Miss Hargreaves (16 page)

‘You’re in love with Pat Howard,’ I shouted, banging a toffee-hammer down on the counter. ‘That’s what it is. And you’re seizing this as an excuse.’

‘Pat Howard’s got nothing to do with it. I’ll tell you what we all think about you.’

‘Do.’

‘You’ve picked this poor old thing up somewhere without telling us, and you’re hanging on to her in the hope she’ll leave you her money. She’s obviously well enough off by the way she flings tips about.’

I was amazed.

‘Did Henry say that?’

‘Yes. He did.’

‘Well, of all the–I!’ For a moment I was absolutely speechless. ‘Why,’ I cried suddenly, ‘for that matter it
is
my money, anyway.’

‘
Your
money?’ Marjorie looked quite scared.

‘Yes!’ I was thoroughly worked up by now. ‘I endowed her with a fortune. She could have been a pauper if I’d said the word.’

‘Norman, you’re
mad
!’ exclaimed Marjorie.

‘It’s you who are all mad!’ I cried. ‘Not me. And if I did make the money, you needn’t think you’ll get a penny of it. Not even to buy you another new frock for Pat Howard to admire.’

I slammed the door and charged out of the shop. I rushed round to Beddow’s garage. Will-hounding! Me–sniffing round a last testament! It was vile. It was conspicuously unpleasant. Anyway, Agatha would probably inherit every penny. It was just the sort of thing that would happen.

I was really angry with Henry.

‘You,’ I bellowed, ‘you who ought to be the first to realize your responsibility in this matter. You who lured me on. You–who started the bath and the harp, who–’

‘Damn it, Norman! I had nothing to do with the harp.’

‘You–who insisted on going into that pestilential church, who dragged me into–’

‘Don’t dance about like that, old boy. You’ll burst something, you really will.’

‘I don’t care if I burst everything.’

‘All right, Norman. All right. Only do stop stamping in that oil. You’ll ruin your trousers.’

‘What are trousers compared to truth? My honour’s at stake. They’re saying now that I’m after the trout’s money. And you started it–’

The puddle of oil splashed up into my face. I calmed down. ‘Sorry, Henry,’ I said, ‘but I’m going to pieces.’

‘Smoke a cigarette. And don’t be so unkind to your Uncle Henry. I’ve told you I’m sorry for last night.’

‘God! I’ve been a fool!’ I moaned. ‘I ought to have said straight out–“Madam, I don’t know you”.’

‘Well, it would have been better, of course.’

‘I’m going round to the Swan now, and I’m going to tell Miss Constance Hargreaves precisely where she gets off. And she can get off. She can fall off. You’re coming with me.’

‘I think it’d be better if you went alone, old fellow.’

‘No. You’re coming. You half made this creature. You’re going to help me unmake her. If you don’t, I shall black your blithering eye.’

‘Norman, you really are quite excited, aren’t you?’

‘Get your jacket on, you ape.’

We went to the Swan. I was spurred, booted, ready for action, ready for any foe, ready to face Dr Pepusch even if he should sing the whole of the
Beggar’s Opera
at me. Oh, I tell you–I was angry! I was the angry one!

‘Miss Hargreaves,’ I said to the girl in the office. ‘I wish to see her at once. Send for her.’

‘Miss Hargreaves has left,’ said the girl acidly.

It bowled me over. It caught me fair and square in the middle of the eyebrows and sent me rolling. It weakened me.

‘When did she go?’ I asked faintly. I suddenly remembered that spider under the table; remembered seeing her disappear up the rainy street.

‘Only a few minutes ago. She had an urgent message calling her away.’

‘What about her luggage?’ asked Henry.

‘She only took a small bag. She said she’d instruct us about the rest. I suppose she’s an old friend of yours, Mr Huntley?’

‘She damn well is not!’

‘Hush, Norman!’ murmured Henry. ‘These little paddies get you nowhere.’

‘I don’t mind telling you,’ said the girl, ‘that Mr Stiles wasn’t sorry when she went.’

‘Bit eccentric, isn’t she?’ said Henry sympathetically.

‘Eccentric! I think she’s mad. Do you know what she was doing all the morning? Running round from room to room collecting vases.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘For the dustman. What do you think of that? I won’t deny she paid well enough for them. Mr Stiles is out now, as a matter of fact, buying some more; fortunately they’ve still got some of the same sort in stock. There’d hardly have been an ornament left in the place if she’d stayed any longer.’

‘Henry,’ I said, ‘can you
beat
it?’

‘What about the dog–and the parrot?’ he asked.

‘Oh, she took them. We saw to that.’

‘Has she left any address?’

‘No. But I should think Colney Hatch would find her, wouldn’t you?’

With incredible rudeness the girl slammed down the glass door before the counter and went on with the novel she had been reading. Girls aren’t courteous nowadays; you can’t get away from the fact.

It was only two o’clock. ‘Come and drink,’ said Henry. I tottered weakly into the bar after him. ‘What?’

‘Scotch,’ I said. I passed my hand across my brow. Sweating. Leaking. Shaking. All that anger and nobody to vent it on. Bad as having a broom and no dust.

‘Well, anyhow, she has gone,’ remarked Henry.

I groaned. ‘Yes, and you don’t realize the awful part of it. I made her go.’

‘You–made her go?’

‘Yes. Simply sat under the table and willed the old serpent away. Oh, it’s awful–awful–’

‘Why is it awful?’

‘Because I want her back.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘I don’t know. I’m getting fond of her. And I want to have it out with her once and for all.’

‘I don’t think that’d be easy, somehow.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. She struck me as being–’ He paused. ‘Do you know,’ he added presently, ‘frankly, I was the smallest bit scared of her.’

‘Scared of her? You! Scared of an old thing of eighty-three?’

‘The way she looked me up and down through those what-d’you-call-’ems. Made me curl up inside and go to sleep.’

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know. And yet I
like
her; I can’t help it. I’ve got a wonderful sort of feeling of pride about her. I feel I’ve got to look after her. When she wandered up Wells Street this morning she looked so terribly lonely.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t get sentimental about her.’

‘I hate her and I love her and–I’m half afraid of her.’

‘I think we ought to try to get her right out of our heads,’ said Henry over his third whisky. ‘You’ll probably go mad if you talk about her too much. I’ve got a feeling it only aggravates things.’

‘Yes, you’re right, Henry. I see what we must do. We mustn’t talk about her again, not to anybody. You must help me. Don’t let her name once cross your lips; not to a soul.’

‘It’s not going to be easy.’

‘We’ve
got
to do it,’ I said. ‘And if she does turn up again–I’ll–I’ll–I’ll damn well ignore her.’

I knew it would be about as easy to ignore a boil on my nose.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ suggested Henry. ‘Suppose we run the car up to Oakham on Saturday and see if they know anything about her there? I’d give anything to see if there was such a place as Sable Lodge.’

I thought about this for a long time. It did, of course, seem the obvious thing to do. But I could see dangers bristling ahead.

‘No,’ I said finally. ‘It’s tempting; but it’s dangerous. Something would happen up there we didn’t expect. We should only find ourselves making up fresh stories about her. We’ve simply got to behave as though there isn’t such a person.’ I slapped my knee. ‘What we’ve got to try to do is to convince
ourselves
there isn’t such a person.’

We were silent for a few minutes. I drained my glass. ‘Miss Hargreaves?’ I murmured. ‘Never heard of her.’

‘Who were you talking about?’ asked Henry.

I rose. ‘That’s right. Keep it up.’

I went back to the shop.

‘Telegram for Mr Norman,’ said Squeen.

I ripped it open. ‘Agatha sinking Hargreaves.’ That was all it said. Handed in at Reading station.

I was beyond being surprised by now. I showed it to father without a word.

5

T
HREE weeks passed without a sign of Miss Hargreaves. Not even a letter came from her. Henry held his tongue; so did I. But I don’t mind telling you I never found a tongue so hard to hold.

Mother was really very nice about it all. I overheard her talking to Jim one day.

‘Jim, I think we’d better not say anything more about Miss Hargreaves to Norman. The poor boy goes quite pale when I mention her.’

‘It’s a funny business, mother.’

‘It is. Very funny. But I’m sure Norman wouldn’t do anything dishonourable. From all I can hear of Miss Hargreaves, she was a pretty terrible old woman.’

‘You don’t think she’s blackmailing him?’

‘My dear Jim, what a horrible suggestion! No! Norman’s like his father. He gets himself muddled up with all sorts of ridiculous people and tells stories he hardly knows are true or not. Cornelius is just the same. He used to tell me he spent his boyhood in Canada; then, one day, it was New Zealand. I shall never know the truth. But there–he’s made like that. We mustn’t judge people.’

‘Yes, but all this talk of “making up” Miss Hargreaves. It’s quite mad, mother.’

‘Of course it is. But we must try to forget it. I suppose the boy isn’t bound to take us into his confidence if he doesn’t want to. I do wish he’d settle down, though.’

Mother sighed and I felt quite sorry for her. After all, father and I
are
a rum pair.

In a sort of way I did settle down; told myself that I would never be able to solve the Hargreaves mystery and that somehow I had stumbled upon something out of time. I’d read Dunne’s books on the past, present and future; and though I couldn’t follow half of what he said, it did seem to me there was a quality about time which had nothing whatever to do with clocks and calendars. But thinking only muddled me. So I stopped thinking. If I decide to dismiss a matter from my mind, I can do it. So can father. We’re not the brooding sort.