She Came Back (5 page)

The first headlines appeared next day. The Daily Wire splashed them half across the front page, rather crowding the latest Russian victory.

THREE AND A HALF YEARS DEAD

—COMES BACK TO SEE HER TOMBSTONE

Underneath there was a picture of the white marble cross in Holt churchyard. The lettering stood out clearly:

Anne Wife of Philip Jocelyn

Aged 21

Killed by enemy action June 26th, 1941

The letterpress contained an interview with Mrs. Ramage, cook and housekeeper at Jocelyn’s Holt.

Mrs. Armitage went down to the kitchen with the paper in her hand.

“Oh, Mrs. Ramage—how could you?”

Mrs. Ramage burst into tears which were a good three parts excitement to one of remorse. Her large pale face glistened and she shook like a blanc-mange.

“Never said he’d put it in the paper. Got off his bicycle at the back door when the girls were in the dining-room and asked me civil enough if I could direct him to the churchyard, which I said you couldn’t miss it if you tried, seeing it runs next the park, and I took and showed him the church tower from the back door step, and you’d have done the same or anyone else. Well, there it is, as large as life and you can’t get from it.”

“You seem to have said a good deal more than that, Mrs. Ramage.”

Mrs. Ramage groped for a pocket handkerchief like a small sheet and applied it to her face..

“He arst me how could he find Lady Jocelyn’s grave, and I said—”

“What did you say?”

Mrs. Ramage gulped.

“I said, ‘We don’t want to think about graves or suchlike, not now her ladyship’s come home again.’ ”

Mrs. Armitage gazed resignedly at the front page of the Wire.

“Mrs. Ramage told me she was thunderstruck—” What a pity she wasn’t!—“ ‘I remember Lady Jocelyn coming here as a bride… Such lovely pearls—the same she’s wearing in her picture that was in the Royal Academy. And she came back wearing them, and her lovely fur coat too… ’ Miss Ivy Fossett, parlourmaid at Jocelyn’s Holt, says, ‘Of course I didn’t know who it was when I opened the door, but as soon as I got a good look at her I could see she was dressed the same as the picture in the parlour…’ ”

Mrs. Ramage continued to gulp and mop her face. All at once Milly Armitage relaxed. What was the use anyway? She said in her good-tempered voice,

“Oh, do stop crying. It’s no use—is it? I don’t suppose you had a chance with him really—he was bound to get it all out of you. Only I can’t think how they knew there was anything to get.”

Mrs. Ramage gave a final gulp. She looked about her. The big kitchen was empty, Ivy and Flo were upstairs making beds, but she dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper.

“It was that Ivy—but girls are so hard to get. I had it out of her last night. She’d an aunt got a guinea from a paper for sending up a piece about a cat bringing up a rabbit along with its kittens, and that put it into her head. She took and wrote a postcard to the Wire and said her ladyship had come home after everyone thought she was dead, and a cross in the churchyard and all. And I’m sure I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world, not if it was to vex Sir Philip.”

“Well, I don’t see that it was your fault, Mrs. Ramage. I suppose the papers were bound to get hold of it.”

Mrs. Ramage put her handkerchief away in a capacious apron pocket.

“It’s a lovely photo of the cross,” she said.

Milly Armitage gazed at the paper.

Anne

Wife of Philip Jocelyn

Aged 21

They would have to alter the inscription of course. Philip would have to get it done. Because if it was Anne upstairs in the parlour with Lyn, then it wasn’t Anne’s body under the white marble cross. You can’t be in two places at once. She wished with all her heart that she could be sure that the inscription on the cross was true. It was probably very wicked of her, but she would much rather be sure that Anne was in the churchyard, and not upstairs in the parlour. The trouble was that she couldn’t be sure. Sometimes Philip shook her, and sometimes Anne shook her. She was as honest as she knew how to be. It didn’t really matter whether she wanted Anne to be alive, or whether she wanted her to be dead. What mattered was that they should be sure. It was perfectly frightful to think of Annie Joyce grabbing Anne’s money and getting away with Philip and Jocelyn’s Holt, but it was even more frightful to think of Anne coming back from the dead and finding out that no one wanted her. Her eyes remained fixed upon the page.

Annie

Daughter of Roger Joyce

That was what it would have to be if Anne were alive… What a frightful business!

She looked up, met Mrs. Ramage’s sympathetic gaze, and said with the frankness which occasionally devastated her family,

“It’s a mess—isn’t it?”

“A bit of an upset, as you may say—”

Mrs. Armitage nodded. After all, Mrs. Ramage had been twelve years at Jocelyn’s Holt. She had seen Philip married. You couldn’t keep things from people in your own house, so what was the good of trying—you might just as well make a virtue of necessity. She said,

“Did you recognize her—at once?”

“Meaning her ladyship, ma’am?”

Mrs. Armitage nodded.

“Did you recognize her—” she paused, and once more added—“at once?”

“Didn’t you, ma’am?”

“Of course I did. I never thought of anything else.”

“No more did I.”

They looked at one another. Mrs. Ramage said in an uncertain whisper,

“It’s Sir Philip, isn’t it? He’s not sure—”

“He’s so sure that she was dead—it’s so difficult for him to believe he could have made a mistake. We didn’t see her— he did. It makes it hard for him.”

Mrs. Ramage considered, and spoke slowly.

“I’ve seen a lot of dead people first and last. Some looks like they were alive and just dropped off asleep, but some is that changed you’d hardly know them. And if you was to think of her ladyship with all that bright colour gone and her hair gone straight and wet with the sea water coming over like you told me Sir Philip said—well, that would make a lot of difference, wouldn’t it? And if this other lady was so much like her—”

“I didn’t say anything about another lady, Mrs. Ramage.”

“Didn’t you, ma’am? There’s been talk about it, as there’s bound to be, because it stands to reason if that’s her ladyship upstairs, then there’s someone else that was buried by mistake for her, and the talk goes it was Miss Annie Joyce, that we all seen when she came here with Miss Theresa a matter of ten or eleven years ago. Stayed here a week, and anyone could see how she favoured the family.”

“Do you remember her—what she looked like?”

Mrs. Ramage nodded.

“Long, thin, poking slip of a girl—looked as if she wanted a deal of feeding up. But she favoured the family all the same—might have passed for Sir Philip’s sister, and if she’d plumped out and held herself up and got a bit of a colour, well, it’s my opinion she’d have been like enough to her ladyship for Sir Philip to make the mistake he did, seeing the difference there is between a dead person and a live one. And that’s the way it was, you may depend upon it.”

Milly Armitage opened her lips to speak, shut them again, and then said in a hurry,

“You think it’s her ladyship upstairs?”

Mrs. Ramage stared.

“Why, you can’t get from it, ma’am. Looks a bit older of course, but don’t we all?”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure? She come in that door and straight up to me, and she says, ‘I do hope you’re glad to see me again, Mrs. Ramage.’ ”

Tears came into Milly Armitage’s eyes. Anne coming back, and nobody pleased to see her—She pulled herself up sharply. Lyn was pleased enough—but she’s looking like a ghost now—she isn’t sure either—

Mrs. Ramage said,

“A bit hard to come home and find you’re not wanted, ma’am.”

The mist which had lain over the churchyard all day had by half past three in the afternoon spread into the park and was creeping up the long slope towards the house. A brief hour of pallid sunshine had failed to disperse the haze overhead. Milly Armitage began to count up bedrooms and rations, because if it was going to be foggy, neither Inez nor Emmeline would want to go back to town, and if they stayed—and of course Thomas—it would really be very much better if Perry and Lilla were to stay too. Three bedrooms… And fishcakes—the cod went farther that way than when it was boiled or grilled… And if Emmeline thought she could keep to a diet in war-time she would have to go hungry, because the next course would just have to be sausages, and they could have baked apples for a dessert… Mr. Codrington would probably prefer to go back to town unless the fog was very bad indeed. Well, if he stayed he must have the blue room… And Florence must put stone hot-water bottles in all the beds… The question was, if Mr. Codrington stayed, did it mean that his clerk would have to be accommodated too? She supposed it did—and he would have the dressing-room at the top of the stairs. A harmless, elderly, confidential person who was to take shorthand notes of everything that was said. Very unpleasant, but of course Mr. Codrington was quite right—it was only fair to everyone that there should be an accurate record. Her mind swung back to food again. If there were going to be two more, Mrs. Ramage would have to put a lot of rice into the fish-cakes, and they had better have potatoes in their jackets… Perhaps it wouldn’t be foggy after all… A glance out of the window dismissed this rather optimistic hope.

Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Jocelyn were the first to arrive. Having met them in the hall, Milly led them into the dining-room, where the polished table and its attendant chairs awaited the expected family.

No one could say that the scene was a cheerful one. An aged, dirty, and extremely valuable Chinese paper covered the walls—one of those heirlooms supremely uncomfortable to live with but too costly to discard. Its prevailing tone was that of over-boiled greens. The carpet, which had once possessed a lively Victorian pattern, had now gone away to a murky drab. The furniture, which was in the largest mahogany tradition, reared itself in massive sideboards and serving-tables. If less than twenty-four people dined in the room, it had an under-populated appearance. A large wood fire struggled in vain to mitigate the chill of long disuse.

Mrs. Thomas Jocelyn looked around her, said, “A fine room, I always think,” and did up the top button of her fur coat again. Mr. Codrington came in behind her and switched on the light in the chandelier over the table. The shadows retreated to either end of the room, leaving the table and its surroundings isolated in a warm golden glove. Mr. Codrington’s clerk, who had followed him, moved now into this circle of light and proceeded to lay a writing-pad and pencil at one end of the table and set a small attaché case down at the other end, after which he withdrew to the fire and stood there warming himself.

Mr. Codrington nodded in the direction of the case.

“I shall be sitting there. Philip wishes me, as it were, to take the chair. It is all extremely painful for him, but I hope some definite conclusion may be arrived at. If you don’t mind, we won’t discuss the matter at all beforehand. It is so difficult to remain quite unprejudiced.” He shepherded them towards the table. “Now Philip will be on my right, and the—well, I suppose I had better call her the claimant—on my left. Then Mr. Jocelyn and yourself on her side, and Mr. and Mrs. Perry Jocelyn next to Philip, Miss Inez Jocelyn next to them, and Mrs. Armitage and Lyndall on the other side. My clerk, Mr. Elvery, will sit at the bottom of the table and take a shorthand record of the proceedings.” He pulled out the third chair on the left, looked down the table, and said, “Perhaps you will sit down. I think the Perry Jocelyns have just arrived. Miss Jocelyn was to travel with them, so that we shall be able to begin immediately.”

Mrs. Thomas Jocelyn sat down. As she drew in her chair, the light flooded down upon the massive waves of her abundant red hair. At forty it was as lively and burnished as it had been at twenty-two under her wedding veil, but, like her figure, it was now a good deal more rigidly controlled. Her complexion was still very good, and owed hardly anything to art. If her eyes had been a little more widely set, a little more deeply blue, she would have been a beauty, but no tinting of lashes originally sandy could disguise that shallow milky tint. Every time Milly Armitage saw her she was reminded of the white Persian cat she and Louie had had as children. Louie was gone, and the Persian cat was gone, but here were its eyes in Emmeline’s head, for all the world like a couple of saucers of skim milk. For the rest, Mrs. Thomas Jocelyn was a managing woman with everything handsome about her, from the small black fur cap on her careful waves, and the expensive coat that went with it, to her fine silk stockings and well cut shoes.

Beside her Thomas Jocelyn looked grey and insignificant.

He had the family features, but they seemed to have shrunk. He was not much over fifty—five years younger than Philip’s father—but he might easily have been taken for sixty-five. Perhaps the confinement of office life, perhaps his wife’s exuberant vitality.

The Perry Jocelyns came in. Perry had been laughing, and Lilla was pinching his arm to make him behave. On the brief occasions when they were together it put them both in such high spirits that they found it difficult to be decorous. Perry was fair like all the Jocelyns, but he was not as tall as Philip. He had a squarer face and a wide, mobile mouth. Lilla was little and plump and rosy, with wide brown eyes, a wide red mouth, and an enchantingly tilted nose. They were so much in love with each other that they brought happiness with them. It flowed from them in warmth and light even in this dreary room.

Behind them, and not too pleased at bringing up the rear, came Miss Inez Jocelyn, talking volubly as was her wont. As she came into view and Milly Armitage turned to greet her after embracing Perry and Lilla, she had to exert considerable self-control in order not to look as startled as she felt.

Even in the midst of these rather wretched preoccupations Inez Jocelyn’s appearance was arresting. Her hair, originally of a mousy fairness, was now quite aggressively platinum. Oblivious of her fifty years, she wore it cascading upon her shoulders from a little black hat of about the size and shape of a jam-pot cover. Everything else was to match—the short flared skirt, the tightly waisted coat, the sheer black stockings, and the stiltheeled shoes. Against this extreme of youthful fashion there was Inez‘ unfortunate face, very long, very thin, very elderly in spite of make-up lavishly but not very skilfully applied. Nobody could have taken her for anyone but a Jocelyn, but she was a Jocelyn in caricature.

She pecked at Milly’s cheek, talking all the time in a piercing voice.

“My dear, I never heard of anything so extraordinary! Incredible, I call it! How do you do, Thomas—how do you do, Emmeline? Where is Philip? Surely he is going to be here! How do you do, Mr. Codrington? Surely Philip is going to be here! Most extraordinary if he isn’t—but then the whole thing is most extraordinary. I cannot see how there can possibly be any doubt myself. Either Anne is dead, or she is alive. That is surely beyond dispute.”

“Certainly, Miss Jocelyn. Perhaps you would be seated. Philip will be here in a moment. Perry, you and your wife here, please—and Miss Jocelyn beyond you. Now before we go any farther I will just say this. You are here to give your opinion as to the identity of someone who claims to be Anne Jocelyn. She arrived here on Tuesday evening wearing Anne’s going-away dress, her fur coat, her pearls, and her wedding and engagement rings, and in possession of Anne’s handbag containing her passport and identity card. She was unhesitatingly recognized as Anne by Mrs. Armitage, by Lyndall, and by Mrs. Ramage the cook, who is the only one of the old staff left here. Philip was away in town. When he returned next day he absolutely refused to accept this identification. He asserted then, and he asserts now, that the claimant is Annie Joyce.”

“Theresa’s Annie Joyce?” Inez Jocelyn’s voice was shrill.

“Yes.”

Emmeline Jocelyn said firmly,

“There surely cannot be any great difficulty about the matter. We all knew Anne—I suppose we should all recognize her. It seems the most extraordinary story.”

Mr. Codrington turned to her with some relief.

“Yes, it is—but I think we had better not discuss it now. Ah—here is Philip!”

Philip Jocelyn stood for a moment inside the door. He lifted a hand to the row of switches beside the jamb. All the rest of the lights in the room went on—one over each of the two big sideboards, one on either side of the chimney-breast, one over a serving-table, one over the door itself. The room remained dreary, but it ceased to be dark. Every object in it, every person, every shade of expression, was unsparingly illuminated. The three large windows blanketed with fog receded and lost their importance. The failing light outside could no longer compete. It withdrew, and became unnoticeable.

Philip came over to the table and shook hands with his uncle and aunt, with Inez and Lilla. He touched Perry on the shoulder and dropped into the chair between him and Mr. Codrington, who at once turned his head and made a sign to his confidential clerk. Mr. Elvery then left the room.

Milly Armitage thought, “It’s exactly like a funeral, only worse. Lyn’s stubborn, but I don’t know that I want her any different. She’s identified herself with Anne, waiting to come in with her like this. It is going to hurt Philip horribly. She’s taking sides against him. No, it’s not that. She’s loyal—she loves Anne, and if there’s even a chance that this is Anne, she won’t let her down.”

Mr. Elvery came back and sat down at the foot of the table, pulling his pad towards him and bending over it, pencil in hand. He left the door open, and almost immediately Lyndall and Anne came in together.

Lyn turned to shut the door, but Anne walked straight on and up to the table. She wore the blue dress in which she had been painted. She wore the pearls. She was well and delicately made up—eyelashes darkened, but no eye-shadow; skin well creamed and powdered, but very little rouge; lips tinted to a coral shade; fingernails enamelled to match. Without hesitation she passed to the right of Mr. Elvery and approached the Thomas Jocelyns, putting out a hand to each.

“Uncle Thomas! Aunt Emmeline!”

It was plain that both were thunderstruck, but without giving them time to speak she went on and took the chair on Mr. Codrington’s left. From there she nodded across the table.

“Oh, Perry—how nice to see you! It’s such a long time, isn’t it? And I haven’t met Lilla, but it’s nice to see her too.” Her eyes went past them. “How do you do, Cousin Inez?”

Philip leaned back in his chair. If this was the first test, she was passing it with honours. But then Annie Joyce would have known enough to pass it. Theresa had all the family history and all the family photographs. She wouldn’t have known about Lilla of course, but that, he fancied, was where Lyn came in. He looked at her accusingly. She had taken the chair next to Milly Armitage. She wore a dark green dress with a turn-down collar of some musliny stuff. The colour made her look very pale. Perhaps it wasn’t the colour at all. Her skin had the smooth, even pallor of milk. Her queer smudgy eyes were dark behind dark lashes. She wouldn’t look at him. He mustn’t look at her. He made a frowning effort and turned his eyes away. Lyndall thought, “He’s angry—he hates me. It’s better that way. What is going to happen to us all? I couldn’t let her come in alone.”

Mr. Codrington looked down the table and said,

“Has anyone any questions they would like to ask?… Yes, Mrs. Jocelyn?”

Emmeline leaned forward.

“You recognized my husband just now—perhaps you will tell us where he comes in the family.”

Thomas Jocelyn sat back and looked down his nose. He disliked all this extremely. He wished that Emmeline hadn’t come, or that, having come, she would sit quiet and leave the talking to someone else. After nearly twenty years of marriage neither of these two things appeared to him as possibilities. This did not prevent him from dwelling on them.

On his other side Anne made smiling answer.

“But of course—Philip’s father had two brothers. Uncle Thomas is the youngest. Perry’s father came in between. He was Peregrine too.”

Emmeline went on.

“And what children have we?”

“Four boys. I suppose the eldest is about sixteen now. He is Tom—and the others are Ambrose, Roger, and James.”

Emmeline said, “We call him Jim,” and Anne laughed.

“You know, I don’t think this sort of thing gets us anywhere. I mean, if somebody asks me who Cousin Inez is, and I say she’s Cousin Theresa’s sister and their father was a first cousin of my grandfather’s, well, it simply doesn’t get us anywhere at all, because Philip seems to think I’m Annie Joyce and Annie would know all these things just as well as I do.”

They all looked at her. Philip looked at her. She seemed frankness personified, her colour a little risen, her lips smiling, her left hand with the big sapphire of Anne’s engagement ring overlapping the platinum wedding-ring laid carelessly— or was it carefully?—on the dark shining board. The women’s eyes were on the rings. Inez said,

“Perfectly right—that sort of thing is no good at all—sheer waste of time.” Her light eyes went maliciously to Emmeline. “What we want is to be practical. Why does Philip say that she isn’t Anne? Why does he think that she is Annie Joyce? That is where we should begin.”

Impossible for common sense to take a more irritating form. The voice, the darting glances passing from Emmeline to Lyndall and back to Philip, had a singularly antagonizing quality.

Mr. Codrington looked resigned and said,

“Perhaps Philip will answer that.”

Philip looked straight in front of him over the top of Anne’s head to the elegant portrait of the Philip Jocelyn who had been a page at the court of William and Mary. Tight white breeches and a lemon-coloured coat, very fair hair tossed carelessly above the brow. Eight years old. At twenty-eight he was dead in a duel over an unfaithful wife. Her portrait hung, banished, in a corner upstairs—all dark love-locks and rose-red furbelows.