Grey Mask (9 page)

Margot accepted the name without protest. She blinked those very black lashes, uncurled herself, and stood up. She continued to look at Charles.

The colour in the old green jumper and skirt of Margaret’s turned her pale blue eyes to turquoise green. Sometimes the black lashes darkened them for an instant. Her skin was amazingly fair and fine. The roses in her cheeks were the prettiest pink roses in the world.

She dimpled at Charles and inquired,

“How did you know my name?”

“I guessed.”

“I don’t see how you could guess.”

“Margaret guessed too.”

“Did she? Margaret, how did you guess?”

“If you want to keep your name a secret,” said Charles, “you mustn’t talk about your cousin Egbert.”

“Or your father’s collection of Lelys and Turners.” Margaret’s tone was a little hard.

Margot turned to Charles.

“You won’t make me go back?”

“Tell me why you don’t want to go back?”

Margot told him. The story was the same story that she had told to Margaret, and that Margaret had repeated to him. While she was speaking, he tried to piece together what she had heard Egbert say, and what he himself had overheard. The pieces fitted. But there were gaps which he meant to fill.

“You won’t send me back—will you? It’s such a big house, and what they said about removing me gave me a most frightful sort of creepy feeling. It really did.”

It gave Charles a creepy feeling too.

“No, we won’t send you back. But I think you ought to let your lawyer know where you are.”

Margot turned quite pale.

“Mr. Hale!”

“Is that his name?”

“Mr. James Hale. His father was a friend of poor Papa’s. He said Papa said all sorts of things to his father.”

“Well, I think you ought to tell him where you are.”

“Oh, I don’t want to.”

“Why on earth not?”

She leaned forward whispering.

“I thought—perhaps he was the person who was going to give the orders about removing me.” She shivered a little. “It would be frightful if I told him and he was.”

Charles agreed—he remembered a certain reference to “the lawyer.” Where everything was so uncertain, it was better to take no step than a false one.

“All right. You stay here, and we don’t tell anyone for a day or two. I’ll try and find out about your Mr. Hale. What relations have you got?”

Margot giggled.

“Everybody asks me that. I haven’t any relations except Egbert.”

“What? None at all?”

“Isn’t it funny not to have any? Papa only had one brother, and he only had Egbert. Papa hated Egbert. And if my relations were going to be like him, I’m frightfully glad they never got born.”

“What about your mother?”

Margot looked important.

“I don’t even know her name—not for certain, you know. I think it was Esther Brandon.”

Margaret swooped into the conversation.

“Don’t say that!”

Margot stared at her.

“I do think so. That’s why I took it. I think I’d better be called Esther Brandon—don’t you? Because if I go on being Margot Standing, those people might find me.”

Margaret turned away. She said,

“Don’t talk nonsense! You can’t call yourself Esther Brandon.”

Then she went over to the bookcase, picked up a book at random, and began to flick the pages over.

“Why can’t I? Why is it nonsense?” Margot spoke to Charles, not to Margaret.

“Well, there’s quite a good reason.”

“But I can’t be Margot Standing.”

“No, you can’t—can you? Let’s think of something else. You can be Miss Smith.”

She gave a little shriek.

“No, I can’t! Not Smith! Not after that horrible Percy Smith!”

“Brown then, or Wilson—unless you know any bad Browns or wicked Wilsons.”

Margot giggled.

“I’ll be Wilson—I’d rather be Wilson than Brown.”

“Brown,” said Charles reprovingly, “is a good old Scottish name.”

“I’ll be Wilson. Shall I be Margot Wilson?”

Charles considered the question, and shook his head.

“No, I don’t think so. Margot is too uncommon. We’ll make up something else out of Margaret. I suppose you are Margaret?”

The other Margaret stood with her back to them, flicking over the pages of her book. She had no idea what the book was. Charles and Margot, sitting close together, talking in low confidential tones, playing a foolish game of names. It was her flat, and she had known Charles Moray for fourteen years; but it was she who had the sense of strangeness and intrusion—she, and not Margot. Margot appeared to be perfectly at home. She heard her giggle and protest, “I won’t be Daisy!”

Charles offered her “Rita,” and got a little shriek of “Oh—no!” in reply.

“Why not? It’s a very nice name.”

“It’s not—it’s frightful.”

“Have Madge then.”

“That’s worse.”

“Madge is a perfectly good name.”

“I won’t have it.”

“What about Margie?”

“Frightful! It’s exactly like margarine.”

“Well, there aren’t any others.”

“There’s Meg,” said Margot. “I wouldn’t mind being Meg.”

Margaret felt as if someone had run a sharp knife into her very suddenly. Charles had called her Meg just once or twice—just once or twice. She did not hear what he said. She turned another page and read: “Oh, Greta’s banks are fresh and fair.” She laughed and called over her shoulder,

“You can be Greta.”

Margot got up and ran to her.

“Did you find it in your book? Let me see! I rather like it. Where is it? On—why is it banks? Is it a river? It says, ‘Greta’s banks are fresh and fair.’ ”

“Very appropriate,” said Charles.

The bell rang. Margaret pushed Sir Walter Scott back into the bookshelf and went to the door. Mr. Archie Millar stood there with a deprecating smile.

“I say, may I come in? Is there a spot of tea going?”

He was surprised at the warmth of his welcome, surprised and a good deal stimulated. Margaret and he had been very good pals for years. He began at this moment to feel a faint dawn of sentiment.

Margaret went back into the sitting-room with a little colour in her cheeks. Archie, behind her, caught sight of Charles, hailed him, and then, beholding Miss Margot Standing, stood agaze. It was Charles who rose to the occasion.

“This is Archie Millar. You’ll get used to him. Archie, make your best bow to Miss Greta Wilson. She’s staying with Margaret.”

The prettiest roses in the world became two shades deeper. Miss Greta Wilson giggled, looked between her black lashes, and found Archie a pleasant young man. In half a minute they were deep in conversation. In three minutes he had discovered that she had only just left school, that she didn’t know anyone in London, and that she loved revues, adored chocolates, and considered Moonlight and You the divinest waltz ever.

Margaret had begun to get tea. She passed to and fro from the minute kitchen. Charles did not offer to help her. He stood by the window looking down absently upon the darkening street. The lime-tree over the way had begun to lose its leaves; those that still remained were as golden as ripe corn. What on earth were they to do with the girl, far too pretty not to be remembered, far too naïve and inexperienced to be set adrift on dangerous waters full of strange cross currents and secret depths? A golden leaf fell wavering to the ground. Archie’s voice broke in:

“Charles! Here, wake up! What about our all goin’ on the bust to-night? A festive beano—what?”

Charles shook his head, and was adjured not to look like an undertaker’s assistant.

“She says she hasn’t seen a thing—you did say you hadn’t didn’t you?”

Miss Greta Wilson nodded.

“Appallin’—isn’t it? I don’t see how we can let it go on for another day. What about dinner for four and the best show we can get into at this sort of last moment?”

Charles shook his head again. The prospect of producing Greta in public was a daunting one—“She’s too pretty by half, and Lord knows whom we should meet.”

“Then what about you and me?” said Archie. “I must have somethin’ to cheer me up after the horrid blow I’ve just had—straight out of the blue, and no time to put an umbrella up.” He addressed Miss Greta Wilson, who inquired if it were raining.

Archie looked at her reproachfully.

“I’ve had a blow that’s dashed my proudest hopes into what-you-may-call-’ems.”

“What has happened, Archie?” said Margaret. “Tea is ready.”

“Unconscious of their doom, the little blighters played.”

“What little blighters? Yes, Charles, two more chairs.”

“My fondest hopes,” said Archie—“shattered by a bolt.” He produced a crumpled copy of the evening paper and waved it. “I shall want heaps and heaps of tea. The blow had driven me to drink.”

“What on earth’s happened? Charles, will you cut the bread? The knife’s most awfully blunt.”

“There’s womanly sympathy for you!” said Archie. “I’ve got a broken heart, and she talks about blunt knife! I’ve lost my heiress. Pain and anguish wring my brow. And no one offers to be a ministerin’ angel—unless Greta will. Will you be a ministerin’ angel, Greta?”

The late Miss Margot Standing dimpled, coloured, and said,

“It’s frightfully romantic. I’d love to.”

“Here’s your tea, Archie. I didn’t know you’d got an heiress. Charles, that’s yours—there are four lumps of sugar in it.”

“Nobody knew but me. Concealment’s been preyin’ like a tiddleyum upon my damask cheek—Shakespeare! And I’ve been sittin’ like Patience on a thing-ummy-jig smilin’ at grief—more Shakespeare—same speech—ibid, as they say in the books.’

“Who was she?”

“She wasn’t an heiress,” said Archie mournfully. “What’s the good of my fixin’ my young affections on a girl with several millions tacked on, when the evenin’ paper suddenly bursts out with the horrid bomb that she isn’t goin’ to have the millions after all? Alas, they are another’s; they never can be mine—not Shakespeare this time. The cash is Egbert’s.”

Greta dropped her tea-cup with a splash. The tea dripped on the green jumper. She repeated, “Egbert!” giggled, and repeated it again.

“Egbert Standing,” said Archie. “Revoltin’ name! The daily press that never lies says that Egbert scoops the lot—he gets the whole caboodle, and Margot doesn’t even get a smell of it. I’ve taken to drink.”

He passed up his cup.

Miss Greta Wilson made no attempt to wipe the tea off her jumper. She fixed her pale blue eyes on Archie with the unwinking stare of a kitten and asked,

“Did you know her?”

Archie shook his head.

“Perhaps she’s frightfully ugly,” pursued Greta.

“She’s probably hideous,” said Archie. “If she weren’t, there’d have been about a million photos of her in all the papers.”

Greta’s colour rose.

“Would you marry a girl who was perfectly hideous, just because she had heaps of money?”

“Ah!” said Archie. “If it were to keep my Aunt Elizabeth’s parrot out of the workhouse, I might. Some day I’ll tell you about it—‘A Hero’s Sublime Sacrifice. A Parrot’s Trust Rewarded. Devoted Nephew Saves Indigent Feathered Friend. Matchless Masterpiece In Seventeen Episodes Featurin’ Archibald Millar.’ Hullo, that’s an idea! Let’s all go to the pictures. I feel as if it might soothe me to sit in the dark and hold Margaret’s hand.” He said “Margaret,” but he looked at Greta. Greta blushed.

They went to the cinema. Charles did not see very much of the film. What on earth were they to do with the girl? Margaret was out all day. Would Greta sit at home like a good little girl and twiddle her thumbs? “I don’t think,” said Charles. He gazed gloomily at a close-up of a glad-eyed heroine embracing a strong, silent hero. The embrace seemed to last an unconscionable time.

They came out into a fine drizzle of rain. Charles felt himself touched on the arm. He looked round and saw an old lady in a black cloak and an old-fashioned bonnet. She was holding up an umbrella, but she held it tilted sideways so that Charles could see her face. Under the meekly banded hair Miss Maud Silver’s nondescript eyes looked at him.

For a yard or two they walked side by side. The umbrella was no longer tilted, but a small, old voice spoke from beneath it:

“Jaffray is just ahead of us—there, beyond the big man in the overcoat. I’d like you to follow him. He’s going to meet someone.”

Charles said, “All right,” and looked round for the rest of his party. Archie was in the road waving to a taxi; Margaret and Greta on the kerb.

He reached Margaret, said good-night hurriedly, and pursued the deaf man. It was easy enough to keep him in view without being remarked as long as the pavement was so crowded; one had only just to keep one’s own place in the stream and move with it. Presently, however, there was no stream, and Charles fell back a little. Mr. Jaffray got into a Hammersmith bus, and as he went inside, Charles thought it as well to go outside.

At Hammersmith Broadway Jaffray got out and walked again. Charles kept the other side of the narrow street. It went on drizzling, but Jaffray had no umbrella, nor had Charles. He reflected that an umbrella was the best disguise in the world.

Jaffray walked on and on. Charles had been wondering whether the man was merely going home; but he passed the turning that led to Gladys Villas and kept on at the same steady pace. When he came to the Great West Road, he turned on to it and kept on walking. Charles began to wonder whether he meant to walk to Slough—or Bath. However, after a quarter of a mile Jaffray stopped, took out a watch, looked at it, and began to walk slowly up and down.

Charles felt at a disadvantage. There is no cover on the Great West Road. Pedestrians are sufficiently few in number to attract attention, and every inch of the roadway and the spaces beside it were continually lit up by the glare of passing headlights. The place was about as public as the middle of an empty ball-room, and almost as brightly lighted.

Jaffray walked up and down, and Charles lurked as far from the track of the headlights as he could. Ten minutes passed. Charles decided that he had no vocation for the life of a sleuth; it appeared to him unutterably dreary, boring, flat, and dull. If it hadn’t been so damp, he would have sat down, gone to sleep—and finished the night as a drunk at the nearest police station. This exhilarating thought had just occurred to him, when something happened.

A large Daimler coming from London slowed down as it passed him and stopped near Jaffray. It stopped at the moment that Jaffray was shaking out an unusually large white handkerchief.

Charles meandered slowly toward the car. It had a London number. He noted it. By the time he had done this, Jaffray was in the car, and the car was off.

One cannot pursue a Daimler on foot. Charles went home in a most disgruntled mood.

On Monday morning he visited Miss Silver. She had finished the grey stockings, and was knitting something small, white, and fleecy that looked like a baby’s boot. She nodded to Charles and went on knitting,

“Sit down, Mr. Moray. Did you follow Jaffray?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What happened?”

Charles told her what happened. She nodded again.

“Yes, I knew it would be the Great West Road, and I didn’t think my make-up was altogether suitable. Did you see who was in the car?”

“One man.”

“Did you see his face?”

The busy needles stopped for a moment as she asked the question.

“He was wearing dark goggles,” said Charles.

Miss Silver went on knitting.

“I wish you had seen his face—but it can’t be helped.”

“I’ve got the number of the car.”

“So have I,” said Miss Silver. “Jaffray bought it on Friday.”

“Jaffray bought it!”

“Jaffray bought it from Hogstone and Cornhill. He paid for it in notes and took it away on Saturday afternoon to a garage in the Fulham Road.”

“Who fetched it away?” said Charles.

“Jaffray did. He called for it about eight o’clock on Saturday evening.”

Charles frowned.

“Jaffray called for it, but someone else drove it down the Great West Road and picked Jaffray up at eleven o’clock—”

“Of course I don’t know,” said Miss Silver; “but Jaffray probably parked the car somewhere, and the owner picked it up.”

“Who is the owner?”

“I wish you had seen his face,” said Miss Silver.

“You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know. I have the numbers of the notes. I will try and trace them back.” There was a pause. Then she said, ”Have you anything to tell me, Mr. Moray?”

Charles said, “No,” and then added, “I’ve things to ask you. I want to know more about the servants in the Standing household.”

“Who do you want to know about?”

“All the men servants, I think—a footman called William in particular.”

Miss Silver laid down her white fleecy knitting and took up the brown exercise-book.

“I have some notes about the servants here.” She turned the pages and read; “ ‘Pullen’—the butler’s name is Pullen.”

“How long has he been there?”

“A few weeks only. I was going to explain that to you—none of the servants have been there for more than a few weeks with the exception of the housekeeper, Mrs. Long, and her daughter, who is head housemaid. The house was shut up all the summer. Miss Standing was abroad for the summer holidays with her chaperone, Mrs. Beauchamp. Mr. Standing was not in town. Mrs. Long and her daughter act as caretakers, and Mrs. Long engages servants when Mr. Standing wishes the house to be opened. He came back for a fortnight in September, and was expected again next month. All the servants were engaged in September. Is that clear?”

“Quite.”

“Pullen, then, is the butler. I have what the French would call his dossier. His last place was with the Dowager Lady Perringham at her place in Dalesshire.” Miss Silver broke off and coughed gently. “Lady Perringham was fortunate enough not to suffer from the epidemic of burglary which took place in her neighbourhood last year.”

“There were burglaries?”

“I thought perhaps you might have read about them. Most of the big houses in the neighbourhood suffered. The historic Dale Leston silver was stolen, and has never been recovered. The Kingmore pearls were taken. Lady Perringham was fortunate. Pullen was with her for six months. Before that he was in Scotland with Mr. Mackay. Do you remember the St. Andrade burglary?”

Charles shook his head.

“I’ve been in the wilds.”

“Mr. St. Andrade is a Brazilian millionaire—that is, he made his money in Brazil. His wife had a collar of emeralds which were reputed to be the finest in the world. They were stolen whilst Mr. St. Andrade was occupying a shooting-box about five miles from Mr. Mackay’s. The thief was surprised, and the emeralds were dropped by him in his flight.”

“I see,” said Charles. “Go on.”

“There are two footmen,” said Miss Silver. “Frederick Smith—no, I don’t think there’s really anything of interest with regard to Frederick Smith—a coachman’s son; very respectable; last character satisfactory, three years. The other footman is William Cole. He was for three months with Mrs. James Barnard, and left at the close of the season with a good character. The only curious thing about William Cole is this—I can’t find out where he came from, or what he was doing before he went to Mrs. James Barnard.”

“Did anything odd happen whilst he was there—to Mrs. Barnard or to any of her friends?”

“No,” said Miss Silver. “No—not exactly, Mr. Moray. Of course there was the scandal about Mr. Barnard’s nephew.”

“What scandal?”

“It was hushed up. He was said to have forged his uncle’s name. He has left the country, I understand.”

There seemed to be a lot of tangled threads that led nowhere.

Charles hesitated. Then he said,

“There is some connection between William Cole and Egbert Standing. I think Egbert Standing is Number Thirty-two of Grey Mask’s little lot. William is probably Twenty-seven—I’m not sure—it might be Pullen. I don’t know about Pullen—he sounds a bit fishy. But I’m sure William is in it up to the neck, and I rather think he’s Number Twenty-seven.”

Miss Silver turned back the pages of the brown copy-book.

“Twenty-seven came to report. You saw him. What was he like?”

“I saw his back—tallish—thinnish—bowler hat—overcoat. Any number of him walking about all over London.”

“It might be William,” said Miss Silver. “Pullen is the typical butler—a stout sedate person.”

“It wasn’t Pullen.”

Miss Silver fixed her eyes upon him.

“Why do you think it was William?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“You are not being very frank, are you?”

“Not very,” said Charles with a disarming smile.

Miss Silver sighed. After a pause she proceeded to give the dull histories of housemaids, bootboys, and so forth.

“Any news of Miss Standing?” said Charles.

Miss Silver gazed placidly at him.

“Do you wish me to give you news of Miss Standing?” she said.

It was years since Charles had blushed; he did not blush now. He smiled delightfully.

“Or of Miss Langton?” said Miss Silver, still gazing.

She saw the dark colour come into his face. With a little nod she turned her attention to the white bootee.

Charles took his leave. He admired Miss Silver; but he became aware that he was a good deal afraid of her.