Heads You Lose (3 page)

“Well, we don’t know about James; he’s never actually said anything. I think he only remembers in the intervals of reading Horace and Shakespeare. All the same, I do think it’s there.”

“Oh, it’s there all right, as you call it,” said Venetia, smiling. “I only wish that Henry would ever look at me the way James, just occasionally, looks at you.”

“Henry adores you,” protested Fran.

“Yes, but not in the same way as I adore him, darling; and. not in the way James adores you. I suppose you wouldn’t understand, not having been in love yourself but only having had people in love with you, how dreadful it is to sort of ache with love for anybody who just comfortably loves you back. Before I was married, such a lot of people ached about me; it was just my luck to pick on the one that only loved me coolly and kindly and affectionately… People all thought Henry was terribly lucky to marry me, I know they did, just because he was a Jew and not very good-looking and not as up in society as some of the others… but if they only knew, it was me that was the lucky one; because I wanted Henry so terribly much more than he wanted me. And after six months of marriage, things haven’t changed very much. If I were you, Fran, I should marry Pen or James; don’t wait for someone you’re violently in love with yourself. I assure you it’s far more comfortable to be loved than to be in love.”

Fran scratched her head, Laurel-fashion, and repeated her little grimace. “Well, I suppose it’ll work itself out; anyway, I’d better wait till I’m asked! It’s funny, though, when you think that we used to look upon Pen as an uncle, when we were little girls.”

“Not so funny for Pen,” said Venetia seriously.

Pendock did not think so either. Walking across the lawn at Miss Morland’s side, he was deep in thought, cursing those crinkly grey hairs on either side of his handsome head. “Fran must be twenty-four or five,” he thought, “and I’m exactly twice her age. Why does she get lovelier every time she comes to Pigeonsford? She used to be a little leggy dark-haired colt of a creature, and goodness knows I thought I loved her then; but now she’s a woman, for all her childishness… I can’t keep it back any longer. I shall have to speak to Lady Hart…”

He became conscious that his companion was talking, talking rapidly and rather hysterically, pouring forth the flood of her angry jealousy: “… so, really, Mr. Pendock, you must forgive me for being so abrupt with one of your guests, but to see her posturing and preening herself in that dreadful little hat and with all that paint on her face, well, really, when I was her age—and no doubt that’s a very long time ago—I was taught to believe that only women of loose morals behaved like that. Of course we poor village people can’t be expected to keep up with all the smart London set and their ways, but really—well, now, honestly, in your heart, Mr. Pendock, what would you think of
me
if
I
were to behave in such a way?”

The thought of Grace Morland moving among them as Francesca had done, laughing and blushing and showing off that dear little, funny little hat, was so grotesque that Pendock could only laugh. He did not know that she was jealous, only that she was absurd. He stood with his hand on the gatepost, looking at her and laughing, and all his heart was warm with the thought of Fran. Grace, listening to his laughter, shivering from the tender, far-away look in his eyes, screamed at him suddenly, all her defences down: “You would say that I was what
she
is; you would say that I was no better than a—no better than a—nothing but a
tart
!”

She burst open the door of her house and ran, weeping, up to her room.

Fran, first of the women to come down to dinner that evening, paused for a moment at the door of the drawing-room. James Nicholl stood with his back to the tall Adam mantelpiece, a cocktail-glass in his hand, looking as usual more than half asleep. He roused himself sufficiently to say as she came across the room towards him: “You look like an orchid, Fran; one of those big Catelyas. I don’t know how you contrive to be so full of colour when you’re wearing a plain grey dress.”

James made her nervous, lately. She did not know whether or not to take him seriously, and now she said lightly: “Thank you, my pet. It’s not often we hear such pretty speeches from you.”

“You’re going to hear a very pretty one indeed, if only the rest of the party will take a bit longer to dress,” he said, still not hurrying his words. “I observed for the first time, to-day, that our Pen has got his eye on you; and in case you should make up your mind too quickly in his favour, I thought I’d better so far abuse his hospitality as to inform you that I also am in the running. I don’t know if you knew. Have a cocktail?”

She looked at him, bewildered, but accepted the cocktail. “I feel I need it. Is this a proposal, James?”

“It would be, if there was time,” said James, glancing towards the door. “But it’s rather a long story. Do you think you could bear to listen to it some time this evening?”

“Well, James, of
course.
I mean, I don’t mean ‘of course’ to the proposal, but of course I’d like to listen to the story and—and then—well, we could—see. But we can’t very well march off by ourselves after dinner, if that’s what you mean.”

“You think Pendock might not be too pleased? No, you’re right, I don’t think he would. On the other hand, I’ve made up a beautiful speech and I’d like you to hear it. Look here; will you meet me after they’ve all pushed off to bed? Come out on the terrace—or, better still, come down to the orchard and we’ll go for a walk in the moonlight. It’s a lovely evening for courting.”

Pendock came in, followed after a few minutes by Lady Hart. “Sherry for me, please, Pen dear. Fran, what’s the matter? You look rather white.”

“I can’t possibly, darling; I’ve got pots of rouge on. Where’s the Black Boy?”

Venetia and Henry arrived, and Aziz came busily in at the heels of the butler. “Come on, my enemy alien,” said Fran, picking him up in her arms. “What an old faggot that Morland is! Fancy saying she wouldn’t have him, just because he’s a mouldy German… my heavenly one…” She trailed off into the dining-room, murmuring lovingly into a velvet ear.

They sat down to dinner: Pendock at one end of the glowing old mahogany table, Lady Hart on his right, jolly and vivacious in her flowing black velvet frock, a scrap of old lace sitting crookedly on top of her head to hide the scarcity of her soft white hair; Venetia on his left, her hair a shining halo round her little head; Fran, rather silent, still a trifle white under the pots of rouge. Henry contributed a theory that Aziz had been a simple British bull-dog doing a spot of secret service work in Germany, when suddenly the wind had changed…

Bunsen came in with the coffee. “And a telephone call for Captain Nicholl, sir.”

“For me?” said James, surprised. “Who on earth knows I’m here?” He rose to his feet. “Well, I’d better go and find out, I suppose. Don’t say they’re packing up my leave!”

It was a very long call. They drank their coffee and poured out glasses of port. James came back, looking a little strained. “It was nothing. Just somebody—ringing me up.”

“No!”
said Venetia, laughing.

They moved off into the drawing-room, and settled down to Vingt-et-un. “I don’t think I’ll play,” said James, counting out matches with a casual forefinger. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. I’ll go for a stroll outside.” Over their unsuspecting heads he signalled to Francesca: “The orchard—eleven o’clock.”

So that at half-past ten Fran yawned prodigiously and announced that it was terribly late, and she thought they all ought to go to bed. As her present passion for Vingt-et-un usually kept them up till the early hours of the morning, this declaration was received with astonishment, not unmingled with relief. Aziz departed for a brief and business-like walk upon the terrace and a second handkerchief was sacrificed to his muddy paws; he went contentedly upstairs, tucked under Venetia’s arm. Pendock, key in hand, stood at the front door and called out: “Is James in?”

Fran applied her ear to the door of James’s room. “He says he’s gone to bed,” she called back, hanging over the banisters; “he’s still got a headache and he wants to go to sleep.”

Pendock locked the door and came slowly upstairs. “I hope we’re not getting flu or anything,” he said. “I feel rather rotten myself. Ought I to go in and see if he’s all right?”

“No, no, he’s fine,” said Fran hastily. “You know what it is when you’ve got a headache; he just wants to be left alone.” She made a private resolution to be terribly nice to Pen to-morrow to make up for all these lies.

“Don’t you want to say good-night to Aziz, Pen?” Venetia was saying, obligingly thrusting a black face up to his. “Kiss your Uncle Pen good-night, angel. There! Isn’t he sweet?”

“Don’t
let him lick people, darling.”

“Now, Granny, you’re getting like the Morland. Pen likes saying good-night to him, don’t you, Pen?”

“Couldn’t sleep without it,” said Pen, laughing, retreating to his room. “Good-night, Venetia; goodnight, Lady Hart; good-night, Fran.”

“Good-night, Aziz,” said Fran, laying her cheek against the soft tan muzzle. “Sleep tight, my sweetie; don’t forget, Venetia, it’s my turn to have him to-morrow. Good-night, darling. Good-night, Henry. Goodnight, Gran…”

She slipped into her room and stood behind the door.

P
ENDOCK WAS DREAMING. HE
dreamt that he was walking down a long, dim tunnel and that at the end of the tunnel, out in the light, stood the figure of a woman. It seemed to him of terrible importance that he should see the woman’s face. He struggled towards her, dragging his leaden limbs, and, coming out into the sunshine, put his hand under her chin; but just as he was about to lift her face, there was a tremendous thundering in the tunnel behind him. He turned to see what was making the noise, and when he turned back again, the woman was gone… and he was lying in bed with the strangest sense of foreboding in his head and heart. There was a loud, insistent knocking at his door.

“Come in!” he called, sitting up and switching on his bedside lamp; something must be wrong, for it was not yet midnight.

Lady Hart came into the room and towards the bed; she was clad in a dressing-gown, and her kind old face was shockingly white and drawn. She said, before he could speak: “Pen, you must come at once. Something dreadful’s happened, and I’m…” She seemed reluctant to say it but at last she burst out: “I’m terrified!”

“What’s
happened?” he said, struggling into his dressing-gown, pushing his feet into slippers.

“Bunsen has found a girl—has seen a girl—” She was trembling all over and she leant for a moment against the bedpost. “There’s a woman lying in the garden, Pen, down by the drive. She—I—she seems to be wearing Fran’s hat—Fran’s new little hat. …”

“But Fran—where’s Fran?” he said sharply, his heart like ice.

“She’s not in her room,” said Lady Hart, swaying, clinging to the bedpost now. “Her—her bed hasn’t been slept in. I went straight there. Pen—she’s not in her room. …” She slid gently into a faint and lay in a huddled heap on the floor beside the bed.

Pendock did not even see her. He was taking the stairs three at a time, wrestling with the lock of the big front door, leaping the steps and running out into the moonlit garden, sick with a horrible dread. Bunsen came across the lawn to meet him, white-faced, with protruding eyes. “This way, sir; down by the gate. My god, sir, it’s dreadful; she’s—her head…”

She was lying in a ditch that ran by the side of the drive and down to the little stream; he could see her quite clearly in the moonlight, her legs at a dreadful angle, her arms bent under her, her head—her head had been hacked from her body and then clapped back again on to her neck; and on top of this dreadful, this bloodless, lolling head was thrust, in all its absurdity, Fran’s new hat. A mist like blood passed before his eyes; he closed them to shut out the horror of it, and falling at last on to his sagging knees, he started to crawl towards the horrible figure, going up close to it, flinging aside that frightful, that obscene gay hat; and pushing away the dark hair that hung, blood-clotted, across the face, he staggered to his feet and, at the side of the ditch, lay panting and vomiting till the world was still again.

But it was not Francesca’s lovely face that had leered out at him, dark and distorted, from the tangle of dripping hair; the body in the ditch, the severed head, the face beneath the brave little hat—they were Grace Morland’s.

Lady Hart had roused herself by the time Pendock got back to the house, and was sitting on the edge of his bed, still looking frightened and dazed. “It’s Grace Morland,” he said, wasting no time. “She’s been murdered. We’ve got to get hold of Fran.”

She looked as though she would faint again, but pulled herself together and staggered to her feet. “Thank God it isn’t Fran—I was terrified. I couldn’t think straight… I’m afraid I must have fainted after I spoke to you, and I’ve just been sitting here, trying to pull myself together. We’d better go to her room.”

She was curled up like a kitten, apparently sound asleep in her bed. As they switched on the light, she stirred and turned over and opened a drowsy eye. “Who is it? What is it? Granny! Is it an air raid?”

Lady Hart stared at her, thunderstruck. “Francesca! How long have you been in bed?”

“How long?” asked Fran, pushing back her hair and sitting up staring at them. “All night; well, I mean, ever since I came to bed. I’ve been asleep for hours.”

“There’s been an accident,” said Pendock, coming forward into the room. “Something’s happened to Grace Morland. They’ve found her—well, she’s dead, poor thing.”

“Dead?
Grace Morland? How could she be dead?”

Terror had made Pendock angry and irritable. He said roughly: “By the simple expedient of having her head cut off.”

The door of Venetia’s room opened and she came out in her dressing-gown, the dachshund clasped in her arms. “I thought I heard voices. Has something happened? Is it an air raid?”

“Grace Morland’s had her head cut off,” said Fran, and burst into hysterical laughter.