house of women (28 page)

apparently, all correct and above board. " Again he was biting on his lip; and now Peggy spoke for the first time: " Surely somebody else must be in on it;

he couldn't have done it all on his own. What about Wilkins, Ted Wilkins? "

"Oh, Ted Wilkins hasn't got the brains he was born with. He shows customers round, does a lot of car-talk that has nothing to do with the money part of it. He can hardly write his own name, but nevertheless he's a good salesman. No, you can count him out. And yet, you know, looking back now to the time I offered the bold boy more Sunday help, he refused; he said, what trade there was he and Ted Wilkins could manage. I remember the words he used: there were hours when they were standing picking their nails, he said. Oh, he's been picking his nails all right, and sharpening them in order to count the notes." He turned back to the desk, and gathered up the papers and books, saying, "I'm not going to bother putting that back on, not the night, Peggy, anyway.

Come along with me." Then at the door, before opening it, he said,

"Lass, if I know anything, this is going to be the end of your battle."

They reached the hall to see Emma standing to the side of the stairs shivering.

"Don't worry; it'll soon be over," Peggy said to her.

"Come along upstairs and go to your room, and bolt the door. And don't open it, mind, until I tell you." And she pressed Emma before her, up the stairs and to her room, and waited outside until she heard the key being turned in the lock. Only then did she nod to Henry and precede him along to the end of the corridor. And as they walked Henry

whispered, "Lizzie should be here; I had intended that she should, but things have moved too fast."

They paused outside Mrs. Funnell's door and exchanged glances as the low murmur of voices came to them. Then, without knocking. Henry pushed open the door and, clutching back, brought Peggy forward, and so they entered the room together, there to see the old lady propped up in bed, and seated by her side, a handkerchief wound round his knuckles, was Andrew.

Before either Peggy or Henry had time to speak, Mrs. Funnell, looking at Peggy, cried, "I was just about to ring for you. Have you gone clean mad? Do you want to cause a murder in the house now?"

Peggy walked to the foot of the bed and, nodding at her

great-grandmother, said, "Yes; yes, there could be a murder in the house, but I wouldn't be the one to commit it; I've already missed, so it's your turn now."

The old lady screwed up her face and her blue lips pouted as she drew in her chin and said, "What's the matter with you, girl?"

"Nothing, Great-gran; there's nothing the matter with me."

"Nothing the matter with you, girl, when you nearly brain your husband!"

"Oh, that's nothing to what you'll want to do to him in a minute.

Great-gran. "

She now watched Andrew rise to his feet. His slack mouth was wide, but his teeth were close together: he looked like a man about to spit a great distance. Turning to Henry, she said, "Break the news gently to Great-gran, Henry."

The old woman narrowed her eyes, pressed herself back on to her pillows and, looking from one to the other, she said, "What is this?"

and her gaze came to rest on Andrew. But he was staring at Henry, and something in Henry's face must have warned him of approaching danger for, suddenly gripping his wrist, he turned away and was about to make for the door when Henry said, "Just a minute."

"I'll be back shortly," Andrew growled; 'my hand's aching. "

"Well, you'll have plenty of time to see to that later when I've finished saying what I have to say to you. Just remember, under Mrs.

Funnell, I'm still your boss, you know. You've forgotten that a number of times lately, haven't you?"

"What you getting at ... ? And don't push me. Don't you lay a hand on me."

"I had no intention of laying a hand on you; I'll leave that to the police."

"What!" Mrs. Funnell had pulled herself up from the pillows.

"What's this? What are you talking about, Brooker? Police?"

"Yes, Mrs. Funnell, I was talking about the police;

unless, that is, you would not wish to press the case against him of robbing you for years. "

"What d'you mean, robbing her for years? What you trying to pull?"

"It's no use, Jones. You can put all the faces you like on it but you can't get away from the proof. You've been stupid, you know. You thought you were so clever, didn't you? But when you thieve you should never put it in writing; it goes against you."

"What is this?" It was a high croak from the bed.

"What are you talking about, Brooker? Spit it out, man. Spit it out."

For answer Henry moved up the side of the bed and, throwing the cheque book stubs and the notebook on to the bed, he said, "Your great Sunday business man has made at least fifty pounds a go, sometimes as much as a hundred, on each backyard car he's sold. It's enabled him to buy a house for his mistress and bank thousands under an assumed name. It's all there."

Mrs. Funnell did not look at the evidence lying in her lap, but at the man she had come to love as

a son almost from the day he married her great- granddaughter. She'd never had a son; she'd always wanted a son. Her daughter had given off a daughter and her daughter had given off a daughter: women . women in the house all the time. She did not consider Len Hammond, she had hated him from the beginning, but Andrew Jones was something different.

He was young and pleasing and he amused her. He had kept her in touch with all that went on in the Works, underground, that is.

Underground. Her eyes dropped to the evidence on the bed. She picked up one thing after another and scanned it, but her scanning was enough to prove that dear Andrew Jones had been robbing her for years. She turned her head slowly and looked at him. She had known he wasn't a good husband. She had known he had women on the side. She could

forgive all that. She could forgive the unnatural feeling he had towards his daughter. But that he would swindle her, that he would do her out of money, her money, this was another thing altogether. She knew she was an old woman and she hadn't all that long to live, and her one regret in facing death was she'd have to leave her money behind.

And she had money, a lot of money. She had accumulated it not only directly from the car business, but also from having had fingers in pies that no member of the family knew about. Only her solicitor knew the extent of what she was worth. Even her bank manager hadn't an inkling. And how had she come by all of this money? Through being careful and wise with her investments. She had always seen to her own accounts. When she wasn't able to get up, her solicitor came to her.

She had never believed in God, not since she was thirteen, when she had refused to go to Sunday School; but she had taken to herself a God very early on in life, and its name was 'money'. And during these latter years, when she couldn't get about so much, it had become her main interest in life. Even knowing that she couldn't take it with her, she was determined to have some fun out of life; not that she would

actually experience it fully, but she could allow her mind to dwell upon it and be titillated by it: she was going to leave the bulk of what she owned to her second interest in life; in fact, he vied with the first, dear Andrew.

She felt a pain under her ribs as she stared at him. His face was devoid of colour. She wanted to cry at him, "It isn't true, is it?

They've got it in for you because I've made so much of you; they're jealous. " But his countenance at this moment could have hanged him; he couldn't meet her gaze: his eyes were flicking here and there as if looking for a way of escape. And then she screamed, " You! You've done this to me after all I've . There was a choking

in her throat, and a voice was yelling excuses in her head: well, they're all at it. Everybody's at it. What's a few hundred put on a car? But he had said he only ever thought of her. He . he had, in a way, made love to her; her, an old woman: he had not only stroked her hands but massaged her; when she had cramp in her calves he had got rid of it; he had sat her up and manipulated her shoulders; he had made her feel like a young girl, while all the time he was . taking her for an old fool. The pain was getting worse. She screamed, "Get out of my sight! You'll pay for this; I'll have ... have the police on you."

"Stop it. Don't agitate yourself. Lie quiet." Peggy's hand was on the old woman's brow stroking her hair back. She did not turn and look at Henry when she said, "Ring for the doctor'; the urgency was there, and he hurried out of the room, only to come to a dead stop on the landing when he saw Jones knocking on Emma's door, saying, " Emma!

Emma!

Open up. Do you hear me? "

"Yes, she heard you. Now get away from there! And if you're wise, you'll make yourself scarce."

Jones turned and faced Henry.

"You've always had it in for me, haven't you?" he said.

"Well, you can do nothing."

"Don't be a fool. And you are a fool, you know, and a knave, but not a clever enough one, otherwise you wouldn't have kept the evidence. But you wanted to be reminded each week of where you stood, didn't you?

How the sum was mounting;

that's been your undoing. Anyway, I'll not expect you into work

tomorrow. You understand? And it will all depend on Mrs. Funnell where you'll be at this time tomorrow night. You've cooked your goose.

And I'm going to tell you another thing: if you don't want to be up on two charges, you leave Emma alone. "

Henry's head jerked backwards when it seemed Jones was about to spring on him; but it was his words that hit him with such force as they were ground out, "She's my daughter. When I go, she goes."

"Oh no, she won't."

"You keep out of this."

"That's what I'll not do. I'm away to phone the doctor, but before I do that, I'll phone the police. I'll put a stop to your gallop one way or the other; I'll arrange it so you won't be able to lay a hand on her."

As Henry hurried towards the stairs Jones sent a mouthful of such obscenities after him that his step was checked for a moment; but he stopped himself from turning and going back and banging his fist into the dirty mouth.

Jones now hurried across the landing and into his own room, and there he stood pondering for

a second, defiance in his attitude, one which was prompting him to stay and try to talk the old bitch over. His common sense, however, told him that she was past talking over; she would just as likely have him put into jail as not.

His teeth grinding together and like one demented, he began pulling clothes from the wardrobe and from the chest of drawers; then he crammed them into two large cases he had taken from a shelf in the top of the cupboard. The last articles he took were from the

dressing-table drawer: gold cufflinks, three watches and two signet rings. Then, putting on an overcoat, he lifted up the two cases and walked towards the door. But there he paused for a moment and looked back around the room, and only then did it really register that, as Brooker had said, he had been a fool: he should never have kept any receipts. But yes, he had found it good from time to time to look on the evidence of his cleverness. Some odd need in him craved for

praise, and the only way it could be satisfied was to tot up each week the amounts out of which he had diddled the firm, forgetting that the firm was the old girl. If he had been wise he should have left all the business in the bungalow. But then Rosie wasn't as simple as she appeared to be; she was nosey and liked to get to the bottom of

things. He'd always had to keep a watchful eye on her. But oh, what he had lost through this one slip, this one little slip of stupidity: this room, this house, and, aye, by God! the business. Oh yes, she had hinted at that. She had been hinting at it with glee for some time now, telling him that they were all going to get a shock when she was gone, but insinuating in her own way that his shock would be

pleasant.

Oh, very pleasant.

His reverie over, he put down the cases, opened the door, then lifted up the cases again and went out, and made his going as noiseless as possible. But after putting the cases in the boot of the car he turned and looked back towards the house and to the window of his daughter's room, and it was as if he had yelled aloud, for he could hear the voice in his mind, crying, "Married? Not if I know anything about it.

If that's the last thing I do, I'll stop that. By God! I will. "

Mrs. Funnell had suffered a slight stroke. Her left arm was

affected, and also her mouth was slightly twisted, but she could still talk. And talk she did, alternating from venom to supplication. The venom was directed against her once dear boy, and never a day passed but she demanded to know if the police had yet found him.

Her supplication was aimed mainly at Peggy. Peggy wouldn't leave her, would she? Oh, she knew all about her and Charlie, and she wouldn't mind Charlie coming into the house once the divorce was through. No, she didn't want her granddaughter Lizzie and Henry here. Lizzie was hard: she didn't understand her. And she would leave everything to her if only she would stay with her to the end, and the end, as she could surely see, wasn't very far off.

All this cringing had come about because Peggy had stated that, once the divorce was through, she would then lead her own life, that she had had enough of this house and all that was in it. This she had said to her mother in a low voice whilst in the bedroom, imagining that the old woman was asleep. But although Mrs. Funnell lay most of the day with her eyes closed, only she knew that she slept very little and that her mind was as active and as clear as it had always been.

They were well into the New Year now; in fact, it was already the beginning of March, and on this day there was a conclave being held in the drawing-room. Present were Lizzie and Henry, Peggy and Emma, Charlie and May. They all held cups of tea except Peggy, and she sat at the side- table, a hand on the teapot as she listened to her mother, saying, "They should have put the police on to him straightaway. He should be behind bars."