The Case Of William Smith (17 page)

And where do we go from here?’ said William.

It was Sunday morning, and they had finished breakfast. The day lay before them. It came to Katharine with a tremendous sense of relief that it wasn’t for her to say what the next step was to be. She had done it all these weeks, but she didn’t have to do it any more. It was very restful. She said,

‘That is for you to say.’

He pushed back his chair.

‘Well, I don’t know that there’s much choice, really. I think we’d better go over and see Cyril. Has he still got Evendon?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know that he’ll be there.’

‘He always used to go down there for the weekends — liked gloating over his collections. But of course you said Maud was dead — ’

She nodded.

‘Five years ago.’

‘And Sylvia’s married. Doesn’t he go down there now?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ She hesitated, and then said in a reluctant voice, ‘I think there’s something going on with Mavis Jones.’

He gave a whistle.

‘I thought it was Brett!’

‘So did I, but I think that’s back history. I daresay I’m wrong about Cyril, but — well, you know how it is, if she’s in the room he’s got a sort of way of looking at her before he answers, and I’ve thought she was being a bit proprietary.’

He whistled again.

‘Poor old Cyril! He’s rather a defenceless sort of chap — not much good at saying no. And Mavis — Katharine, she must have known me.’

‘I’m quite sure she did.’

‘Do you suppose she — told anyone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Cyril — or Brett?’

‘I don’t know, William.’

He got up, walked to the window, looked out at the grey sky, the grey street, and turned, frowning deeply.

‘I don’t think so — not Cyril — not either of them. Why should she? If she was trying to kid herself it was just a likeness she wouldn’t. You know, it’s quite extraordinary how convinced people can get themselves over something if they don’t want it to be true. She may have done that, or — ’ He stopped short.

‘Or what?’

He said, ‘Davies — Mr. Tattlecombe — me. If she made up her mind to do anything about it she wouldn’t tell Cyril or Brett.’ Then quite suddenly he laughed. ‘That’s rubbish — it must be. Where’s the motive? Besides, people don’t do things like that. It must be nonsense. I tell you what, you ring up Evendon and find out if Cyril is there. If he is, say you’d like to run over. Don’t say anything about me. If he’s not there, find out where he is. He might be with Sylvia.’

‘I shouldn’t think he would be. They aren’t settled.’

He came over and pulled her up.

‘Well, come along and telephone! We can’t do anything until we know where he is.’

It was the butler who answered, elderly, polite, and suave. Mr. Eversley was at home but he had stepped out.

Katharine heard the news with relief. She said,

‘It’s Mrs. William Eversley, Soames. Will you tell Mr. Eversley when he comes in that I am very particularly anxious to see him, and that I am driving over. I’m speaking from the Cedar House, and I should be over in about an hour and a half. Will you tell him that?’

‘Certainly, madam.’

‘I suppose Mr. Brett isn’t there?’

‘No, madam.’

Katharine said, ‘Thank you,’ and rang off.

She turned round. William had his hands in his pockets. The thought went through her mind — ‘No one who knew him when he was a boy could possibly think he was anyone else.’

He said, ‘Soames still there? Think he’ll stand up to the shock of seeing me?’

She came to him then, slipping her hand inside his arm.

‘You don’t think we ought to break it to them first?’

She got a grave, steady look.

‘No, I don’t. I think we’ll administer the shock.’

It was about half an hour later that Sylvia rang up. Her voice was as pretty as herself, but it sounded distracted, as who should say, ‘Enter Tilburina, mad in white satin.’ If, however, she was mad at this moment, it was in the American sense.

‘Is that Katharine? Soames says you rang up from the Cedar House.’

‘Right both times, darling.’

‘I’m not at Evendon. I wouldn’t go. Jocko and I are at Huntinglea with his people. Soames rang up and said you were coming to lunch, and what about us. Of course Daddy put him up to it, and I just want to know if he was speaking the truth. Are you really going to be there for lunch? Or is it just a trap to get us there?’

Katharine felt a little bewildered.

‘Well, I don’t know about lunch. The fact is, something’s happened, and I’m going over to see Cyril about it. After that — well, it just depends.’

Sylvia sounded more distracted than ever.

Then you’ve heard! Isn’t it grim! Daddy wanted us to come over for the weekend and meet her, but I put my foot down flat.’

‘Sylvia, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing — it doesn’t make sense. Who did Cyril want you to go and meet?’

An angry sob came back along the line.

‘That foul Jones woman — he’s married her!’

Katharine said, ‘No!’ on a quick indrawn breath.

Twenty-five miles away Sylvia stamped her foot.

‘Well, he has! He rang up last night to say so. He was so nervous he could hardly get it out, and I don’t wonder. I kept saying “No!” just like you did, and he went on saying it over and over again. And then he wanted Jocko and me to come for the weekend, and I said, “I won’t!” — just like that, and slammed down the receiver. So now he’s got Soames to ring up and lure us by saying you’re coming to lunch, and I thought I’d just find out if you really were. Because it might be Daddy gone all foxy, or it might be Soames trying to boil up a reconciliation — he’s frightfully family-retainer, you know. So what about it? Jocko says what’s the good of quarrelling with your father, even if he has married his secretary? And his father and mother say the same. You know how they are — all for peace and a quiet life. And of course they’re marvellous in-laws. But I’m not confronting that Jones woman alone. Jocko doesn’t count. I want a fellow female at my back, so you’ve just got to be there, or I won’t stay. Au revoir, angel — but if you’re not there, it’ll be devil, and I’ll never speak to you again!’

By the time the conversation was over William had practically made himself a part of it by coming up close and propping his chin on Katharine’s shoulder so as to get his ear next to the receiver. When she hung up his eyes were laughing. He said,

‘Whatever else has changed, Sylvia hasn’t. Jocko used to be a nice lad. What’s he turned out like?’

‘Pretty good, I think. They’re blissfully happy. Did you hear what she said?’

‘Most of it — something about Cyril and Miss Jones’.’

‘William, he’s married her!’

He whistled.

‘Gosh! Well, I suppose he bought it.’

Katharine felt a light shiver go over her, she didn’t quite know why. Cyril and Mavis Jones — married — now! Why? Or wasn’t there any reason? What reason could there be?

William said quickly, ‘Don’t look like that — I won’t have it!’ He pulled her up close and kissed her. ‘I won’t have it, I tell you — not for fifty thousand Cyrils and a million Mavis Joneses!’

She had to laugh then.

‘Darling, what a perfectly appalling prospect!’

Evendon had been a wedding present to Cyril Eversley from his father-in-law, the late Alfred Sherringham Upjohn, who, having accumulated a preposterous fortune, had decided that his daughter and sole heiress would be better off without most of it. He gave her husband what he described as a gentleman’s landed estate, put a comfortable sum in trust for Sylvia, and spent the afternoon of his days in erecting almshouses for the old, and nurseries for the very young. As he had always been perfectly sure that whatever he did was right, it never occurred to him to doubt the wisdom of this proceeding, his only regret being that the war interfered with his building schemes. He was killed by a direct hit from a flying bomb early in ’45, but his trustees were now able to continue the work he had planned. Mavis Jones’ opinion was that he should have been declared insane and placed under restraint, but she had learned not to express this view to Cyril.

As William and Katharine drove in at the entrance gate and followed a winding drive, the trees were leafless overhead, their winter brown and grey broken here and there by clumps of evergreen or the shining mass of holly, berries still clinging to it here and there. The house, placed upon rising ground and set off by terraces, was modern — not too big to be run with a diminished staff, and planned for comfort.

Waiting for Soames to answer the door, Katharine would rather have been anywhere else. She was afraid, and part of her fear was for Cyril Eversley. That Mavis had recognised William, she was sure. That she had told Cyril — was that sure, or wasn’t it? Could Cyril know that William was alive and do nothing about it? Someone who knew William was alive had tried to do something about it — to Mr. Davies — to Mr. Tattlecombe — to William — and to William’s car. It couldn’t be Cyril. She had known him all her life. He wasn’t cruel, or ruthless, or hard. He was a drifter — vague and dreamy. It couldn’t be Cyril. The line of least resistance, yes. A desperate cutting of the Gordian knot, no.

The door swung in. Soames stood there waiting, all his manner gone. He said, ‘Mr. William!’ in a gasping voice. His mouth opened and shut like a fish. He choked and said it again — ‘Mr. William!’

William clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Hold up, Soames — I’m real. Look here, you’d better sit down for a minute. Where’s Mr. Cyril?’

Soames stood by the chair to which he had been led, holding on to it, getting back his breath. He said,

‘The study — ’ And then, ‘I’m all right, Mr. William. It was just — the shock — as you might say — ’

William pushed him down on to the chair.

‘You stay put. We’ll go and find him.’

But Soames was pulling himself up again. He put out his hand to Katharine, and she took it.

‘If I may say, madam, how pleased — how very pleased I am — ’

Cyril Eversley was in the study alone. As far as it was possible to retreat from the complications of this weekend, he had retreated. Whether you study in it or not, any room with that name is from time immemorial the private property of the man of the house, to which women are only admitted on sufferance. When, in addition to its private character, the man has surrounded himself with the Sunday papers, the ‘Keep out!’ sign could hardly be more patently displayed. Cyril was not, however, at all sanguine. Mavis had been free of his private office for too long to consider that the hint could apply to her, and as to Sylvia — when had he ever wished to keep her out? She would come, and she would make a scene. Mavis had made one already. One — if it had stopped at that! The word could really only be used if today’s scene was considered to be a prolongation of yesterday’s.

He held up the Sunday Times, but he didn’t read it. It gave him a very slight feeling of protection against somebody bursting in. Yesterday’s scene had been about giving out their marriage. After saying that there was no hurry, Mavis had suddenly insisted on accompanying him to Evendon as his wife. He had had to announce his marriage to Soames. He had had to ring Sylvia up and break it to her. He hadn’t wanted to do either of these things. The interview with Soames had left a decided chill upon the air. His telephone conversation with Sylvia had been quite disintegrating. This morning’s scene with Mavis — if you were going to separate it from yesterday’s scene — had had Sylvia’s reception of the news as its theme-song. Why in heaven’s name must women be so dramatic? The last thing he wanted was any fuss. Scenes made him feel positively unwell, and there were going to be more of them. Sylvia and Jocko were coming to lunch. Katharine was coming over—

A very faint gleam of light illumined the mental scene. Katharine mightn’t like the idea of his marriage, but she wouldn’t make a scene, and it was not probable, but just barely possible, that she might have a calming effect upon Sylvia.

He heard the door open, looked apprehensively over the top of the paper, and saw Katharine — transformed. He could not have analysed the impression she made on him. There was a glow, a bloom, a brightness. The paper dropped, and as he rose to his feet and she stretched out her hands to him and said, ‘Oh, Cyril, something wonderful has happened!’ William came into the room behind her and shut the door. It was all over in a moment, the rush and glow of emotion — and William, and for the moment the whole unbelievable scene was believable and real. It was as if Katharine had created the kind of illusion which is created on the stage, where an imagined drama moves its audience to laughter or to tears.

Cyril Eversley found himself with a hand on William’s shoulder and a voice that stammered his name. And then, before there was time for anything more, Mavis walked into the room. Whether she had encountered Soames and was prepared, or whether she had just walked in upon the situation, she maintained an extraordinary appearance of calm. She came to Cyril without hurry, allowed her glance to pass indifferently over Katharine, and to rest with a shade of hauteur upon William. Cyril’s hand dropped, he stepped back. She said,

‘Mr. William Smith, I think.’

William smiled his usual pleasant smile.

‘I don’t think you do, Miss Jones.’

‘I am Mrs. Eversley.’ She turned to Cyril. ‘What is this man doing here?’

Cyril put a hand to his head. The moment was over. You didn’t stay in the clouds, you came spinning down to earth with a crash.

He said, ‘It’s William,’ and felt her hand close hard upon his arm.

‘My dear Cyril, pull yourself together! This is Mr. William Smith, an assistant in a shop called Tattlecombe’s Toy Bazaar. He came to see me about the manufacture of some toys for which he has taken out a patent. That must have been about six or seven weeks ago. Naturally I was struck, as you are, by a certain superficial likeness to your cousin William, but — ’

Cyril pulled away.

‘You saw him? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t think the toys would interest you, and I thought you might find the likeness — upsetting.’

William gave a short laugh.

‘I’m sorry to contradict a lady, but it isn’t a likeness. I’m William Eversley.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so?’

‘Because I didn’t know. I’d had a bang on the head and I couldn’t remember anything before ’42. I’m sorry if I’m inconvenient, Cyril old chap, but it’s me.’

Mavis stared at him. Those fine eyes of hers could sustain a very long, cold stare.

‘This story would have been a good deal more convincing if you had produced it before Mrs. William Eversley had been given the opportunity of coaching you for six or seven weeks.’

Katharine’s colour flamed. William said, ‘You’re talking about my wife,’ and Mavis laughed.

‘Nobody is disputing that, Mr. Smith. I’m sorry I didn’t give her her right name just now. After knowing her so long as Mrs. William Eversley it’s quite natural, I’m sure. But she’s been Mrs. William Smith for just over a week now, hasn’t she?’ She swung round on Cyril with a sort of fierce triumph. ‘They were married yesterday week at St. Jude’s, Rasselas Square, just round the corner from where she’s been living in Rasselas Mews. She married him as William Smith, and that’s what he is. She saw the likeness the same as I saw it, and she saw how she could make use of it. She’s had seven weeks to coach him, and a week’s honeymoon to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, with a brand-new husband all ready to walk into the firm and take William Eversley’s place.’

With every word she jarred Cyril’s taste more painfully, but if one sense was outraged, another reinforced it. An aghast sense of self-preservation beheld the possible abyss and recoiled. Between the two, his by no means robust initiative was paralysed.

At this moment there came the sound of running feet. The door was flung open and Sylvia rushed into the room. It was rather like seeing a young colt rush a fence. She was all long limbs, uncontrolled but pliant with youth and grace. Her hair, her colouring, her eyes, were all as bright as a spring day. Her dark young husband followed her with a slightly abashed air. Sylvia took one look, uttered an ecstatic scream, and flung herself on William’s neck.

‘Sylly!’

‘Billy!’

They hugged each other over the old nursery joke. With the tears running down her face and one arm still round William, Sylvia reached for Katharine and hugged her too.

‘Angel darling lambs — when did it happen — why didn’t you tell us? Jocko, it’s William! He’s come back — he’s alive!’ She let go suddenly and ran to Cyril. ‘Daddy, what’s the matter? Why aren’t you waving flags? It’s William! It’s my own blessed darling William! What’s the matter with you?’

It would really have been better if Mavis had restrained herself, but she was quite unable to do so. She smiled in a superior manner and said,

‘I am afraid you are making rather an embarrassing mistake, Sylvia. This is Katharine’s new husband, Mr. Smith.’

Sylvia had both hands clutching at her father’s arm. She clutched as hard as she could and said,

‘And who told you you could call her Katharine? If you ask me, it’s a piece of damned cheek ! And if you start coming the stepmother over me you’ll be sorry for it, so you’d better watch it! And if anyone says this isn’t William — ’

William came up quietly and put a hand on her shoulder.

‘Dry up, Sylvia!’ He turned to Cyril. ‘Don’t you think this is a bit of a crowd? I suggest that everyone goes away and leaves us to it. I lost my memory, but I’ve got it back again. It came back quite suddenly in the night. I don’t think you’ve really got any doubts, but if you have, I don’t think I shall have any difficulty in clearing them out of the way. This is all a bit emotional, don’t you think? Katharine, suppose you take Sylvia away. And perhaps’ — he paused — ‘your wife would leave us too.’

Sylvia moved, flung her arms round his neck again, murmured, ran to Katharine, and went out with her, pulling Jocko by the sleeve.

Mavis said, ‘No!’ And then, ‘Cyril, don’t be a fool! You haven’t got anything to say to this man, and you don’t want to listen to him either. You want to see your solicitor.’

Cyril looked at her, and looked away. Then he looked at William. There was something of wretchedness in the look, something of defeat.

William said, ‘Don’t be an ass, Cyril! You don’t want to drag a solicitor into this, do you? If your wife won’t leave us, what about coming for a drive in my car? We’ll really do better by ourselves, you know.’

Cyril passed a hand over his brow. There was sweat on it. He said,

‘You’d better go, Mavis.’

It was he who got the cold stare this time. It carried an icy, dominant anger.

‘And leave him to talk you round — to talk you into the sort of admissions you’ll be ready to kick yourself for when you see a solicitor and he tells you just what a fool you’ve been! I’m not going! And you’re not going a step without me!’

William said quietly, ‘Very well then — Katharine and I will go. But you had better think what you are doing. Cyril doesn’t even pretend that he hasn’t recognized me. It’s very inconvenient of me, I know, but I’ve come back and I’ve got to be reckoned with. Well, it’s up to you what sort of reckoning it’s going to be. There will be things to be settled up. We can make a family matter of it and fix things in a friendly way as between cousins, or you can call in your solicitor, and I can call in mine, and we can make a business matter of it as. between partners. Brett will have to take sides with one of us, there’ll be some sort of a dog-fight, and it will all be very bad for business. If you want to have it that way you can. What you’d better understand here and now is that you can’t have it both ways. You’ll have to make up your mind, Cyril. You can’t start the dog-fight and then call it off and switch over to a friendly arrangement. You know, you’d really very much better have a talk with me now.’

Mavis turned her anger on him.

‘He’s not having any talks with you, Mr. Smith, and you needn’t think he is!’

William said in his most matter-of-fact voice,

‘Oh, don’t be silly. He knows perfectly well who I am, and so do you. Come on Cyril, speak for yourself — do you recognise me, or don’t you?’

This time there was appeal as well as defeat in Cyril’s look. He put out a wavering hand to William and said,

‘Send her away.’