Читать книгу Miss Silver Deals with Death - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

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After this, breakfast was not as bad as it might have been. Mrs. Underwood, in pyjamas and a pink satin dressing-gown, discoursed volubly upon last night’s bridge.

“They had that Miss Roland from the top floor for a fourth—Carola Roland. Plays quite a good game, but if she wasn’t born Carrie Snooks or something like that, I’m very much mistaken. And she isn’t as young as she looks either—not when you see her close to. Of course Mrs. Willard’s got no young people to consider, and I’ll say that for Mr. Willard, faddy and tiresome he may be, but there are worse things in a husband than that, and he isn’t the sort that runs after blondes, though really you can’t be sure about anyone. There was that Willie Tidmarsh that was some sort of cousin of Godfrey’s, and I must say I did think his wife bullied him but they were a very devoted couple—one of those finicky little men, always getting up to open the door for you, and taking the temperature of the bath water, and putting new washers in the taps—got on my nerves. And, as I say, Bella did nag him, but you’d have thought after twenty-five years he’d have been used to it. And he went off with the barmaid from the Bull, and I believe they were running a snack bar somewhere down in the west.” Mrs. Underwood paused to pour herself out another cup of coffee.

Meade asked, “What is Carola Roland like to talk to? She’s awfully pretty.”

All at once the hand with the coffee-pot shook. Some of the coffee went into the saucer. Mrs. Underwood made a vexed sound.

“Pretty! She’s made up till you don’t know what she’s like underneath! And what do you think she was wearing last night? Black satin trousers, a green and gold top, and emerald earrings about half a yard long. If it was done for Alfred Willard’s benefit, she had her trouble for nothing—and as for Mrs. Willard and me, she won’t do either of us any harm.” She put down her cup rather abruptly.

Meade said, “What’s the matter?”

The flow of words had broken so suddenly. Mabel Underwood had such a curious faltering look. She repeated her last words in a fumbling sort of way.

“She won’t—do either of us—any harm—was that what I said just now?” Her eyes stared and blinked. And then before Meade could answer she caught herself up. “Of course it was—I can’t think what came over me—everything seemed to go. But what I was going to say was, it’s all very well for Mrs. Willard and me, and you can’t just sit at home doing nothing all through the black-out so a fourth for bridge is a fourth for bridge, and it’s a pity you don’t play but there it is. But it’s quite different for a girl, and your uncle wouldn’t like you to go mixing yourself up with this Carola Roland—not at all. You can say good-morning and pass the time of day in the lift, but that’ll be quite enough. I don’t want Godfrey telling me I oughtn’t to have let you get mixed up with her.”

There was some more on these lines, and then Meade managed to intimate that she was going out to lunch with Giles. Her heightened colour provoked an embarrassing flood of kindness.

“There—what did I tell you? It’ll all come right—see if it doesn’t. And as for the parcels, I’ll go and do them myself, and then that stuck-up Miss Middleton won’t have a word to say. One pair of hands is as good as another, and she won’t have anything to look down her long nose about. Goes on as if she’d a vinegar bottle under it and was trying not to sneeze. I couldn’t do with her for long, but I can put in an afternoon or two to let you off. And mind you put on something pretty, for I’m sick to death of seeing you in grey, and no need of it now he’s come back.”

Meade’s lips trembled into a smile. No need to wear mourning for Giles, because Giles was alive. She went down into the luggage-room to get out coloured things that she had packed away. There was a suit she had had in the spring—skirt and jumper of green and grey wool, and a green coat. It might be too warm for the jumper, but there was a little checked shirt which would do instead. She could wear her grey hat with the green quill which she had taken off it.

She was coming through the hall with the clothes over her arm, when she ran into Miss Crane, who was always in a hurry but never in too much of a hurry to talk. Of course it must be very dull being old Mrs. Meredith’s companion, but she was dreadfully difficult to get away from. The lift was at one of the upper floors, so she could not take refuge there. There was nothing for it but to let Miss Crane have her say.

The near-sighted eyes peered through very round large glasses.

“I’m in such a hurry. How busy you look. Are you packing, or unpacking? Green is such a sweet shade, I always think. But I don’t believe I have ever seen you in it before. I do hope it means that you are going out of mourning. So sad—so very sad. But perhaps I shouldn’t touch upon a painful subject. Pray forgive me. It was most thoughtless, but I had no intention. Oh, no, none at all. It is always a pleasure to see young people enjoying themselves when one has not many enjoyments of one’s own. Mrs. Meredith is a sad sufferer and needs a great deal of attention. A very great deal. I find it hard sometimes to keep my spirits up. And it is so necessary for her. She is affected at once. That is what I am always telling Packer. Her spirits are not always as even as one could wish. She is inclined to moods. And Mrs. Meredith is affected immediately. So I do my best to be cheerful.”

Miss Crane had a way of talking with her head pushed forward and her large, pale face uncomfortably near one’s own. Her soft, husky voice never seemed to have quite enough breath behind it, yet her short gasping sentences followed one another without any perceptible pause. She had a shopping basket on her arm, and wore the elderly black felt hat and weatherbeaten raincoat which were her invariable garb. She touched the basket now and said with the effect of a whispered confidence,

“Fish, Miss Underwood. Mrs. Meredith does fancy a nice fresh bit of fish, you know. Fried with breadcrumbs. And if I don’t hurry, as likely as not he’ll be sold out. And the meat ration is a thing she can’t be expected to understand, poor dear. So if you won’t think me rude—”

Meade said, “Oh, no, of course not,” and turned thankfully towards the lift. It was coming down. The cables swayed and creaked. The lift stopped at the ground level. The door opened and Carola Roland stepped out, looking as if she had just come off a mannequin parade—very high-heeled shoes, very shiny and new; very sheer silk stockings; the shortest of smart black suits; the smallest of ridiculous tilted hats; and the largest and most opulent of silver foxes. A gardenia in the buttonhole—the white flower of a blameless life, no doubt—and above it lips of sealingwax red, a perfectly tinted skin, enormous blue eyes, and hair of the beauty-parlour’s gold. She gave Meade a ravishing smile and said in a voice which very successfully imitated the Mayfair model,

“Oh, Miss Underwood, isn’t this marvellous news about Giles? Mrs. Underwood was full of it last night. But she said he’s lost his memory—that isn’t true, is it?”

The clothes on Meade’s arm weighed suddenly heavy. She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her eyes or out of her voice as she said,

“Do you know him?”

Miss Roland smiled. The smile displayed a glimpse of pearly teeth. She said mellifluously,

“Oh, yes. But do tell me if it’s true about his memory. How too dreadful! Has he really lost it?”

“Yes.”

“Altogether? Do you mean he can’t remember anything?”

“He remembers about his work. He can’t remember people.”

The scarlet lips smiled again.

“That sounds very—odd. Well, if you’re seeing him just ask if he remembers me. Will you?”

Still with that amused smile, Carola Roland passed on, was silhouetted for a moment against the open doorway, and then disappeared down the steps.

Meade got into the lift.