Through The Wall (7 page)

“Is this young man, your accompanist, in love with you?”

“What do you think! He’s crazy about me. That’s what makes it awkward.” She took another letter out of her bag and tossed it over. “Here’s number two.”

In the same scrawled capitals Miss Silver read:

F. BRAND MIGHT PROVE A FIREBRAND IF FRED KNEW ALL. IF YOU WANT THE WEDDING BELLS TO RING YOU HAD BETTER COME TO TERMS. WHAT ABOUT MAY LAST YEAR?

She said, “Dear me!”

Miss Adrian nodded.

“That was only the beginning. A day or two later I was rung up on the telephone. It was from a call-box—you can always tell—and someone said, ‘You’ve had my two letters about F. Brand and F. Mount. If you want those wedding-bells to ring you’ll have to shut my mouth. I want fifty pounds down, and you can buy your wedding-dress. One pound notes, please, and you’ll put them in an envelope and address them to Mr. Friend, 24 Blakeston Road, S.E. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.’ I said, ‘What’s the good of talking to me like that? Once I was fool enough to pay you, what’s going to stop you going right on?’ He said, ‘What indeed! Fred has got a lot of money, hasn’t he? You’re not going to tell me you won’t be able to get some of it out of him once you’re safely married!’”

Miss Silver coughed.

“And what did you say to that?”

“I lost my temper,” said Miss Adrian frankly. “I said, ‘Go to hell!’ and hung up.”

“And then?”

“There was an ‘And then’ all right. Here it is.”

Another of those sheets of writing-paper came out of the bag. The capitals said:

NASTY TEMPER. IF YOU DO THAT AGAIN FRED WILL KNOW ALL. WHAT ABOUT THE MIDDLE OF LAST JUNE?

Helen Adrian stared defiantly across the table.

“That’s as far as we’ve got.”

“When did this come?”

“This morning. That’s when I rang you up.”

Miss Silver continued to knit.

“Miss Adrian, do you know who is blackmailing you?”

“How should I?”

“I cannot tell you that. The address would, of course, be an accommodation address. If you went to the police, they would advise you to send a letter as requested. They would then watch the place and endeavour to trap the blackmailer.”

“I won’t go to the police.”

Miss Silver looked at her shrewdly.

“I think you may have some idea of the blackmailer’s identity. Did you, for instance, recognize the voice which spoke to you on the telephone.”

“No. He was making it all squeaky—like a Punch and Judy show.”

“It was a man?”

“Oh, yes.”

Helen Adrian said,

“Well, there was someone down at Brighton last year—we were in a concert party together a couple of years ago. He was doing a sketch with Althea Paine. He was rotten, but she’d got a crush on him. Women fell for him—he was that sort. Cyril Felton is the name. It was just the sort of thing he might do. Of course—” The words came out in a hesitating manner.

Miss Silver said,

“I think you have someone else in mind, Miss Adrian.”

“Well, I don’t know… Yes, I suppose I’d better tell you. I won’t say I haven’t thought it might be Felix himself—Felix Brand, my accompanist. He’s crazy about me, and jealous of Fred—that’s my fiancé, Mr. Mount—and he might think it was a way of getting it all broken off.”

“Would he ask you for money?”

“I don’t know—that might be just a blind, and to get me deeper in. I shouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t got a revengeful nature, and though there isn’t anything in it of course, there’s Fred. He’s jealous, and all his people are Chapel—you know the sort of thing. The first time he heard me sing I was having a big hit with a number about a child saying its prayers and the father and mother making it up— the God bless Mummy and Daddy touch. ‘God bless our Home’ it was called, and that was the refrain—

‘God bless Mummy and Daddy,

God bless our home.’

Real hot sob-stuff. Felix said it made him sick, but it went over big and Fred fairly lapped it up. I’ll say this for him, he doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet—the next thing I knew, he was asking me down to meet the family. There’s an old maid sister that keeps house for him, and a lot of married brothers. Well, that meant business, so I had to sit up and take notice. They were all very friendly, and I sang for them at a Chapel sociable. ‘God bless our Home’ went down like hot cakes. Fred told me I was his idea of an angel, and that’s the way he’s thought about me ever since. All very well, you know, but it means you have to mind your p’s and q’s. If he’d even half an idea there’s ever been anyone else— week-ends, you know, and that sort of thing—well, there wouldn’t be any wedding-bells, that’s all. There isn’t anything modern about Fred. There are good women and bad women. If you’re a good woman you get the wedding-bells, if you’re a bad woman you don’t. Nice, simple, easy way of looking at things, isn’t it?”

After a thoughtful silence Miss Silver said,

“I cannot take up your case, Miss Adrian, but I will give you some advice. You ought to take these letters to the police. But if you will not do so you would, I think, be well advised to tell your fiancé that an attempt is being made to blackmail you. You would, no doubt, be able to put the whole thing in such a way as to convince him that you are being subjected to an unscrupulous persecution. You should not, I think, find it difficult to convince him of your complete innocence.”

If Miss Silver’s tone was unusually dry, Miss Adrian did not notice it. She said with all the emphasis at her command,

“You don’t know Fred.”

Helen Adrian arrived at Cove House on the following day. In some extraordinary way her presence immediately pervaded it. A scent of violets came and went, clashing a little with the naphthalene which was Mrs. Brand’s specific against moth. It even came over into Marian’s side of the house, which was mercifully free from moth-ball, Martin Brand having disliked the smell, maintaining that there had been no moths in his mother’s time, and that she used nothing but lavender to ward them off. To which Eliza Cotton had been wont to respond that some people drawed them.

The violet scent was only one manifestation of Miss Adrian’s presence. The shutters were open and the curtains drawn back in the drawing-room. The sound of the piano could be heard continually, and the notes of a high and lovely voice went floating up, and up, and up, and then down, and down, and down, as she practiced scales, and runs, and trills, never really letting her voice out, but keeping to the enchanting half-voice which tests the breath-control and imposes no strain on the throat. Felix, plunged head over ears in his dream, was like someone moving on another plane.

Eliza, ejecting a queen wasp from a honeypot, remarked with a rasp in her voice that, insects or men, it was all one when there was honey about, they were bound to trap themselves no matter what came of it.

“And no use your looking like that, Penny my dear. If he knew what was good for him he’d do different, but men don’t and never will.”

Penny said in a small dejected voice,

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She stood looking out of the old kitchen window, one hand absently stroking Mactavish, who was sunning himself on the window ledge. Through the half-open casement Miss Adrian could be heard trilling melodiously.

Eliza looked grimly at Penny’s back. It would have given her a good deal of pleasure to have started a barrel-organ in opposition. She would also have liked to tell Felix what she thought of the silly way he was acting—black as a May thunderstorm and sour enough to curdle the milk one minute, and grinning like a Cheshire cat the next. “And what I’ve always said, and always will say, is, being in love is all very well in reason, but no need to make a show of yourself!” This last bit came out aloud to the accompaniment of a vigorous rattling of pots and pans.

Penny said in a still smaller voice,

“I suppose he’s in love with her.” Then, after a pause, “I said that to him one day, I said it right out—‘I suppose you are in love with her.’ And what do you think he said?”

Eliza snorted.

“Something soft!”

Penny didn’t turn around. She went on stroking Mactavish.

“He looked at me. You know the way he can look—black, like you said just now—and he said, ‘Sometimes I think I hate her!’ and he went out of the room and banged the door.”

Eliza said harshly,

“She’s the tormenting sort. Maybe she’ll do it once too often. Hatred’s like muck—it breeds things.”

Penny nodded.

“He didn’t mean it—not really—at least—” Her voice trailed away.

“Better say it.”

“It’s wicked to hate. I suppose I’m wicked. I do very nearly hate her—when she—makes Felix—look like that.” Then, with sudden energy, “And when that scent of hers comes crawling up into my attic, I’d rather it was moth-ball, and that shows!”

Mactavish, who had been on the edge of purring, uttered a sharp protest. The stroking fingers had become quite hard. They had pressed upon a tender spot, they had actually hurt. It was not his habit to suffer in silence. Since the fingers were Penny’s, he refrained from biting them. Instead he rose to his majestic height, dazzled her for a moment with an orange glare, and leaped out of the window.

Penny said, “Oh!” and Eliza scolded.

“Now look what you’ve done—put him right out of temper!”

The sound of Miss Adrian’s voice came in at the open window, floating down from its high trill. Penny jerked round, stamped her foot hard on the stone floor, and ran out of the room.

In the study the telephone bell was ringing. Marian Brand, who had been going through the writing-table drawers, pushed a pile of papers out of the way and pulled the standing instrument towards her. A man said “Hullo!” and all in a minute time and distance had slipped aside and a hand was holding hers in the dark under the rubble of a wrecked train.

She said, “Marian Brand speaking,” and was pleased because her voice was full and steady. Something in her shook. She had thought that he was still in America. Perhaps he was… That was nonsense. He might have been in the room. These thoughts were all there together at the same time.

And he was speaking again.

“How are you? Did you know my voice? I should have known yours anywhere.”

Ina opened the door. When she saw that Marian was at the telephone she went away again. She had the air of an intruding ghost, unwanted and forlorn. Marian had not even seen her. She was saying, “I thought you were in America.”

“I was—I’m not any longer. One flies. Did you get my letters?”

“Yes. They were very interesting.”

“How did you know we were here?”

“Your Mrs. Deane. I missed you by a couple of days. May I come over and see you?”

“Where are you?”

“Practically next door, in the hotel at Farne. When may I come and see you?”

“Would you like to come to lunch?”

“Do you mean today?…I’d love to.”

“We’re about a mile along the coast road. You can’t really miss us. The house is white, and there are twin front doors painted blue.”

She hung up and went to interview Eliza.

“I do hope you can manage. It’s rather short notice.”

Eliza looked gloomy.

“It’ll have to be something out of a tin, which is what I never thought I’d come to, but there’s not many can say they’ve not had their spirits broke by the war—when I think how I wouldn’t have margarine inside my kitchen, let alone having to manage with drips and drabs of fat, and go on your knees to the butcher for the bones to boil it off!”

“But you’re such a lovely cook. That’s where real cleverness comes in—everything tastes as if you had pounds of whatever you wanted.”

If there had been one shade of insincerity in her tone, or even in her thought, Eliza would have been on to it like Mactavish with a mouse. There being nothing but sheer conviction, she allowed herself to accept the tribute.

When they had considered that a coffee-cream could not be ready in time, and that there was not lard enough to make a tart, Eliza came down firmly upon Queen pudding, there being two eggs left over and the grocery order due again tomorrow.

Then as Marian turned to go, Eliza stayed her.

“There is something I think I’d better say, Miss Marian—”

Marian’s heart sank. After only two days she could feel that it was going to be a wrench to part with Eliza, and it sounded dreadfully as if Eliza was going to give notice. And then remorse smote her. If she felt like this all in a flash, no wonder Aunt Florence and Aunt Cassy were sitting on the other side of the wall being jealous and angry because of having Eliza reft from them. There had been a couple of dreadful communal meals at which this had been made quite clear. She braced herself for the blow.

Eliza stood up tall and stiff, with the bone of her nose showing yellow under the skin and her eyes the colour of the sharp steel knife which she had just taken out of the table drawer. She said,

“It’s always best to get things settled, and I’d like to be sure where I stand, so perhaps you’ll let me know if you would be thinking of making a change.”

This didn’t sound like giving notice, but you couldn’t take anything for granted.

“I don’t want to change anything at all, Eliza.”

“Then I’m sure I shall be very pleased to stay. I always did say this was the better range of the two, and Mactavish has settled down.”

“I’m very glad, Eliza. The only thing is, I feel bad about Mrs. Brand and Miss Remington—”

Eliza did not exactly sniff. The muscles of her nose twitched. She said firmly,

“Mrs. Bell is doing for them, and her sister Mrs. Woolley will come up mornings and cook for them. I’ve put her in the way of the range, and they can hot up what she leaves for the evening. It’s all fixed, and nothing for you to worry about. And if you and Mrs. Felton’ll do your own rooms—”

“And the study,” said Marian quickly—“I’d like to do the study.”

“We’ll get along fine. And if I may say so, I’ll be glad for Penny to have a little more company, and Felix too.”

On the other side of the wall Miss Remington lifted her head with a jerk.

“I’m sure it’s a blessing this room doesn’t face the same way as the drawing-room.”

The ladies were in their own sitting-room. It looked towards the road and had a view of wind-driven shrubs on this side and rising ground beyond. There was a good deal of furniture and a great many knick-knacks. Every inch of the wall space was taken up. A number of small tables cluttered the floor. The blue plush curtains were heavy. The Brussels carpet had worn remarkably well, its harsh blues and browns being practically intact.

Mrs. Brand said, “We don’t get the sun, or the view of the sea.”

Cassy tossed her head.

“You don’t care for too much sun, and I’m sure the sea makes quite enough noise on this side. So does Helen Adrian. I shall speak to Felix. They really ought to keep the window shut when they’re practising. I don’t see why we should have to close ours.” She went quickly to the casement as she spoke and jerked it to with a bang.

Florence Brand was darning a stocking. She looked up. She allowed her eyes to rest upon her sister for a moment, and then went on darning, taking a thread and leaving a thread in a slow, deliberate manner.

“People pay to hear her,” she said.

Miss Cassy turned round.

“I don’t know why you have her here.”

“I don’t have her here. And Felix won’t much longer.”

Cassy stared.

“How do you know? She’d marry him for two-pence.”

Florence Brand shook her head.

“Oh, no—not now—not without Martin’s money.”

“Well, she’d be a good riddance,” said Cassy Remington.

As she spoke, the door, which had been slightly ajar, was pushed a little wider. Mrs. Bell’s lugubrious face with the fair streaky hair coming down in loops looked round it.

“Emma’s doing fish for you, Mrs. Brand. She’s brought it with her, but there wasn’t any haddock, so it’s cod, and a few herrings for breakfast.”

She went back through and told her sister Mrs. Woolley that Miss Remington had turned up her nose, but what was the good, someone had got to eat cod, and they were carrying on like nobody’s business about that Miss Adrian.

In the drawing-room Felix lifted his hands from the keyboard and said,

“Not much wrong with the voice. Let’s run through that again. And try letting it out a little.”

The sun streamed in through the three windows. The two double casements stood wide, but the window in the middle, which was really a door, was closed. All the curtains were of pale brocade with the colour bleached out of it. The room corresponded to Martin Brand’s study on the other side of the wall, and it looked and felt as if it had never been lived in. An ivory wall-paper with a satin stripe was here and there interrupted by watercolours with wide white mounts and narrow gold frames. The furniture was, as Penny had described it, gilt and spindly. Most of it was shrouded in dust-sheets, but the covers had been carelessly pulled off two of the larger chairs and tossed in a heap upon an Empire couch.

In the midst of all this stiffness and pallor Helen Adrian looked as warmly alive as sunshine. Her hair was very nearly as golden. Her skin glowed with health, and her eyes were just that one shade deeper than sky-blue which makes all the difference. She shook her head and said,

“No, that’s enough.”

Felix jerked back the heavy lock of dark hair which was always falling into his eyes.

“Just let your voice out. I believe it’s better than ever.”

She was leaning over the piano towards him.

“No—I don’t want to.”

He said accusingly, “You’re scared,” and she nodded.

“I’m afraid of singing out. I don’t feel—”

“You don’t need to feel. Sing! It’s all there—just let it go.”

He struck the opening chords, but she remained leaning there, tracing an imaginary pattern on the dark wood and looking down at her own finger with its polished rosy nail.

“Felix—”

He banged out a bar and stopped.

“What is it?”

“It’s no good. I can’t go on to a concert platform and sing in a whisper, and I’m not going to let my voice out and crack it.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Oh, well—”

“You’ve got an engagement in Brighton in a fortnight’s time. How are you going to keep it if you won’t try your voice?”

“Well, that’s just it—I don’t think I’m going to keep it.”

“And all the rest of your engagements?”

“I don’t think—”

“You don’t think? You’ve got to think!”

“I’m not going to crack my voice.”

“There’s nothing the matter with your voice.”

She straightened up with a little laugh.

“Well, it is my voice, darling—I’m glad you admit that— and if I don’t want to sing, you can’t make me.”

He swung round on the piano-stool.

“Do you mean anything by that?” Then, with the blood rushing into his face, “What do you mean?”

She was watching him. Now she smiled.

“I just don’t want to sing, darling.”

He got up and came towards her quite slowly and deliberately.

“Do you mean now—or—”

“I mean now.”

“All right, then we try again tomorrow—is that it?”

“No, I don’t think so. Felix, do be reasonable.”

The blood had drained back. The lock of hair had fallen forward again. It emphasised his pallor.

“What do you mean by being reasonable?”

She laughed lightly.

“It’s not anything you’d understand very well, is it, darling?”

He said heavily,

“No, I’m not reasonable about you—you needn’t expect it. But you’re going to tell me what you mean.”

“Am I?”

He said with sudden violence,

“Some day you’re going to get yourself murdered!”

Quite involuntarily she flinched. It was only Felix in a temper; but just for the moment something in her wavered and was afraid.

She stepped back, and the movement brought the door into her line of vision. The ivory panels, the china handle and door-plates with their pattern of small pink roses, stood very slightly at an angle. The door was not quite shut. She went over to it, opened it, and looked out. A yard away Mrs. Bell was on her hands and knees in the passage, polishing the floor-boards.

Helen Adrian shut the door in a controlled manner and went back. Felix was still in a temper, but he didn’t frighten her now. She stuck her chin in the air and said,

“Next time you feel like murdering anyone, darling, I don’t think I should tell the daily first.” Then, with a laugh, “Oh, come off it, Felix! Let’s go down and see if it’s warm enough to bathe.”