Читать книгу Masks Off at Midnight - Valentine Williams - Страница 5

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People still turned to stare and curtains were stealthily parted on Constance Barrington’s rare appearances in the main street of Laurel. They never seemed to have their fill of gazing at the chic and attractive widow who, four months before—vaguely to the town’s resentment—had suddenly installed herself and her two small children in the so-called Yellow Bungalow on the golf course. It was known that, although American by birth, she had spent the whole of her eight years of married life in Europe where, up to his death six months before, her husband had been a secretary in the American Diplomatic Service. Beyond these sparse facts, and certain rumours upon which the town gossips fastened with avidity, nothing had transpired about her and certainly nothing was to be elicited from the cold and somewhat patronizing manner of the woman herself.

Driving away from the service station, Constance Barrington found herself thinking of the obvious Englishman she had seen there—she wondered whether he was the guest from London Barbara Waverly had said she was expecting. The sight of him with his pipe and his slightly self-conscious, reserved English air gave her a little twinge of homesickness for London in July—she had a sudden vision of the red coats of the Guards marching up the Mall, of the blaze of flowers under the trees beside the Row. It was just another of those incidents, she told herself, which reminded her of how utterly lost she felt in a small American town after the spacious existence of London and Paris. It gave her a sense of self-sacrifice. If she could have afforded on her restricted means to bring the children up in New York, it would not have been so bad. But the thought of the three of them cooped up in a poky apartment was unbearable; besides, she was unwilling to expose Ann and John to the promiscuity of a New York public school.

She left Ann’s coat at the cleaner’s at the top of the hill. The A. and P. shop where she called next to give her weekly order for stores was crowded with women shopping. She was aware that these placid housewives resented her dazzling looks, her well-groomed air, the very faint fragrance that was wafted with her—it made her give her order to the friendly Irish boy who waited on her abruptly, disdainfully, and in a voice which, mischievously, she made as English-sounding as possible. The shopman carried her parcel out to the car for her and she sailed out in front of him, delighting in the rancorous silence which sent her on her way.

From the sidewalk before the store she saw the maroon Rolls-Royce drawn up before the bank. A moment later she had halted alongside it.

Recognizing her the chauffeur, sitting stiffly in the driving-seat, touched his cap. ‘Good morning, Madame,’ he said with a faint foreign inflection of the voice.

‘Good morning, Ivan,’ she replied, resting her arm on the window-ledge beside her. ‘Is Mr. Hordern back from New York?’

The chauffeur’s face was inflexible. He was a striking-looking man. A straight, thin nose and a pair of jet-black eyes lent his olive-skinned countenance an almost ascetic expression and he wore his discreet uniform with quite a distinguished air. ‘Yes, Madame,’ he said stolidly.

A tiny furrow appeared between the delicately pencilled eyebrows. ‘When did he get back?’ she asked quickly.

‘Last night, Madame!’

She gazed down at her gloved hand as it lay on the steering-wheel. ‘Last night?’ she repeated in a puzzled voice. ‘But the butler told me when I telephoned...’ She broke off. ‘Did he dine at home?’

The chauffeur looked at her intently. ‘Madame knows that Mr. Hordern does not like his movements discussed. But I can tell Madame, yes, he dined at home.’

She was silent, the proud face a mask. Then she moved her head in the direction of the bank. ‘Is he inside?’ she questioned rather tensely.

‘Yes, Madame!’ The man paused, affecting to be busy in rubbing with his black gauntlet at a spot on the gleaming vulcanite of the driving-wheel. ‘Madame will understand that I do not presume to offer Madame advice, but’—he shot her a tentative glance out of the corner of his eyes—‘Mr. Hordern is in a great hurry this morning. Madame would only be losing her time to wait. If she would like me to give him a message...’

The woman said nothing. But her rather full mouth was set in a firm line emphasizing the strength of the small chin. Her daintily shod foot sought the accelerator and she slowly drove the car to the kerb, parking it in front of the Rolls. Then with a determined air she got out and crossed the sidewalk to the steps of the bank where she stood for a moment, hesitant.

A moment later the bank door swung open and a burly figure in gray came storming out.

‘Brent,’ she said and put out her hands.

‘Why, hello, Constance,’ he answered jovially. ‘Isn’t this a grand morning? What are you doing in town so early?’

‘I took the children to school, then I did some shopping...’

Her green eyes were fastened on him eagerly. ‘Brent, why did your butler say you were still away when I called you last night?’

His face was full of solicitude. ‘He never told me you rang me!’

‘Then—then it wasn’t by your orders?’

He laughed. ‘Of course not, honey. Now I come to think of it, I did tell Walters I didn’t want to be disturbed. But that doesn’t go for you...’ He glanced up at the church clock. ‘Constance, you’ll have to excuse me now. I was due at the Advertiser office at eleven—I’ve got to run!’

‘When am I going to see you, Brent? It’s a whole week!’

‘I’ll call you later, honey...’ He began to walk towards the car.

‘Don’t you want to lunch with me? I asked Miriam Forbes to lunch at the Yacht Club, but I can put her off!’

‘Honest, Constance, I haven’t the time...’ He had reached the car now and spoke to the chauffeur. ‘Advertiser office, Ivan, and step on it—I’m late!’ Without more ado he dived into the car and pulled the door to behind him.

A subtle change had come over the woman’s face, a kind of sharpening of the features. Her green eyes glittered strangely. She was staring through the open door of the car. A bag of golf sticks was propped against the door. ‘You’re not going to play golf, are you?’ she said in a stifled, little voice.

He laughed and shook his head. ‘I had a sort of faint hope I might when I started out this morning, but I shan’t have time now, I guess. All right, Ivan!’

He nodded to her absently and immediately became absorbed in a sheaf of papers in his hand. The Rolls shot away from the kerb. With a brooding air Constance Barrington went slowly back to her car.