Hole and Corner (15 page)

She laid the coat out on the bed and looked it over breadth by breadth, beginning with the right front and working round to the slit in the back. There was a little bulge where the heavy brooch had been, but otherwise this side was all right. The coat was slit up the middle of the back and overlapped by about four inches. Shirley turned her attention to the left-hand back breadth. There was no stain or tear, but there was something funny about the hem. It had a cockled, lumpy look. She put out her hand to touch it and snatched it back again. She had been stooping over the bed. She straightened up and stood looking down at the cockled hem. After a minute she took hold of the rail at the bed foot. She went on looking at the hem, but she didn't touch it. She was afraid to touch it.

At last she said, “Coward!” Then she stamped her foot and went over to the door and locked it. And then she came back to the bed and felt the hem of the coat. There was something there. The brooch wasn't the only thing that had been planted on her. She had known it the moment she saw the lumpy, cockled hem. There was probably a slit in the left-hand pocket too.

There was.

She doubled the hem up to meet it, and pulled out Mrs Huddleston's emerald hairband and her large emerald brooch. There wasn't anything else. She made quite sure of that. Then she sat down on the bed and stared at the emeralds.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Somebody tried the handle of the door. Shirley gave a most frightful start. There was a murmur of apology and a scurry of retreating footsteps—a chambermaid's footsteps, not a policeman's.

Shirley put out the tip of her finger and touched the emerald hairband. It was real. She had been staring at it for so long that it had swum away from her in a green dazzle, but when she touched it it came into focus again. It was real, and it was there, and what was she going to do about it? She tried to think.

The thing was dreadfully valuable. It was a band to go right round the head, and it was made like a laurel wreath, the leaves set with emeralds, and at every fourth pair of leaves there was a large single diamond which might be meant for a dew-drop or a berry. The brooch was two laurel branches crossed, with a diamond between them, and both wreath and brooch had an N engraved on the pale gold setting at the back of the laurel leaves. They were part of a set which Napoleon had given to Josephine after his Italian victories. There should be another brooch, and a pair of long earrings. There might once have been a necklace too, but if so, it had become separated from the rest of the set.

Shirley knew all about the set. That was what made the whole thing so damning. Mrs Huddleston had told her a hundred times about her grandfather buying it when he was in Paris in '48, and how he got it cheap because everything was in the melting-pot, with kings coming off their thrones all over Europe and court jewellery at a discount. And Mrs Huddleston's grandmother had worn Josephine's emeralds when she made her curtsey to Queen Victoria as a bride, and again at the marriage of the Princess Royal. And Mrs Huddleston was most inordinately proud of them. It wasn't the slightest bit of good for Anthony to smuggle back the diamond brooch and pretend to find it in the drawing-room. The emeralds were about fifty times more important than the diamond brooch, and quite fifty times as damning to Shirley. She knew all about them. She knew just how valuable they were, and she could easily, so easily, have gone upstairs and taken them whilst Mrs Huddleston was resting. Because she knew where they were kept. She had helped Possett to take them out, and she had helped her to put them away. Mrs Huddleston didn't wear them, but she was very fond of looking at them and talking about them. It was utterly damnable and utterly damning.

Shirley jumped to her feet. If she sat and stared at the wretched things till her eyes popped out of her head, it wouldn't do the slightest bit of good. What she had got to do was to get on to Anthony at once, before he saw Mrs Huddleston or did anything about the diamond brooch. But meanwhile what was she going to do with the emeralds? She thought about putting them back in the hem of her coat, and she thought about rolling them up in a handkerchief and pinning them inside the pocket of her jumper suit. But it was no good, she just couldn't. The thought of having them on her or near her induced a feeling of absolute panic. The best she could do was to put them in the pocket of Anthony's pyjamas, and, oddly enough, that made her feel better. The emeralds were Mrs Huddleston's, and Anthony was Mrs Huddleston's nephew. It was the best she could do.

As she shut the suit-case, the wall-clock on the landing struck eleven. Shirley unlocked the door and rang the bell. There wasn't a moment to lose. She had lost far too many moments already. She must get on to Anthony, and she was most dreadfully afraid that she wouldn't catch him at his chambers.

The chambermaid told her that there was a telephone-box at the end of the passage. She took the suit-case along, and had a moment's agitated wonder as to whether she could remember Anthony's telephone number. She had called him up often enough for Mrs Huddleston, but could she, did she, remember the number now? She could, and she did.

She lifted the receiver, and then remembered that she had no pennies ready. Anthony had left her with five pounds and a handful of change. The notes were pinned to the elastic of her knickers, and the change was in the left-hand pocket of her jumper. She started all over again, and as she put the pennies in, she remembered that she would have to be most horribly careful what she said, because this was only an extension, and if the hotel clerk liked to listen in she could hear every word.

Ten minutes later she realized that she hadn't got to worry about that. She had missed Anthony. There was no reply. He shared rooms with a friend, and a man came and did for them. Anthony had expected to be away for the week-end, and his friend was probably away too, in which case the man-servant would have a day off and it was no use asking the exchange to ring again, because there just wasn't anyone there.

She hung up the receiver, and felt desperate. She simply must get hold of Anthony before he did anything about the diamond brooch. It was no good his pretending to find it now—it would only make things worse. Really the only thing they could do was to go to Mrs Huddleston and tell her the truth. Shirley really did feel that it would be an enormous relief just to stick to the truth and make a clean breast of everything. One of the first things she remembered was Aunt Emily making her learn:

“
Oh, what a tangled web we weave

When first we practise to deceive.
”

And another even more drastic verse which ran:

“
Behold the man of lies
,

A bandage on his eyes
.

He falls into the Pit
,

And cannot rise from it.
”

There was a picture of the man of lies, very black and repulsive with the bandage tied in a neat bow at the back of his head and one foot overhanging the Pit, from which issued long pointed flames and a quantity of very black smoke.

These early impressions are very hard to shake off. Shirley hadn't actually told any lies, but she had a feeling that Anthony might be telling them for her, and that was really worse, because it was adding meanness to deceit, and she had always despised mean people.

The only thing she could do now was to take her courage in both hands and ring up Revelston Crescent. She could disguise her voice—at least she hoped she could—and if Anthony was there, she would just say, “Don't do anything at all until you have seen me again.” Perhaps she might say, “Something else has turned up.” She didn't see how it could do any harm to say that. Anthony was as quick as lightning—he would know what she meant.

She got through very quickly to Revelston Crescent, and it was Bessie Wood who answered the telephone. Shirley knew her quiet, toneless voice at once—quite different from Possett's agitated bleat. She tried to make her own voice sound elderly and fat as she asked for Mr Leigh.

Bessie Wood held the receiver a little away from her and bit her lip. The telephone was in the hall. At certain hours of the day it was her duty to answer it, and if necessary to switch the caller through to the extension in Mrs Huddleston's bedroom or the drawing-room. After eleven o'clock the telephone usually stayed switched through to the drawing-room until it was time for Mrs Huddleston's rest. She had been a bit later than usual this morning, and Mr Leigh was in there with her now. And here was this voice asking for him. Well, that was a bit of an odd start, wasn't it? Mr Leigh was supposed to be out of town for the week-end. He had given her the surprise of her life when he walked in not five minutes ago. Her eyes went to the fern in its ornamental pot on the hall table. It was a good hiding-place, and there was nothing to connect her with it whatever happened. The emeralds she had hidden under the fern were perfectly safe, and so was she.

She felt a thrumming in the receiver as she held it away from her. A faint ghostly thread of a voice said “Mr Leigh,” and all at once she knew whose voice it was. She hadn't anything to go by, but she was quite sure it was Miss Dale who was ringing up. She put the mouth-piece to her lips and said in her toneless voice,

“I beg your pardon?”

In the telephone-box at the Station Hotel Shirley mumbled,

“Is that 15 Revelston Crescent? Is Mr Leigh there? I want to speak to him.”

Bessie's voice came back to her without hesitation.

“Oh no, ma'am, Mr Leigh isn't here. Can I take a message?”

A giggle caught in Shirley's throat. What sort of message could she leave for Anthony? Suppose she said, “Shirley Dale speaking. Please tell Mr Leigh that I've got Mrs Huddleston's emeralds, and will he please come and fetch them at once.” It would be so nice and simple if she only could. What would Bessie do—scream and tell the police, or just say politely “Very well, miss—is that all?” What was the good of thinking about it? She couldn't possibly leave a message for Anthony.

She said, “No, there's no message,” and rang off.

As Bessie hung up the receiver, Anthony Leigh opened the drawing-room door and looked out.

“Mrs Huddleston wanted to know who was ringing up,” he said. She turned, quite cool and glib.

“Just a wrong number, sir—someone wanting a Mrs Bartholomew.”

Shirley felt quite distracted. What on earth was Anthony doing? If he wasn't at his chambers, or at Revelston Crescent, where was he? Somewhere between the two, she supposed—and how on earth was she going to get hold of him? If she hadn't been hiding from the police, she could have left a message and the telephone number of the hotel and asked him to ring her up as soon as he arrived. But if she did that, Bessie would tell Mrs Huddleston, and Mrs Huddleston would tell the police, and the next thing that happened would be a Ledlington policeman coming to arrest her. And how was anyone going to believe that she hadn't stolen the emeralds if they were found in her suit-case—no, Anthony's suit-case? They would probably think that she had stolen his pyjamas as well. No, the only thing she could do now was to wait in this blighted hotel until Anthony came. After all, he had promised to try and get down to lunch. It was eleven o'clock—no, it must be about ten past by now. Suppose he didn't reach Revelston Crescent till half past.… That was nonsense—he
must
get there before that. Well, suppose he didn't. How long would it take him to soothe Mrs Huddleston?… She dismissed several gloomy estimates, and decided that he wouldn't let it take more than an hour because of coming down to fetch her. If he got away at half-past twelve, he would be here by two, and if he really trod on the gas, it might be any time after half-past one.

She pushed open the door of the telephone-box and bent to pick up the suit-case. Voices reached her from a half open bedroom door. There were two girls on the other side of it. She heard the sound of a bed being moved. One of the girls said with a giggle and a strong local drawl,

“What would you do if the police was after you, Vi'let?”

Another, shriller voice said,

“Go on! What are you talking about?”

The first girl giggled again.

“They'll get her all right—the police have got a clue. You know—that girl that's in all the headlines. She had a nerve, I don't think. Walked off as bold as brass with the stuff in a suit-case, and not her suit-case neither. They say there's a man mixed up with it. The Sunday papers are full of it. I got a chance at the
News of the World
while 17 was having his bath.”

“You'll be getting us into a row talking like that with the door open,” said the second girl.

The door banged.

Shirley clutched the brass handle of the door of the telephone-box with one hand and Anthony's suit-case with the other. Her feet and hands were cold, and her forehead was wet.

It was a frightful thing to have a guilty conscience. She hadn't seen the Sunday papers, and therefore knew nothing about the mysterious affair of the Disappearing Typist and the Missing Bearer Bonds. She tiptoed out of the telephone-box and past the bedroom door. At the top of the stairs she made herself stand still. She had got to get away. She hadn't left anything in her room, but Anthony's treasury notes were pinned to the elastic of her knickers. She couldn't unpin them here or in the office, and she had got to unpin them before she could pay her bill—and to run away without paying her bill would be asking for trouble.

She went back to her room, detached two pound notes, and then descended the stairs feeling horribly cold and sick. Suppose they wouldn't let her go. Suppose they pretended to let her go and sent a policeman after her. Suppose they searched the suit-case …

None of these things happened. She paid her bill, put the change in her jumper pocket, and walked out of the hotel.

The Station Hotel has two entrances, one upon the station yard and the other upon Albert Road. Shirley came out into Albert Road. Facing her across the way was one of those small crowded shops which sell sweets, tobacco, and newspapers. In the middle of a Sunday morning, when all other shops were closed, this one had an open door. It also had a row of posters with starting headlines. Shirley only saw one of them. If seemed to leap at her as she came down the steps. It said in big black letters: