Miss Silver Deals With Death Read online

  “Then I meant it. I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t. What did you say?”

  There was no answer. Her heart beat and her breath came quick, but there weren’t any words.

  “Meade-don’t you see you’ve got to help me? I’ve got to know. Were we engaged?”

  There was still no answer.

  He said in an insistent voice,

  “Why, I’ve got to know-you must see that. Were we engaged? Was it given out?”

  She wanted to laugh and she wanted to cry. It was so very much Giles-so dearly familiar-the urgency of his voice, the way he said her name, the way he never could wait if there was anything he wanted. Echoes out of the past: “Meade, I must know”-the same insistent ring. Then it had been, “Can you care for me?” Now it was, “Did I care for you?” She said as quickly as she could,

  “No, it wasn’t given out.”

  There was a silence so utter and so prolonged that her heart contracted with fear. Suppose he had gone-hung up and gone away. Quite easy to do. Perhaps that was what he had done- hung up and gone away out of her life. She found herself quick and hot to deny it. That wouldn’t be Giles. He always said what he thought. He would tell her straight out-“I’m sorry. I can’t remember. It’s a wash-out.” He wouldn’t slink away like a thief in the night.

  His voice came over the wire, strong and full.

  “Well, that’s that. We’ve got it over. I didn’t want to spoil our lunch tomorrow. You will lunch with me, won’t you?”

  Meade said faintly,

  “I pack parcels from two to five-”

  “Parcels?”

  “For the bombed-clothes and things.”

  “But you could get an afternoon off, couldn’t you, if you tried very hard?”

  “It wouldn’t be smiled on.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about that. After all, I don’t come back from the dead every day.”

  He heard her catch her breath.

  “That’s hitting below the belt.”

  “I always do. You’ll come?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll come. Where?”

  “I’ll be round to fetch you at a quarter to one. Go to sleep and dream about nice things. Good-night.”

  She went to sleep, and did not dream about anything. For the first time since that June night she slept and did not dream at all. Everything in her relaxed and fell into rest. The effort of the will, the strain of endurance, the hurrying memories, thought which would not be controlled, all went from her. She slept without consciousness or movement until Ivy came in to draw the curtains.

  CHAPTER 6

  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 weather-beaten 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 sealing-wax 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 him 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.

  CHAPTER 7

  At half-past eleven Mrs. Underwood went down in the lift. She walked to the corner of the road and took a penny bus, after which she went into a call-box and shut the door.

  The bell interrupted Miss Silver in the midst of an earnest calculation as to whether her coupons would provide sufficient wool to make her niece Ethel a new blue jumper, and at the same time enable her to knit a couple of pairs of socks for Lisle Jerningham’s baby. She turned with reluctance to the telephone and heard her own name in a high, affected voice.

  “Miss Silver?”

  “It is Miss Silver speaking. Good-morning, Mrs. Underwood.”

  A breath was sharply drawn.

  “Oh! How did you know who it was?”

  Miss Silver coughed.

  “It is my business to remember voices. Is anything the matter?”

  The voice wavered.

  “Why, no-not exactly. I’m speaking from a call-box. Perhaps I shouldn’t have troubled you.”

  A woman does not leave her own flat with its convenient telephone and ring up from a call-box unless she has some reason for wishing to make quite sure of not being overhead. Miss Silver said crisply,

  “It is no trouble. Perhaps you will tell me why you called me up.”

  There was a gulp, and then,

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Please tell me why. Has anything fresh occurred?”

  “Yes, it has-in a way-”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I went upstairs for some bridge last night-the people on the next floor-I often go there. Sometimes her sister comes in to make a fourth-she lives quite near and Mr. Willard sees her home. And the Spooners from the top floor used to come down, but they’ve gone away-he’s been called up and she’s joined the A.T.S.-so once or twice it’s been Mr. Drake from the flat opposite, but he’s very stand-offish and it wasn’t a great success, so last night they had the girl from the other top-floor flat. Her name is Carola Roland-at least I don’t suppose it is for a moment, but that’s what she calls herself. And oh, Miss Silver, I had such a dreadful shock!”

  Miss Silver said, “Yes?” in her most encouraging manner.

  Mrs. Underwood took up the word and echoed it.

  “Yes, I did. I felt better after talking to you, you know. And then Meade came in-that’s my niece. And the young man I told you about-the one she was going to be engaged to-well, it seems he wasn’t drowned after all, but there’s some talk about his having lost his memory, which is a thing that’s very easy to say and no doubt very convenient, but he’ll find he’s got her uncle to reckon with. So you can imagine I’d plenty to think about, and what with packing Meade off to bed, for she looked like fainting on her feet, and getting ready to go up to the Willards, it’s the real truth I never gave a thought to what I told you about. I went up, and we had a nice little supper-just the three of us-Miss Roland didn’t come in till afterwards. It was Mrs. Willard’s birthday and she’d had a present of eggs from her sister in the country-her married sister, not the one who comes in for bridge-and she’d made an omelette with a tomato purée and we had some very good soup and a grapefruit jelly. Quite a dinner-party, as I said to her, and I told Mr. Willard he was a lucky man to have a wife who can cook like she does. And then Miss Roland came down, and we had coffee and began our bridge. Well, I’m telling you all this for you to understand that I wasn’t giving a thought to you know what. I was enjoying myself. I’d better cards than I’ve held for a long time, and they were all most interested about Giles Armitage turning up like that, and his memory going-if it really has. Mr. Willard told us about a man he used to know who drew out five hundred pounds and went to Australia, and when they traced him he couldn’t remember who he was, or being married, or anything, and he’d just had his banns put up with a good-looking widow. Miss Roland laughed and said that sort of memory was very convenient-and then she opened her bag for a cigarette, and it was then when she was getting out the case that I had my shock.”

  “What happened?”

  The voice dragged and came slowly, as if it needed those extra breaths to force the words.

  “There was a letter-at the bottom-of the bag. I think-it was-my letter. There was-that corner torn off-”

  Miss Silver said,

  “This is a grave accusation, Mrs. Underwood.”

  “It was the same paper-greyish blue. It had the corner torn off.”

  “Did you see the writing?”

  “No, I didn’t. It was all folded up-I only saw it for a moment-then she pushed her case down on to it and shut the bag.”

  Miss Silver took time to think. Then she said in her firmest voice.

  “You will have to make up your mind whether you wish me to take up this case professionally.”

  Mabel Underwood said in a blundering sort of way,

  “Oh, I don’t know-what could you do?”

  “I could make some enquiries. I could probably find out who is blackmailing you. And that would almost certainly have the effect of putting a stop to it.”

  Mrs. Underwood gulped and said abruptly,

  “Would it be expensive?”

  Miss Silver named a modest sum.

  “We could agree on that to cover a preliminary enquiry. Then if you wished me to go on, I would tell you what I considered would be a fair fee. You had better think the matter over and let me know. If you desire me to take the case, I should like to see you as soon as possible.”

  Mrs. Underwood hesitated. She couldn’t really afford the fee-she couldn’t afford to be blackmailed. She didn’t feel as certain of her ground as she had when she came out. When you spoke about things they slipped away from you. A letter might very easily get torn lying ar
ound in a bag. She might be making a fool of herself. It mightn’t be her letter at all.

  She said, “Oh, well-” And then, “Yes, I’ll think it over and let you know.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Giles had said that he would call for Meade at a quarter to one. He arrived at half-past twelve and found her ready. He might have lost his memory, but she hadn’t lost hers, and he had always been at least a quarter of an hour too early for every appointment they had had. It heartened her a good deal to find that he hadn’t changed.

  She opened the door before the bell stopped ringing, and there he was, very cheerful indeed and coming straight to the point.

  “You’re ready? Splendid! Come along! I thought we’d go into the country. I’ve got a car and some petrol. This is where you find out who’s your friend.”

  It was at this point that Mrs. Underwood emerged. Impossible not to present Giles. Impossible not to wish that it might have been avoided, or at least postponed. Mabel Underwood had spared no pains to make an impression, and an impression she certainly made. Hair waved, face made up, figure tightly restrained, black suit, extravagant hat, tight shoes-how you did wish she wouldn’t. The best manner too-the drawled, “Major Armitage”; the “I have heard all sorts of charming things about you from my little niece.” The references to Uncle Godfrey- “I’m sure he’s as devoted to her as if she was really his daughter.”

  Meade felt her colour rise and her heart sink down like lead.

  They got away at last. Giles said,

  “Don’t let’s wait for the lift-it’s only one flight.”

  As soon as they were on the stairs he slipped a hand inside her arm, looked down at her with laughing eyes, and said,

  “I haven’t met her before, have I? I don’t suppose one could live through it twice. Is she always as grand as that? It’s going to be a most awful strain if she is. I say, darling, she won’t want to live with us, will she?”

  Everything in Meade broke into answering laughter. Did he know that he had called her darling? Did he know what he had just said? Or had his tongue run away over a familiar course? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered whilst he looked at her like that. Her own tongue ran away too. She whispered,