Grey Mask (8 page)

Margot sat curled up in the one easy chair. She had a novel in her lap. The room was pleasantly warm, because before Margaret went out she had lighted the fire. There were no chocolates, and no one to talk to until Margaret got back at half past one. If it hadn’t been Saturday, Margaret would not have been back till nearly seven. Margot thought it was a very good thing that it was Saturday.

She was wearing a jumper and skirt of Margaret’s, and a pair of Margaret’s shoes and stockings. She was also wearing Margaret’s underclothes. Her own wet things were all in a heap inside the bedroom. It simply did not occur to her to pick them up and hang them in front of the fire to dry. After a night of profound slumber in Margaret’s bed she looked very little the worse for her fright and her wetting.

She wished she had some chocolates, and she wished Margaret would come back. The book was rather a dull one. Besides she didn’t want to read; she wanted to talk. It was frightful not to have anyone to talk to after the sort of things that had happened yesterday.

Margaret came home at half past one. She proceeded to get lunch. She had brought the lunch with her—a tin of bully beef, a loaf of bread, and a cream cheese.

“I’m hungry,” said Margot.

Margaret considered the beef and the cheese. They were meant to last over the week-end. Well, with any luck the girl would be off her hands to-day—she must be. She looked at Margot placidly eating beef and decided to wait until she had finished.

Margot announced a passion for cream cheese. She ate a good deal of it, and did not notice that Margaret ate bread and scrap; she was too busy talking about Stephanie and the skating parties they had had last winter—“I didn’t come home for the Christmas holidays”; and how Mrs. Beauchamp had taken her to Paris for Easter—“I got my coat there. Do you like it? Of course you haven’t seen it properly yet, because it’s all wet; but it’s rather nice, really, and Mrs. Beauchamp said it suited me.”

“Who is Mrs. Beauchamp?” said Margaret. She looked at the loaf, and decided that she had better not have a second piece of bread.

“Papa got her to look after me in the holidays. Can I have some more cheese?”

“And where is Mrs. Beauchamp?”

“Well, I expect she’s got to Australia by now. She was going out to see her son. Fancy! She’d never seen her grandchild—and it had the dinkiest curly hair! Don’t you call that frightfully hard?”

When Margaret had put away what was left of the loaf, the beef and the cheese, she planted herself squarely in front of Margot who had returned to the easy chair.

“Look here, we’ve got to talk. Is your name really Esther Brandon?”

Margot gazed at her ingenuously.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Then why did you say it was?”

“I thought it was a romantic name, and I thought if I was a penniless orphan and going out to earn my own living, I might just as well have a romantic name.”

“Where did you get it from?” Margaret’s deep voice was almost harsh. She sat forward in her chair and kept her eyes on Margot’s face.

Margot giggled.

“I found it on a bit of paper—a bit of a letter, you know. It was in an old desk. I expect it was my mother’s.”

Margaret drew a breath of relief. It was just a chance—a bit of some letter her mother had written long ago, perhaps to this girl’s mother, perhaps to some other relative. It didn’t really matter. She spoke again in an easier tone.

“You were going out to earn your living? How?”

Margot told her.

“I was going to be a secretary. I answered an advertisement. And he said to send my photograph, so I sent a little snapshot M’amselle took. I’ve never really had my photograph taken you know—Papa wouldn’t let me because of its getting into the papers. And the man said I’d do splendidly, and I was going there today.”

Margaret heaved a sigh of relief.

“Then you’ve got work to go to.”

“No, I haven’t—not now.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Oh!” said Margot. “He was a beast. Shall I tell you about it?”

“I think you’d better.”

Where shall I begin? Shall I begin with Egbert?”

“Who is Egbert?”

“Well, he is my cousin, and he said he wanted to marry me. And then I hid behind the sofa, and I heard him planning awful things about removing me.”

This was what she had said last night. Margaret tried to disentangle it.

“What made you hide behind the sofa?”

Margot giggled.

“Egbert said it would be a frightfully good thing for me if I married him, and I said I’d rather marry an organ-grinder, and I banged out of the room and went and posted my letter to Stephanie. And when I came back I wanted my book which I’d left in the drawing-room, and I just opened the door to see if Egbert was there. And he was. He was standing on a chair looking at one of those frightful pictures of Papa’s which are supposed to be worth such a lot of money—you know, Lely, and Rubens, and Turner, and all that lot—only Egbert says some of them aren’t—not really. He says Papa got taken in over them.”

Turner—Lely—Reubens.

Margaret said, “Go on.”

“Well, Egbert was standing on a chair, so I didn’t think he’d see me; but he got down, and I had to hide. And then he rang the bell.”

“Well?”

“It was William’s bell. He’s new since last time I was home. He’s the stupidest footman we’ve ever had.”

“Well? What about it?”

Margot leaned forward. She looked frightened.

“Egbert rang the bell, and someone came—but it couldn’t have been William, because Egbert told him all about proposing to me, and he said he expected I should have to be removed.” She shivered and caught at Margaret’s dress. “Margaret, what do you think he meant?”

“I don’t know. You’re not making this up?”

Margot giggled.

“I can’t make things up—I’m not a bit good at it. But I’m quite good at remembering. Even M’amselle said I was good at that. I can tell you every word they said if you like.”

Encouraged by a nod, Margot proceeded to repeat the conversation which she had overheard.

“What do you think they meant?”

“I don’t know. Go on.”

“Well, I just packed my box and sent the other footman for a taxi. I thought I wouldn’t send William, and I thought I wouldn’t stay till to-day in case of anybody trying to remove me. It had a frightfully horrid sort of sound—it did really—so I thought I wouldn’t stay. And I thought Mr. Percy Smith might just as well let me come a day earlier, so I took a taxi—only I didn’t go straight to his house because I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“What did you do?”

Margot looked innocently pleased with herself.

“I told the man to go to Waterloo, and when he’d gone away, I took another taxi—to Mr. Percy Smith’s. And that took every bit of the money I had except a shilling. I’ve got the shilling still.”

“And what happened at Mr. Percy Smith’s?” said Margaret gravely.

Margot blushed scarlet.

“He was a beast.”

“You’d better tell me what happened.”

“He had a horrid face—a frightfully horrid face. And he said he was awfully pleased to see me. And he took me into a room, and he said now I must have a cocktail. And I said I’d rather not. And then he said a lot of other things, and I didn’t like them. Need I tell you the things he said?”

“No,” said Margaret.

“I don’t want to. I think he was a frightfully horrid sort of man.”

“How did you get away?” said Margaret violently.

Margot stared and giggled.

“He went out of the room—he said he wouldn’t be a minute. And as soon as he’d gone, I got so frightened that I opened the window. And there was an area, so I didn’t think I could get out that way, and I was just thinking what could I do, when the postman came up to the door. And when I saw him, I ran out of the room, and I got to the front door, and I opened it, and the postman was gone. And I heard someone call out behind me, and I was frightfully afraid and I ran. Do you think it was silly of me?”

“I should think it was probably the only sensible thing you’d ever done in your life,” said Margaret.

Margot giggled again.

“You said that just like M’amselle, only she used to say, ‘You are von little fool, Margot.’ ”

The name dropped out negligently, Margaret hardly needed it; the papers had been too full lately of Mr. Standing’s affairs. That he had a collection of valuable pictures, and a nephew with the unusual name of Egbert was public property. Margot Standing’s name and the fact that she had just returned from Switzerland were public property too.

The bell of the flat rang sharply.

Margaret went to the door.

The flat consisted of two small rooms with a strip of passage between them. Two thirds of the passage had been walled off to make a kitchen about the size of a boot-cupboard. The front door and the doors of the two rooms opened into the remaining third; there was just room for them and no more.

Margaret shut the sitting-room and opened the front door. Charles Moray stood there.

“Well?” he said.

“She’s in there.” Margaret indicated the sitting-room with a nod.

“Have you found out whether she’s a long-lost relation?”

“She isn’t.”

“Look here, I want to talk to you.”

“We’ll go over to Agatha Carthew’s flat—she’s away for the week end and I’ve got the key.”

They proceeded across the landing to Miss Carthew’s flat. It appeared to be devoted to the rigours of the simple life. There was linoleum on the floor and distemper on the walls; there were two Windsor chairs and a gate-leg table; and that was all.

Charles shut the door with a bang.

“I suppose she had your bed last night, and you slept on the floor,” he began accusingly.

This was unexpected, and Margaret laughed.

“Certainly not the floor.”

“That beastly hard contraption I sampled when I was waiting for you the other night then—and no bedclothes.”

“A rug,” said Margaret firmly

Charles made an enraged sound.

“Who is the girl? You say she isn’t a relation. Are you sure she isn’t?”

“Quite sure.”

“But her name—your mother’s name?”

“That frightened me,” said Margaret frankly. “But there’s quite a simple explanation. She is—well, she’s a goose, and she found what must have been a bit of letter from my mother with her signature. She told me she thought it was a frightfully romantic name to go out and earn her living with.”

Charles burst out laughing.

“What a mind! Hasn’t she got a name of her own?”

There was a moment’s silence. Margaret’s troubled voice broke in upon it.

“I think I’d better tell you what she’s been telling me. It’s all so odd, and I don’t know what to think. I mean she may be making it up, or she may be—” She hesitated, and then said, “Odd. I don’t know what to think really.”

“Better tell me the whole thing. And why not sit down instead of wandering like something in a zoo?”

He himself was sitting on a corner of Miss Carthew’s table. Margaret came to a standstill beside him. She leaned on the back of one of the chairs.

“I won’t sit—I don’t feel like it. Look here, this is what she told me.”

She unfolded Margot’s tale in Margot’s own ingenuous words and without comment, but she kept her eyes on Charles. Charles, for his part, listened impassively. She made nothing of his expression.

“Of course, she’s a first-class little fool, but I don’t think she’s capable of inventing all this. What do you think? And does it occur to you that she may be somebody who will be looked for?”

“What do you mean by that, Margaret?” said Charles.

“Just that.”

There was a pause. Charles looked at her, dived into a pocket, and produced a copy of the Evening Gossip. He unfolded it with a certain slow deliberation and held it out. Margaret saw the large headlines and caught the paper from his hand:

MISSING HEIRESS

INTERVIEW WITH MR. EGBERT STANDING

STRANGE STORY

She turned to get the light on the paper, and Charles got off the table and read over her shoulder:

“Has Miss Standing disappeared? When our representative asked Mr. Egbert Standing this question, he replied to it in the negative. ‘My cousin,’ he said, ‘has suffered terribly from the shock of her father’s death, and from the uncertainty of her own position. It is by no means certain that she will inherit Mr. Standing’s fortune. My uncle left no will, and up to the present no legal proof of his marriage has come to light. In these circumstances my cousin decided to leave London. We are not in any anxiety on her account. We desire no publicity.’ ”

There was a good deal more of this sort of thing. There was an interview with the butler, who said that Miss Standing left the house at half past six on the previous evening; she took a taxi to Waterloo and she had with her a large brown trunk, the same she always took to school.

“Well,” said Charles, “What about it?”

“Oh, she’s Margot Standing. I guessed that as soon as she began to talk about her cousin Egbert and her father’s collection of pictures. I’m sure she’s Margot Standing—it’s her story I’m not sure about. What do you make of it? It’s pretty unbelievable—isn’t it? I don’t mean the Percy Smith part—that’s just the sort of trap a little fool of a schoolgirl would walk into. I don’t mean that; I mean all that part about her cousin and the other man planning to remove her. What do you make of that?”

Charles was making a good deal of it. He was remembering his mother’s sitting-room, and the man who had said,

“Margot,” and then, “The girl may have to be removed. A street accident would be the safest way.” And he was remembering that Margaret—Margaret—had talked with this man, that Margaret had been there. He wondered bitterly whether Margot Standing had not jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.

“Charles! Do say something! Do you think there’s anything to it?”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” The words burst out. “There’s something. She’s a little fool; but she’s not mad, and she’s not lying. What does it mean?”

Charles was standing very close to her. He had been looking over her shoulder at the paper. Then as they talked, she moved to face him. Now he touched her on the arm, a quick, insistent touch.

“Don’t you know what it means?”

“No—how can I?”

“You don’t know what it means?”

His tone startled her. “Charles—what—why should you say that?”

“Don’t you know?”

She drew back, paler. Something in her eyes—distress, anger—he wasn’t sure.

“Charles, what are you saying? What do you mean?”

Charles put a hand on her shoulder.

“Will you tell me that you’d never heard of Margot Standing before?”

“Of course I’ve heard of her. The papers—”

“That isn’t what I mean. Will you tell me that you’d never heard of her from another source?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her eyes were angry.

“Don’t you? Then will you tell me what you were doing on the night of the third of October?”

“The third?” said Margaret. “The third?” Her voice changed suddenly as she repeated the word; she was puzzled, and then she was frightened—sharply, unexpectedly frightened.

Charles felt all the muscles of her shoulder stiffen under his hand. He kept it there, holding her.

“Will you tell me what you were doing in my house that night?”

Margaret looked at him. Her eyes were dark and fierce.

“Well, Margaret?” he said; and then, quickly, “Don’t lie! I saw you.”

A wave of colour rushed to her face. She wrenched her shoulder free and flung away from him.

“How dare you say a thing like that? When did I ever lie to you?”

“When you said you loved me,” said Charles, and saw the colour ebb away and leave her fainting white.

She kept her eyes on his. They said, “I’ll never forgive you.” Then she turned from him and went to the window. With her back to him, she said in a low, hard voice,

“You saw me?”

“I saw you. And I heard—things.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard—no, I won’t tell you what I heard. It’s no good carrying coals to Newcastle.”

She turned at that.

“What do you mean?”

“That you know it already, I heard enough to make me believe Margot Standing’s story.”

“Tell me what you heard.”

“Tell me what you were doing there.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me whom you were meeting.”

“I can’t.”

“Margaret, for heaven’s sake! What sort of mess is this you’ve got into? Can’t you tell me about it? Can’t you trust me?”

“I—can’t!”

His manner changed. He said lightly,

“Then I’m afraid I can’t tell you what I heard.”

There was silence. Margaret stood looking at him. Her expression changed rapidly. He thought she was going to speak; but instead she pressed her hand over her eyes. The gesture shut him out, and shut her in. He wondered what company she had in the darkness which she was making for herself.

She dropped her hands at last. Her face was composed, too much controlled to tell him anything. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and a little tired. She said,

“Charles, what are we to do with her?”

The “we” was unexpected; it startled him.

“She doesn’t want to go back—she’s afraid to go back.”

“I think she has reason to be afraid,” said Charles.

“You do think so?”

“Don’t you?”

Margaret grew very much paler.

“Charles—” she said. Then she stopped.

Charles looked at her. His look did not help her. It was hard and steady.

“Charles—” she said again.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Charles, you asked me—what I know—I don’t—know— anything—”

“You mean you don’t know anything that you can tell me?”

“No, I don’t mean that. There’s something—I can’t tell you. But it’s not about Margot. I don’t know anything about Margot.” She paused; and all at once fire and colour came back. “Do you think I’d hurt her?”

Charles did not think anything of the sort. No evidence, not even his own, could make him think Margaret capable of hurting any girl. Every instinct, every memory rose up in her defense. He said soberly,

“No, I don’t think you’d hurt her. There might—be others.”

That struck her. She winced away from it.

“She can’t go back,” said Charles. “Can she stay here—safely?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You know. Is she safe here? Is she safe with you?”

Margaret lifted her head. The proud, familiar gesture plucked at his heart.

“Yes, she’s safe.”

“Will you swear to that?”

“Will you ask me to?”

Something passed between them—a wordless, passionate question; a passionate, wordless answer. Charles felt a rash of emotion that startled him. He said quickly, “No”; and the moment passed.

Margaret smiled. She seemed to relax, to be more the old Margaret than he had seen her yet.

“Do you want me to keep her?”

“Could you—for a day or two?”

“I suppose I could.”

Neither of them seemed to think it strange that Charles should be in charge. If Margot Standing had been a stray kitten, the affair might have passed very much as it was passing now. He led the way out of Miss Carthew’s flat and into Margaret’s. She threw open the sitting-room door and went in.

Miss Standing looked up very much as the kitten might have done; there was the same grace of pose, the same effect of soft roundness, the same wide-eyed innocence.

“This is Charles Moray who helped me to bring you home last night,” said Margaret.

Charles looked at Margot, and Margot gazed at Charles. He saw the prettiest girl he had ever seen in his life. He said,

“How do you do, Miss Standing?”