65 Short Stories (85 page)

He preceded me into the drawing-room. Janet Marsh rose as I entered and came forward to greet me. Charlie was sitting at the window, reading the evening paper; he put it aside as I went up to him and shook his hand. He was quite sober and he spoke in his usual rather perky manner, but I noticed that he looked very ill. We had a glass of sherry and went down to dinner. Janet was a woman of spirit. She was tall and fair and good to look at. She kept the conversation going with alertness. When she left us to drink a glass of port it was with instructions not to stay more than ten minutes. Bill, as a rule somewhat taciturn, exerted himself now to talk. I tumbled to the game. I was hampered by my ignorance of what exactly had happened, but it was plain that the Marshes wanted to prevent Charlie from brooding, and I did my best to interest him. He seemed willing to play his part, he was always fond of holding forth, and he discussed, from the pathologist’s standpoint, a murder that was just then absorbing the public. But he spoke without life. He was an empty shell, and one had the feeling that though for the sake of his host he forced himself to speak, his thoughts were elsewhere. It was a relief when a knocking on the floor above indicated to us that Janet was getting impatient. This was an occasion when a woman’s presence eased the situation. We went upstairs and played family bridge. When it was time for me to go Charlie said he would walk with me as far as the Marylebone Road.

‘Oh, Charlie, it’s so late, you’d much better go to bed,’ said Janet. ‘I shall sleep better if I have a stroll before turning in,’ he replied.

She gave him a worried look. You cannot forbid a middle-aged professor of pathology from going for a little walk if he wants to. She glanced brightly at her husband.

‘I daresay it’ll do Bill no harm.’

I think the remark was tactless. Women are often a little too managing. Charlie gave her a sullen look.

‘There’s absolutely no need to drag Bill out,’ he said with some firmness.

‘I haven’t the smallest intention of coming,’ said Bill, smiling. ‘I’m tired out and I’m going to hit the hay.’

I fancy we left Bill Marsh and his wife to a little argument.

‘They’ve been frightfully kind to me,’ said Charlie, as we walked along by the railings. ‘I don’t know what I should have done without them. I haven’t slept for a fortnight.’

I expressed regret but did not ask the reason, and we walked for a little in silence. I presumed that he had come with me in order to talk to me of what had happened, but I felt that he must take his own time. I was anxious to show my sympathy, but afraid of saying the wrong things; I did not want to seem eager to extract confidences from him. I did not know how to give him a lead. I was sure he did not want one. He was not a man given to beating about the bush. I imagined that he was choosing his words. We reached the corner.

‘You’ll be able to get a taxi at the church,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk on a bit further. Good night’

He nodded and slouched off. I was taken aback. There was nothing for me to do but to stroll on till I found a cab. I was having my bath next morning when a telephone call dragged me out of it, and with a towel round my wet body I took up the receiver. It was Janet.

‘Well, what do you think of it all?’ she said. ‘You seem to have kept Charlie up pretty late last night I heard him come home at three.’

‘He left me at the Marylebone Road,’ I answered. ‘He said nothing to me at all.’

‘Didn’t he?’

There was something in Janet’s voice that suggested that she was prepared to have a long talk with me. I suspected she had a telephone by the side of her bed.

‘Look here,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m having my bath.’

‘Oh, have you got a telephone in your bathroom?’ she answered eagerly, and I think with envy.

‘No, I haven’t.’ I was abrupt and firm. ‘And I’m dripping all over the carpet.’

‘Oh!’ I felt disappointment in her tone and a trace of irritation. ‘Well, when can I see you? Can you come here at twelve?’

It was inconvenient, but I was not prepared to start an argument. ‘Yes, good-bye.’

I rang off before she could say anything more. In heaven when the blessed use the telephone they will say what they have to say and not a word beside.

I was devoted to Janet, but I knew that there was nothing that thrilled her more than the misfortunes of her friends. She was only too anxious to help them, but she wanted to be in the thick of their difficulties. She was the friend in adversity. Other people’s business was meat and drink to her. You could not enter upon a love affair without finding her somehow your confidante nor be mixed up in a divorce case without discovering that she too had a finger in the pie. Withal she was a very nice woman. I could not help then chuckling in my heart when at noon I was shown into Janet’s drawing-room and observed the subdued eagerness with which she received me. She was very much upset by the catastrophe that had befallen the Bishops, but it was exciting, and she was tickled to death to have someone fresh whom she could tell all about it. Janet had just that business-like expectancy that a mother has when she is discussing with the family doctor her married daughter’s first confinement. Janet was conscious that the matter was very serious, and she would not for a moment have been thought to regard it flippantly, but she was determined to get every ounce of value out of it.

‘I mean, no one could have been more horrified than I was when Margery told me she’d finally made up her mind to leave Charlie,’ she said, speaking with the fluency of a person who has said the same thing in the same words a dozen times at least. ‘They were the most devoted couple I’d ever known. It was a perfect marriage. They got on like a house on fire. Of course Bill and I are devoted to one another, but we have awful rows now and then. I mean, I could kill him sometimes.’

‘I don’t care a hang about your relations with Bill,’ I said. ‘Tell me about the Bishops. That’s what I’ve come here for.’

‘I simply felt I must see you. After all you’re the only person who can explain it.’

‘Oh, God, don’t go on like that. Until Bill told me last night I didn’t know a thing about it.’

‘That was my idea. It suddenly dawned on me that perhaps you didn’t know and I thought you might put your foot in it too awfully.’

‘Supposing you began at the beginning,’ I said.

‘Well, you’re the beginning. After all you started the trouble. You introduced the young man. That’s why I was so crazy to see you. You know all about him. I never saw him. All I know is what Margery has told me about him.’

‘At what time are you lunching?’ I asked.

‘Half past one.’

‘So am I. Get on with the story.’

But my remark had given Janet an idea.

‘Look here, will you get out of your luncheon if I get out of mine? We could have a snack here. I’m sure there’s some cold meat in the house, and then we needn’t hurry. I don’t have to be at the hairdresser’s till three.’

‘No, no, no,’ I said. ‘I hate the notion of that. I shall leave here at twenty minutes past one at the latest.’

‘Then I shall just have to race through it. What do you think of Gerry?’

‘Who’s Gerry?’

‘Gerry Morton. His name’s Gerald.’

‘How should I know that?’

‘You stayed with him. Weren’t there any letters lying about?’

‘I daresay, but I didn’t happen to read them,’ I answered somewhat tartly. ‘Oh, don’t be so stupid. I meant the envelopes. What’s he like?’

‘All right. Rather the Kipling type, you know. Very keen on his work. Hearty. Empire-builder and all that sort of thing.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ cried Janet, not without impatience. ‘I mean, what does he look like?’

‘More or less like everybody else, I think. Of course I should recognize him if I saw him again, but I can’t picture him to myself very distinctly. He looks clean.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said Janet. ‘Are you a novelist or are you not? What’s the colour of his eyes?’

‘I don’t know’

‘You must know. You can’t spend a week with anyone without knowing if their eyes are blue or brown. Is he fair or dark?’

‘Neither.’

‘Is he tall or short?’

‘Average, I should say.’

‘Are you trying to irritate me?’

‘No. He’s just ordinary. There’s nothing in him to attract your attention. He’s neither plain nor good-looking. He looks quite decent. He looks a gentleman.’

‘Margery says he has a charming smile and a lovely figure.’

‘I dare say.’

‘He’s absolutely crazy about her.’

‘What makes you think that?’ I asked dryly.

‘I’ve seen his letters.’

Do you mean to say she’s shown them to you?’

‘Why, of course.’

It is always difficult for a man to stomach the want of reticence that women betray in their private affairs. They have no shame. They will talk to one another without embarrassment of the most intimate matters. Modesty is a masculine virtue. But though a man may know this theoretically, each time he is confronted with women’s lack of reserve he suffers a new shock. I wondered what Morton would think if he knew that not only were his letters read by Janet Marsh as well as by Margery, but that she had been kept posted from day to day with the progress of his infatuation. According to Janet he had fallen in love with Margery at first sight. The morning after they had met at my little supper party at Ciro’s he had rung up and asked her to come and have tea with him at some place where they could dance. While I listened to Janet’s story I was conscious of course that she was giving me Margery’s view of the circumstances and I kept an open mind. I was interested to observe that Janet’s sympathies were with Margery. It was true that when Margery left her husband it was her idea that Charlie should come to them for two or three weeks rather than stay on in miserable loneliness in the deserted flat and she had been extraordinarily kind to him. She lunched with him almost every day, because he had been accustomed to lunch every day with Margery; she took him for walks in Regent’s Park and made Bill play golf with him on Sundays. She listened with wonderful patience to the story of his unhappiness and did what she could to console him. She was terribly sorry for him. But all the same she was definitely on Margery’s side and when I expressed my disapproval of her she came down on me like a thousand of bricks. The affair thrilled her. She had been in it from the beginning when Margery, smiling, flattered, and a little doubtful, came and told her that she had a young man to the final scene when Margery, exasperated and distraught, announced that she could not stand the strain any more and had packed her things and moved out of the flat.

‘Of course, at first I couldn’t believe my ears,’ she said. ‘You know how Charlie and Margery were. They simply lived in one another’s pockets. One couldn’t help laughing at them, they were so devoted to one another. I never thought him a very nice little man and heaven knows he wasn’t very attractive physically, but one couldn’t help liking him because he was so awfully nice to Margery. I rather envied her sometimes. They had no money and they lived in a hugger-mugger sort of way, but they were frightfully happy. Of course I never thought anything would come of it. Margery was rather amused.

“Naturally I don’t take it very seriously,” she told me, “but it is rather fun to have a young man at my time of life. I haven’t had any flowers sent me for years. I had to tell him not to send any more because Charlie would think it so silly. He doesn’t know a soul in London and he loves dancing and he says I dance like a dream. It’s miserable for him going to the theatre by himself all the time and we’ve done two or three matinees together. It’s pathetic to see how grateful he is when I say I’ll go out with him.”

“I must say,” I said, “he sounds rather a lamb.” ‘He is,” she said. “I knew you’d understand. You don’t blame me, do you?”

“Of course not, darling,” I said, “surely you know me better than that. I’d do just the same in your place.’

Margery made no secret of her outings with Morton and her husband chaffed her good-naturedly about her beau. But he thought him a very civil, pleasant-spoken young man and was glad that Margery had someone to play with while he was busy. It never occurred to him to be jealous. The three of them dined together several times and went to a show. But presently Gerry Morton begged Margery to spend an evening with him alone; she said it was impossible, but he was persuasive, he gave her no peace; and at last she went to Janet and asked her to ring up Charlie one day and ask him to come to dinner and make a fourth at bridge. Charlie would never go anywhere without his wife, but the Marshes were old friends, and Janet made a point of it. She invented some cock-and-bull story that made it seem important that he should consent. Next day Margery and she met. The evening had been wonderful. They had dined at Maidenhead and danced there and then had driven home through the summer night

‘He says he’s crazy about me,’ Margery told her.

Did he kiss you?’ asked Janet.

‘Of course,’ Margery chuckled. ‘Don’t be silly, Janet. He is awfully sweet and, you know, he has such a nice nature. Of course I don’t believe half the things he says to me.’