Читать книгу Death of My Aunt - C. H. B. Kitchin - Страница 6

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A gracious voice bade me come in, and I found my aunt propped up by pillows in her large bed. She was wearing a gay little boudoir cap of cream-coloured lace, with a tassel hanging roguishly by the left ear, and a silk bedroom jacket of the same colour, ornamented with lace on sleeves and collar. Round her neck, which was much exposed, was a string of large pearls. I had never seen her look so charming since I was a child. Her skin was carefully powdered and rouged. A charitable eye might have taken her for under forty.

She held out her hand, and when I approached to shake it gave me a kiss, which I returned. After I had said a few words of greeting and admiration, which she enjoyed, she told me that I was looking pale, and should try to get fatter.

“But I suppose slim figures appeal to people nowadays,” she said.

“By no means always,” I answered, giving her a gallant smile.

We continued in this strain for a short time. Her mood was one of which I had no experience in her. I could remember her as a beautiful and stately creature, ready to keep children at a distance, and also, at the time of her husband’s death, a tragic sufferer, clutching at her heart and speaking of her “great sorrow.” Later, during her illness, she had been morose and sometimes savagely bitter, and later still she became a lady bountiful, queen of her family and supreme arbiter of conduct. Now she had changed once more, and seemed in her old age to have slipped back into girlhood. There was about her something arch and deliberately feminine, rare in these days, perhaps, but common, I suppose, in 1890. Even her bedroom had been altered since I had seen it. The walls had been stripped of paper and painted a pale yellowish pink. The floor was parquet, and the old Brussels carpet had made way for three Persian rugs. The glass top of the walnut dressing-table was covered with scents and trinkets. By the bed stood a beautiful sofa-table, on which were a bowl of roses, some notepaper in a lacquered stand, a large blotter made of old red morocco, and an elaborate china ink-pot fitted with coloured quill-pens. The head of the bed was covered with a deep scarlet Italian brocade. I was amazed at the contrast between the room and the rest of the house, with its deliberate neglect of elegance and comfort, its acquiescence in dead fashion and dead ways of thought.

Yet I was not deceived into believing that my aunt was altogether changed. She had never changed in two things, her desire for the immediate fulfilment of her wishes, and her wish to rule—and each of her past phases, however self-contradictory they seemed, were but the outward signs of a fixed nature. I saw also that, though at the moment she was pleased to purr, she still had claws with which she could scratch.

I sat down in an armchair near the bed, and we talked about my mother, and my sister, and my life in London. Of this I was careful to say nothing which could make her envious—not, indeed, that on this score there was much to say—and replied to some coquettish innuendoes with an innocence as coquettish. She did not mention Uncle Hannibal, nor did I, except to say that he had given me bad news of my aunt Anne Carvel. At that she frowned, half in pain and half in displeasure, and said, “Yes, yes. Poor woman. It’s very sad, too sad.... People always come to me with their troubles. I could wish sometimes for livelier visitors. I have my troubles too, but deal with them myself. There are times, Malcolm, when I should like to forget my responsibilities and run away to some new place and make new friends. Well, that I suppose can never be....”

I sighed in sympathy.

“I’m afraid,” she went on, “I was born impatient. When I want things done, I want them done at once. Perhaps I am making up for lost time. I am full of new plans and ideas. You got my letter?”

“Yes. I have it here.”

“Did you find the book?”

“Yes. I read it with great interest. I was so excited I could hardly sleep.”

Her expression changed momentarily, and a grim, almost cruel look, with which I was not unfamiliar, came over her face.

“I shall be only too glad,” she said, “if I can leave my investments as they are.”

I felt her eyes searching mine for a trace of disappointment.

“Of course you can,” I replied as carelessly as I could. “All your important holdings are absolutely secure, and, in your position, it is hardly worth while troubling about the few pounds you have in local preference shares.”

“Hardly worth your while either?”

“Barely. As for the other things, it depends what you want to do. If you want to use your money to make more, you will have to choose a different type of investment. But from what I have seen of your book, I shouldn’t think you have any use for a larger income.”

She was clearly surprised at my plain speech, and, I thought, uncertain whether or not to be angry.

“There are many calls on my income of which you know nothing,” she said.

“In that case, security of income must come first.”

“Ye-es, of course. In part. But perhaps you realise that I have very large sums at my disposal?”

“I do.”

“Mind, Malcolm, I have taken you completely into my confidence over my affairs. You are never to disclose them to any one. If you do, I shall not forget it or forgive you. You understand?”

“Quite. I have seen your investment book in my professional capacity.”

The phrase sounds intolerably pompous, but it was not unsuitable when said.

“You are my only relative to know what you do. Of course the Dennises, the solicitors, attended to your Uncle John’s will, and know what he left—in their professional capacity. I have no reason to suppose that they have ever—”

“Of course they haven’t.”

“Well then—now tell me, Malcolm, what would you do, what prospects should I have, if I entrusted you with a hundred thousand pounds to use for me?”

This time I was really startled. Despite my elation of the previous night, I had anticipated the somewhat grudging offer of a few hundred pounds, which, with the exercise of infinite caution, I was to turn into ten thousand. With a hundred thousand to manipulate, I saw myself becoming at last some one of importance. In a flash I pictured my improved status in the office, perhaps a partnership. But my aunt was watching me narrowly.

“I must have a little time,” I said, “to think of my answer. And I must know first exactly what you would allow me to do with the money. For example, if you insisted that—”

There was a knock at the door, and Buxey, my aunt’s personal maid, came in with a jug of hot drinking water and a tumbler, which she put down on the sofa-table. I think my aunt and I were both glad to have the tension relaxed for a moment; for when Buxey had gone out, Aunt Catherine said, “That reminds me. I must send off a note to Canon Hurdler before twelve. I shan’t take long.”

I rose from my chair, and was walking idly round the room, when my aunt opened the morocco blotter and gave a cry of annoyance.

“That wretched girl,” she said. “I told her yesterday to put some blotting-paper here as well as in the drawing-room. I wonder if you’d mind fetching me some. You’ll find plenty in the blotter in my bureau. Did you put the book back in the bureau after reading it last night?”

“No, I kept it locked up in a drawer in my dressing-table,” I answered. “I’ve got the key and the bureau key here.”

“Well, you might fetch the book at the same time. I generally keep it in the bottom drawer of the bureau, but put it on the top so that you should find it easily. We may want to look at it, mayn’t we? That side door’s unlocked.”

She pointed to a door in the west wall of her room, half-hidden by an old French screen. I opened it, and went straight through the boudoir into my bedroom beyond. There I took out the precious book, and left the key of the drawer in the keyhole. Then I returned to the boudoir, and unlocked the bureau. Lying on the top of the blotter was a flat bottle of pink glass, not unlike a large scent-bottle, wrapped round with a pamphlet. I had not noticed it when I had taken the book, the night before. I put the bottle on the top of the bureau, and took two sheets of blotting-paper from the blotter. I then locked the bureau, and was about to return to my aunt’s bedroom, when I remembered the bottle, which I had left out. The wide neck bore an ornate label with the words, “Le Secret de Venus,” in gold letters. The title amused and puzzled me, and accorded so well with my aunt’s mood earlier in the morning that I thought it safe to tease her with my discovery.

“I’ve found the blotting-paper,” I said when I got back into her room, “and something else. Look!”

She took the blotting-paper, and gave a nervous little laugh as I brandished the bottle.

“Oh, you naughty boy. Have you been rummaging among my treasures? Give it to me at once.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a tonic—a very special tonic. I meant to take a dose this morning.”

She snatched the bottle from me, took out the stopper, poured some hot water into the tumbler, and emptied some white crystals, not unlike Epsom salts, into it.

“There,” she said, pointing to the pamphlet which I retained in my hand. “You can read what that says while I finish my letter. I’m not sure, though, that it’s very suitable for a young man. Perhaps we’d better tear it up.”

“Oh,” I said, “you must let me read it first.”

She pursed her lips with mock solemnity. “I’m afraid in parts it’s almost improper. But perhaps you won’t understand that.”

She took up her pen again, and I sat down in the armchair. The pamphlet, like those accompanying many patent medicines, was in several languages. More than that, the account in each language was divided into two parts. The first part had an air of great seriousness, and referred to the universal interest taken in the product by the medical profession. There was great talk of vitamins, lipoids, and other substances of which I had never heard, followed by testimonials from foreign nerve-specialists and gynaecologists. The second part of the prospectus was very different, and evidently aimed at appealing to the lay reader. After touching on the strain of modern existence, and the crucial age in the life of “lovely woman, who, with her spirit still young and ardent, finds to her dismay that the years have begun to dim the natural fires of her body,” it spoke of a great secret possessed by Aspasia, Catherine Parr, Lady Hamilton (spelt “lady Amilton”), and the renowned Dubarry, all of whom had “played a part in the destinies of great nations and great men.” This secret, in more perfect form, was contained in the “magic crystals.” “After four doses,” I read, “you will feel a new zest for life, and love, and laughter; a new urge. The withered charms will blossom again, the glow of youth return.”

I looked up and saw my aunt raise the tumbler to her lips and take a sip.

“Oh, what a horrible taste,” she said. “I didn’t think it was so bitter—mais toujours, toujours, il faut souffrir pour être belle!”

She gave me a sweet little smile, and lay back on the pillow, shutting her eyes, in order, I supposed, that she might enjoy the “new urge” without being distracted from it by my conversation. As for me, I turned to the second half of the French version, hoping that it would be freer than the English translation. It contained some pretty phrases, and when I had finished it I went on idly to the languages which I knew less well—German and Italian. I was just starting on the latter, when I was appalled to hear a loud moan from my aunt, who sat up with a convulsive movement and was violently sick.

To recall what next happened I have to use my reason. My actual memory of those nightmarish moments is still confused. My first act, I think, must have been to run over to the bell by the fireplace. The spasms continued and became more horrible. I believe I took my aunt’s hand for a moment, and then ran to the bell again. At length Buxey came in, and stood aghast by the door. “Mrs. Cartwright has been suddenly taken ill,” I said. “What can we do?” and as the terrified woman went to the bed I rushed downstairs and found Dace in the pantry.

“Has Mr. Cartwright come in?” I asked.

“Not yet. Leastways I haven’t heard his machine.”

Even at that moment, I was annoyed at his refusal to say “Sir.”

“Then go and telephone at once for Mrs. Cartwright’s doctor,” I said. “Tell him that Mrs. Cartwright is having a most alarming attack. Don’t leave the telephone till you get into touch with him, or some other doctor. When you’ve got him, ring up Mr. Carvel’s house and find out if Mr. Cartwright is still there. But get a doctor first.”

When I saw that he was going to do as I told him, I ran upstairs again, and found Buxey loosening my aunt’s clothes and patting her hand. The nausea had ceased, and my aunt was lying down, gasping and trembling. The bed was in a horrible state, and the bowl of roses and tumbler had been knocked off the sofa-table. I approached in an agony of incompetence.

“The doctor will soon be here,” I said, and tried to smile reassuringly. For three or four minutes nothing happened, and then my aunt seemed to shudder with her whole body and suddenly lay quite still.

“She’s fainted,” I said, “or—”

Buxey, who had by now recovered her self-possession, looked at me gravely, and said, “I’m afraid it’s worse than that, sir.” Then, while I turned away instinctively, she felt my aunt’s heart. “I’m afraid the poor lady’s gone, sir.”

I went to the armchair and sat down weakly.

“Can’t we try to do anything?” I asked.

She shook her head, and told me that her little experience of nursing left her no doubt but that my aunt was dead.

I suddenly felt that I should be sick if I stayed in the room any longer.

“Perhaps,” I said timidly, “you wouldn’t mind staying here while I see if Dace has got through to the doctor?”

She pulled a chair to the bedside, and sat down.

I met Dace on the stairs.

“I was coming to say I’ve got into touch with Dr. Bradford. He was due at Mrs. Mitchell’s house—that’s right the other side of the town—and I caught him there. He should be here in twenty minutes. There’s a good deal of traffic in the town, and he’ll have to go slow. How is Mrs. Cartwright?”

“Your mistress is dead,” I said, and brushing past him went down into the drawing-room. There I sat down, and felt in my pocket for my cigarette case. In taking it out, I found with it the pamphlet on the Secret of Venus. I threw the latter disgustedly into the fender, and lit a cigarette. Then—to my surprise, I burst into tears. It was evidently a physical reaction, for beyond my natural horror at the terrible scene I had just been through, I had no real sorrow for the loss of my aunt, and had even then, though it is painful to admit it, begun to wonder what changes her death would bring about. However, my tears flowed unceasingly, and after a time almost amused me. It was as if I were watching a burst pipe that no one could stop up.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly half-past eleven. The doctor would be arriving in about a quarter of an hour, and I decided to wait about for him in the drive. I forgot to ask Dace if he had telephoned to my uncle at the Carvels’.

The drive at Otho House winds to the main road in pretentious curves. I had just walked a quarter of the distance to the gates, when I saw my Uncle Hannibal on his motor-bicycle. He stopped on seeing me, and, noticing my distressed appearance, ran up to me and said, “What on earth’s the matter, old chap? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Aunt Catherine ...” I answered, “I’m afraid I have bad news. Aunt Catherine is dead.”

To my great exasperation, I burst into a new fit of sobbing. He put his arm round me, and we walked across the grass to the house without speaking.