Mystery of Mr. Jessop (7 page)

“You said you showed the Duchess of Westhaven the Fellows necklace. Was that while you were her secretary?”

“No. Afterwards,” she said. “How did you know I was with her?”

“We get to know things,” he answered vaguely, not willing to expose the communicative Kendrick to the risk of a rebuke for gossiping. “Do you smoke?”

He offered her his cigarette-case as he spoke, but she shook her head. 

“Not now,” she said, depriving him of the chance he had wished for to notice how steady was her hand, for there was still something about her, about her attitude, about her silence even, that troubled him a little, and that he felt he did not understand.

“Have you been long with Mr. Jessop?” he asked. “You came to him direct from the duchess? Were you with her long?”

“Three years,” she answered. “It was my second job. I have been six months with Mr. Jessop. I came to them when the duchess sacked me.”

“Oh,” said Bobby, a little taken aback at this plain way of putting it. “There was some disagreement, I suppose?”

“Denis,” she answered briefly.

“Denis?” he repeated, not understanding.

“The boy outside, if he's still there and hasn't pushed off home,” she explained. “I had better see, perhaps. You'll want to ask him questions too, perhaps? I suppose the police always do. You see, Denis wanted me to marry him. The duchess didn't. So she sacked me.”

" Is Mr. – Denis?”

“His name's Chenery.”

“But had the duchess any right to say anything about it?”

“He's one of the family. He may be the duke himself some day. It's not likely, but it's possible.”

“May I take it, then, you are engaged?”

“You may not, nor shall we be. I've told him so again to-night. Denis hasn't a penny, and, even if he ever does inherit, it won't be for years and years. The one before him is an invalid who can't possibly have children but may live as long as Denis.” She paused, hesitated. “You may as well know,” she said. “I suppose you'll be going on asking questions, and there'll be plenty ready to tell you. Denis may be a duke some day, and I'm a bastard.”

Bobby was used to many kinds of language. Once, in his uniform days, he had assisted in the arrest of a lady who, born in Liverpool between Scotland Road and the docks, had graduated in Chicago, and returned to polish and perfect her style in Soho night-clubs. Nevertheless, this calm application by Hilda to herself of a word against the use of which a certain prejudice still exists, did startle him a little. It was, of course, an example of what nowadays it is thought profound to call a “defence reaction,” but, all the same, a somewhat extreme example.

“Oh, yes. Yes,” he said, for the moment at a loss. Hilda seemed to think no other remark was necessary. But her feet began to sketch a movement, and he was aware of an impression that but for his presence she might again be seeking refuge for her spirit in that grave and solitary dance he had already seen her practising.

“I had better be getting on to Mr. Jacks,” he said, rising from his chair. “That is, if there is nothing else you can tell me. It would be after you left her employment that you showed the Fellows necklace to the duchess?”

“After she sacked me,” Hilda corrected.

“Was there any prospect of her buying it?”

“She wanted to badly enough. But she knew the duke would never let her.”

“Have there been any other negotiations?”

This time there was a momentary hesitation – very slight, but sufficient to emphasise her failure, Bobby had noticed, to answer directly his last question.

“I don't know all the firm's business,” she said then. “I was only Mr. Jessop's typist. I showed her the necklace and she loved it. No one could help; it's the loveliest thing. That's all I can say.”

“Mr. Jacks would know, I suppose?”

“You must ask him,” she replied again with hesitation, so that he was certain there was something she either knew or suspected, something that she was keeping back. “I've told you all I know about that part of it,” she went on, with more assurance in her tone. “The duke saw it, too. At Mayfair Square. He turned up one day and wanted to see it. I can't imagine why – diamond necklaces aren't his line; not unless he saw a chance to buy it cheap and sell it for twice as much somewhere else. Sixpenny pearl necklets at Woolworth's are more his idea. Naturally he faded away as soon as he knew the price. The firm was quite bucked, though; they didn't know him as well as I did. I told them there wasn't an earthly, but I think they still hoped.”

“I see,” said Bobby thoughtfully. There could, of course, be no connection, but it was odd how continually references to the duke and to the duchess kept turning up. There was that odd business of the half-smoked cigar, too, with the monogram of the duke's New York friend, Mr. Patterson. He went on: “You said your engagement with the duchess was not your first?”

“I was with a firm in the City before,” she answered. She gave their name – well-known ship-owners. “Then I was asked if I would like to go to the duchess as her secretary. It was Lord Harrowby who got the chance for me.”

“Lord Harrowby?” Bobby repeated; for the name was that of a peer equally well known in political and in sporting circles.

He thought to himself that this somewhat puzzling young woman appeared to have a wide acquaintance in the aristocracy. She saw his surprise, and explained:

“He is my” – she hesitated –”my father's brother.”

“Your uncle?”

“No,” she said. She looked at him steadily. It was almost the first time he had seen her eyes, the first time he had realised their depth, their brilliance, a quality in them of hidden passion that might mean many things. “The law does not allow that,” she said. “For the law I do not exist. I am outside the law.”

He gave her a quick and doubtful glance, for this was a phrase, it seemed to him, of many implications.

“Hardly that,” he said.

“The family have been very kind,” she went on. “My mother died when I was born. My father died soon after. His brother succeeded him. He did what he felt was his duty. He paid for my education. He had me sent to a good school. He would have paid for me to go to college. He would have given me an allowance. He promised a settlement if I ever got married. But I wanted to know who I was. I found out. Then I preferred to be independent. The lawyers said I was a fool. That was my business. I expect Lord Harrowby was very relieved. He said he admired my spirit. Really, he has been very decent. I ought to be grateful. Every year regularly his lawyers write to say I am to remember that if I want any reasonable help, money, or advice, they are always at my disposal. I never have, but when people know that, it makes them careful.”

Bobby half wondered if this was meant as a warning to himself and to the police in general, though he did not much think so.

“Do people know?” he asked.

“They do at the business,” she said slowly. “One of the girls there, Grace Ellison, got to know. She's a dear, but she can't help talking. The duchess knew, too, of course. It was through Lord Harrowby that the duchess offered me a job. Then – Denis happened. So she sacked me. Naturally.”

“Was it through Lord Harrowby, too, that you went to Mr. Jessop?”

“No, it wasn't,” she answered, with a swift emphasis that showed how much her fierce and lonely spirit resented any hint of dependence upon others. “Mr. Jessop knew of me. The duchess has a passion for jewellery. I think jewels are the only things she really loves. She has no children. Her jewels might be them. But she likes to make a change sometimes. She sells some and buys others. She understands jewels, and often she makes quite good bargains.”

“Has she had dealings with Mr. Jessop?”

“Not directly. She always goes to a firm in Bond Street. I think Mr. Jessop would have liked to get in touch with her. I suppose every firm wanted to, and didn't see why the Bond Street people should have all her business.”

“But she kept to them?”

“Yes, always. Only I think that is really why Mr. Jessop offered me a job when he knew I was leaving the duchess. He had sold stuff to her and bought from her, too, but only through the Bond Street people. I met him two or three times when deals were being settled. I told him I was leaving, and he said he wanted a secretary and why not come to him. I think now he hoped to get in touch through me with her. What he said was he wanted someone who knew people, and through being with the duchess so long I have got to know lots of important people, and a good deal about them. It isn't only cooks and housemaids who like gossip. There's hardly a character in London I haven't heard torn to pieces. Part of my job with Mr. Jessop is to go about as much as possible wearing jewellery we want to sell. It was an idea of his. I was to be a kind of travelling show-case, a mannequin in jewellery. At first people used to get awfully excited when they saw a girl they had known as a typist appearing at a first night or somewhere – a smart restaurant perhaps or a charity ball – wearing a row of pearls worth hundreds of pounds or diamond rings you could see sparkling all across the room. They are getting to know now, but at first all the little dears scented a first-class scandal. They simply came buzzing round. It was awfully funny how disappointed they were when they found the pearls and the rings were for sale, and they had to pretend to be interested all the same and let me book an appointment for them. I'm not allowed actually to sell or to let the things out of my possession, but I quote prices and say what wonderful bargains they are, and arrange times for the things to be seen and so on. It's been quite a success. I rather like it. Denis hates it.”

“Why?”

“He sells motor-cars himself, or tries to, so I don't see it's any worse for me to sell jewellery. He says it's dangerous. I suppose he thinks I may be kidnapped or something. I can take care of myself, and there's not a scrap of danger if I'm careful. I don't go to night-clubs wearing the big lines, you know – only wrist-watches and small stuff we are offering at double ordinary prices.”

“Have you shown the Fay Fellows necklace in that way?”

“No. I think I should draw the line at wearing a thing like that in public. I have gone to a first night wearing £20,000 worth of stuff. But that's my record, and there was a private detective watching, and our own car to take me to and from Mayfair Square. Up to five figures' worth I don't mind, but over – well, I want precautions.”

“But you showed the Fellows necklace to the duchess?”

“Yes, but not wearing it. I took it in a brown paper parcel to show her by appointment. After the duke's visit, Mr. Jessop got it firmly into his head she was sure to buy. Everyone knows how she loves jewellery. I told him there wasn't an earthly. She hadn't the money herself, and I knew the duke would never rise to it.”

“It's worth £100,000, isn't it?”

“The reserve price Miss Fellows put on is £50,000. That more or less represents the break-up value. Miss Fellows paid £100,000, but it was an extravagant figure even for that time. I expect partly it was a publicity figure; she got advertising value out of it. Now she wants a quick sale. Even as a break-up, it would take a long time to realise that figure – markets are slow enough still, in spite of the revival they talk about. You understand this is strictly confidential. I am only telling you because of what has happened to Mr. Jessop, and I suppose you ought to know exactly how things are. Our lowest price officially is £65,000. We still hope for that much, but we would take a lot less for a quick sale.”

“But at present you are standing out for £65,000?”

“Well, if we get that much our commission will be good and Miss Fellows will be exceedingly pleased.”

“Thank you,” Bobby said. “It's a great help in an investigation if people explain how things stand – often prevents great waste of time. I'm sure my superiors will be grateful to you, too, for your help. Now, may I ask you a straight question? Have you told me all you know?”

“I think so, yes.”

“All you suspect?”

The question evidently took her unawares. Again she hesitated, though for so short a time it would have been perceptible only to someone, like Bobby, on the watch.

“Yes, of course, certainly,” she said then. “Besides, I don't suspect anything”; and the thought came into Bobby's mind that she lied with difficulty.

But he felt it was no good pressing her further now. 

Further and closer questioning would be for his superiors if they thought it advisable. Besides, time for reflection might make her inclined to be more open – and more time, too, might provide surer ground on which to base a further interrogation.

They were still standing facing each other, and it was easy to see that she was lost in deep and troubled thought. Quite suddenly her feet began to move; she lifted her arms slightly; there came again upon her that strange grace and lightness of bearing she had shown before, as if somehow she lifted herself from the solid ground into the air. Bobby thought for a moment that she was going to begin dancing once more, and possibly it was the involuntary astonishment in his eyes that made her remember and stop.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “Ever since I was a child somehow I have always danced my thoughts.”

“Do you dance in public?” he asked.

The question seemed to surprise her.

“Do you pray in public?” she countered.

A little disconcerted, he did not answer. He understood vaguely that for her the dance was the way whereby she could put herself in unison with that Real which lies behind all Appearance, as is for others prayer, or contemplation, or even action – or sometimes, for a time, drink or drugs. She began to move towards the door.