Anne Belinda: A Golden Age Mystery Page 5

  “I don’t know—I’ve got to find her.”

  Delia looked at him across the gate.

  “If I tell you something—” she began. Then the dark colour came into her face, and she stopped and shook her head. “I’d better not.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “I’d better not. I—sometimes I think something dreadful must have happened.”

  “Look here,” said John, “you tell me just what you know. I’ve got to find her.”

  “Oh!” said Delia. It was a sharply in-drawn breath that was very nearly a sob. Her face twitched. “You can go and look for her—I can’t. You’ve all the luck, and I think I hate you for it!” She spoke with an extraordinary restrained passion.

  “What does it matter who finds her?” said John reasonably. “If you’re fond of her—” He broke off. “Don’t you see, my dear girl, you and I don’t matter a brass farthing? We don’t matter, and our feelings don’t matter. What matters is—Anne Belinda.” His voice changed ever so little on the name. “Now, don’t you think you’d better tell me what you know?”

  Delia rubbed fiercely at the bony ridge of her nose. She believed firmly in this exercise as a specific against inconvenient tears; but in spite of it her eyes brimmed over.

  “I don’t know anything. But I’ll tell you all the same. I came down to get a book. I thought everyone had gone to bed; but when I got to the study, there was a light under the door, so I listened, just to see if there was anyone there. I’ve got frightfully quick hearing, and I thought if Father was sitting up I should hear him move, or breathe, or fidget or something. You see, there was a chance that he’d just gone to bed and left the light on—he does sometimes. That’s why I listened to start with. But just when I thought there wasn’t anyone there, I heard Mother say, ‘Poor Anne!’ and then I simply had to listen. I don’t care how dreadful it was—I simply had to. You know what it is when you care for someone so that it hurts all the time.” Her voice went lower and lower. When she said, “it hurts all the time,” it was just a tragic whisper and her great eyes shone.

  John forgot the queer angles and the haphazard features dominated by the high, red, bony nose. He felt an extraordinary response to this wave of tragic emotion.

  She went on speaking just above her breath:

  “I listened. Mother said, ‘It frightens me.’ She said, ‘I daren’t think what may have become of her.’ Then she said, ‘Oh, Cyril!’—that’s my father—and she began to cry.”

  “What did your father say?”

  “He didn’t say anything for a bit, except ‘Now, Mary!’ and things like that; but when she’d stopped crying, he said, ‘Why don’t you ask Jenny point-blank?’ And Mother said, ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ And when he said, ‘Why on earth not?’ she said, ‘What’s the use? She’d only look sweet and tell me all over again that Anne was abroad and enjoying herself so much. And I couldn’t bear it. No, Cyril, I really couldn’t.’”

  “And then?” said John.

  “Then Father said, ‘We’ve nothing to go on—nothing at all.’ And Mother began to cry dreadfully, and she said—” Delia stopped and put her hand to her mouth.

  “Go on.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  She stared at him almost accusingly. There was black misery in her eyes.

  “I can’t.”

  John came up close and put his hand on her arm. “Delia, you’ve got to tell me. I’ve got to know—I’ve got to find her.”

  “She said—she was crying all the time—she said, ‘Oh, Cyril, why did Sir Anthony tell you never to say her name again?’” Delia choked, pulled her arm away, and spoke harshly: “That’s what she said. What did she mean by it? Why wouldn’t Sir Anthony let Father speak about Anne?”

  “What did your father say?”

  “He said, ‘My dear, I don’t know.’ That’s what they all say, till I’m sick of hearing it. Somebody ought to know.”

  John nodded.

  “I’m going to. Did they say any more?”

  “No. Mother cried a lot.”

  There was a pause. The spring sunshine made everything about them look very bright and clear; the church tower stood up black against a turquoise sky. John tried to sort out the very little he had learned from the vague, misty confusion of what he could only guess at.

  “Delia,” he said, “you say Jenny and Anne went to London, and Jenny came back alone. Something must have been said about Anne not coming back.”

  “They said she’d missed her train. I saw Jenny, because I’d gone up to the Hall to change a book—Anne used to lend me books. And when I asked where Anne was, Jenny said, ‘Oh, she missed the train. She’ll be down to-morrow.’ But she wasn’t—she never came at all.”

  “What did they say then?”

  “They said she was ill—they went on saying she was ill. And then they said she’d gone abroad to get strong. But I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “She might have been ill.” John looked down meditatively at the topmost bar of the gate. A rough splinter stood up on it. He pulled it off carefully, and then broke it into little bits and dropped them one by one upon a clump of primroses at his feet.

  “She wasn’t. She wasn’t ill—I’m sure she wasn’t—I know when Jenny’s telling lies.” She gave her jerky laugh. “Jenny doesn’t take me in a bit. When her voice goes sweet and she looks down under her eyelashes, I know she’s telling lies every time.” She paused. “I’ll tell you something though—Sir Anthony really did think she was ill—at first.” She laid a heavy emphasis on the words.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I met him just before the wedding, and he talked about it a lot; and he kept on saying how upset Jenny was about Anne not being bridesmaid, and what an awkward time it was for Anne to be ill, but he hoped she’d be better soon, and then I must come and see her. I asked him if he’d seen her, and how she was. And he said, No—he couldn’t get about much—it was all he could do to manage the wedding—and Anne wasn’t allowed to see anyone; but Jenny or Mrs. Jones rang up every day and got the news, and he hoped she’d be better soon.”

  John was recalling what Lewis Smith had said—Sir Anthony had altered his will within a month of the wedding; just before the wedding he was talking kindly and naturally of Anne; and then within a week or two her name was not to be mentioned, and he had altered his will. He frowned at the primroses and let fall the last tiny splinter of wood.

  Delia had come closer.

  “He said they rang up every day. He wasn’t telling lies, poor old man; he really thought they did. But they didn’t.”

  “How do you know?” said John sharply.

  “You won’t tell anyone? I should hate to get Mrs. Mellow into trouble. She’s at the post-office. And she’s a friend of mine, and I was having tea with her, and I said I expected that all those calls to London must give her a lot extra to do. And she said, ‘What calls?’ So I said, ‘Isn’t Miss Jenifer having a lot of London calls just now?’ And she just laughed and said, ‘Well, there was one about her wedding dress Tuesday, and one about a lot of business Thursday. But that’s not going to worry me, my dear!’ So I said, ‘Doesn’t she ring up a lot about Miss Anne?’ And Mrs. Mellow said, ‘No, my dear, she don’t—and that’s a fact. She don’t ring up at all—not anything to do with Miss Anne, she don’t. So I take it there isn’t much amiss.’” Delia looked at him anxiously. “Look here, you’ll be sure not to repeat that, because she’s not supposed to talk about anything like that, and she might get into trouble.”

  John nodded impatiently.

  “She told me one thing more,” said Delia. “She told me there’d been a letter from Anne that morning—a proper letter, addressed in ink.”

  “How did she know?”

  “Why, of course she knows Anne’s writing. She’s been postmistress for twenty years; she knows everybody’s writing. She said there was a letter from Anne. And she said it wasn’t the first. But she said they
weren’t any of them addressed to Jenny.”

  “Who were they addressed to?”

  “They were all addressed to Mrs. Jones,” said Delia.

  Chapter Six

  John came away from Waveney with Mrs. Jones’ address in his pocket. He wasn’t quite sure what to do about Mrs. Jones. It was obvious that she knew something—probable, in fact, that she could tell him everything that he wanted to know. But the more he thought about it, the less likely did it seem that he, a total stranger, would be able to induce her to say a single word. The thing wanted thinking over, and he made up his mind to sleep on it.

  When he got to his hotel, he was informed that he had been twice called on the telephone. The second time a message had been left—Would he call up Horsham 000 as soon as he came in?

  He went straight to the telephone box and gave the number. Whilst he waited to get through, he wondered idly who had been calling him. He had never been to Horsham in his life, and could think of nobody there with whom he had the slightest acquaintance. When the bell rang, it was a man’s voice that said “Hullo!”

  John said, “I was asked to ring up this number. My name’s Waveney.” And when the voice answered him it was all at once familiar.

  “Oh, Maurice—Lulu Smith speaking. I’m down here to see my uncle, and he’s very anxious to speak to you. Just hold on a minute.”

  John held on. After a short interval someone else spoke:

  “Are you there, Sir John? Mr. Carruthers speaking. I am sorry to have troubled you, but I am anxious to have a few words with you.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “Thank you. The fact is—” He broke off. “My nephew Lewis tells me that you had a conversation with him this morning. By the way, I am much interested to learn that you are old friends.”

  “Yes, I was most awfully pleased to see him again.”

  John began to feel a sense of anticipation; the conversation was the conversation he had had about Anne Belinda.

  “Well, Sir John, Lewis’ account of that conversation has given me a good deal of concern. You were, I gather, anxious to know the whereabouts of a certain person, and—er—well, I want to ask you to let the matter alone.”

  John was silent for a moment. A quick, hot anger prompted him to speech, and he would not speak until he had got the better of it.

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “Well—not in detail. I can merely assure you that your inquiries are unnecessary.”

  “When you say unnecessary, Mr. Carruthers, what exactly do you mean? I am making inquiries because I feel uneasy. The person we are speaking of was, to the best of my belief, left entirely unprovided for. When you say that my inquiries are unnecessary, do you mean that there is any provision which I don’t know about?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Then, will you tell me what you do mean?”

  He tried, rather unsuccessfully, to keep an aggressive note out of his voice. He thought he detected a shade of reproof in the lawyer’s reply:

  “It’s a little difficult to explain a very delicate matter in a conversation of this kind. May I, however, remind you that the lady has nearer relations than yourself?”

  “Possibly,” said John. “The question is, are they doing anything? Are they, for instance, making her an allowance? Can you assure me, of your own knowledge, that she is receiving an allowance from them?”

  “Sir John, this is very difficult.”

  John took a pull on himself. He was putting the old man’s back up, and that was a fool’s trick. He spoke with a complete change of tone.

  “I don’t want to seem intrusive, or anything of that sort. I thought, if there was no provision, that a charge might be made on the estate.”

  “I see. It’s very generous of you. I don’t know quite what to say. I could make the offer on your behalf; but I don’t think it is at all likely that it would be accepted. Perhaps you will come and see me when I get back.”

  John set his jaw. A month’s delay! He said, in a voice full of protest:

  “Why can’t I meet my cousin? Where is she?”

  He heard Mr. Carruthers cough.

  “I’m afraid”—more coughing—“I’m afraid that’s impossible. But there is another lady who is most anxious to make your acquaintance, Lewis tells me—Mrs. Courtney. She has a flat in Queen’s Gate—I’m afraid I forget the number. Lewis met her this afternoon, and she expressed a very strong desire to see you—told him, in fact, that he was to send you to call on her. She’s rather an imperious lady, but extremely charming, and a connection of the family.”

  “Thanks, I’ll go and see her—Yes, another three minutes, please—Mr. Carruthers, is my cousin ill?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Is she abroad?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  There was rather a long pause. Then Mr. Carruthers said slowly:

  “Yes—I know.”

  “You do know?”

  “Yes.” And with that the line went dead.

  John stood for a moment with the receiver in his hand. Then he hung it up and left the box.

  At the other end of the line Mr. Carruthers had already rung off. He turned in his chair and showed a disturbed face to his nephew.

  “Rather a difficult young man, Sir John Waveney,” he said.

  Lewis looked up from The Times.

  “What’s he being difficult about?”

  “He wants Anne Waveney’s address.”

  “Yes, I told you he wanted it. Is there any real reason why he shouldn’t have it?”

  “Yes, Lewis, there is.”

  Lewis Smith whistled.

  “Well, I should say he was about the most obstinate devil I’ve ever come across. So the odds are he’ll go on until he gets it.”

  Mr. Carruthers gave a short, annoyed cough.

  “I’ve advised him very strongly to let the whole matter drop. You heard me. He seems to have some idea of offering her an allowance from the estate, and, of course, I shall be bound to pass the offer on. That’s all very well, but as far as any personal advances go, I’ve the strongest possible reasons for discouraging them. And I rely on you, Lewis, to do the same.”

  “You can’t tell me why?”

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t. You’ll just have to take my word for it that young Waveney had better give up any idea of meeting his cousin.”

  “If he’s got the idea—and he seems to me to have got it pretty strongly—he won’t give it up.”

  “Surely the young man can take a hint!” Mr. Carruthers’ tone was indignant.

  Lewis said, “’M—I shouldn’t say he could—not unless he’s changed a good deal. He’s one of those strong, persevering fellows that take a notion into their heads and stick to it through thick and thin. I ought to be the last person to complain of it, because I shouldn’t be here now if he wasn’t that sort. No one else would have thought it was possible to get me in that time I was wounded at Loos. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t possible; but he did it somehow. He’s an obstinate fellow, as I told you.”

  Chapter Seven

  John had a dinner engagement that evening. His host was the publisher who was producing Peterson’s book in England, and the other guests were all men. He had not met any of them before. The talk was of Peterson, of books, and of the wild places of the earth.

  After dinner a little man with a beard and a bald head moved up beside John.

  “My name,” he said, “is Fossick-Yates—Frederick Fossick-Yates. Does that recall anything to you?”

  John wasn’t sure. He temporized. There was something distantly familiar about the name, but for the life of him he couldn’t pick up the connection.

  The little man put his head on one side and regarded him with expectancy; behind his glasses his round, bright, prominent eyes were a good deal like the eyes of a bird that is watching a worm. Before John’s hesitation became an embarrassment Mr. Fossick
-Yates put an end to it.

  “I wrote to Peterson—yes, several letters. It was about three years ago.”

  John began to remember a very persistent correspondent who had written a number of letters full of meticulous details about variations from type in European snakes.

  “Yes, I remember,” he said.

  “Ah! Now, may I ask whether Peterson found my contributions useful?”

  “He certainly used some of them—in the sixth chapter, I think. Oh yes, and there was a footnote later on.”

  Mr. Fossick-Yates fairly beamed. He shot a cuff and scribbled upon it with a small, neat gold pencil.

  “Ah! The sixth chapter? And a footnote? I feel very much gratified, Sir John. I suppose you can’t remember which of my data—”

  “As it happens, I believe I can. The footnote refers to the case, which I think you cited, where the stripe down the viper’s back was almost white instead of black.”

  Mr. Fossick-Yates snatched off his glasses and began to polish them furiously with his table napkin.

  “Splendid!” he said. “Most gratifying—er—most gratifying! I assure you I feel quite overwhelmed. A footnote citing my viper. Can you remember in which chapter it occurs?”

  “Fifteen,” said John—“the one on albinism.”

  Mr. Fossick-Yates crammed his glasses back upon his nose. The angle they assumed gave his appearance an incongruous touch of abandon. He scribbled once more, and jerked his chair a little nearer.

  “Sir John, I must persuade you! I have that very specimen at my house, not two miles away. You will come and see it! Of course, I have other specimens too—albinism has always enthralled me—er—yes, enthralled me. You will give me the pleasure of dining with me. My wife will be charmed to make your acquaintance. You may have heard of her. She was a prominent suffragist—she writes on social subjects. She is the Mrs. Fossick-Yates.”

  As John walked home, he wondered why on earth he had allowed himself to become entangled with the Fossick-Yates. They would give him an appallingly bad dinner, and he would have to look at all Fossick-Yates’ specimens and listen through hours of protracted boredom to Mrs. Fossick-Yates on social subjects. He groaned aloud at the prospect, and cursed his folly. If Frederick Fossick-Yates had been a shade less innocently delighted over his mention in chapter six and the footnote about his viper in chapter fifteen, he would have gone on saying no or having previous engagements till all was blue. As it was, the beaming eyes behind the crooked glasses had betrayed him into this ghastly engagement.