The Fingerprint (11 page)

MISS SILVER packed her suit-case and was driven to Field End, where she found that a pleasant room had been prepared for her. It was opposite Georgina’s and next to that occupied by Mirrie Field. Whilst she was unpacking Georgina went downstairs to announce her presence.

She found Mrs. Fabian in the drawing-room, ensconced upon the sofa with her feet up. The sincere grief which she felt for Jonathan’s death was accentuated by a painful uncertainty as to her own future. Field End had been her home for nineteen years, and besides being relieved of all anxieties on the score of board and lodging she had drawn a substantial salary, and there had always been a welcome for Johnny. Now she had no certainty about anything. What had been left from the collapse of her husband’s means would barely suffice to pay the rent of a cottage, and though it is necessary to have a roof over your head, it does not help you very much if all that it can do is to afford you a shelter where you may die quietly of starvation. Of course Johnny wouldn’t let her starve if he could help it, and nor would Georgina. But suppose dear Jonathan had left everything to Mirrie Field. He had gone up to town to make a new will, and he had made it. Mirrie herself had been artlessly confiding on the subject. She had wept and dried her eyes, and wept again as she said how kind Uncle Jonathan had been. All very natural, but what was a proper subject of gratitude for Mirrie could be something quite different for the rest of them. Suppose there should be very little for Georgina. She hadn’t said so to anyone, but when Jonathan had told her that he was going up to town to see Mr. Maudsley she had asked him whether he had let Georgina know. Not meaning anything by it or wishing to pry into his affairs, but just wondering whether he had told her he was going to town. But Jonathan had looked at her angrily and said in what, even though he was dead, she could only describe as a nasty voice that Georgina had nothing to do with his affairs.

In retrospect Mrs. Fabian found that this alarmed her very much. She had never really expected anything for herself, though she had sometimes felt that it would be nice if he were to remember Johnny. But during all the years that she had lived at Field End it had never occurred to her to doubt the security of Georgina’s position. She was his own flesh and blood, his poor sister Ina’s daughter and such a dear child. Naturally she would be Jonathan’s heiress. But now there was Mirrie Field, and Jonathan had changed his will. Anna Fabian’s body might be comfortable, but her mind was in a sad turmoil. There were visions of Georgina and herself in a garret, though just why it should have been a garret she could not have explained. It was really a great deal more likely to be some tumbledown cottage with no water laid on and only outdoor sanitation. The thought that Georgina would have to find a job brought an added touch of gloom, since it left her to face the garret, or alternatively the cottage, alone. She looked up in a distracted way as Georgina came in, and said,

“It is very wrong of me, I know, and we shouldn’t be thinking of anything except poor dear Jonathan, but oh, my dear, I don’t know what I am going to do—I really don’t. Because you see, though I would be willing to take any kind of post, I am afraid—”

Georgina came over and sat down on the end of the sofa.

“Now, Cousin Anna, what is it?”

Mrs. Fabian burst into tears.

“Dear Jonathan—always so kind! And of course I have no claim, no claim at all, but if he has left everything to Mirrie—”

“I am quite sure you have nothing to worry about.”

Mrs. Fabian pressed a solid linen handkerchief to her eyes.

“He went up to town to make a new will, and Mirrie says—”

“Yes, I know. But I am quite sure that you needn’t worry.”

“Did Jonathan tell you so? Oh, my dear, when you went out of the room last night, did you see him? I have been so hoping that you did, because of course I couldn’t help noticing that there was something wrong, and it would have been so dreadful if he had gone like this without any chance of making it up.”

Georgina looked past her.

“Yes, it would have been dreadful, but it didn’t happen. We talked—everything was all right between us. And everything is going to be all right for you. You won’t cry any more now, will you, because we have a visitor and she will be coming down to tea.”

“A visitor!”

Georgina began to explain Miss Silver.

“I think you will like her. I think she will be a great help to us all.”

“But, my dear—an enquiry agent! Of course that is only another way of saying she is a private detective, and even nowadays, when people do the most extraordinary things, it doesn’t seem to be a proper occupation for a lady.”

“Darling Cousin Anna, Miss Silver is one of the most completely proper people I have ever met. You must have heard Cousin Vinnie talk about her.”

Mrs. Fabian gave her eyes a final dab and sat up. Miss Alvina Grey, daughter of a previous Vicar of Deeping and now for many years resident in what had been the sexton’s cottage, had had quite a lot to say about the events in what had come to be known as the Eternity Ring case. It was into her room that Mary Stokes had rushed, declaring that she had seen a murdered girl in Dead Man’s Copse. Mrs. Fabian had certainly heard the tale a number of times. It was only because of her present distress of mind that she had failed to connect Georgina’s guest with the little lady from London who had been staying with Monica Abbott, and who had played such a helpful part in unravelling that mystery. She said quite briskly,

“Yes, yes, of course. You were away at school, and the name had slipped my mind. Some people are so good at names, but they never seem to me to mean anything, and I don’t pretend to be able to remember them. After all, as Shakespeare says,

‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.’

Silver—yes, that was it, I remember perfectly now—Miss Maud Silver, and everyone spoke very well of her. I remember your Cousin Alvina took a great fancy to her, and she gave her the recipe for those particularly good afternoon teacakes of hers.”

The ground thus prepared for a meeting between the two ladies, Georgina left a restored Mrs. Fabian and was crossing the hall, when Anthony came out of the morning-room. When he saw her he turned back. She followed him into the room and he shut the door. She said,

“Where are the others?”

“Johnny has taken Mirrie out in his old ruin of a car. She’s been crying herself sick, and he thought a little fresh air.”

Georgina nodded.

“She really was fond of Uncle Jonathan. I suppose he was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her, poor Mirrie. Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace sound fairly grim.”

Anthony had walked over to the window. He turned round now and came back to her.

“Never mind about Mirrie just now. I want to talk about us.”

She looked up faintly startled.

“What is it?”

He said abruptly,

“Mirrie says that Jonathan did make a new will when he was in town. He told her so.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about Mirrie.”

“We’re not. It’s what she said about Jonathan’s will.”

She moved to the hearth and stood looking down into the fire.

“I don’t think I want to talk about wills, Anthony.”

“Nor do I. I want to talk about us. I only mentioned the will to get it out of the way. Jonathan told Mirrie that he was treating her as a daughter, and if that means anything at all it means that she will get the bulk of whatever he has to leave. And that means—oh, Georgina, don’t you see—it means that I can ask you to marry me.”

There was an applewood log on the fire. It sent out a very sweet smell. About half of it had burned to a grey ash, but it had not fallen away. Little glowing sparks ran to and fro in the ash under the draught from the chimney.

Georgina looked down at the sparks. Her colour had risen a little. She said in a low voice,

“I don’t know that I care very much about a conditional offer of marriage, Anthony.”

“What do you mean? I couldn’t ask you if you were going to have all that money.”

“That would depend upon whether you thought more of the money than you do of me.”

She looked up at him for a moment. He had time to see that her eyes were bright with anger, and then she was watching the fire again.

“Georgina!”

“What else? If the money didn’t matter more to you than I do, you wouldn’t let it come between us. I can’t see that it’s any better that way than it would be if you asked me just because I had got the money. In either case you would be letting the money matter more than I do. I won’t marry anyone who does that.”

He took her hand and held it to his cheek.

“You don’t really think I care about the money!”

“You do if you let it come between us.”

“But if you haven’t got it—darling, don’t you see that it makes everything quite easy? I mean, he has probably left you something, but from what you told me yesterday it doesn’t sound as if it would be very much.”

She turned a quiet look upon him.

“I’m wondering just how much your pride would let you take. It might be as well to think it out. Suppose he had left me five hundred a year—”

He broke into angry laughter.

“What are you trying to say?”

“It’s a case of what you would say.”

“Do you know that he has left you that?”

“No, I don’t. I just wondered where you would feel you had to draw the line. And you haven’t answered me. Could you or couldn’t you bear to marry someone with five hundred a year?”

Before she had any idea of what he would do he had taken her by the shoulders.

“If you think I’m going to be haggled with—”

“Anthony!”

“You don’t really think I care about the damned money!”

Georgina looked at him.

“We could always give some of it away, you know. Supposing—just supposing it was more than you felt you could bear — No, Anthony, you are not to kiss me! Not until I say you can. If you won’t be haggled with, I won’t either. I don’t know what Uncle Jonathan has left me, and I don’t want to know. I want to get this settled between us first, and it’s not going to be settled on any question of money. If I have anything, it will be ours. If I haven’t got anything, what you have got will be ours. If I’ve got more than you are going to feel happy about, we can get rid of it. We can talk it over and decide how much of it you can bear to keep. Now don’t you think we might stop going on about the money?” Her voice faltered on the last words.

He put his arms round her and they kissed. It was some time before she said, “You mustn’t!”

“Why mustn’t I?”

“Because—because—oh, I oughtn’t to have let you! I was just thinking of getting the money out of the way.”

“What else is there?”

“Something that matters more than that.”

“Jonathan? I know, darling. But I think he would have been pleased.”

“Yes, he would have been pleased. He liked you very much, but—but—”

“There aren’t any buts.”

Now that it came to the point, it was too difficult to say. She leaned against his arm and felt the comfort of it. Why couldn’t they just stay like this, knowing that they loved each other and neither thinking nor caring about the future? All through the world’s history lovers have wished that it would stand still for them, but it still goes on. The enchanted moment flies, no matter how much they cry to it, “Verweile doch, du bist so schön!” Georgina said in a strained voice,

“It’s no use, Anthony. Frank Abbott thinks I did it.”

MIRRIE HAD BEEN at Field End for six weeks, but she had had eighteen years of drab poverty before that. It hadn’t been want. There was a decent roof over her head, and there was enough to eat. The charity clothes had often been of quite good quality. If they required mending they were mended very neatly indeed, at first by Aunt Grace, and afterwards by Mirrie herself under Aunt Grace’s eye. But it was all very penny-plain. There were no extras, there were no treats, there was no fun. The child who craved for colour and enjoyment began to snatch at them wherever and however they might be come by. She learned to start with, in a perfectly innocent and accidental manner, that a child who burst into tears in a bus and sobbed out her dismay at having had her fare stolen was practically never made to get out and walk. There was always some kind person who would press the pennies into a trembling hand. She really had lost her fare the first time, but the incident had shown her how to save the fares provided by Aunt Grace and use them for cinema tickets. Her remark to Johnny that she had hardly ever seen a film fell a good deal short of the truth, but of course she couldn’t tell him about the bus fares. There were other ways of coming by a sixpence or a few coppers here and there. There was the broken milk-bottle trick. She had picked it out of a dust-bin, lurked near a likely dairy, and let one fall on the pavement as a well dressed woman came out of the shop. Confronted with a weeping and most attractive child who said she was afraid to go home because she would be beaten, Mrs. Jones readily produced a shilling and told the child to keep the change. Of course the time spent on visits to the cinema had to be accounted for. There was a child called Beryl Burton of whose parents Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace were pleased to approve. Mirrie could always say that she had gone home with Beryl. It said much for her ingenuity that she was only found out once, and even then she managed to lie her way out of it—there had been a sudden change of plan and she had gone with Hilda Lambton instead.

Hilda was one of the people she didn’t want to think about now. Not that she had anything against her, but because of her being all mixed up with Sid Turner. She used to tell Aunt Grace that she was going to a museum or a picture gallery with Hilda, and they used to meet Sid and his friend Bert Holloway and go off to the pictures. Aunt Grace didn’t mind how much you went to museums, because of their being free, and Uncle Albert said they were educational. There was a most frightful row when they found out about meeting Sid. Uncle Albert did nothing but quote texts out of the Bible for days and days, and Aunt Grace never stopped scolding, and got Mirrie that frightful job at the Home, where the only outings were to church on Sundays and straight on to Uncle Albert and Aunt Grace for dinner and tea, after which Uncle Albert saw her back to the Home. No more pictures, no more Hilda, no more Sid. It just didn’t bear thinking of, so she didn’t bother to think about it.

Six weeks is not enough to destroy the influence of this kind of background. It remained as a compelling reason for escape. When she came to Field End on a visit it was with the knowledge that here, if she could take it, was her chance. She must not only please Uncle Jonathan, she must please everyone, so that they would like her, and want her to stay. If she could stay a good long time she might get off with someone and never have to go back to the Home. At first her ambitions went no farther than this. And then Jonathan Field had begun to get fond of her. It didn’t happen all at once. She began to feel a warmth and an indulgence. She didn’t have to try any more. She pleased without effort and just because he found her pleasing. The visit stopped being a visit and Field End began to be her home. By the time Jonathan said that he regarded her as a daughter and told her he was going to change his will she had travelled a long way. It had not been altogether smooth going. There had been rough places and rather frightening places, and there had been difficult turns, but now it was all over. She had cried with the abandonment of a child, but even whilst the tears ran down she was conscious of something to which she could not have given a name. Uncle Jonathan had been so kind, and she was crying because he was dead. Uncle Jonathan had said he was going to make a new will and treat her as his daughter, and he had really made that will. He had gone up to town, and he had come down again and told her that the will was made. She would never have to go back to Aunt Grace and Uncle Albert again. She would never have to get up at six o’clock and vacuum the Orphanage floors. She would never have to wear anybody else’s clothes, not even Georgina’s. Richards’, which was the best shop in Lenton, had lovely clothes. There was a grey coat and skirt in the window which was marked twenty-five guineas. She could buy it tomorrow if she wanted to. Or if not tomorrow, just as soon as it was given out about Uncle Jonathan’s will.

Johnny took her out into the country. They went up over the common and through the woods which lay beyond it. The sky was a pale, cold blue with dark clouds moving down from the north. The leafless trees made a lovely tracery against the sky. But Mirrie had no eyes for anything like that. She liked the light of big electric lamps and the Glorious Technicolour of the films. She did like the feeling of the air on her face. Her eyes were hot and sore from having cried so much. It was nice to have the windows down.

They didn’t talk at first, but when they came out upon another common he drew off on to the grass verge and stopped the car. There was rough ground that sloped away from them on every side, with here and there a clump of birch. Last year’s bracken made a brown carpet. There was blackberry, and gorse, and faded heather. The dark clouds were coming up behind them. Soon they would cover the sky. Johnny turned to her and said,

“Feeling better?”

“Oh, yes. You are kind—everyone is very kind.”

He thought she looked like a kitten that has been out in the rain. You wanted to comfort the little soft thing, to warm it, dry it, give it a saucer of milk—cream if you could lay your hands on it. Certainly Mirrie would prefer cream. Astonishing how quickly a creature accustomed to nothing but skim could become cream-conscious. He had watched this happening with Mirrie, and to his own surprise it had not only amused but touched him. He had it in his mind that looking after her and seeing to it that she got her cream might be an agreeable as well as a highly remunerative job. If she was going to be landed with most of Jonathan’s money she was certainly going to need someone to look after her— and it. He said,

“Don’t cry any more, will you?”

Mirrie’s eyes brimmed over.

“I’ll try—”

“That’s a good girl!”

She said, “He was so—good to me.” Her voice caught, and broke the sentence in two.

Johnny said, “He was very fond of you.”

“Yes—he said he was. He said he felt as if I was his daughter. Johnny—you know he said he was altering his will and he told me he had done it—but you don’t think, do you, that he hasn’t left anything to Georgina?”

Johnny whistled.

“What makes you think of that?”

Her voice went small and tight.

“He was angry with her. I don’t quite know why, but I could see that he was. I wouldn’t like her to be left right out.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t do that. She’s his own niece, and she’s been with him ever since she was three years old.”

“Yes, I know. Johnny—if I’ve got a lot of money—what am I going to do?”

“What would you like to do?”

She looked at him in a considering manner.

“I don’t know. I should like to go on being at Field End. Could I do that?”

“I expect so, if you wanted to. It would depend on who the house was left to.”

“He said he wanted it to be my home.”

“Then it would depend on whether he had left you enough money to keep it up.”

“He said he wanted everyone to know that he thought about me like a daughter.”

If words meant anything at all, that meant that at the worst she shared with Georgina. It might mean a good deal more.

She was gazing at him.

“Do you think I could have a car?”

Her tone was so solemn that he almost burst out laughing.

“Darling, I don’t see why not.”

She continued to gaze.

“I should have to learn to drive.”

“I’ll teach you myself.”

“Oh, Johnny, you are good!”

Johnny Fabian’s conscience had been brought up to know its place. Like an eighteenth-century child it spoke when it was spoken to, but not otherwise. But when Mirrie’s soft little voice told him how good he was it broke all rules and gave him a decided twinge. He said in a hurry,

“People will always be good to you, darling.”

“Will they?”

She put out her hands to him and he took them. She was wearing loose warm gloves. They were too large and too loose, because they had been Georgina’s. He pulled them off and lifted the little cold hands to his face, kissing first one palm and then the other.

“Oh, Johnny—”

He said, “How could anyone help being fond of you? I oughtn’t to be, but I am.”

“Why oughtn’t you?”

“You’re going to have a lot of money, darling.”

“Does that matter?”

“It wouldn’t if I had a lot too, but I haven’t.”

“Haven’t you got any?”

He gave a rueful laugh.

“A little from an aunt and what I make by honest toil.”

“You buy cars and sell them again?”

“I buy them as cheap as I can and sell them as dear as I can —that’s the idea. If Jonathan has left me anything, I could put the lot into some decent going concern and make quite a good thing of it. I do know about cars.”

“This one isn’t very pretty.”

“Darling, it isn’t a car—it’s a has been. But I do get it to go, which is more than most people would.”

She said with the air of a child dispensing birthday cake,

“If I really have a lot of money I’ll give you some.”

Johnny’s conscience gave him another twinge. He kissed her fingers and said in a laughing voice,

“It can’t be done, darling. At least not just like that.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Well, for one thing you’ll have a guardian till you’re twenty-one, and whoever he is he wouldn’t let you. And even if he did, there’s a silly prejudice against men who take money from girls. You wouldn’t like everyone to cut me, would you? And think how bad it would be for business.”

He felt her hands flutter in his.

“Johnny, you said it couldn’t be done that way. Is there a way it could be done?”

“Well—”

She pulled her hands away and clapped them together.

“What is it—what is it?”

He had a laughing, teasing look.

“Quite impracticable, darling, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me what it is! Tell me at once!”

He said, “Well, I suppose you could marry me.”

Her look changed. Something came into it which was too fleeting for him to be sure of what it might be. She drew in a quick breath and said,

“Could I?”

“Well, people do get married. You will some day. I’m not really suggesting that you should marry me.”

Another of those quick breaths, and then,

“Why aren’t you?”

“Darling, you’re too young.”

The colour rushed into her face.

“Heaps of girls marry when they are eighteen!”

He went on smiling.

“I’m too poor.”

“But if I don’t mind about your being poor?”

He laughed.

“If I was one of those high-minded noble characters, I should say, ‘How can I, darling? People might say I was marrying you for your money’!”

“I don’t call that noble, I call it silly.”

“As a matter of fact so do I.”

“Is that why Anthony doesn’t ask Georgina?”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“He’s in love with her, isn’t he?”

Johnny laughed.

“You had better ask him!”

Mirrie looked up through her eyelashes.

“I’ve seen him look at her. I would like to have somebody look at me like that. He doesn’t even seem to know I’m there.”

“No—I’ve noticed that myself. Cheer up, there are lots of good fish in the sea.”

“Are there?” Her voice was small and sad.

Johnny said, “What about me, darling?”

They were late for tea. Mirrie came in with rosy cheeks and shining eyes. She shook hands with Miss Silver, who regarded her indulgently, and slipped into a place beside her. Mrs. Fabian, who was pouring out the tea, announced that it was stewed, and that she considered stewed tea to be most unwholesome.

“My dear father was so very strict about the way that it was made. He always insisted on double the usual amount, two spoonfuls for each person and two for the pot, and it was never allowed to stand for more than just one minute by his watch. Very extravagant we should consider it now, but in his own house when he said a thing it had to be done. I can never remember my mother disputing his wishes in any direction. I can’t think what he would have said about the tea ration.”

Johnny laughed.

“That, darling, we shall never know, and perhaps just as well. I’ll have another half cup of tannin.”