The Brading Collection (9 page)

The morning came up clear and fine—a blue sky, a blue sea, and the promise of heat. There was nothing to show that the day would be any different from any other day—an August Friday with the weather set fair and a warm week-end to follow. The club was going to be full. The bathing would be perfect, there would be tennis on the hard courts—all the normal routine of a holiday place in the height of a holiday season.

Stacy lay between sleeping and waking, with an idle wash of thoughts that came and went like drifting seaweed. Emeralds and Maida’s red hair. Lilias with the pinched look she had last night. Charles going over to sit by Maida—walking home with her. Lewis like something grey that had come from under a stone—she didn’t like Lewis Brading any more than he liked her. Hester Constantine wrapped close in Myra’s brilliant shawl…

She roused herself with an effort, sat up, pushed back her hair, and began to think about the miniature. Myra would give her a sitting at ten. Yesterday’s sitting seemed a long time ago. She had to fight against the feeling that the miniature didn’t matter as much as it had mattered yesterday. It had been crowded out, pushed into the background, swamped by all these people and what they were thinking and feeling. For three years she had pushed people out of her life. She had shut herself up from them, not cared what they said or did, and turned all her thoughts, her interests, her energies into the channel of work. And now all the things she had shut out were flooding back again. They mattered again. The cold indifferent feeling was for her work, which no longer seemed to matter at all.

But everything which happened at Warne House on that Friday was going to matter. Every single smallest thing, every detail; the exact moment at which everyone came and went; what they did, said, wore; whether they spoke to anyone; whether they wrote or received a letter; whether they telephoned—it was all to matter, down to the last shade of expression, down to the last turn of the head and tone of the voice. But Stacy wasn’t to know that. Perhaps none of them knew it yet, though even that was to be in doubt.

It was not to be in dispute that Lewis Brading walked down to the entrance gate and took the nine-thirty bus which goes to Ledstow and then on for the seven straight miles into Ledlington. At a quarter past ten he entered his bank, asked to see the manager, and in his presence and that of a clerk put his signature to the will-form which left Maida Robinson his sole legatee. He was very pleasant and smiling over the business—laughed, and said he might soon be asking for congratulations.

“But at the moment it is all confidential. This is just a stopgap will in case of accidents.” He laughed again. “I shall be going up to see my solicitors. The museum will still get part of my Collection. It is just that—well, one never knows what is going to happen.”

The manager was genial, the whole affair very pleasant indeed.

Lewis Brading took the next bus back. At half past eleven he was in his study with James Moberly. Part of their conversation was overheard. At five minutes past twelve he went over to the annexe and put through a couple of calls. At one o’clock he came into the dining-room for lunch, and about half an hour later returned to the annexe, stopping for a moment by the table at which James Moberly was lunching alone to say, “You’d better take the afternoon off. I shan’t want you.” This was overheard by half a dozen people, but nobody seems to have heard Mr. Moberly’s reply. He may not have considered that there was anything to say. He was observed to be looking tired and pale, and it was noticed that he hardly touched his lunch.

At about half past one he returned to the annexe, following Lewis Brading after an interval of only a few minutes. There is no means of knowing whether they met, or what, if anything, passed between them there. James Moberly was to state on oath that they did not meet, that he only went back to the annexe to fetch a book, and that he returned without delay to the club and went into the study, where he spent the rest of the afternoon.

When lunch had been cleared at Warne House the staff are, for the most part, off duty, though there is always someone in the office and a waiter can be summoned. That afternoon was hot. Miss Snagge, in the office, wouldn’t have minded changing places with Mrs. Constantine who, as everybody knew, just went to bed after lunch and slept like a baby. Good thing she did too, as far as the daughters were concerned. Only chance they ever got. Lady Minstrell went off with a book into the garden. It would be nice in that old summerhouse up the hill. Her favourite place, that was. You could see over the sea for miles, and a nice cool breeze off the water. The white dress with its large black spots went out of the shaded hall and took the bright glare of the sun outside. Very good clothes Lady Minstrell had—kind of quiet but with a sort of look about them you never got unless you paid the earth.

Edna Snagge had a nice amiable disposition. She didn’t envy other people, but she would have liked to be going to meet her boy friend tonight in a dress like that—only perhaps the spots navy blue, because you’re only young once and black is a bit dull when you are twenty-two and nobody’s dead.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown went through the hall carrying towels and bathing things. Miss Snagge could have done with a dip herself—not too soon after lunch, but round about half past three. Mrs. Brown waved and said, “Wouldn’t you like to be coming too?” which was rubbing it in. Not meant of course—nothing catty about Mrs. Brown, everyone knew that. It was just her way, like wearing clothes too young for her and a bit on the tight side. Even on a girl that pink linen would be rather too much of a good thing. Funny how the wrong people always went for those strong pinks. Now a nice navy—

Her thought was broken off by the entrance of Mrs. Robinson and that Major Constable who was staying at Saltings. The red hair dazzled in the sun which left the smooth, creamy skin untouched. Maida came into the hall looking as cool and fresh as if she had just stepped in from a shady garden instead of having walked along the hot cliff path from Saltings. It was Major Constable who showed the heat—regularly flushed with it, he was. It made his eyes look ever so blue. Miss Snagge admired him. Nice friendly way with him. No airs, but he didn’t get fresh either like some did.

Maida Robinson came up to the open front of the office.

“I’m just going through to the annexe to see Mr. Brading. Be an angel and give him a ring on the house-telephone. I don’t want to stand and cook in that glass passage whilst he comes to open the door. Mr. Moberly’s out, isn’t he?”

Edna Snagge said,

“I didn’t see him go.”

“Oh, well, just give Mr. Brading a ring.” She turned to Major Constable. “What will you do, Jack? I shan’t be long. I don’t know what Lewis wanted to see me about.”

Jack Constable laughed.

“Doesn’t he always want to see you?”

She made a face at him.

“Don’t be silly! Anyhow I shall tell him we’re going to play tennis and then bathe. He doesn’t do either, so he can’t complain. I’ll run in and find out what he wants and be back again. I can tell him I’ll dine with him—that will keep him quiet.”

They spoke with a careless indifference to Edna Snagge. She might have been a chair, or a table, or a fly on the wall. Bad manners, she called it. If hers hadn’t been any better, she’d have tossed her head as she picked up the house-telephone and rang the annexe.

Maida Robinson said, “Well, so long,” and went off round the corner in her white dress.

Mr. Brading answered the telephone. That meant Mr. Moberly was off somewhere. Mr. Brading wouldn’t bother if his secretary was there. She said,

“I’m speaking from the office, Mr. Brading. Mrs. Robinson asked me to give you a ring. She’s just going through to the annexe.”

She hung up and looked out into the hall. Major Constable had picked up a paper and was standing there reading it. She thought if she was Maida Robinson, money or no money, she would let Mr. Brading go when there were chaps like that about. Served in the Commandos someone said. Horrible what they went through, getting themselves dropped out of planes and all. Even just to think of it made you feel as if you hadn’t got any inside. Major Constable must be ever so brave. And of course Major Forrest was too. A shame about him being divorced like that—she didn’t know how any girl could. There was something about him made you feel you’d do anything he asked you. Funny, her coming down here and calling herself Miss Mainwaring again, and their seeming quite friendly. Well, you never could tell with these divorces, could you? There was always something that didn’t come out.

Major Constable put down his paper, walked along the hall to where he could see right past the study door into the glass passage, and then walked back again. This time he came up to the office window and said in a laughing voice,

“When you say you won’t be a moment, how long do you generally mean?”

Miss Snagge said demurely,

“It would all depend.”

“On what?”

“On who I was talking to.”

He laughed again.

“Well, suppose you were talking to Mr. Brading.”

She put a little distance into her voice.

“Mr. Brading doesn’t talk to the staff.”

He glanced up at the office clock, one of those big old wall-clocks which keep such excellent time.

“Well, she’s been gone seven minutes. That’s long enough to say you’re going to play tennis and come away again, isn’t it?”

As he spoke, Maida came round the corner of the passage. She looked down at her wrist and said,

“Oh, Jack, I’ve left my bag. Run back and get it! I’ll ring Lewis and tell him you’re coming.”

He laughed, humped a shoulder, and went off saying,

“Why do women always leave their bags?”

Maida laughed too.

“We do, don’t we?” she said to Edna Snagge. “But then we don’t have all the pockets that men do. If I was plastered all over with the things like they are, I wouldn’t have to have a bag.” She gave her husky laugh. “Oh, well, I suppose I should. I couldn’t very well tuck away a bathing-dress, could I? It would spoil the figure a bit, to say nothing of being damned wet.”

As she spoke she came through into the office.

“I just want to speak to Mr. Brading. Is this the house-telephone? What do I do? Oh, I think I know. It’s this way, isn’t it?… Hullo, hullo!…I say, have I really got it right? Nothing’s happening… Oh, yes, here he comes… Hullo, hullo! Is that you, Lewis?… Look, darling, I left my bag…Yes—on the table. Jack is on his way to get it. Just go and let him in…Oh, has he? Did I? How awful of me! Don’t be too angry—I won’t do it again…Now, Lewis—really!…No, I don’t think you ought to talk to me like that. Anyone might make a mistake—I expect you’ve done it yourself…No, I suppose you wouldn’t, but when you were my age…Oh, Lewis, don’t! I didn’t mean that. Is Jack there? Because I don’t think it’s very nice of you to scold me if he’s listening…Oh, he’s started back? Then I’d better hang up. Well, so long, darling. Be good. See you tonight.”

She hung up the receiver and turned to Edna with a face of mock horror. “He didn’t have to let him in, because I’d left the door open! I let myself out because Lewis was busy, and I suppose I didn’t bang the wretched thing hard enough or didn’t bang it in the right way. My gosh—I hope he’s forgotten about it by this evening! It’s the world’s worst crime, you know. Could you hear what he said? Did you think he sounded really angry? We shall have a merry evening if he is!”

Edna Snagge shook her head.

“I couldn’t hear any words, only the voice.”

Maida laughed and shrugged.

“What’s the odds?” she said. “Men get angry a lot more than we do—no idea of hiding it either. Anyhow I don’t think Lewis was really angry. He just wants me to be properly impressed with the sacredness of the Collection. Have you seen it?”

“No, Mrs. Robinson.”

Maida said in a meditative voice,

“There are some lovely things. Emeralds—I do adore emeralds. What is your favorite stone?”

Edna Snagge considered.

“I don’t know—you have to think what you’re going to do—I mean, there are times and places and what’s suitable—”

Maida caught up the word with a laugh.

“Suitable! Gosh—how dull that sounds!”

As she spoke, Major Constable came lounging up with a big white plastic bag dangling from his hand.

“That right?” he said.

Maida burst out laughing.

“Darling! It wouldn’t be Lewis’s, or James Moberly’s, would it? It’s got my bathing things in it. Come along!”

Edna watched them go out into the sunlight, stopping a moment to retrieve their tennis racquets from the porch. She began to think what sort of ring she would have if she really got engaged to Bill Morden. It was all very well for Mrs. Robinson to laugh like that, but if you were engaged you would be wearing the ring all the time, and you did have to think of what it was going to look like with your other things. Most of the time she wore blue. She looked down at her neat linen with the large white buttons. Navy, or butcher, or one of those nice grey-blues—they always did look good style, and a sapphire would go with them all. If she got engaged to Bill, she thought she would have a sapphire ring.

At a little before three Lilias Grey walked up the porch steps and came into the hall. She wore a blue dress and a pair of dark sun-glasses with white rims. Her hair caught the light as she paused to put down the sun-umbrella she was carrying. Edna Snagge, looking up, was confirmed in her opinion that pale blue was tricky. “Makes you look like a chocolate-box when you’re young enough to wear it, and too much like mutton dressed lamb when you’re getting on.” Everyone knew that Miss Grey must be getting on a bit. Pretty of course, but getting on. Glasses always made you look older too.

Lilias stood just inside the hall and took them off. It made a lot of difference—showed the colour in her cheeks—restored her almost to the chocolate-box stage. When she had put the glasses away in her bag she came up to the office window and said,

“Good afternoon, Miss Snagge. I’m just going over to the annexe. Mr. Brading is expecting me.”

Then she went on and turned into the passage.

The office was on the left-hand side as you came in. It was just a slice of the hall, with a counter across the front and some match-boarding run up all around. Fortunately it took in one of the windows which flanked the hall door, so that you did get some light and air. The passage turned off on the opposite side of the hall, but much farther along. As soon as Miss Grey turned the corner she was out of sight.

Edna Snagge went back to thinking about Bill Morden. He wasn’t getting bad money, but nor was she. Once you’d had your own money, how was it going to feel having to ask someone else for every penny? Of course she could go on working, but she didn’t really plan to do that when she married. She planned to have a home and kiddies—a couple anyhow, boy and girl. Not too quick of course, but it didn’t do to wait too long either—you wanted to have them whilst you were still young enough for it to be fun. She began to think about names. Bill would want to choose for the boy, but a girl had a right to something pretty. Not too fancy, but something a little bit different. Denise now, or Celia. Celia Morden—very good style that sounded. She liked it better than Denise—or did she? She began to toy with the idea of twin girls.

It was ten minutes past three when Lilias Grey came back through the hall. She had put on her glasses again. She went right through, picked up her sun-umbrella in the porch, and down the steps with the light catching her hair again.

As Edna turned back from seeing her go, Miss Hester Constantine was on the stairs. She had on the new dress she had bought in Ledlington, a flowered silk, not very suitable and a bit too bright for her with all those colours. She’d always be difficult to dress. You’d have to make her hold herself up a bit better before anything would have a chance of looking right. She hadn’t bad hair if someone would show her how to do it. She came down the stairs poking her head and looking worried to death, and off round the corner and down the passage. She might be going to the billiard-room, or the study, or the annexe. Wherever she was going, she looked worried to death, and she didn’t come back again.

It was about ten minutes later that Charles Forrest ran up the steps and said,

“Hullo, Edna! How’s everything?”

Edna Snagge came back from planning her kitchen. She wanted one of those cabinets… everything right up to date… and a fridge. She gave a little start and said,

“Oh, you made me jump!”

He laughed.

“Asleep—or only dreaming? Look here, is Mr. Brading in?”

“So far as I know. He’s quite popular this afternoon—people in and out to see him all the time.”

“Anyone there now?”

“Not unless it’s Miss Constantine—but she’d be more likely—” She broke off, her colour rising.

Charles laughed and said,

“Hush—not a word!” And then, “Unfortunate James!”

“Major Forrest, I never said a thing!”

“Nor did I—wash it out! One man’s poison is another man’s meat. Well, well, it’s a sad world, and we needn’t make it any sadder. How’s Bill? Going out with him tonight?”

“I might.”

“He’s one of the lucky ones. Tell him I said so. Be good!”

He went off whistling.

The breeze that had been coming in through the window had dropped. Edna got out her compact and powdered her nose. She wished that she had done it before Major Forrest came through. Definitely shiny, that’s what it was, and would be again before you could turn round if everything went on getting hotter every minute the way it was doing.

Down in Ledstow it was a good five degrees hotter than it was on the hill. The heat was coming down out of the sky and up off the pavement without so much as a breath to stir it. The police station looking due south got all its share and a bit more. The brick with which it was faced was as hot as an oven door, and inside—well you could carry out the simile for yourself. Constable Taylor didn’t know when he had been hotter. He was a large young man with a rosy face, and his uniform was tighter than it had been six months ago. He undid a button or two, laid down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. He had no intention of dropping off. He would not have admitted that he had done so. It was a hot afternoon, and he might have closed his eyes. He was thinking about his marrows. No doubt of it, they’d beaten Jim Holloway’s to blazes. And a much handsomer marrow. And still growing. And likely to.

In that moment when his eyes were shut the marrows all had faces on them. The biggest had a ginger moustache like the Super. Regular fierce expression too. There was a little dark green one with a gimlet eye for all the world like old Ma Stevens. She’d got a hand-bell in her skinny old hand and ringing it something wicked—fair went through your head. His eyes came open with a jerk, and the marrows weren’t there any more. The room was a bit swimmy, but no marrows and no Ma Stevens, only the bell was still ringing. After a couple of blinks he got that straight. It was the telephone-bell, and it was fair ringing its head off. He picked up the receiver, subdued a yawn, and said, “ ’Ullo!” A familiar voice said, “That Ledstow police station?” Constable Taylor’s jaw ached with his effort not to yawn again. “Ledstow police station”—that’s what he ought to have said first go off when he lifted the receiver. He said it now with the feeling that it sounded flat. The voice that had seemed familiar became Major Forrest’s voice. He couldn’t think why he hadn’t known it at once after all the cricket they’d played.

The slow-moving thought was cut sharply across.

“Major Forrest speaking from the Warne House Annexe. There’s been an accident here—to Mr. Lewis Brading. I’m ringing Dr. Elliot, but I’m afraid it’s no use—he’s dead.”

Constable Taylor found his voice.

“What kind of an accident, sir?”

Charles Forrest said, “He’s been shot,” and slammed down the receiver.