They Found Him Dead Page 3

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ agreed Betty. ‘I felt the same when we were living in a flat in town. It was simply tiny – literally you couldn’t move in it – and I used to say to Clive that I felt absolutely cooped up.’

  ‘I don’t think actual space matters so much as room for one’s essential ego to expand,’ said Rosemary a trifle loftily.

  ‘Yes, I do utterly agree with you there,’ replied Betty. ‘Atmosphere means a most frightful lot to me too. I mean, I’m awfully sensitive to beauty – and funnily enough, both my children are too, even Peter, who’s only three and a half. I mean, if a picture is out of the straight, I simply can’t rest until I’ve put it right. It seems to kind of hurt me.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Rosemary, with a faint, superior smile, ‘that I shouldn’t even notice a crooked picture.’

  ‘Yes, I’m frightfully absent-minded too. I seem to go into a sort of dream, and I forget simply everything. I often think that’s where my Jennifer gets it from – it’s quite extraordinary the way that child day-dreams! I mean, everybody says so, it isn’t only just me. The children absolutely love coming down to stay with Granny and Grandpa by the sea. They simply live on the sands. Of course it’s just coming home to me, and Clive feels exactly the same, really far more so than with his own people. It’s quite a joke in the family!’

  Rosemary looked faintly disgusted by this sample of the humour prevalent in the Mansell household, and said in a voice of suppressed passion: ‘How odd that you should be glad to come here, while I would give my soul to get away! The sameness – ! Doesn’t it get on your nerves? But perhaps you don’t suffer from your nerves as I do.’

  It was not to be expected that Betty Pemble would allow so insulting a suggestion to pass unchallenged, and she replied warmly that, as a matter of fact, she was One Mass of Nerves. ‘I simply never talk about myself, because I think people who tell you about their ailments are absolutely awful; but actually I’m not frightfully strong. I get the most terrible nervous headaches for one thing. I mean, I could scream with the pain often and often. I think it’s from being terribly highly strung. Both my children are exactly like me, too. Frightfully sensitive, and easily upset. They kind of feel things inside, the same way that I do, and bottle it up.’

  Her mother, who happened to overhear this remark, said robustly: ‘Nonsense! You spoil them, my dear child; that’s all the trouble.’

  Mrs Pemble turned quite pink at this, and at once joined issue with her parent, declaring that Agatha just didn’t understand, and that everyone said she managed her children better than anyone else. As Mrs Mansell appeared to be unconvinced by this universal testimonial, Betty at once appealed to Clive to support her, interrupting him in the middle of a discussion with Jim Kane on the probable outcome of the Surrey v. Gloucester match. By the time Mrs Mansell’s stricture had been repeated to him, and various incidents illustrative of Betty’s skill in handling her progeny recalled to his mind, Joe Mansell, Mrs Kane, and Clement had all become involved in the discussion, Joe advancing as his contribution to it that he liked to see kids enjoying themselves; Clement, with a meaning glance at his wife, deploring his own lack of children, and Mrs Kane stating that in her young days children never had any nerves at all.

  This was an observation calculated to rouse the ire of the most good-tempered mother, and when it was promptly seconded by Mrs Mansell, Betty Pemble, reinforcing her own arguments by the pronouncements of a host of sages somewhat vaguely referred to by her under the general title of People, set about the formidable task of convincing two stalwarts of the Victorian age that they did not understand children’s little minds.

  While this battle raged, Rosemary relapsed into brooding silence, Jim Kane seized the opportunity to engage Miss Allison in conversation, and Joe Mansell moved across the room to where Silas was sitting, and suggested that they might have a word together.

  Silas Kane said: ‘Why, certainly, Joe!’ in his slow, courteous way, and got up out of his chair. ‘We shall be quite private in my study.’

  Joe Mansell followed his host to this apartment, a severe room looking out on to the shrubbery at the side of the house, and remarked that having Betty and the children staying at The Gables brought quite a lot of life into the place.

  ‘Ah!’ said Silas. ‘And are they with you for long?’

  ‘Oh, about a month, I expect. Betty likes the children to have a thorough change, you know. Not but what they tell me it’s very healthy at Golder’s Green – very. Still, it’s not like the sea. Between ourselves, it’s a fortunate thing that we’re able to have them, for things aren’t too good on the Stock Exchange at the moment. The wife and I suspect Clive’s finding things a bit tight – just a bit tight.’

  ‘Ah, I dare say!’ said Silas, sorrowfully surveying a post-war world. ‘The times are very unsettled.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Joe. ‘No stability, wherever you look. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.’ He tipped the long ash of his cigar into the empty grate and cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve thought any more about Roberts’s proposition?’

  An inflexible expression came into Silas’s chilly grey eyes. He fixed them on his partner’s face and replied: ‘No. I am of the opinion that this is not the moment to be launching out into speculative ventures.’

  ‘I think myself there are excellent prospects. Expansion, Silas! One’s got to move with the times, and there’s no doubt – in my opinion not the slightest doubt – that if we decide to push our nets in Australia, it will not be many years before we shall be amply repaid for the initial capital outlay.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Silas, putting his finger-tips together. ‘You may be right, Joe, but I cannot say that Roberts’s scheme attracts me.’

  ‘Clement is in favour of it,’ offered Joe Mansell.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Silas rather ironically. ‘But I’m thinking that it is not Clement who would have to bear the brunt of that capital outlay you mentioned. I’m sorry to go against you, Joe, but I don’t see my way.’

  Joe Mansell looked at him resentfully, thinking that it was easy for an old bachelor with no one dependent on him to sit tight on his money bags and say that it was not the time to be launching out into speculative ventures. He was mean: that was what was wrong with Silas. Always had been, and his father and grandfather before him. Not but what old Matthew Kane had never been afraid to spend money if he saw a good return, judging from the fortune he’d left. He’d made money hand over fist, had Matthew, the founder of the business. It made Joe Mansell feel more resentful than ever when he looked about him, as now, at the evidence of Kane wealth, and thought of the Kane holding in the business, comparing it with his own share. And now, when there was a chance to expand, he’d have to watch some other firm seize the opportunity, just because Silas was too conservative to consider new ideas, and too well off to think it worth while tapping a fresh market. He’d listen to all the arguments with that damned polite smile of his; he’d agree that there might be something in the scheme; he’d say it was very interesting, no doubt; but when you got down to brass tacks with him, and it came to talking of the capital he’d have to advance to start the show, you’d find yourself up against a brick wall.

  But Silas, watching Joe with veiled eyes, was thinking that it had always been the same tale with him. He’d no judgment: he rushed into things. It was just like him to allow himself to be talked over by a plausible fellow with an American accent. He was lavish with other men’s money, was Joe. Clement, too, of whom he’d thought better, lacked judgment. All he cared for was to make more money to spend on that flimsy wife of his. Well, those weren’t the methods by which the firm had been built up. He said as much, but with his usual civility.

  ‘One must move with the times,’ Joe repeated. ‘I believe you’d get a good return on your money.’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ Silas a
greed. ‘But I’m not as young as I was. I doubt whether I should live to enjoy any return.’

  Now he’s getting on to his weak heart, thought Joe. It’s my belief he’ll live for ever.

  ‘Well, I won’t disguise from you, Silas, that I’m strongly in favour of the plan – strongly in favour of it! As a matter of fact, things aren’t too easy for me about now, what with reduced dividends and having to help Clive tide over a bad patch. Not to mention Paul’s troubles.’

  ‘Indeed! I’m sorry to hear that,’ Silas said, wondering what concern of his were Joe’s bad investments, or Joe’s son-in-law’s financial embarrassments, or the alimony his son’s wife had to be paid.

  ‘I wish you could see your way to it.’

  ‘Yes, I wish I could, since you’re so much in favour of it,’ said Silas.

  That was the sort of remark that made one want to brain Silas. Joe Mansell controlled his temper with an effort, and heaved himself up out of his chair. ‘Well, I hope you’ll think it over carefully before you finally turn it down,’ he said. ‘Roberts gets back from London tonight, and will be wanting your decision. Paul’s in favour of it too, you know; and though I say it of my own son, I’m bound to admit he’s got a shrewd head on his shoulders. He was sorry, by the way, not to be able to be here tonight.’

  ‘Indeed yes, we were sorry too,’ said Silas mendaciously. He disliked Paul Mansell, whose shrewdness verged on sharpness, and who had been divorced from his wife. A flashy fellow, with his oiled hair, and his waisted coats, and his habit of running after Patricia Allison. No doubt he saw himself managing the Australian side of the business. A nice thing that would be!

  They went back to the drawing-room. Old Mrs Kane was looking tired; her face had set into deeply carved lines, and she was making no effort to attend to any of the conversations in progress about her. Agatha Mansell, finding her monosyllabic, had transferred her attention to Rosemary, and was lecturing her in a kind, authoritative way on the many improving pursuits she might with profit engage upon. When her husband preceded Silas into the room, she looked across at him with a question in her eyes, and upon his slightly shaking his head got up, announcing that it was growing late.

  With the Mansells went Clive and Betty Pemble, to be followed in a few minutes by the Clement Kanes, Clement having lingered to ask Silas what his decision was on the Australian project. Upon hearing that his cousin disliked it, he said in a dispirited tone: ‘You may be right. All the same, we might have seen big profits. It’s a pity Mansell isn’t in a position to advance the necessary capital himself.’

  ‘I fancy you would none of you be so anxious to risk your own money,’ replied Silas dryly.

  Clement flushed. ‘I don’t think there would be much risk. However, you’ve a perfect right to refuse, if you feel like that about it. Come, Rosemary; are you ready?’

  Silas escorted them to the front door. Emily roused herself, and addressed Jim abruptly: ‘There’s a nasty fog outside. You’d better stay the night.’

  He shook his head. ‘Thanks, aunt, but I must get back. It isn’t thick enough to worry me. Besides, I shall leave it behind me.’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ said Emily snappishly. She added: ‘High time that child was in bed.’

  Young Mr Harte was affronted, but stood in too much awe of Emily to expostulate. He was indeed experiencing considerable difficulty in keeping his eyes open.

  ‘Good Lord, yes!’ said Jim, becoming aware of his relative’s presence. ‘You’d better go up, Timothy.’

  Mr Harte said with dignity, and in muted tones, that it was unnecessary for Jim to stick his oar in. He cherished in his bosom a considerable affection for his half-brother, and passionately admired his athletic prowess. He quoted him upon all occasions, and acquired reflected glory from retailing his exploits upon the Rugger field or the race track, but would have thought it unseemly to give Jim any cause to suspect this veneration. So when Jim, bidding him farewell, said: ‘I’m coming down next week,’ he betrayed no flattering pleasure at these welcome tidings, but merely replied that he would try to bear up till then.

  Silas came back into the room as Jim was saying good-bye to his great-aunt. He wore the satisfied expression of a man who has sped the last of his guests, and remarked that he fancied the party had gone off very well.

  ‘H’m!’ said Emily. She looked at him under her brows. ‘Joe tried to get you to advance money for his hare-brained scheme. I hope you sent him off with a flea in his ear. Such nonsense!’

  ‘I’m afraid Joe and I don’t see eye to eye over it,’ Silas answered. ‘You off, my boy?’

  ‘He’d better stay the night. There’s a fog.’

  ‘Why, certainly!’ Silas agreed. ‘But it’s only a bit of a mist, mother. Nothing to alarm anyone. I shall take my usual walk.’

  ‘You still stick to that, sir?’ Jim said, smiling.

  ‘If I didn’t I should not enjoy a wink of sleep all night,’ replied Silas. ‘Wet or fine, I must have my stroll before going to bed.’

  ‘Fiddle!’ said Emily in an exasperated voice. ‘If you didn’t think you had insomnia, you’d sleep the clock round! I don’t have insomnia: why should you?’

  ‘Indeed, I wish I knew,’ said Silas.

  ‘One of these days you’ll catch your death of cold. Don’t say I didn’t warn you! Miss Allison, be kind enough to ring the bell! I’m tired.’

  Jim Kane lingered until the business of assisting Emily into the carrying-chair was accomplished, and contrived, while the butler and footman were bearing her up the shallow staircase, to exchange a few final words with Miss Allison. Then he sallied forth to brave the dangers of the sea-fret, and Miss Allison, holding Emily’s ebony cane, the rug which she used to cover her knees, and her handbag, went sedately upstairs in the wake of the carrying-chair.

  Emily Kane, with her companion and her maid, occupied a suite of rooms in the west wing of the house. Miss Allison followed her there, arriving in time to see Ogle, her maid, helping her to an arm-chair in her bedroom. She laid down her various burdens, and would have left Emily in Ogle’s jealous charge had not Emily said: ‘Don’t go! What did that hussy say to you in the conservatory?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ replied Patricia. ‘I’ve heard it all before, anyway.’

  ‘She’ll run off with that Dermott yet,’ prophesied Emily. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say! Not that I want a scandal in the family. We’ll leave that to the Mansells. Them and their precious son! You take my advice and send him to the rightabout.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Patricia.

  Emily began to sip the glass of Horlick’s Malted Milk which Ogle had put into her hand. ‘If my son would take something hot going to bed it would do him more good than traipsing about on the cliffs at this hour of night,’ she remarked. ‘Fresh air indeed! There’s a great deal of nonsense talked about fresh air these days. I’ve no patience with it. Why he doesn’t catch his death of cold I don’t know.’

  ‘I expect he’s hardened to all weathers by this time,’ said Patricia consolingly.

  ‘That remains to be seen. He’s as pig-headed as his father was. Never knew a Kane who wasn’t. Jim’s as bad as the rest of them; I warn you – Here, take this away!’

  Ogle relieved her of her empty glass, and went out with it. Emily said: ‘I’ve had a very dull evening. Don’t you start being discreet with me, young woman! That hussy’s working up for mischief, or I don’t know the signs. What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘Well, as far as I can gather, she wants more money. On account of her Russian blood.’

  Mrs Kane stared for a moment, and then gave a crackle of laughter. ‘She does, eh? It would do her more good to have a few children, and you may tell her I said so.’

  Patricia laughed. ‘I expect you will tell her so yourself, Mrs Kane.’

  Ogle came
back into the room, and began to make ostentatious play with a dressing-gown. Patricia bade her employer good night, and went away to her own bedroom.

  Mr James Kane’s proposal kept her mind occupied for quite some time, but did not trouble her dreams. She slept as soundly as ever, and did not wake until the housemaid entered the room at a quarter to eight with her early morning tea.

  ‘If you please, miss, Pritchard would like a word with you,’ said this damsel, evidently thinking the request an odd one.

  Miss Allison blinked, and said sleepily: ‘Pritchard wants a word with me? What on earth for?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss. He didn’t say, but he looks ever so queer,’ replied Doris eagerly.

  Miss Allison sat up. ‘Is he ill?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so, miss! He never said he was ill, but I’m sure there’s something wrong. It struck both Mallard and I he looked queer.’

  It seemed to Miss Allison that there must be something very wrong indeed to make Pritchard, who was almost the perfect butler, request an interview with her before ever she was out of bed. She got up, and slid her feet into her slippers. ‘All right, I’ll see him at once. Ask him to come upstairs, will you?’

  ‘He is upstairs, miss,’ said Doris. ‘He’s waiting on the landing.’

  Miss Allison put on her dressing-gown, and sallied forth on to the passage. Pritchard was standing at the head of the staircase. Miss Allison would not have described his appearance as queer, but he certainly looked rather worried. At sight of her he apologised for disturbing her at an unreasonable hour, and said in a lowered voice: ‘I wouldn’t have troubled you, miss, if I had not thought the matter serious – not to say disturbing. The master, miss, is not in his room, and his bed has not been slept in.’

  Miss Allison stared at him rather blankly. Various explanations chased one another through her head, only to be dismissed as inadequate. She said mechanically: ‘Are you sure?’