The Listening Eye (11 page)

“Oh!” And then, “You oughtn’t to say a thing like that—it’s not right!”

“The letters and the photographs—where are they? Did you bring them with you?”

She remembered then. There was the packet of letters and there was an envelope, stuck down. She didn’t know what was in it because she hadn’t opened it. It was marked “Private. Keep safe. M.H.” and she had put it in her bag just in case. And because Arthur had marked it “Keep safe” she had put it in the inside pocket, which had really been made to take a piece of looking-glass, only the glass had been broken years ago. The envelope was there now. If it had Moira’s letters in it and the photographs which she didn’t want anyone to see, of course she would give them to her. But before she did that she must open the envelope and make sure of what was in it, because Arthur had marked it “Private, keep safe.” She had the bag in her two hands, her fingers clenched hard. She moved back now until she came to a table that had books on it and coloured primroses in a glass bowl. She set down the bag on the top of the books and opened it and got out the envelope. She didn’t like opening it, because it was marked private, but she had to be sure of what was in it. Her fingers fumbled with the flap of the envelope. It was gummed down very securely.

When Moira reached for it, she moved back quickly and put the table between them. Something in her haste must have strengthened her fingers, because the envelope tore.

A snapshot dropped out. It went fluttering down, to lie upon the carpet and be seen for what it was. She saw it quite clearly, and so did Moira Herne. The blood came up into Minnie’s face and then went ebbing away until it was all quite gone.

Moira picked up the snapshot and held out her hand. Minnie Jones put the envelope into it and shut the bag. She didn’t say anything, and Moira didn’t say anything. There was a little fire burning on the hearth. Moira went over and knelt there, burning the shapshots, burning the envelope and everything in it, burning the letters.

Minnie Jones went out of the room, and across the hall, and out of the front door. She began to walk down the drive.

THE drive went on for a little way before it turned and was out of sight of the house. All the time she was crossing the gravel sweep and walking down the open stretch of the drive Minnie Jones felt as if the house was watching her. In her own mind and in her thoughts she had been beaten and stripped and turned away. If it had happened to her body it would not have hurt her more. When she got round the corner of the drive and there were trees between her and all those staring windows it was a little better. There was some shelter, some protection, but this very fact brought with it the fuller realization of what had happened. She shrank from it, but she could not shut it out. She had seen the photograph, and she couldn’t shut it out. She had gone to take comfort to the girl whom Arthur loved and who must be breaking her heart for him, and her comfort wasn’t needed, because it wasn’t love that had been between them, it was wickedness. This girl had led Arthur into wickedness. She had been married, she wasn’t just an ignorant girl. She would know what she was doing, and she had led Arthur astray. The pain and sorrow and shame of it came down on her like a black cloud, so that she no longer knew where she was going. It was not until her feet were stumbling on rougher ground that a sense of her surroundings came back to her and she found that she had left the drive and wandered in amongst the trees and shrubs which bordered it.

She was standing with a hand stretched out before her and resting upon the bough of a small tree. It had its first leaves about it like a green cloud. She stood there holding on to it and not knowing what to do next, because her legs were shaking and there was a weakness in them and in her whole body. If she could sit down and rest for a little, perhaps some of her strength would come back and she would be able to walk down Cranberry Lane and get on to the Ledlington bus. She mustn’t miss it— oh, no, she mustn’t miss it—or her train. Florrie would be dreadfully worried if she missed her train. Florrie hadn’t wanted her to come.

At this point her thinking became very much confused. The bough seemed to be slipping out of her hand—everything seemed to be slipping. She had a dim sense that she was falling. And then that was gone too— everything was gone.

Miss Silver had walked down to the village to post a letter to her niece Ethel Burkett. Having received the news that Ethel’s sister Gladys whose irresponsible conduct had been giving her family a good deal of anxiety had now returned to her home and husband, she had hastened to relieve Ethel’s mind.

“Andrew Robinson,” she wrote, “is a man for whom I feel a great deal of respect. He does not pretend that Gladys’s conduct has not gravely displeased him, but he is prepared to overlook it and say no more about the matter. He believes her friend Mrs. Farmer to be a thoroughly bad influence, and is glad to be able to tell me that she will shortly be leaving Blackheath on a visit to her married daughter in South Africa. I can only hope that she too will have learned a lesson, and that her mischief-making proclivities will not be employed to impair the harmony of her daughter’s home.”

The letter posted, and the evening being clear and still, Miss Silver diverged from the drive and contemplated with pleasure the green park land with which Merefields was surrounded. There were many fine clumps of trees coming into leaf, the ground undulated in a manner very agreeable to the eye, and a stretch of ornamental water brightened the scene.

Amid these surroundings she strolled for a time, her thoughts dwelling with gratitude and relief upon the outcome of what had threatened to become a painful family problem. Returning through the shrubbery in the direction of the drive, she was following a narrow path set on either side with trees and bushes in their spring greenery, when her eye was attracted by something not at all in keeping with this rural beauty. It was, in fact, something of an extremely disquieting nature. What she saw was a woman’s hand in a black thread glove and a woman’s arm in a black cloth sleeve. The hand and arm lay upon the ground, and they lay very still. There was no more than that to be seen, because there was a froth of white bird cherry in the way. It was not in Miss Silver to hesitate before what might prove to be an unpleasant situation. She stepped off the path, pushed aside a blossoming bough, and saw Minnie Jones lying where she had fallen on the damp earth.

She lay on her side, that one hand and arm stretched out as if when it was too late she had groped for something to break her fall. Her rather long black skirt was quite neatly disposed. Her shabby black hat had tilted and almost covered her face. She lay dreadfully still. Miss Silver went down on her knees, reached for the hand, and found it lax and warm. The warmth came through the black thread glove. She stripped it off and felt for the pulse in the wrist. She felt for it, but at first she could not find it. She had to shift her grasp more than once before she could feel the faint, slow beat. It was very faint indeed. Miss Silver took off the hat, took off her own scarf and laid it under the head, and considered what she had better do next. The woman was not young. The now exposed features were drawn and colourless. It was evident that assistance must be sought, but in order to summon it she must leave the poor thing alone, and this she really did not like to do.

She had just made up her mind that to hurry to the house was the only possible course for her to follow, when the hand which she was holding stirred faintly and a pair of blue eyes blinked up at her from the pale face. It was obvious that at first they did not see her. They had the look with which a very young infant gazes at what it cannot understand. They shut, and opened again, and this time they saw. The hand which lay in hers closed and clung. Miss Silver said in her kindest voice,

“You will be all right now.”

The eyes shut again. A few moments passed before they opened. Minnie Jones said,

“I fell—”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

The reply came in a faint wondering tone.

“I—don’t—think so—” Then after a pause, “It was—a long way. I was—so tired—”

It was some time before Miss Silver felt it prudent to ask a question.

“Were you on your way to the house?”

The head was feebly shaken.

“No—I was coming away—” The eyes filled with tears. “I can’t go back there—I can’t—”

Miss Silver said very gently indeed, “Why can you not go back?”

When Minnie Jones began to think about it afterwards she was both surprised and shocked. That she should tell a stranger about coming to see Moira Herne and being treated in the way in which she had been treated was a thing that she would never be able to understand. But at the time it seemed the most natural thing in the world. She had come from unkindness, and she had met with kindness. She had been cold, and lost, and dreadfully alone. Her very heart had been cold. The kindness warmed her, and she wasn’t alone any more. She said,

“I came to see Arthur’s girl. I’m his aunt—Minnie Jones. He told me about her. He said they were going to be married, only her father hadn’t given his consent. She has been married before. But it was the money, you see—there was such a lot of money. Young people oughtn’t to think so much about money, but they do. Arthur said they would have to have her father’s consent. And he left her letters with me, to keep them safe because he hadn’t anywhere to lock them up, and it wouldn’t do for anyone to see them.” She struggled to raise herself a little and to feel for her handkerchief. When Miss Silver had found it for her she went on. “Arthur talked about her a lot. He was very proud of her being fond of him, and he said her father would come round. I thought she would be at the funeral, but she wasn’t. Mr. Bellingdon came, but not Moira. And I thought it would be because she was too upset, so I came down this afternoon to see her and to bring her the letters. I go out sewing in the mornings, so I couldn’t get away by an earlier train. My friend didn’t want me to come, but I thought ‘She’s Arthur’s girl, and we can be sorry together and comfort each other’.” The tears ran down her face, and she said, “I didn’t know what she was like.”

“You saw her?”

“Yes, I saw her. I oughtn’t to have come. She thought I wanted money for the letters, and she talked about the police. She didn’t love Arthur. She only thought about getting her letters back, and the photographs.

“There were photographs?”

Minnie closed her eyes as if it would help her to shut out what she had seen. She said, “Yes,” in a whispering voice. And then, “They were in a separate envelope—stuck down. Arthur had written ‘Private’ on it, and ‘Keep Safely’. I wasn’t going to look at anything, but I thought I ought to open the envelope—I wish I hadn’t. One of the photographs fell out on to the floor between us—we couldn’t help seeing it. All I wanted to do after that was to get away. She was wicked, and she had made Arthur wicked too.”

Miss Silver sat there. She would have to return to the house, but it did not seem possible to take this poor thing back there. It was after six o’clock. She would have to get Annabel Scott to help her. If Minnie Jones was well enough to travel, Annabel could drive her to Ledlington and see her on to a train, but she could not believe that it would be right for her to travel alone. She said, “Are you far from your home?” and was relieved to learn that Miss Jones resided in one of the nearer London suburbs. She said tentatively,

“You spoke of a friend—”

Minnie was sitting up now. She responded with more strength in her voice.

“Oh, yes—Mrs. Williams—she lives with me. And she will be ever so worried if I miss my train. Oh dear, I shall never catch it! It was the six-twenty.”

Miss Silver looked at her watch.

“I am afraid it has gone, but there will be another in a little under an hour. That will give you time to have some refreshment, and if there is any way of letting your friend know, perhaps she could meet you at the other end.”

A little colour came back into Minnie’s face.

“Oh, that would be nice!”

“Are you on the telephone?”

Minnie shook her head.

“Oh, no. But Mr. Pegler would take a message. He’s Florrie’s brother-in-law and ever so kind.”

Miss Silver never forgot a name. This was an uncommon one, and she had heard it before. She repeated it with a question in her voice.

“Mr. Pegler?”

Minnie nodded.

“He lives just round the corner. The people in the house are relations. It’s a grocery business, so they have the telephone, and if they’re out he answers it. And Saturday evenings they go to the pictures, and Mr. Pegler comes round to Florrie and me, only tonight he said he thought he’d stay at home because of me coming back tired and wanting to rest. He’s ever so considerate.”

A grocery business—the Masters gallery—there might be a link between them, or there might not. Pegler was certainly an uncommon name. Miss Silver remarked upon this fact.

“That is a name one does not often hear. I believe I have only once come across it before. A friend mentioned it to me then in connection with a picture gallery.”

Minnie brightened.

“The Masters gallery. That would be our Mr. Pegler—he’s worked for them for years.”

Miss Silver proceeded with caution.

“My friend was a deaf lady—a Miss Paine. She had learned to do lip-reading, and she told me Mr. Pegler was very much interested, as he had a little grand-daughter who was deaf.”

Minnie had begun to look a great deal more like herself. She said in quite an animated voice,

“Oh, yes—little Doris. She’s a sweet little thing. Miss Paine told him all about how to get her taught, and he was ever so grateful. You know, she was run over the other day, poor thing. Mr. Pegler was quite upset about it, and about having the police in at the gallery asking him about the lip-reading. Seems a funny sort of thing for them to want to know about, and of course he couldn’t tell them anything. He couldn’t make it out at all, he said. Miss Paine came in to see the pictures on account of her portrait being there, and when she’d gone away there was a gentleman came from the other end of the gallery, and he got asking Mr. Pegler all sorts of questions about Miss Paine and her portrait. And when Mr. Pegler told him about how deaf she was but that no one would know it on account of her doing this lip-reading, well, he said you would hardly credit how interested the gentleman was. And what was so funny was that the police were just as interested as the gentleman. It was after poor Miss Paine had had the accident, and they wanted to know about the lip-reading, and about the gentleman that was interested in it. But of course Mr. Pegler couldn’t tell them anything more about that—” She paused, and added, “Not then.”

All the time that she had been speaking the scene in the morning-room at Merefields had been getting fainter in her mind, the way a dream gets fainter when you wake up and get out of bed and wash, and dress, and do your hair. Miss Silver, observing this, was beginning to feel a good deal happier about her travelling alone. She felt able to give more of her attention to the fact that Mr. Pegler’s name had cropped up in rather a surprising manner, and less to the question of whether Miss Jones was likely to be overtaken by a second attack of faintness. She was still a little divided in her mind when Minnie concluded with the words “Not then.” If they meant anything at all, they meant that although Mr. Pegler had found himself unable to give the police any information about the gentleman in the gallery, he had subsequently become possessed of some such information. It seemed imperative to discover what this might be. Whatever thoughts she may have had about Miss Jones’s train and the advisability of allowing her to continue to sit upon the ground, which at this time of year could hardly fail to be damp, were dismissed. She repeated Minnie’s last words with a strong note of enquiry.

“Not then, Miss Jones? Do you mean—”

Minnie Jones nodded.

“I don’t suppose I should have known anything about it, only I was with him. I had been round to the shop for some potatoes— we had run right out—and Mr. Pegler walked back with me. He’s always so kind like that. Well, just as we came to the corner on the High Street, there was a man standing—right under the street-lamp. Two men there were really, waiting to go across the road and talking to each other. We didn’t have to cross, and after we’d gone by Mr. Pegler said, ‘See that gentleman, Min? That’s the one I told you about that was looking at that Miss Paine’s portrait and was so interested when I told him about her lip-reading. The police wanted to know about him, though I’m sure I don’t know why—you remember?’ So I said I did, and he said, ‘Funny seeing him again.’ And it was, wasn’t it?”