Читать книгу Lonesome Road - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 3

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Rachel Treherne got out of the first-class carriage in which she had travelled to London, gave up her ticket at the barrier, and after walking a little way in the direction of the exit stopped and looked up at the station clock. It was only eleven. There was plenty of time for a cup of tea. Tea, or coffee? It was always a moot point whether refreshment-room tea was nastier than refreshment-room coffee, or less nasty.

As she entered the refreshment-room Miss Treherne decided that she would have coffee. She liked it less than tea, and would therefore not mind so much whether it was good or bad. It would at any rate be scalding hot. In spite of a warm suit and a fur coat she was cold. It had been snowing when she left home, but here in London there was no fall, only the feel of snow in the air, and an overhead gloom which looked as if it might turn to fog. Rachel Treherne shivered and began to sip the hot, sweet coffee. She did feel a little warmer by the time she had finished it. She looked at her wrist-watch and found that it was now ten minutes past eleven. Her appointment was at half past.

She crossed the station, hailed a taxi, and gave the address:

‘Montague Mansions, West Leaham Street, S.W.’

As the engine started up and the taxi began to move, she leaned into the corner and shut her eyes. She couldn’t go back now. When she wrote to make the appointment she had said to herself, ‘I needn’t keep it. It will be quite easy to write and say that it is no longer necessary.’ But she had not written. Miss Maud Silver had replied that she would be very pleased to see Miss Treherne at 11.30 on Wednesday, November 3rd, and Rachel Treherne was on her way to keep this appointment.

All the way up in the train she had thought, ‘I needn’t see her. I can ring her up and say that I’ve changed my mind. Then I can shop, and do a matinée, and go back home—’ No, she couldn’t just go back. She had borne it too long. She couldn’t bear it any longer without some relief. Having come so far, she must see Miss Silver. She need not tell her anything, but having made the appointment, she must keep it. If Miss Silver did not impress her favourably, she could always withdraw, say she needed time to think the matter over, and then let it fade.... Something in her shuddered. ‘No—no—there’s no relief that way. I must—I must tell someone. I can’t bear it alone any longer.’

She opened her eyes and sat up straight. Her heart felt cold in her, but her mind was made up. She had played with the idea of seeing someone, talking to someone, shifting this dreadful burden of fear. But now the make-believe was over. Her mind was firmly set. Whatever came of it, she would not go back without unburdening herself.

The taxi drew up. She paid the man and mounted half a dozen steps to the modest entrance of Montague Mansions. It seemed to be a block of flats. No porter, stone stairs going up, and one of those small lifts you work yourself. Rachel Treherne was always rather afraid of them, because twenty years ago when she was a girl her dress had caught in the iron grille of the lift shaft and she had had a narrow escape of being killed. She remembered Venice, and being nineteen, and the American who had wrenched her free, tearing the muslin of her dress with his square, powerful hands. How odd things were. She had forgotten his face, and she had never known his name, but she could still see those very strong hands which had saved her life. She had never felt really comfortable in an automatic lift since then, but of course one did not give way to such a foolish feeling.

She managed the lift very well, and found herself presently standing in front of a door with the number 15 upon it. And, just over the bell, a small brass plate with ‘Miss Silver. Private Enquiries.’ She rang quickly, and had a momentary sensation of relief. If you have been brought up as a gentlewoman you don’t play the errand-boy’s trick of ringing a bell and running away.

A stout, old-fashioned woman opened the door. She had a big white apron over a dark print dress, and she looked like the comfortable sort of cook whom you do not expect to see in a London flat. She smiled pleasantly and said,

‘Come right in out of the cold. Terrible draughty, all these stone passages, and the street door standing open. Miss Treherne? Oh, yes, Miss Silver will see you at once, ma’am.’

She opened the second door, and Rachel Treherne came into a room which was much less like an office than a Victorian parlour. There was a brightly flowered Brussels carpet, and plush curtains in a cheerful shade of peacock-blue. There was a black woolly hearthrug in front of an open coal fire. There were odd little Victorian chairs with bow legs, upholstered laps, and curving waists. There was a row of photographs in silver frames upon the mantelpiece, and over it a steel engraving of Millais’ Black Brunswicker. On the opposite wall The Soul’s Awakening, and Bubbles. The wallpaper, covered with bunches of violets, put the clock back forty years.

In the middle of the Brussels carpet stood a writing-table of carved yellow walnut, and at this table sat a little woman in a snuff-coloured dress. She had what appeared to be a great deal of mousy-grey hair done up in a tight bun at the back and arranged in front in one of those extensive curled fringes associated with the late Queen Alexandra, the whole severely controlled by a net. Below the fringe were a set of neat, indeterminate features and a pair of greyish eyes. In complexion Miss Silver inclined to being sallow, but her skin was smooth and unlined. At the moment of Miss Treherne’s entrance she was engaged in addressing an envelope. She completed the address, blotted it, and setting the letter upon one side, looked up with an air of grave attention and slightly inclined her head.

‘Miss Treherne? I hope you did not have a very cold journey. Pray be seated.’

A chair had been placed in readiness on the far side of the table. Miss Treherne sat down, and was aware of scrutiny, not prolonged but keen. Miss Silver’s small greyish eyes raked her and dropped to the knitting which she had taken from her lap and which now appeared to engage her whole attention. The garment on her needles was one of those small coatees which are showered upon expectant mothers. In colour it was of a delicate shade of pink. A large white silk handkerchief protected the wool from contact with Miss Silver’s snuff-coloured lap.

What the grey eyes had seen was a tall and slender woman who might be anything between thirty-five and forty years of age—good carriage, good skin, good eyes, good hair. The colouring should have been dark and rich, but there was a blight upon it—a chill. The lips held an anxious line. The eyes went here and there like those of a startled horse. The hands held one another. So much for the woman.

Miss Silver looked up from her knitting, took another glance, and could have written a complete inventory of Miss Treherne’s habiliments—a hand-knitted suit in a beige and brown mixture, heavy silk stockings, and excellently cut low-heeled shoes of dark brown leather; a very good fur coat; a single modest row of real pearls; a small brown felt hat. Everything betokened the woman of taste and means who lives a country life.

Everything also betokened a woman driven by fear. Whilst Miss Treherne made answer that the weather was very cold for November, Miss Silver was noting the nervous movement of those clasping hands. She knitted half a row before she said,

‘You are very punctual. I appreciate punctuality. Will you tell me why you have come to see me?’

Rachel Treherne leaned forward.

‘I don’t think I should have come, Miss Silver. I wrote to you, but I think I have only come to apologise and to say—’

‘Second thoughts are not always best,’ said Miss Silver primly. ‘You are very nervous. You wrote to me because you were alarmed and you felt that you must speak to someone about what was alarming you. This gave you some momentary relief, and you began to think you had been foolish—’

‘How do you know?’ cried Rachel Treherne.

Miss Maud Silver nodded.

‘It is my business to know things. And it is true, is it not? May I ask who recommended me to you?’

‘No one.’ Miss Treherne leaned back again. ‘Hilary Cunningham—she—the Cunninghams are connections of an old friend of mine. I met them there, and Hilary was talking about you—oh, months ago. And then when I felt I couldn’t bear it any longer I remembered your name and looked you up in the London directory. But, Miss Silver, I don’t want anyone to know—’

Miss Silver nodded again.

‘Naturally, Miss Treherne. All my work is extremely confidential. As Lord Tennyson so beautifully puts it, “Oh, trust me all in all or not at all.” I very frequently quote those lines to my clients. A great poet, now sadly neglected. And really very practical, because it is no use expecting me to help you if you will not tell me how I can do so.’

‘No one can help me,’ said Rachel Treherne.

Miss Silver’s needles clicked briskly.

‘That sounds very foolish to me,’ she said. ‘And’—she coughed slightly—‘just a little impious too. No one will help you if you will not allow yourself to be helped. Now suppose you tell me just what is worrying you, and we will see what can be done about it.’

Rachel Treherne was irresistibly reminded of her schoolroom days. Miss Barker of estimable memory had displayed just such cheerful efficiency as this when confronted by the intricacies of Nathan der Weise or the inaccuracies of a muddled problem in arithmetic. Something in her responded to the click of the needles. She looked across the table with her dark eyes wide and said:

‘I think someone is trying to kill me.’