The Ivory Dagger (5 page)

At a quarter past seven Lady Dryden tried the door and found it locked. Ridiculous nonsense. She didn’t approve of people locking* themselves in. Particularly she didn’t approve of Lila locking herself in. It was a measure of defence, and she was inclined to suspect it of being a measure of defiance. She knocked in a peremptory manner and said,

‘Let me in at once, Lila!’

There was a little delay, but not much. Lila stood back from the door and received an astonished stare. She was still wearing the grey skirt and white jumper, only the coat had been removed and thrown down carelessly across the foot of the bed. She had stopped crying some time ago, but the marks of it showed on her face.

Lady Dryden was brisk.

‘You haven’t left yourself much time to dress. You’ll have to hurry.’

‘I don’t think I can.’

‘You don’t think you can what?’

Lila said, ‘Anything—’ in an exhausted voice. She didn’t feel as if she could do any of the things that confronted her—dress herself in one of the new trousseau frocks she hated, go down to dinner and talk or be talked to through an endless evening; endure Herbert Whitall’s good-night kiss; creep down in the dark after everyone was asleep and tell Bill she wasn’t engaged to him any more; and in no more than six days’ time—six dreadful hurrying days—put on that ivory satin wedding dress and be married to Herbert Whitall, with Aunt Sybil giving her away. She was past having any sense of proportion about these things. They all felt equally dreadful—difficult—impossible.

She gazed at Lady Dryden in a bewildered manner.

‘My dear Lila, you look half asleep! For goodness sake wash your face! First hot water and then plenty of cold! It will wake you up. You will wear your new crepe—it is just the thing for a small dinner. You know there are some people coming in, and you certainly look your best in those ivory shades. And you had better put on a little colour. You are too pale. High time you were out of town.’

Lila stepped out of her grey skirt, took off the jumper, stood at the washstand, poured hot water and then cold. The hot water was soothing, the cold gave her a tingling shock. With her face hidden in the towel, she answered Lady Dryden’s ‘What has been upsetting you?’ with one word, ‘Bill.’

Lady Dryden felt as if some of the cold water had splashed up in her face.

‘How did he upset you? You haven’t seen him.’

‘He wrote—’ The words were only just audible from behind the towel.

Lady Dryden was so much relieved that her laugh sounded quite good-tempered.

‘Is that all? Naturally he feels sore. But he will get over it. You don’t suppose you are his first love, do you, and you certainly won’t be his last. What have you done with his letter?’

Lila had turned away. She was folding the towel.

‘I burned it.’

‘Where?’

‘After I got it.’

Sybil Dryden’s voice was very decided indeed.

‘I said where. You haven’t been burning anything here.’

‘It was downstairs—after I got it.’

‘And when did you get it?’

Frederick’s job hung in the balance. Other things too. More important things.

Then Lila did what was perhaps the best thing she could have done. She burst into tears.

Lady Dryden could have slapped her with the best will in the world. She restrained herself, picked up the wet facecloth and the towel, and spoke with cold authority.

‘That’s quite enough of this nonsense! Wash your face again and dry it! And see that it stays dry this time!’

Lila said in a quivering whisper,

‘I can’t marry him.’

‘You are not being asked to marry Mr. Waring.’

There was a piteous shake of the head.

‘I can’t marry Herbert—I can’t.’

Lady Dryden said in a bracing voice,

‘You are not being asked to marry anyone. You are being asked to behave like a civilized person and dress for dinner, and that is what you will do!’ She stepped to the wardrobe, took out the long, straight ivory dress, put the grey coat and skirt on a hanger, folded away the jumper in a drawer, and went over to the door.

‘You’ll have to hurry,’ she said. ‘The Considines are asked for a quarter to eight.’

Lady Dryden took her way to the study. If Eric Haile had arrived, she would not be able to see Herbert Whitall alone, but there was a good chance of being able to plant a few well chosen hints.

She said, ‘May I come in?’ and was gratified to find him alone and already dressed.

His ‘Of course’ was all that it should have been from a well bred host, and yet a sensitive person might have been aware of a faint sarcastic undercurrent. If Sybil Dryden was aware of it, she could dismiss it as immaterial. What she had to say would be said, and unless Herbert Whitall was a complete fool, it should have a beneficial effect.

With a slight gracious smile she crossed the room to stand beside him and remark that a fire was really very pleasant now that the evenings were drawing in.

He received this highly original sentiment with amusement.

‘My dear Sybil, did you really seek me out to say that? If you didn’t—Eric Haile will be here at any moment. He also has an urge to see me. I imagine he hopes to touch me for a loan. So if there is anything you want to say—’

She showed no resentment.

‘Only this, Herbert. I have just found Lila in tears. Eleventh hour nerves—the sort of thing every girl goes through, but it wants handling with care. Don’t be too affectionate.’

He gave a short laugh.

‘I don’t get much chance, do I? I practically never see her alone.’

‘It is just as well. Believe me, you really cannot be too careful. That is all I came to say, so I will leave you to your interview with Mr. Haile. I hope it will be a pleasanter one than you seem to expect.’

He laughed again.

‘I assure you it won’t disturb me. Keep your good wishes for Eric—he is going to need them.’

‘That sounds—’ She paused for a word, and then said, ‘vindictive.’

‘But that is just what I am. Didn’t you know it? I expect my uttermost farthing. If I don’t get it—if I don’t get it, Sybil, I can be extremely—vindictive. You will remember that, won’t you?’

He had been walking beside her to the door. He opened it now and stood aside for her to pass. She went out with her head high.

She came into the drawing-room, and found herself alone there. Rather a formal room, with its four windows hidden by curtains where pale brocaded flowers bloomed on an ivory ground. Couches and chairs had loose covers repeating the same shades. An Empire mirror between two of the windows showed her her own image, a very handsome one in close-fitting black, which did full justice to her tall and upright figure. There was a double row of pearls and a diamond flower to relieve what was otherwise the extreme of severity. Very few women of her age could show such a faultless turn of neck and shoulder—no blurring of the line, no sagging of the flesh, no wrinkling of the skin. She was a beautiful woman, in a maturity as yet untouched by the least hint of decline.

At the sound of voices in the hall she turned and went to meet the Considines. She was very well aware that her effect would be a little daunting.

Mabel Considine had been a dowdy girl, and was now a dowdy elderly woman. Like Corinna Longley, she was an old schoolfellow. Even in those far off days, and with the help of a school uniform, she had never managed to achieve tidiness. At fifty her hair broke into ends and stuck out in unexpected places. She had a good deal of it, of an unbecoming pepper-and-salt colour, and she did her best with hairpins and a net, but without any marked success. She had been a thin, poking schoolgirl. She was still thin, and she still poked. As for her clothes, they were lamentable. She had a passion for picking up remnants and handing them over to the village dressmaker to be contrived into some horrid shapeless garment. The one she was wearing tonight had been pieced together from a length of over bright artificial silk eked out with crimson satin. A long coral chain had been passed three times about a distressing neck.

She came in beaming, voice and manner much younger than her face.

‘Sybil—how nice! You look as if you had stepped straight off the cover of Vogue! How do you do it? Doesn’t she look marvellous, George? No one would think we were the same age, would they?’

George, large and florid, covered his embarrassment with a hearty greeting. He detested smart women, and especially smart elderly women. Sybil Dryden made him feel that his dinner-jacket was twenty-five years old, and that his hands were rough. And why not? He did things with them. He had just finished a new hen-house, and he had been digging potatoes. Of course his hands were rough, and he hadn’t quite got the creosote off his right thumb. Well, he had done his best, hadn’t he? And he liked his old clothes. He had had some good times in them, and they were comfortable. He liked a woman to be comfortable. Thank the Lord, no one could say Mabel was smart. Comfortable—that’s what she was, And kind. Always doing things for people. Did too much. He had to put his foot down, or she would be everybody’s slave. Too unselfish. But when his foot was down it was down.

With all this in his mind, he shook hands, and was presently saying ‘Not at all—not at all’ to Herbert Whitall, who strolled in with a casual apology for being late.

There was one of those aimless arguments as to whether the quarter had struck or not. The village church had its chime, but if the wind was not just right, the sound did not carry as far as Vineyards. Anyhow nobody had heard it. Mrs. Considine consulted her wrist-watch on a leather strap and made it five minutes to eight, at the same time admitting that it gained five minutes a day, and that she had no idea when she had set it last.

In the middle of all this Mr. Eric Haile walked in. If he had just had a disagreeable interview with his host, he showed no sign of it. His handsome ruddy face was all smiles as he greeted Lady Dryden and the Considines, his manner affable to the point of familiarity.

‘My dear lady, I needn’t ask how you are—so very, very easy on the eye!… Mrs. Considine—wearing yourself out with good works as usual!… Ah, Considine—how are the hens?’

If Lady Dryden stiffened a little, it did not trouble him. He had dark dancing eyes that went from one to the other, and an air of being quite certain of his reception. He could not have appeared more perfectly at home if Vineyards and his cousin’s great fortune had been his own by right of birth. He was just saying, ‘I hear you acquired some new treasures at the Harrington sale, Herbert’, when Professor Richardson was announced, a little round man with a bald head and a face like a cross baby. He rolled into the room, protesting that he wasn’t late. He never was. People didn’t look after their watches, and then went out of their way to put the blame on other people who did.

‘As for Whitall’—he was shaking hands with Lady Dryden— ‘he’d put anything on to anyone. Don’t trust him a yard. Never did. Never shall. Get the better of a blind orphan starving in a snowstorm—ha, ha!’ He gave a short explosive laugh. ‘Well, Whitall, isn’t that so? Isn’t it?’ He got an affable smile and a touch on the shoulder. ‘My dear Richardson, I fly for much higher game than blind orphans. You for instance, or Mangay. And I rather think I brought it off at the Harrington sale. Mangay would have liked that dagger.’

The Professor stared.

‘Daresay he would. He hasn’t got a bottomless purse—nor have I. Not that I wanted the thing myself. Probably spurious. Didn’t trouble to go to the sale.’

Herbert Whitall smiled with those thin lips of his. ‘No—you had Bernstein bidding for you, hadn’t you?’ Professor Richardson’s bald head glowed. The red frill which stood up all round the back of it like an Elizabethan ruff appeared to quiver as if every individual hair was angry. His eyebrows, a shade more sandy, bristled. He glared and burst out laughing.

‘Me? Not at all! Who told you that? Lot of damn lies flying round! Very doubtful origin, that dagger. A fake, likely as not. Mrs. Considine, my housekeeper told me to tell you those pullets she had from you have started to lay. She is as pleased as Punch.’

‘Isn’t that nice!’ said Mabel Considine in her warmest voice. Miss Whitaker came in, and made her unobtrusive greetings. She had done the conventional things to her face, but there was an underlying pallor. Like Lady Dryden she wore black, but with a difference—high neck and long sleeves, skirt to the ankles. At the throat the kind of brooch that a humble dependant may wear. But she didn’t look humble. Outwardly perhaps, but not to the discerning eye. Herbert Whitall was pleasantly aware of a seething pride. Eric Haile was intrigued. Mabel Considine, moving to speak with gentle kindness to the least considered member of the party, was thinking, ‘Dear me, I’m afraid that girl isn’t happy. I do hope she hasn’t become too much attached. Secretaries so often do.’ Herbert Whitall looked at his watch.

He said, ‘Lila is late,’ and turned to Lady Dryden. ‘Is she all right?’ And then the door opened and Lila came in with Adrian Grey. She wore the ivory crepe dictated by Lady Dryden. There was a Greek simplicity in its graceful lines. She looked lovely, pale, and dreadfully tired. Adrian was speaking to her as they came in. She had a faint smile for him.

Marsham sounded the gong, and they went in to dinner.

Considering all things, dinner might have been a great deal worse. Herbert Whitall could be an agreeable host when he chose. Tonight he laid himself out to play the part. Lady Dryden’s social tact was equal to any situation however strained. Eric Haile could be relied upon for the newest scandal and the latest bon mot. And Mabel Considine could and did produce an unfailing stream of village small talk. Lila, placed tactfully between Mr. Considine and Adrian Grey, had only to look lovely and contribute an occasional yes or no. There were long periods when she did not even have to do this, because Adrian and Mr. Considine had got into a long argument about the new surface cultivation versus deep trenching, and there really wasn’t anything she could find to say.

The table was an oval one, and since she was as far from Herbert Whitall as it was possible for her to be, she felt able to relax. On one side of her there was Adrian, the Professor, and Mrs. Considine. On the other George Considine, with Miss Whitaker on his left and Eric Haile between her and Lady Dryden.

Eric was finding it amusing to speculate as to Milly Whitaker’s reactions. Would she stay, or would she go? And if she stayed, what sort of a fist would Herbert make of running a three-in-hand? He wondered how much Lady Dryden knew, and decided she would certainly see to it that she did not know too much. All this whilst he told quite a new story about a Bishop, a Bright Young Thing, and a Raid on a Night-club. He didn’t expect anyone to believe it, but he hoped it might shock Mrs. Considine. She was, however, so deeply involved in telling Professor Richardson all about Jimmy Grove, who was his daily’s nephew and coming on so very nicely under George in the garden, that she merely looked round in amiable surprise at the general laughter.

Food and service were both excellent. By the time dinner was over there was certainly less tension and a more favourable atmosphere. Coffee was served in the drawing-room, and the men adjourned there after the briefest interval. The room was comfortably warm, and the scent of apple-wood hung pleasantly on the Mr. Conversation was light and desultory until Herbert Whitall put down his cup and got up.

‘Well, Richardson,’ he said with a flavour of malice in his tone, ‘you’ll be wanting to see the dagger.’

‘I don’t know why you should think I’m interested.’ The Professor’s voice was a growl.

‘Oh, but you must be. You’re going to prove it’s a fake, aren’t you? If you haven’t got a magnifying-glass, I can lend you one. It is going to be very interesting to watch the struggle between your obstinacy and your antiquarian conscience. Of course you may have knocked it on the head, but I am giving you the benefit of the doubt. So come along!’

He crossed to the far end of the room and drew back a wide curtain. It screened a steel shutter cutting off the alcove in which he housed his ivories. The shutter slid back when a key had been inserted and turned, disclosing a deep semicircular recess, windowless and furnished with shelves covered in velvet of a very deep blue. On these shelves and against this background the ivory plaques, figures, and other triumphs of craftsmanship were displayed. In the place of honour there was the figure which Lila disliked so much. Of an archaic simplicity, the head perhaps a little bent, the hands holding some small round thing—a fruit perhaps, or possibly the age-old symbol of life. Even in the midst of a malicious desire to confute the Professor, Herbert Whitall would not deny his goddess her mead of praise.

‘Perfect, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘Cretan, of course.’

The Professor blew out his cheeks till they looked like twin balloons. Then he let all the breath go at once in a sound like ‘Pooh!’ or ‘Pah!’

‘Egypto-Greek!’

Herbert Whitall maintained a superior smile.

‘Plenty of Egyptian influence in Crete. The ivory figures at Hagia Triada—’

Professor Richardson said, ‘Nonsense!’ but the battle was suavely declined.

‘Perfect anyway, my dear fellow. And Lila might have stood for her. She doesn’t like me to say so, but you can’t help seeing the likeness. And we needn’t dispute about perfection.’

The Professor grunted.

‘Where’s this dagger you’re so cocksure about?’

Herbert Whitall held it out—a long, thin blade with an ivory handle delicately carved in a vine pattern—twisting stem, graceful leaf, and swelling grape, the whole exquisitely balanced, easy to hold, and small enough to be a woman’s ornament worn in the girdle or the hair.

‘The story is that Marco Polo brought it back from China.’

The Professor snorted.

‘That blade never came out of China!’

‘I agree. It’s of later date than the hilt of course. If Marco Polo really brought it home, the blade may have been broken, or he or someone who came after him may have thought they could better it. After all, Italy and Spain could claim to lead the world in the tempering of steel. This blade is undoubtedly of Italian workmanship. The dagger in its present form turns up in the dowry of Bianca Corner who married into the Falieri family in 1541. It is listed amongst her personal effects.’

‘An ivory dagger is listed amongst her effects. After which nobody knows anything about it until the middle of the eighteenth century, when Lord Abington picked it up in Venice with this ridiculous Marco Polo story pinned to it! From that point, of course, the pedigree is quite straightforward!’

Herbert Whitall raised his eyebrows.

‘Ridiculous?’

‘Absurd!’ said the Professor. ‘A fatuous fabrication! The sort of thing that could only impose on the ignorant and credulous!’

Mabel Considine put her hand on his arm and pressed it gently.

‘Very pretty, isn’t it? Those grapes! And do you see, there is a fly on one of them! But I’m afraid I don’t like daggers and things like that. I can’t help wondering whether they’ve ever killed anyone. And of course I suppose they must have done when they are as old as this one seems to be.’

The Professor would have liked to go on being rude to Herbert Whitall. He didn’t see why he should be interrupted. He blew out his cheeks again and said,

‘Ask Whitall, and he’ll tell you Marco Polo used it to stab Genghiz Khan—ha, ha!’

The pressure on his arm increased. Mabel Considine was smiling at her host.

‘What I was going to ask Sir Herbert was whether we couldn’t hear some of his beautiful records. Such a very great treat. Of course there is plenty of music on the wireless, but if you want to hear the great soloists you have to go to gramophone records. It’s really quite like a miracle to be able to say, “Now I’ll hear Kreisler, or Caruso, or Galli-Curci, or John McCormack.” And you have such a wonderful collection of those old records—quite out of the catalogue now.’

‘Shocking bad,’ said George Considine. ‘All scratch. Can’t listen to them myself.’

‘George, dear!’

‘Oh, have it your own way! You always do!’

She did at least on this occasion, Eric Haile coming up in support, and the whole party moved back into the room. The steel shutter was locked upon the precious ivories and the brocade curtain drawn across it again.

Eric Haile stepped naturally into the position of musical director.

‘Now what shall we have? You mentioned Kreisler—or are we only to call upon the glorious shades? Mrs. Considine? Lady Dryden?’

Sybil Dryden had not a note of music in her. She could not have cared less. The whole thing was a bore, but so were the ivories. And they had at least been preserved from the quarrel which Professor Richardson had seemed determined to provoke. She smiled, said something vague about their all being so charming, and thought how embarrassing Mabel’s girlish enthusiasms had become. To look sixty and behave as if you were sixteen was a social tragedy.

The Professor was joining in the choice of records now. He had, it appeared, a passion for tenor and soprano arias in the old-fashioned Italian style. George Considine liked something he knew, something of the kind you can pick up and whistle. The four of them trooped off to the study in search of records.

Lila was sitting on one of the sofas with Adrian Grey. He was showing her sketches of a house he had been asked to alter. A little comfort and peace flowed in on her as she looked at the pictures and listened to his quiet voice explaining them. Miss Whitaker had gone out of the room.

Herbert Whitall came to sit by Sybil Dryden. After a brief glance at Lila and Adrian he said under his breath,

‘Soothing syrup?’

‘Yes—you had better let them alone. By the way, young Waring is here.’

‘Here?’

‘He arrived at a quarter to seven and demanded to see Lila. I got rid of him. Herbert, he will ring up tomorrow. I think she will have to see him. He says he won’t take his dismissal from anyone else, and he is a very stubborn young man. It is a pity, because of course it will upset her. But perhaps not such a bad thing in the end. If he makes a scene—and he probably will—he will frighten Lila. She can’t bear anything like that. The more I think of it, the more I am inclined to believe that it may be quite a good thing. I shall be present of course.’

He said, ‘Oh, well—’ and left it at that.

Sybil Dryden passed smoothly to the arrangements for the wedding.

The party from the study came back, laden with records and all talking at once. Mabel Considine was really enjoying herself. She had a cult for John McCormack, and she had just found two records from one of the very few operas she had actually seen. She was talking about it as they all came back into the room.

‘It was before I was married—and that’s a very long time ago, isn’t it, George? Mother and I were travelling. We did Venice, and Naples, and Rome, and Florence, and Milan. Such a wonderful stained glass window in the cathedral there, on the left as you face the altar—all blue and green. I do hope it wasn’t hurt by the bombing. And at Venice we went to the opera twice, and saw La Favorita and Lucia di Lammermoor. Or does one say heard—I never quite know. But I always think of it as seeing, because you hear it on the wireless of course, but it isn’t the same thing, is it? I mean, when you’ve seen it you’ve got a sort of picture of it in your mind, and it does make a difference. The plots of operas are so very difficult and confused. And not knowing Italian—I’m sure I don’t know to this day what La Favorita was about, even though we did see it. But Lucia di Lammermoor was easier, because of Sir Walter Scott, and I do remember these two tenor solos, because the young man who sang them was very handsome, and he had a really good voice. It’s going to be such a treat for me, Sir Herbert.’

She sat down on the sofa beside Lila and Adrian, her cheeks flushed, her girlish manner accentuated.

‘You young people don’t read Sir Walter Scott nowadays, do you? The opera is taken from The Bride of Lammermoor, and I haven’t read it since I was fourteen, so I’ve got their names rather mixed up, but the girl was Lucy Ashton and her brother was Henry—at least I think he was. He made her break off her engagement to the young man she was in love with. I’m not sure about his name. There was someone called Edgar, and someone called Ravenswood, but I’m not sure whether they were the same person or not.’

She gazed inquiringly at Adrian Grey. He laughed a little.

‘I’m afraid I’m no use. Ivanhoe and The Talisman are as far as I ever got with Scott.’

She said, ‘I know. I read them all when I was fourteen, because I was in quarantine for three weeks in a house where there wasn’t anything else to read. That is why I have got them mixed. But I remember about poor Lucy because it was such a dreadful story. Her mother and her brother made her marry the other young man, and she stabbed him on their wedding night and went mad, poor thing, and died. And this record which Mr. Haile is just putting on is what her real lover sings over her grave.’

The two preliminary bars of the accompaniment put a stop to this stream of reminiscence. She leaned back with her eyes half closed, making little rhythmic movements with her hands as the air came floating out in John McCormack’s beautiful voice: ‘Bell’ alma inamorata—bell’ alma inamorata—ne congiunga il Nume in cielo’.

Lila sat looking down at the page which Adrian had turned, but she did not see it. She had never read the books she ought to have read. She had never read a novel of Sir Walter Scott’s right through, though Uncle John had had them all. But she had once taken The Bride of Lammermoor from its shelf, and it had opened upon the scream of terror and the Ashton family rushing in to find Lucy in her blood-dabbled night-dress staring with crazy eyes at the bridegroom she had stabbed. She had put the book back and dreamed a terrible dream about it in the night and then shut it away and never let herself think of it again. The picture came out of its shut-up place. It lay between her and Adrian’s sketch—Lucy crouched upon the bed—the scream still sounding in the room—the blood—the dagger—the dreadful staring eyes. The dagger had an ivory handle with vine-leaves on it and a bunch of grapes. Where the blood had touched them the grapes were red—blood-red. John McCormack’s voice mourned over Lucy’s grave: ‘Bell’ alma inamorata —ne congiunga il Nume in cielo—bell’ alma inamorata—bell’ alma inamorata—’

The picture began to swim before her in a mist. Adrian’s hand came down on hers, steady and warm.

‘Lila—what is it, my dear?’

She looked up at him, her eyes dilated.

‘It’s—a horrible—story—’

His voice was as kind as his hand.

‘Well, it happened a long time ago—if it ever happened at all. And by the time you get anything into Italian opera it doesn’t seem to matter how many people are stabbed. Most of the cast have to be got rid of one way or another, with the hero and heroine in the limelight singing higher and higher till their very last breath. I’m afraid it always makes me want to laugh.’

The picture dimmed and went away. The crazed eyes were the last to go—Lucy’s eyes and the ivory dagger.

Adrian was smiling.

‘The mourning lover is a gentleman of one idea. Have you counted how many times he said “Bell’ alma inamorata?” I always mean to, but then McCormack’s voice gets me and I really don’t care.’

Her colour was coming faintly back, the dilated pupils were normal again. She said,