Anna, Where Are You? (24 page)

Thomasina was very unhappy. She would have liked to put four hundred miles between her and Deep End. Or, failing Scotland, she would have liked to bury herself in London and not see anyone she knew for a very long time. Most particularly she did not want to see Peter Brandon. He had said, and everyone else had said, that she would get herself into a mess if she insisted on coming to Deep End, and now there was nothing to stop any of them—or Peter—from saying, “I told you so.” Except their kind hearts. And she was just as certain as she could be of anything that Peter hadn’t got that sort of heart at all. He would not only say, “I told you so,” but he would probably go on saying it for the rest of their lives, and she couldn’t bear it. But whether she could bear it or not, she would have to stay at Deep End with the Miss Tremletts till after the inquest on Peveril Craddock. That would be only a day or two now. After it was over she could go back to town, but when the trial came on she would have to give evidence.

The thought was a nightmare. Augustus Remington would be tried for the bank murders and the murder of Peveril Craddock, and Anna Ball would be tried with him. You couldn’t let murderers go free, but when you knew people they weren’t just murderers, they were people you knew. The only comfort she had was that she would be able to pay for Anna’s defence, and perhaps it might be possible to prove that she was insane. Because of course she must be. Nobody who said the things Anna had said in the garage could be anything but mad, and if she was mad they wouldn’t hang her. She shuddered away from the word.

The Miss Tremletts were much concerned. The bright bloom which they had admired was gone. Dear Ina got up pale and heavy-eyed in the mornings, and they were sure that she did not sleep. She refused to be tempted with Gwyneth’s breakfast scones or Elaine’s Olde Tyme marmalade.

“And it stands to reason that a cup of tea is not enough to take you through the morning even if you eat a good lunch, which she doesn’t—just goes on saying not to give her so much and pushing it under her fork. We are very much distressed, Mr. Brandon—” Miss Gwyneth broke off to consider that Mr. Brandon also looked as if he had not been able to face his breakfast.

Miss Elaine echoed her sister.

“We are very much distressed.”

“But she won’t see you,” said Miss Gwyneth. “It’s no use, Mr. Brandon, she really won’t.”

“She has locked her door,” said Elaine.

They sat side by side in the quietest of their smocks. The absence of bead necklaces proclaimed the deference due to a tragic occasion. They gazed earnestly at Peter, but they had no help to give him. Thomasina was locked in her room, and she wouldn’t come out.

This went on for three days.

On the fourth day the inquest was to take place, and immediately after the inquest Thomasina was going back to town to see a solicitor and arrange about Anna’s defence.

On the evening of the third day, having reconnoitred and observed that there was a light in Thomasina’s window, Peter walked into the house without ringing, took the stairs as cautiously as any burglar, and came in upon Thomasina, whom he found in the act of changing her dress for the evening meal. As the folds of soft grey wool happened to be entirely covering her face and head, she had no means of knowing why the door had opened and shut again. The dress was beautifully warm, and quite comfortable when it was on, but it was always a devil to get into, and it chose this moment to stick. She was still wrestling with it when a firm hand pulled it down on either side and her head came through the opening.

Peter gave the folds a final pull. Then he stepped back and said in his most aggressive voice,

“I can’t imagine why women wear such insensate clothes.”

Something that had been cold and sick in Thomasina warmed a little. The warmth was anger—at least she thought it was— but it was better than the cold sickness. She found herself saying,

“They don’t! And at any rate we don’t have all those buttons and things!” And then, “Go away, Peter!”

He retreated to the door, set his back against it, and said,

“Not on your life!”

“Peter!”

“It’s not the slightest bit of good. I’ve been coming up here three times a day, and you won’t see me. You won’t see me! I never heard such a pack of damned nonsense in my life! I don’t know how much longer you expected me to go on standing for it, but I’m through! You are seeing me now, and you are going to go on seeing me until we’ve had this out!”

When Thomasina’s face came through the opening of the grey dress, Peter had found himself suddenly angry. She looked as if she had been out all night in the rain—and cold January rain at that. He was now a good deal braced by the fact that her natural colour had returned. Her eyes did not exactly sparkle, but they looked as if they might be going to do so at any moment. A secret and horrid fear that something irrevocable had happened between them, he didn’t quite know how or why, just faded out. If this was going to be a row, he was all set for it. They always had had rows, and he supposed they always would. And they didn’t matter a bit, because under all the sparring there was something enduring and strong—very, very strong. They clashed because they were both proud, and independent, and honest, and because they knew it didn’t really matter. A bout between them was not a duel, it was a fencing-match. At any moment they could drop their points and go off hand in hand. But this time—this time he had been afraid. Now he wasn’t afraid any more. He stood with his back to the door and said,

“Tamsine, don’t be a fool!”

All this time he hadn’t called her Tamsine once—all this horrible time at Deep End. It did things to her, and she was betrayed. The proud anger in her melted, and when Peter stopped propping the door and came over and took her in his arms she could do nothing but cry. And, like everything else she did, Thomasina didn’t cry by halves.

Miss Gwyneth, who had been standing outside the door for some time, was alarmed to the point of opening it. Not wide of course, but just far enough to make sure that nothing dreadful was happening. She saw Thomasina weeping vehemently on Mr. Peter Brandon’s shoulder, and she heard her say between sobs, “Oh, Peter, I’m so unhappy!” To which Mr. Brandon replied, “Darling, what you want is a hanky. Here, take a good blow and you’ll feel a lot better.” This reassured her so much that she closed the door and withdrew, followed by Miss Elaine, who had been looking over her shoulder.

When they were at a safe distance she said in the tone of one who admires some unaccountable phenomenon,

“Men always do seem to have a handkerchief. I suppose it is all those pockets!”

Miss Elaine turned an indignant face upon her.

“How can you be so unromantic, Gwyneth? Handkerchiefs indeed, when you ought to have been thinking of orange blossom! Oh, I do hope they will ask us to the wedding!”

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