The Tiger in the Well (17 page)

"You mean you knew about this before.^ Well, why in heaven's name didn't you tell me.'"'

"You were not here."

"But my money —" Sally swept her hand across her face and found herself helplessly shaking her head.

"Legally, his money. I must remind you of that. The bank has done nothing wrong."

"You let that man—that stranger—^walk out with all my money .f*"

The shock was too much for anger. She sat there breathless and dazed.

"Hardly a stranger, I think," he said. "It is a well-established principle of law that the husband—"

"How long has he been preparing this.^"

"Naturally the bank would not part with a client's money on the spur of the moment. We have had notice of this for some time. It required only the production of the necessary papers for the formalities to be completed, and with yesterday's court order—"

Sally stood up. In the middle of her shock, she had remembered the cashier and the doorman. Was he giving the man a message.'* Parrish's office was only a street or two away; he might be hurrying there at this very minute. She gathered up Harriet and held her close.

"You've behaved abominably," she said to the manager.

"I can't find the words or I'd tell you how disgusting you are. You allow that man—that thief—to steal all my money; you hand it over the counter to him, and you don't even warn me about it. You squalid little cheat, you coward . . ."

His pinched face looked as mean as a rat's. His cheeks gleamed sweatily, but his smile was as bland as ever. She turned swiftly and walked out. The cashier was standing in the entrance to the bank as if watching for someone; the doorman had gone. She'd been right. As she marched toward the door, the cashier made a half-hearted movement as if to stop her going out, and she stood still.

"You lay a finger on me," she said clearly, "and you'll regret it as long as you live. Now get out of my way at once."

People turned; Sally was conscious of astonished faces, craning heads. She took a step toward the cashier, and he fell back. She opened the door and went out, and a minute later she was two hundred yards away in the crowded anonymity of the Strand.

And Harriet was tugging at her hand. She wanted to whisper something. Sally bent down and listened, but she couldn't hear what the child was saying. She picked her up, but there was still a roaring in her ears; she just kissed her swiftly and walked on. Harriet fell silent. Normally Sally chatted and Harriet burbled, and though it wasn't really a conversation, they were conversing all the same. Sally, tight-lipped and tense, wasn't talking this morning, so Harriet wasn't either.

It wasn't ten o'clock yet, she saw from the clock over a tobacconist's shop. Perhaps she should sit down, have a cup of coffee, talk to Harriet, calm herself a little.

That was a good idea. There was a tea shop, just over the road. Within five minutes they were sitting at a corner table, and Harriet was clutching a large glass of milk while Sally watched the waitress pour some steaming coffee from a silver

jug.

"Could you bring me a newspaper.'"' she said. "Certainly, ma'am," said the girl.

Ma'am again. She'd have to get used to it. She was Mrs. . . . oh, Mrs. Jones. And she was exhausted already, and it was only ten o'clock. And all that money . . . she was trembling. What could she do.^ Well, there was enough left in her purse to find another lodging house and last for a couple of weeks. And that would give her time to write to Margaret and arrange to sell some shares.

"Mama.?"

"Yes, dear.?"

"I want Lamb."

"Yes, I know. As soon as we're in our new house we'll write for him, remember?"

"What new house.?"

"Well, we didn't like the house we lived in last night, so we're going—thank you," she said to the waitress bringing the paper. "We're going to look for another one. A nice one."

"And Sarah-Jane," said Harriet firmly.

"Well . . . not at first. But soon. Soon, I promise. We've got to find a nice house. And we will. But Mama's got to look in the paper to see where to go."

"Why.?"

"Because . . . because that's where you have to look. In advertisements. Now hush while Mama looks."

Harriet subsided, though she was far from satisfied. She pulled off her gloves and ran her fingernail along the raised pattern in the tablecloth. The smells here were nice. She couldn't remember not liking the house they'd lived in last night. She couldn't remember much of it at all, though she remembered her own proper bedroom with the rocking horse and Bruin's lair that Uncle Webster had made, and the doll-house. She suddenly wanted the dollhouse very much.

Then Mama made a coughing sound, like the cough she made when she got a crumb in her throat. And her eyes were big and wet, and her cheeks were red. Harriet watched, interested.

The story Sally had seen read:

MISSING FLIGHT OF WIFE AFTER COURT'S JUDGMENT

Following a decision in the High Court yesterday, a wife and child have vanished for the second time.

Mr. Arthur Parrish, a commission agent, of 24, Telegraph Road, Clapham, brought the action against his wife, suing for custody of their child. Mrs. Parrish had left their home some months before.

Custody was granted yesterday by Mr. Justice Hawke. Almost at once, however, it was found that Mrs. Parrish and her daughter Harriet, age 2, had flown from the address where she was known to be staying. Their whereabouts are still unknown.

Mrs. Parrish is 24 years old, with fair hair and brown eyes. She may be using the name of Lockhart, which is the name she assumed when she deserted the matrimonial home on the previous occasion.

Police have instituted a search and have taken out a warrant for her arrest on a charge of abduction.

Sally thrust away the paper and looked around blindly with eyes that she had to mop. How many people had seen this.? And what was wrong with the laws of England, that they let a woman be hunted for kidnapping her own child.?

Fiercely she reached out to Harriet and lifted her onto her lap, hugging her. Harriet wriggled around to look up into her face.

"Mama.?"

"What is it, little one.?"

"Want a bun. Effant bun."

"Oh—" Sally found herself laughing and mopped her eyes again. "An elephant bun. Like the ones we gave the elephant in the zoo, yes.? Well, what have you got to say.?"

"Please."

"That's better."

Sally called the waitress and asked for a bun and some more coffee. Thank heaven for tea shops, she thought. If you had a few pennies you could stay there as long as you liked, and they brought you food and drink and newspapers.

She looked out at the crowds passing. It wasn't possible that anyone would recognize her, was it.? Perhaps they should go abroad after all. Perhaps she should dye her hair.

When Harriet had finished, Sally paid the bill and gathered the bags once more. Harriet came placidly, taking it all for granted.

She thinks I know what Vm doing, Sally thought.

Miraculously, an empty cab appeared as soon as they were outside. She hailed it and asked the driver to take them to Bloomsbury. Within a minute they were bowling along the southern side of Trafalgar Square, and Harriet was clinging to Sally's hand and watching the horse's gleaming back, glossy with dampness, and the reins leading down from the driver's seat above and behind them, shaking to the right as they turned out of Cockspur Street and up into the Haymarket.

Why Bloomsbury, Sally couldn't have said, except that she'd found safety there once before, in the photographer's shop. Harriet had been conceived there on the night Fred died. Bloomsbury was safe, somehow. She wondered that she hadn't thought of it before.

She paid off the driver in Russell Square, and she and Harriet stood there like newly disembarked passengers.

"Which way shall we go.?" she said.

"Go home," said Harriet.

"We're going to find a house," Sally said. "That'll be our home. Where shall we look first.? This way.? Across there.? Down that street.? You choose."

Harriet considered. The square was very big. Sally picked her up so that she could see more, and she pointed to a street on the east side.

"All right," said Sally. "We'll look down there. Be a good girl and keep close while we cross the road."

The bags were getting heavier. Harriet trotted obediently

beside her as they moved down the street she'd chosen: tall brick houses, classically simple, but all rich-looking. There was nothing for them there.

Sally turned down a narrower street, and then into a little court closed off from traffic by a gate. It was called Wellcome Passage.

"This looks nice, Hatrie-face," she said. "Let's knock on a door. Which one shall we knock on.^"'

Harriet pointed. Sally knocked. A young maid-of-all-work answered, peering around the door at both of them as Sally said, "I'm looking for lodgings. Do you know if anyone in this court keeps rooms to let.'"'

"Mrs. Parker at number five, ma'am," said the maid. "I dunno if she's got any spare rooms, mind. Just over there."

Number 5 was a shabby-looking place, tall and narrow like all the other houses thereabouts, with a battered-looking front door and a knocker that hadn't been polished for years. But it was smooth with use, so the house wasn't unvisited, and the window sills were crowded with flowers.

Another maid, older this time, less tidy, less curious, came to the door.

"Yes'm, there's a room free, 'm; I'll get Mrs. Parker, 'm. Come in out the damp."

The narrow hall was crowded with an umbrella stand and a bicycle, and the walls were crowded with pictures—bad watercolors, clumsily framed. The house smelled of cabbage.

After a few minutes the lady of the house, a little, round, bustling woman with bright eyes, came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on an apron.

"Good morning," said Sally. "I believe you have a room to let.'* I'm looking for lodgings."

"Yes . . . yes," said Mrs, Parker dramatically, standing back and gazing at Sally as if measuring her for a costume. "Oh, yes." Her voice was deep and dramatic, with a touch of cockney. "We have met before."

"Have we.? I don't think—"

"On the plane of souls. As an adept, I recognize the signs. You are young in the spirit, my dear, so you probably wouldn't What name are you going by in this incarnation.'"'

That question was uncomfortably close to the mark. Sally blinked and then remembered. "Oh—Mrs. Jones. And this is my daughter Harriet."

Harriet was poking at the bicycle pedal. Sally picked her up in case she made it fall over. Mrs. Parker gazed intensely at Harriet, who stared back stolidly.

"She has a wise soul," said Mrs. Parker. "And you—^you have a young soul. You are troubled, my dear. You have secrets. Come this way. ..."

She led the way up two flights of stairs. The place was unevenly clean, with varying patches where it smelled intensely of furniture polish or cigar smoke. On the second landing Mrs. Parker unlocked a green-painted door.

"The Green Room," she said. "The colors we see in the physical world are emanations from the infinite, you know. Their vibrations act on the soul. For you, Mrs. Jones, I should really prescribe blue, only a commercial gentleman's got the Blue Room for six months. You won't come to no harm in green, though."

The room was shabby but comfortable. There were more dire paintings on the wall; they looked like imaginary landscapes, with lots of green in them.

"Er, how much— V

"A guinea a week," said Mrs. Parker. "With meals, twenty-seven shillings and sixpence. Coals and gas extra, washing sent out."

"There's only one thing. My daughter"—she put Harriet, who was starting to wriggle, down on a chair and went on quietly—"well, she sometimes—"

"In here," said Mrs. Parker, opening the bedroom door and showing Sally through. "Bed-wetting.'*" she went on. "One of the minor inconveniences of the physical world. Don't you worry about that, my dear. We'll slip this India rubber sheet over the mattress. Admiring the paintings.^ My son Rodney

does 'em. He guides my hand, that is to say, him being in the spirit world. Our meals here, Mrs. Jones, are strictly vegetarian—^you won't mind that I'm sure—and they're taken in the dining room. How long was it you wanted the room for.'"'

"Oh, a week. To start with. I've just come to London, you see. We shall be looking for a more permanent place. ..."

"Widowed.'*" said Mrs. Parker cheerfully.

"Harriet's father died before she was born."

"He sees her now, my dear, he sees her now. Luncheon in twenty minutes. Lizzie will make up the fires and the beds. I'll trouble you for a week's rent in advance."

Sally paid for the week's rent and meals, and for coal and for the gas she'd be using in the lights; and discovered that as well as all the spiritual privileges on hand, she and Harriet would have exclusive use of the bathroom and lavatory next-door, there being no one else on this floor.

"I do believe in the desirability of hygiene in all kinds of personal affairs," said Mrs. Parker at the top of the stairs, nodding briskly to a lanky youth emerging from a door at the foot of them.

"Oh, so do I," said Sally.

When the lady had gone, Sally went back into the bedroom and took off her hat and gloves. Harriet was playing with the wardrobe door, looking at herself in the mirror that backed it. Sally sat down on the larger of the two beds in the tiny room and, overcome by weariness, lay back and closed her eyes.

Only a minute later, it seemed, Harriet was shaking her hand.

"Mama! Mama!" she was saying.

Someone was knocking at the door. Sally struggled up and hastened to open it.

"Mrs. Parker says luncheon is being served," said the maid wearily.

"Thank you," said Sally. "We'll be down directly. Gome on, Hattie, let's wash our hands."

As the maid slumped off downstairs Sally hastily took off Harriet's coat and hat, brushed her hair, took her to the lavatory, washed her hands, and then—remembering—took the rest of her little stock of money from her coat pocket and tucked it into the bosom of her dress. Then they hurried downstairs.