Читать книгу She Came Back - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

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“A most extraordinary situation,” said Mr. Codrington. “Awkward—very awkward. You know, it would have been better if you had left the house.”

Philip Jocelyn smiled.

“Leave Miss Annie Joyce in possession? I’m afraid that doesn’t appeal to me.”

Mr. Codrington frowned. His father and he between them had known four generations of Jocelyns. They were an intractable family. He had attended Philip’s christening and known him ever since—liked him a good deal, and was not at all sure that he wasn’t the most intractable of the lot. Lawyers see a good deal of human nature. He said,

“These identity cases are always ticklish, and they attract a most undesirable amount of interest.”

“An understatement, I should say.”

Mr. Codrington looked grave.

“If she brings a case—” he said, and then broke off. “You know, I couldn’t go into the box myself and swear she wasn’t Anne Jocelyn.”

“You couldn’t?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“You think she’d win her case?”

“I don’t say that. She might break down under cross-examination. Short of that—” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know, Philip, the resemblance is amazing, and the trouble is we can’t get at the people who know Annie Joyce, and by the time we can get at them—if there are any of them left—accurate recollection will be dimmed. She’s been over there in France with Miss Jocelyn ever since she was fifteen, and that’s getting on for eleven years ago. I saw her just before she went—Miss Jocelyn brought her into my office. She was a year or two older than Anne, and thinner in the face, but there was quite a likeness—you’ve all got the same eyes and general colouring. But there it ended. Her hair was darker and quite straight—none of Anne’s wave.”

Philip smiled.

“Hair can be tinted and waves induced.”

“That, I think, would be susceptible of proof.”

Philip shook his head.

“Aunt Milly raised the point last night. Miss Joyce had her answer ready. Three years of privation had spoiled her hair dreadfully. She had had to have a permanent wave as soon as she landed. She said she had found a very good hairdresser in Westhaven—spent her last penny on it. And as to the colour, all these fair girls use a brightening wash, you know. Anne did herself, so there’s nothing in that.”

Mr. Codrington slewed round in his chair.

“Philip,” he said, “will you tell me just why you are so sure that she isn’t Anne? When I went into the room just now and saw her standing there under the portrait—well, you know—”

Philip Jocelyn laughed.

“She’s very fond of standing under Anne’s portrait. It’s a pity she can’t wear the fur coat all the time. She made a most effective entrance in it, I understand, but she can’t very well go on wearing it in the house. Everything else is most carefully reproduced—the hair, the dress, the pearls—Anne to the life at the time the portrait was painted. But don’t you see how that gives her away? Why should Anne dress to a portrait that’s four years old? Do you see her doing her hair the same way for four years? I don’t.” He gave a short laugh. “Why should she bother to reproduce Amory’s portrait, or to stop in Westhaven and have things done to her hair? If she was Anne she wouldn’t have to bother. She could come home in any old rag, with her head tied up in a scarf like half the girls do anyway, and it would never occur to her that she could be taken for anyone else. It’s the woman who’s putting on an act who’s got to dress the part and be particular over her make-up. Why should Anne think that her identity would be questioned? The bare possibility would simply never enter her head.”

Mr. Codrington nodded slowly.

“That’s a point. But I don’t quite know what a jury would think about it. Juries like facts. I’m afraid they don’t care about psychology.”

“Well, it’s one of my reasons for being sure she isn’t Anne. Here’s another—but I’m afraid you’ll call that psychological too. She’s astonishingly like Anne—as Anne might have been if she had lived to be nearly four years older—astonishingly like, to look at. But she’s not Anne, because if she were, she’d have flared back the moment I gave her the rough side of my tongue. I didn’t mince words, you know, and she turned the other cheek. I don’t see Anne doing that.”

“Three and a half years under German rule might very well have taught her self-control.”

Philip got out of his chair with an impatient movement.

“Not Anne—and not with me.” He began to walk to and fro in the room. “You’ve got to consider the way those two girls were brought up. Anne was the charming, spoiled only child of an heiress. At eighteen she was an heiress herself. She had such a lot of charm you wouldn’t find out she was spoiled unless you crossed her. I found out when I said she couldn’t possibly accept Theresa Jocelyn’s bequest. We had a very bad row about it, and she went to France. If this were Anne, she’d have simply boiled over when I said she was Annie Joyce. This is someone older, tougher, warier.”

“Nearly four years of German rule, Philip.”

“It would take more than four grown-up years to produce this woman who is pretending to be Anne. Just take a look at what has produced her. Her father was old Ambrose’s illegitimate son. But he only just missed being legitimate. If Anne’s grandmother had died a month sooner, there’s no doubt at all that Uncle Ambrose would have married his Mrs. Joyce, and young Roger would have been Sir Roger. As it was, the old man didn’t even bother to sign his will, and Annie didn’t inherit anything except a grievance. When she was fifteen Theresa tried to foist her on the family. I don’t suppose their very natural reactions helped the grievance to fade out. For the next seven years or so she was at Theresa’s beck and call. Very unstable sort of person, my cousin Theresa—the wretched girl would never know where she was with her. She’d be petted one minute, and snubbed the next—she’d always have to watch her step—she’d always have to think before she spoke—she simply couldn’t afford to lose her temper. She served a seven-years’ apprenticeship for Theresa’s money, and Theresa diddled her. Don’t you think the original grievance must have done some growing by the time it came to that? Don’t you think you’d get just the kind of woman who might think up a plan for getting her own back?”

“Quite persuasive. But it’s not an easy job impersonating someone. Of course it’s been done, and it will be done again, but there are a lot of pitfalls. In this case Annie Joyce would, of course, be quite familiar with all the family history, and with all the family photographs. Miss Jocelyn was an indefatigable gossip. She probably knew as much family tittle-tattle as anyone, and what she knew Annie would know. They stayed here too, didn’t they?”

“They did—for a week. Theresa insisted on bringing her. I was in my last term at school, so I missed the row, but I gather that Theresa surpassed herself. My father was livid, and my mother spent all her time picking up the bits—in fact, a pleasant time was had by all.”

“Quite so—rather hard on the child.”

Philip smiled, not too pleasantly.

“Well, there you have it. She had a week to memorize everything—the first big house she had ever been into, the first time she had ever been in the country. I remember my mother telling me that. Well, don’t you suppose it would stick? Those sort of impressions are strong, and they last. Miss Joyce finds her way with perfect ease all over the house and garden.”

“Oh, she does, does she?”

“That impresses you? It doesn’t impress me. I stayed with the McLarens in a shooting-box in the Highlands when I was fifteen—the same age as Annie Joyce when she came here. I’d back myself to find my way over it blindfold now, and I haven’t had the advantage of a refresher course—Annie Joyce has. Anne was three months at the château. I don’t say this was planned then—it couldn’t have been—but if you remember Theresa, you can imagine how she would have pumped Anne about everything.”

Mr. Codrington nodded.

“I agree that Annie Joyce would be in a better position to produce corroborative detail than most of the classic claimants have been. I gather that she is in possession of Anne’s fur coat and going-away dress, her pearls, wedding and engagement rings, also her passport and identity card. How do you account for that?”

Philip continued to walk up and down.

“I told them to get their valuables. Anne came down with the handbag that woman has got—it was one of her wedding presents. The papers and the jewelry must have been in it. One of the girls was carrying the fur coat—I ought to be able to remember which of them, but I can’t.”

“Unfortunately.” Mr. Codrington’s tone was dry.

Philip swung round on him.

“Look here, if I was lying I’d say Annie had it, wouldn’t I? I just can’t remember. All I do know is that Anne hadn’t got it when I carried her to the boat. If Pierre or Annie had it they could have got it back to the château. If Annie was as cold as she says she was she probably wore it. Pierre had a couple of suit-cases. I don’t know what happened to them. It was pitch-dark, and the Boche shooting at us. Anne was hit right away. Annie may have picked up the handbag, or she may have had it all along—I can’t say.”

“I see. There’s really no evidence there. It would cut either way. What about handwriting?”

Philip said gloomily, “She’s had three and a half years to practice Anne’s writing. It looks pretty good to me. I don’t know what an expert would say.”

“Juries don’t like experts.”

Philip nodded.

“I’ve always thought they did a good deal of hard swearing myself.”

“Juries distrust technicalities.”

Philip came over to the writing-table and sat down on the corner.

“For God’s sake don’t go on talking about juries! This woman isn’t Anne, and we’ve got to get her to admit it. She is Annie Joyce, and I want you to tell her that as Annie Joyce she is in my opinion entitled to Theresa Jocelyn’s thirty thousand pounds. I told Anne that I wouldn’t let her keep the money, and I told you after Anne’s death that I had no intention of keeping it myself unless I was sure Annie Joyce was dead. Well, she isn’t dead—she’s in the parlour with Lyndall. They are probably going through Aunt Milly’s collection of snapshots.” Mr. Codrington exclaimed, and Philip laughed. “They started on them last night. It was most tactfully done. ‘Dear Aunt Milly, have you been able to keep up your photography at all? Oh, yes—do let me see! You don’t know how starved I’ve been for a familiar face!’ And if they weren’t familiar before, you can bet she’s getting them by heart as quickly as she can.”

Mr. Codrington said quickly, “Why did you allow it? It shouldn’t have been allowed.”

Philip shrugged.

“A good deal of it happened before I came. Lyn’s following her round like a dog. Thinks I’m—” His voice changed, dropped almost to inaudibility. “I don’t know what she thinks.”

Mr. Codrington drummed on his knee.

“Mrs. Armitage ought to have had more sense.”

Philip got up and walked away.

“Oh, you can’t blame Aunt Milly. She and Lyn hadn’t a doubt—until I came. Aunt Milly is shaken now—at least I hope she is. But Lyn—” He turned round and came back. “We’ve got right away from the point. I want you to go into the parlour and tell that woman she can have Theresa’s thirty thousand down on the nail for a nice safe legal receipt signed Annie Joyce.”