Читать книгу Eternity Ring - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

Table of Contents

Abbottsleigh was a large, rambling house of no particular style of architecture. It had, as a matter of fact, begun as a farmstead and been added on to as rising fortunes and large families suggested. A mid-Victorian Abbott with fifteen children had, after a visit to the Highlands, built on a truly frightful wing bristling with turrets in the style of Balmoral. In Lady Evelyn Abbott’s day a stiff conventionality had descended upon as many of the furnishings as could by any possibility be subjugated. Her daughter-in-law, with very little money to spend, had gone up into the attics and routed there, discovering a good deal of rather nice old oak, and some chests full of charming Regency curtains with which to replace the prevailing tapestry and plush. Several rooms had consequently been humanized, including her bedroom and Cicely’s, the dining-room, and a charming small sitting-room which got all the sun it is possible to get in the middle of an English winter.

The drawing-room she had not attempted to alter. It was a room to entertain in, not a place in which anyone would wish to sit. The curtains of heavy old-gold brocade, the small gilded chairs, and the large brocade armchairs, suggested expense rather than comfort. There were a great many mirrors in gilt frames, and a number of family portraits, amongst them one of Lady Evelyn herself painted not very long after her marriage. No one could possibly help being struck by the resemblance to the grandson now decorating Scotland Yard as a rising detective sergeant. The high-bridged nose was there, too pale and thin to suit a woman’s face, the chilly blue of the eyes, looking even paler because lashes and eyebrows were of the same colourless shade as the hair. The hair itself, slicked back from the brow after the trying fashion of the eighties, enhanced an already startling likeness. If there had been no other reason for not using the drawing-room, Monica Abbott would have found it impossible to relax under her mother-in-law’s sardonic gaze. What Colonel Abbott may have thought remained unspoken. It is certain that he could not have brought himself to remove his mother’s picture, but like Monica he probably preferred the morning-room, where the only portrait was a water-colour drawing of Cicely as a child.

Miss Silver, having been met at Lenton and driven back to a good fire and a well spread tea-table, was now comfortably at her ease. She thought Colonel Abbott a very fine-looking man, and Mrs. Abbott most warm and kind. So nice-looking too, with that wavy dark hair and big brown eyes. Mrs. Hathaway had the eyes, but otherwise was not at all like either of her parents, except for the hair which might have been like her mother’s if it had not been cut. Really, with those short curls all over her head and her small slight figure, it was very hard to think of her as a married woman. Glancing involuntarily at the third finger of Cicely Hathaway’s left hand, Miss Silver was really shocked to find it bare. Modern girls were very careless about wearing wedding-rings—oh, very careless indeed—though she feared that this was not a case of carelessness but of design.

As she partook of scone and honey and listened to Monica Abbott explaining that it was Cicely who looked after the bees, her eyes dwelt shrewdly and kindly upon the girl sitting on the hearthrug who drank cup after a cup of tea but ate nothing at all. Frank Abbott had called her a little brown thing. Miss Silver thought it a very good description. Hair, eyes, and skin were all brown, the hair and eyes not as dark as her mother’s, but the skin much darker. As she sat there close in to the fire, her face reflected its glow. One cheek burned scarlet where the heat had caught it. The colour lent her an elusive charm. She could have had scarlet berries in her hair and gone dancing down the wind with last year’s leaves.

No such fanciful thought entered Miss Silver’s mind. She saw a girl who was desperately unhappy, and desperately tired of her own unhappiness. She turned to Mrs. Abbott, and was presently conducted to her room. She considered it most pleasant and comfortable, with its solid Victorian furniture and curtains of crimson repp.

Having removed a black cloth coat with rather an elderly fur collar and a black felt hat now in its third winter but enlivened by a small bunch of purple pansies, she tidied her hair, put on her beaded indoor shoes, washed her hands, looked for and found a gay chintz knitting-bag, and returned to the morning-room. She was wearing the dress of bottle-green wool which had been new in the autumn, the slightly open neck filled in with a net front and adorned by a bog-oak brooch in the shape of a rose with a large Irish pearl at its centre. There was also a fine gold chain to support the pince-nez which she occasionally used for reading fine print if the light was bad, and another chain of more massive construction which fitted close about her neck. From this depended one of those heavy Victorian lockets with a pattern of deeply cut and interlaced initials, a pious relic of the long dead parents whose A (for Alfred) and M (for Maria) formed the design. In the days when it had reposed on Maria’s bosom it had contained a lock of Alfred’s hair. To this had now been added a soft grey curl of Maria’s. To Miss Silver Alfred and Maria were “Poor Papa” and “Dear Mamma,” and she thought the locket very handsome.

Settling herself beside the fire, she took a ball of pale blue wool from her knitting-bag and began to cast on the stitches for a companion jacket to the one which she had finished the evening before. Babies really required several of these little coats if they were to be kept clean and warm. A most sensible fashion.

When she had the right number of stitches, she was ready for conversation with her hostess, and pleased to find that they were alone, Colonel Abbott and Cicely having vanished, and Frank having rung up to say that he was driving down and might be late.

“You don’t know how glad I am to meet you,” said Monica. “Frank adores you.”

“My dear Mrs. Abbott!”

“Oh, he does. And so good for him, because he isn’t at all given to adoring. That cold, sneering way he has, you know. Of course a lot of it is put on, but not altogether. My mother-in-law was so very bad for him. Not that he saw a lot of her, because she had quarrelled with his father—she quarrelled with everyone. But he is really too like her—it would be rather frightening if one did not know that he is quite different underneath. And then the way she behaved when his father died—I expect he has told you about it. Quite dreadfully embittering for him, poor boy. And there we were, at the other side of the world, and no idea that things were so bad—my brother-in-law left nothing but debts. And of course Frank never told us, though I don’t know what we could have done if he had, with Cis at school and Reg with practically nothing but his pay. Even Abbottsleigh was left to Lady Evelyn for her life—she had her husband quite under her thumb.” She turned a warm smile upon Miss Silver. “So you see how frightfully good it is for Frank to adore you. She robbed him of much worse things than money, and you’ve been giving them back. That’s why I wanted to meet you. And of course for other reasons as well. There’s this murder—or perhaps it isn’t a murder at all—Frank says it doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t—does it? But—somehow—it’s rather frightening.”

To the soft click of her needles Miss Silver said, “Yes?”

Monica Abbott’s colour had risen.

“It is, you know. If it was just a murder it would be horrible, and that would be the end of it—I mean it would have happened because there was a quarrel, or someone was jealous, or got drunk and didn’t know what he was doing, or for money. Those are the sort of reasons why murders happen. But this one—well, you don’t only not know why it happened, but you don’t know whether it happened at all. It’s frightening—like seeing something and not knowing whether it’s really there and not being sure whether you even saw it.”

In prim but rather pleasing tones Miss Silver quoted from Lady Macbeth, “‘They made themselves—air.’”

Monica Abbott gazed at her with warmth.

“Yes—that’s exactly what I mean. How clever you are!”

Miss Silver smiled.

“Tell me a little more about it all. A good deal seems to turn upon the character of this girl Mary Stokes. Of course that is always the way in any crime—a story which appears quite incredible in the mouth of one person can be accepted as perfectly natural from another. Now what sort of girl is this Miss Stokes?”

Monica Abbott said slowly, “I—don’t—know—”

Miss Silver gave her slight cough.

“Do you not?”

“Well, I’ve got nothing to go on. I don’t like her, but I oughtn’t to say so, because I’ve got nothing to go on. I can only tell you what you would see for yourself in five minutes. She’s about twenty-four or twenty-five, but she looks—experienced. She was in one of the women’s services at the end of the war. She hasn’t been very much in Deeping. Of course we’ve only been here ourselves for a few months. We used to pay short visits before my husband went abroad, but we didn’t belong.”

“Does Mary Stokes belong?”

“No, she doesn’t. The younger girls copy her clothes and the way she does her hair, but she isn’t liked—they think she gives herself airs.”

“And does she?”

“I suppose she does. Oh, I don’t know—I don’t think I’m being fair. You see, she isn’t a village girl at all—she’s something much smarter and more sophisticated. She comes down to the farm once in a way when she’s out of a job or wants a change. She isn’t strong and they’re good to her, but I think it’s a relief when she goes off again. She’s been working in an office in Lenton, but she got ill and was ordered a month’s rest. I believe the firm are taking her back.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Oh, yes!” said Monica Abbott in an exasperated tone.

Half an inch of blue knitting now stood out from the needles in a frill. Gazing mildly across it, Miss Silver said,

“In what way?”

Monica laughed.

“Oh, in the good old peroxide way that gentlemen prefer. No—that’s low of me. She probably assists it a little, but I believe her hair has always been fair. And she has blue eyes and synthetic manners.” She threw out her hand in an expressive gesture. “Look here, it’s no good—I don’t like her and I can’t be fair.”

Miss Silver’s eyes dwelt upon her calmly.

“Why do you not like her?”

“I just don’t.”

“But I think you could give me a reason if you would.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then,

“I think she’s a snake in the grass,” said Monica Abbott.

“Dear me!”

Miss Silver pulled at her pale blue ball, releasing a yard or two of the fleecy wool. She found Mrs. Abbott very picturesque, very attractive, but was more concerned with the matter of her judgment. She did not appear to be the sort of woman who would be hard upon a girl, but you never could tell. There might be reasons. She wondered whether it was possible that Mary Stokes had had anything to do with the break-up of Cicely Hathaway’s marriage.

In a perfectly artless and natural manner she induced the conversation to drift in Cicely’s direction. Having first remarked upon the cosiness of the room and enquired whether the charming water-colour on the farther wall was a representation of Durham Cathedral, she turned to the portrait above the mantel-shelf.

“Your daughter of course. A most speaking likeness.”

Monica sighed. Those nursery days seemed far enough away.

“Oh, yes—it’s Cicely at seven. It’s very like her still, only—she doesn’t look happy any more.”

“No—”

“She’s had a quarrel with her husband—I expect Frank told you. I don’t know why one has children, I’m sure—and they go on and on about putting up the birthrate! If she would only tell us what it’s all about, we might do something to help her, but she won’t say a single word. When you think of its being the creature you used to wash and dress, and put in the corner, and slap when it was naughty—though I don’t believe in slapping children, it spoils their tempers—well, it’s simply devastating. But she always was the most obstinate creature, even when she was six months old. Rather sweet, you know, but definitely aggravating.”

Miss Silver knitted.

“And you have no idea at all of the reason for the quarrel?”

“She won’t say a word, and he won’t either.”

“But sometimes one may have an idea. Is it at all possible that there was—another woman?”

“I don’t know—I don’t think so. But, oh dear, of course there’s always another woman if you look hard enough—one just can’t afford to go hunting for skeletons in cupboards. I mean, it was too soon after they were married for there to be anyone fresh—at least you’d think so, wouldn’t you? Only three months, and they seemed so happy! But of course if you go delving into the past—” She leaned forward and spoke impulsively. “The plain fact is, I don’t know. Cicely has locked herself up, and I don’t know anything. But if I were to start guessing I should say it wasn’t another woman. But it might be the money—Cis has rather a lot, you know.”

“So Frank informed me.”

Monica’s eyes sparkled.

“Reg’s mother left the whole lot past him to Cicely. Outrageous, isn’t it? And the worst of it is, the child used to be too much with her grandmother. We were abroad, and she spent all her holidays here.” She hesitated a little. “I may be wrong, but sometimes I think being here so much she may have got rather a wrong idea about the importance of money. You see, Lady Evelyn thought that everyone else was as much taken up with it as she was. She believed we were all counting on it and wishing for it, and she thought she would punish us by leaving it to Cicely—and now I’m wondering whether she just didn’t punish Cis.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“You mean?”

“I don’t know what I mean,” said Monica Abbott in rather a distracted voice. “She’s bitter about the money—you can’t help seeing that. You know—” she hesitated again—“she couldn’t look less like her grandmother, but she’s got a streak of the same old obstinacy, and—oh, Miss Silver, I’m so unhappy. She doesn’t eat and she doesn’t sleep, and she doesn’t tell us anything. She’s such a warm-hearted child really—at least she used to be until she froze up like this. She doesn’t even stay here because she wants to be here—she just stays because she won’t let him drive her away.” She produced a handkerchief and passed it rapidly over her eyes. “You must think me quite mad, talking to you like this when I’ve never seen you before, but I can’t talk to anyone in the village, and you don’t know what a relief it is.”