The Brading Collection (24 page)

The inquest was over. Wilful murder and suicide in the case of Jack Constable. Wilful murder and accidental death in the case of Maida Robinson. Charles gave his evidence, interviewed lawyers, interviewed James Moberly, interviewed Miss Silver.

“I don’t know what to do about Lilias, and that’s a fact.” Miss Silver coughed. They were in the study. She was well away with a third vest and knitting briskly.

“She has had a severe shock. She will, I think, be a good deal more careful for some time to come. I have seen her and talked to her. I hope that I may have made an impression. Not only has she herself formed the habit of covering up her faults, but those around her have done so too. She has desired to attract attention to herself, to transfer her faults to others, and she has sought to be loved and esteemed for qualities which she does not possess.”

It was sententious, it was almost pre-Victorian, it was a survival of the great Moral Age. Even in the middle of one of the stickiest days of his life Charles was able to admire where he could not emulate. He could only say,

“That’s about the size of it. But where do we go from there?”

Miss Silver coughed in a gently encouraging manner.

“She requires more interests, occupations—something which would give her the satisfaction of feeling that she can win approbation in a legitimate manner. If she has any talents, any capability, let her develop it and use it for others.”

The only thing that Charles could think of appeared painfully inadequate.

“She worked with the Red Cross during the war, but that has rather faded out. And before that she used to play for a dancing-class—something to do with the village institute—I don’t know—”

Miss Silver beamed upon him.

“That would be admirable for a start. Give her all the encouragement you can. And now, if you will forgive me, I am going over to see Mrs. March. Such a charming person.”

“Yes, I’ve met her—Pallas Athene.”

She was putting away her knitting.

“A most appropriate nickname. ‘A daughter of the Gods, divinely tall—’ as Lord Tennyson puts it.” She rose to her feet and extended her hand. “I shall be leaving tomorrow. I do not know if this is goodbye or not.”

Charles didn’t know either. He hadn’t seen Stacy yet. He had wanted to see all these other people first and get clear of them before he saw her again, and then—well, that was just where he couldn’t look ahead.

Miss Silver was referring in a grateful and dignified manner to “your very generous cheque.” It was necessary to respond. He did so in all sincerity.

“I owe you more than I can possibly repay. March has made no secret of it.”

She smiled.

“He is always more than kind. May I say, Major Forrest, that I wish you every happiness?”

He let her get away, rang the bell. The waiter who came was Owen. The man who had brought those letters in on Friday—talk of haunted houses! He said,

“Could you find Miss Mainwaring and ask her if she can spare me a few minutes?”

The door shut him in again with his thoughts. Every house where things have happened is a haunted house. But in all old houses everything that can happen has happened already—and again—and again. Birth and marriage and death, good and evil, and the drifting thoughts of men—an old house sees them all. Lewis and Maida and Jack Constable, James Moberly and Hester Constantine, Myra, Lilias, Miss Silver, Stacy and himself—they were part of the pattern of this generation. There had been other generations, there would be more to come—“All the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea is not full.” If you make too much of your own bit of the pattern—

From where he stood he could see the annexe, blind in the shadow of the hill. He thought about getting windows knocked in those blank walls—good big ones. The club could do with the extra rooms. Get light and air into the place—they’d let you have permits for that all right. Disperse that horrible Collection—some of the things to museums, the better stones sold separately. Get rid of the associations and they’d be like any other bits of stone. What a damnable thing for a man to have made the centre of his thoughts—grubbing in old crimes, raking up their follies, their passions, their agonies. Get rid of it all—let in the light—He began to plan where the windows would go.

Stacy came in. She had shadows in her eyes and under them. The white dress made her look pale—but perhaps it wasn’t the dress—

He was over by the window. She came close and stood there, waiting for him to speak. All the feeling between them was sad and quiet. At last he said,

“Well, it’s all over.”

“Yes—Miss Silver told me.”

He went on in an abstracted voice.

“I gather the police won’t do anything about the will. Even if Maida had lived and not been suspected of having anything to do with Lewis’s death, there was really no one except herself who had actually read it. I think she would have found it very difficult to establish any claim on the estate. As it is, there is no one to make one—and of course nobody is allowed to benefit by a crime. Lilias practically admitted that she had destroyed the will, but she didn’t sign anything, and if there were any question of taking proceedings, she would simply deny the whole thing. Everyone knows she burned the will, but if she were to say the police bullied her into hysterics and she didn’t know what she was saying—well, there would be plenty of evidence about the hysterics, and a nasty double-edged sort of case for the police to handle. Counsel could make out at least as strong a probability that the will had been destroyed by Lewis, or by me. They won’t touch it. Nobody’s been done out of anything, and they’ll just let it go.”

There was a long silence. Then Stacy said,

“Charles, you look so tired.”

“I was up most of the night.”

“With her?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Edna Snagge’s sister is a nurse at the hospital.”

“I see.”

Then she would know that he had sat there hour after hour holding Maida’s hand until she slipped away. It came to him that this was where he would know whether they could take up their life together again or not. There was no emotion between them—just tiredness, and sadness, and a kind of groping in the dark. If she understood, the groping hands would meet, they would find each other. If she didn’t understand, there were no ways so wide as those in which they must walk apart.

She said, “Were you—fond of her?”

“Not like that.”

She took that simply. She said,

“She was—fond of you. I’m glad you were there.”

The groping between them had stopped. Everything cleared. He said,

“She didn’t feel anything. I held her hand—”

Stacy said, “I’m glad.”

He put his arm round her, and they stood like that for a long time. Life began to come back—life and feeling. It was like the blood running back into a numbed limb. There was a tingling and a pain, a pressure of feeling and emotion, a sense of something flowing in. At last he said,

“Why would you never see me?”

“I was ashamed.”

“Of what?”

“I cared—so much—”

“Rather an—odd reason, don’t you think?”

His arm dropped from her shoulders. His hand moved to touch hers. He could feel that she was trembling. She did not look at him, nor he at her. They looked at the blank walls of the annexe and at the shadowed hill. They did not see these things. They saw three wasted years which need never have been, three years when they might have been together. Stacy said in a voice which shook as her hand was shaking,

“If I’d seen you—if you touched me—I shouldn’t have cared if you’d stolen a million necklaces. That’s what made me—so ashamed.”

The hand that was touching hers turned and caught it in a grip so hard that it hurt.

“Well, what about it now? Have we wasted enough time, or haven’t we? And what happens next time Lilias lets her imagination loose on me—do you swallow everything whole and let us in for another divorce?” He let go of the hand and put his arms round her. “Well?”

“Charles—”

“Yes, I’m Charles, and you’re Stacy. But the question is, are you Stacy Mainwaring, or Stacy Forrest? Every time I’ve heard someone call you Miss Mainwaring I’ve wanted to hit them over the head.”

Stacy stopped trembling. It was extraordinarily heartening to hear Charles say things like that. And then she had a picture of Charles hitting a waiter over the head with a dinner plate, and she began to laugh. She said, “Oh, Charles!” and she laughed, and the tears ran down her cheeks. And they kissed and held one another tight. The empty years were gone.

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