss Silver.

He stopped looking at the floor and looked at her.

“Don’t I tell you everything?”

She shook her head.

“You are like the people who let a house and keep one room locked up. You needn’t be afraid that I shall open the door when you are not there. But it would be easier for me to serve you if you would give me the key.”

“It’s not my key, Miss Silver,” said Charles.

Miss Silver took up her knitting again.

“I see,” she said.

Margot Standing ran out into the street. Her heart was thumping so hard that it shook her; her legs shook under her as she ran. Her world had been so violently shaken that it seemed to be falling about her. She was really only conscious of two things—that she was frightened, oh, dreadfully frightened; and that it was dreadfully difficult to get her breath. She didn’t feel as if she could go on running; but she must go on running, because if she didn’t, the man might come out of the house and catch her. The thought terrified her so much that she went on running even after it seemed as if she could not breathe at all.

It was quite dark and foggy, and she did not know in the least where she was going; she only ran, and went on running until her outstretched hands came up hard against a wall. The shock upset her balance. Her left shoulder hit the wall. She swung half round and then fell in a heap. She had not breath enough to cry out. She lay at the foot of the wall with a sense of having come to the end of anything she could do. There was nothing but fog, and darkness, and cold wet stones.

After a few minutes her breath began to come back. Presently she moved and sat up. She wasn’t hurt, but her bare hands were scraped. She had run out of the house in Gregson Street without any gloves on; her gloves were on the table where the cocktails were. When she thought about the gloves, she could smell the strong sickly smell, and she could see Mr. Percy Smith standing there and holding out a little glass full of yellow stuff with a cherry and a grape bobbing about in it.

Sitting there on rough, wet cobblestones, Margot began to cry. She cried with all her might for ten minutes, and then began to feel better. She had got away. If he hadn’t gone out of the room—Margot dabbed her eyes with her very wet handkerchief and saw herself sitting there quite stupid and dumb with the cocktail in her hand, and Mr. Percy Smith going out of the room and saying he wouldn’t be a minute.

She scrambled up on to her knees because she didn’t want to see that picture any more. It made her feel exactly like she had felt when Mrs. Beauchamp took her to the top of the Eiffel Tower and told her to look over. Margot had looked for a moment; and then she wouldn’t have looked again for anything in the world. To stand on the edge of a frightful drop and to think how easily one might fall over it—

Margot got right up on to her feet and began to walk blindly forward over the cobblestones. The lights of a car flashed in front of her. Sounds of traffic came through the fog. Her foot struck against the kerb at the edge of a pavement. She turned to the right and walked along slowly without the least idea of where she was going.

She had been walking for half an hour before her mind really began to work again. Someone knocked against her, and a shrill cockney voice said, “Look out! Where are you going?”

Margot moved on, startled. The question repeated itself: “Where are you going? Where—are—you—going?” It was this question that woke her up: “Where are you going?”— “I haven’t anywhere to go.” “Where are you going?”—“I don’t know.” “Where are you going?”—“Oh, I haven’t got anywhere to go.”

She had cried so violently that no more tears came into her eyes, but she felt as if she were crying deep inside her. It was a frightful thing not to have anywhere to go to. She couldn’t possibly go back to Grange Square, where Egbert and somebody else—somebody who had answered the bell that William ought to have answered—were waiting to get their orders about removing her. Even after being so dreadfully frightened by Mr. Percy Smith she could still shake and turn cold when she remembered that vague, suggestive word.

What was she going to do? What did you do when you were a girl and you hadn’t got anywhere to go to, and you didn’t know anyone who would help you, and you only had a shilling in the world. If Papa had only let her have friends like other girls. But he had never let her know anyone except at school. And Mrs. Beauchamp was on her way to Australia. It had been her business to see that Margot didn’t pick up acquaintances in the holidays. Margot would have given a great many things that she did not possess to have had just one acquaintance now.

Mr. Hale—but if it were Mr. Hale who was giving those orders—perhaps it was—perhaps it was Mr. Hale who was going to tell Egbert and William—no, it couldn’t be William— to remove her.

She couldn’t go home. Oh, it wasn’t home anymore; it was only a house where people were planning horrible things. It was Egbert’s house; it wasn’t hers. She hadn’t got anywhere to go—she hadn’t got a home—she hadn’t got anything.

These things kept coming into her mind like a lot of aimless people struggling into a room and drifting out again; they didn’t do anything, they just came in and drifted out, and went away.

Margot went on walking, and the aimless thoughts kept on coming and going. The thick moisture that filled the air with fog began to condense and come down in rain. Soon she was very wet. The rain became heavier; it soaked through her blue serge coat and began to drip from the brim of her hat. The coat had a collar of grey fur. The rain collected on it and trickled down the back of her neck.

Only that afternoon Margot had written to Stephanie that there was something frightfully romantic about being a penniless orphan. It didn’t feel a bit romantic now; it felt cold, and frightening, and desperately miserable.

Charles Moray was still living at The Luxe, but he had fallen into the way of paying unheralded visits at odd times to the house in Thornhill Square. He did not always let the Latterys know that he had been and gone. He did not always enter the house; sometimes he merely walked along the square, up Thorney Lane, and into the garden by way of the alley that ran behind it. In all his visits he neither saw nor heard anything unusual.

On this particular evening he walked round the garden, heard ten o’clock strike from the church of St. Justin, and went out through the door in the wall, locking it after him. As he stood with his back to the alley-way and withdrew the key, someone passed him in the darkness.

Charles turned and began to walk towards Thorney Lane. The lamp at the end of the alley showed him that it was a woman who had passed behind him whilst he was locking the door. She turned to the left and walked quickly down Thorney Lane past the opening into Thornhill Square to the big thoroughfare that lay beyond. Charles followed her.

The woman was Margaret Langton. If she had been up to her old home, the alley-way and Thorney Lane would be a short cut for her. He thought he would wait a little before catching her up.

The night was cold, but there was no fog. Heavy rain had cleared the air, and the falling temperature seemed to promise frost before morning.

As Margaret turned into the lighted thoroughfare, he saw that she was carrying a parcel. He came up with her with an easy, “Hullo, Margaret! Where are you off to?”

“I’ve been up to see Freddy. I’m going home.”

“So you really haven’t quarrelled with him?”

“No,” said Margaret in a tired voice, “I haven’t quarrelled with Freddy. Why should I?”

Charles took her parcel and tucked it under his arm. It felt like a box, quite light, but awkward to hold.

“Loot?” he inquired.

“Only an old desk of my mother’s. It’s empty. Freddy said I could have it. He’s going abroad, you know.”

“Freddy is!”

“Yes—he can’t bear England without her. He wants to travel.”

“I’m awfully sorry for him,” said Charles.

He was awfully sorry for Margaret too, but he knew better than to say so. She kept her passionate feeling in a shrine which no one else must enter. He held his peace.

They walked on in silence until Margaret stopped and held out her hand.

“I go up here. Give me my parcel, please.”

“I thought I was seeing you home.”

“I don’t know why you thought so.”

“I still think so,” said Charles cheerfully.

Margaret shook her head.

“No. Please give me my box.”

Perhaps she expected him to contest the point. Instead, he said quite meekly,

“Very well, if you like carrying things that run into you, carry them.”

“Thanks,” said Margaret.

Her way lay along one of the darker streets. She felt an odd, rough disappointment as she walked along it alone. She had certainly expected that Charles would thrust his company upon her. She had told him to go; but she had not expected him to go. He was not at all a biddable person. If he let her go home alone, it was because he didn’t to want to come with her. Margaret held her head a little higher. The old desk was a most uncomfortable thing to carry; some-times the edge of it ran into her side, and sometimes into her arm.

In the darkest patch of the road she bumped into someone. Her “Oh, I’m so sorry!” received no answer except a sort of half sob.

“Did I hurt you?”

The distressing little sound was repeated. Margaret began to wonder what was the matter. She could just see someone standing against the brick wall that bordered the tiny front gardens of the houses on this side of the road. The dark figure seemed to be leaning against the wall in a helpless half crouching attitude.

“What is it? Are you ill?”

The figure moved. A girl’s voice said shakily, “I— don’t—know.”

“What’s the matter?”

It was abominably stupid to ask the question—the girl would certainly beg from her.

“I haven’t anywhere to go.”

Margaret moved, and at once two despairing hands caught at her.

“Don’t go away! Don’t leave me!”

Margaret told herself she had been a fool, but she was in for it now. She took the girl by the arm, and felt that her sleeve was soaked.

“Good gracious! You’re wet through.!”

“It rained.” The voice was one of utter misery.

“Come along as far as the lamp-post—we can’t talk in the dark.”

The lamplight showed Margaret a girl with drenched fair hair hanging in wispy curls. The girl was very pretty indeed; even with a tear-stained face and limp hair she was very pretty. Her dark blue coat was beautifully cut, and drenched though it was, Margaret could both feel and see that the stuff had been expensive. It had a grey fox collar, draggled and discouraged-looking, but a fine skin for all that.

The girl looked at her out of blue, tear-washed eyes set round with astonishingly black lashes.

“Have you lost your way?” said Margaret gravely.

“Yes—I have—but—”

“Where do you live?”

The girl gulped down a sob.

“I can’t go back—I can’t.”

She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. Margaret’s eyes travelled down to her feet. Expensive shoes—real Milanese stockings. “The little idiot has had a row with her people and run away.” She spoke firmly:

“Where do you live? You must go home at once.”

“I can’t. I haven’t got a home.”

“Where have you come from?”

“I can’t go back. They’ll do something dreadful to me if I go back.”

“Do you mean they’ll be angry with you?”

The girl shook her head.

“There isn’t anyone to be angry. I haven’t got anyone— really I haven’t. They’ll do something dreadful to me. I heard them making a plan—I did really. I hid behind the sofa and I heard them. They said it would be safer to remove me.” She shuddered violently. “Oh, what do you think they meant?”

Margaret was puzzled. This might be delusion; but the girl didn’t look unhinged. She looked frightened, and she was certainly soaked to the skin.

“Haven’t you any friends you could go to for tonight?”

“Papa wouldn’t let me have any friends, except at school.”

“Where was your school?”

“In Switzerland.”

“What on earth am I to do with you?” said Margaret. “What’s your name.”

“Esther Brandon,” said the girl.

The desk that Margaret was carrying fell on the pavement with a crash. The name was like a blow. She looked at the girl’s brimming eyes and quivering mouth, and saw them as if they were a long way off, a very long way off. She had to put her hand on the standard of the lamp and lean hard on it for a moment before she could find voice enough to speak.

“What did you say?”

“Esther Brandon,” said the girl.

Margaret felt quite numb and stupid. She bent down and picked up the desk. It had been Esther Brandon’s desk when she was a girl, no older than this girl. And Esther Brandon had become Esther Langton, and afterwards Esther Pelham. Margaret straightened herself, holding the desk as if it weighed heavily. Then she spoke suddenly and sharply:

“Where did you get that name?”

The girl didn’t answer. She had looked frightened when Margaret caught at the lamp-post. Now all of a sudden a vague look came over her face; her eyes clouded. She put out her hand and said “Oh!” then she took a wavering step forward and went down all in a heap on the pavement.

Mr. Charles Moray loomed up out of the darkness.

“Charles—thank goodness!”

“What’s up?” said Charles. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Be an angel and get me a taxi.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Take her back with me.”

Charles whistled.

“My dear girl, you can’t go about London collecting strange young females.”

Margaret was on her knees. The girl moved a little and drew a choking breath.

Charles bent nearer.

“Take her to a hospital, Margaret.”

“I can’t.”

She turned her face up to him, and it was as white as paper.

“My dear girl—”

“Charles—I can’t.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “She says her name—Charles, she says her name is Esther Brandon.”

Charles whistled again.