With All My Worldly Goods (16 page)

“Yes—go on. Finish it,” Leonora said fiercely. “That Bruce is trying to murder me. That’s what you’ve thought all along, isn’t it? You’re not specially sorry to be finding supporting evidence.”

At that moment she almost made herself believe in Bruce’s innocence, and she was fiercely indignant on his behalf.

Martin made a helpless little gesture.

“My dear girl, I can’t blame you for wanting to take it out of me or anyone else, and you’re welcome to be as indignant as you like. But you can’t alter the facts, Lora, and the facts look remarkably ugly.”

Leonora was silent. He was right, of course. The facts looked extraordinarily ugly. It was natural that he should think as he did. And if he had known as much as she knew—

“I’m sorry, Martin. I’m not really as ungrateful as I sound.” She gave him a contrite look. “But, you see, I can’t and I won’t accept the idea that—that Bruce is guilty.”

“Lora—” Martin began. But she interrupted him.

“Listen. I want you to come to dinner one night this week, will you? I want you to meet Bruce for yourself.”

“Of course, if you think it would help. But don’t expect
me
to fall under the spell of any fascination,” Martin added grimly.

“Oh no. It’s nothing like that Only he himself suggested—’

“
He
did?” Martin looked astonished. “Oh, so the invitation comes from him, does it? Isn’t that a little—odd?”

“No,” Lora said steadily. “Why shouldn’t he want to meet a great friend of mine?”

“Oh, why indeed?” Martin echoed a trifle dryly.

“Don’t you see that it is a little queer for us to go on being such friends and for you not to meet my husband?” Leonora said.

“Yes, of course. And I’ll most certainly come. But what seemed especially queer to me was that he should give the invitation at this moment.”

“Why?” Leonora asked defiantly.

Martin shrugged.

“Well, I suppose he has a precedent in the Borgias,” he said with a sort of sulky flippancy.

“
What
did you say?”

“Sorry, Lora.”

“What did you mean, exactly?” Leonora said coldly.

Martin made a slight face.

“All right. I know it was unpardonable. I was only referring to the pleasant little Borgia trick of asking their enemies to a friendly dinner before they looked them over and finished them off.”

Without a word, Leonora fiercely gathered up her gloves and handbag, and prepared to go.

“No,
please
—” Martin stopped her. “Oh, I know that was in bad taste. But, Lora dear, don’t you see that a touch of flippancy is better than a touch of insanity and, honestly, I think we shall go insane if we keep on like this.”

She sat down slowly again.

“Are you—afraid, Martin?”

“Very much so.”

“About coming to dinner with us?”

“Good God, no! It’s about you that I’m afraid.”

“Oh—” She patted his hand. “You mustn’t torment yourself like this. I’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She could tell that he was very anxious not to communicate his nervousness to her. She wished she could have explained that there was only one thing of which she was afraid, and that was entirely different from anything he imagined.

But she could not say anything, of course, and after a while they parted—Martin still very anxious, but grimly determined to make the most of his chance of observation on the evening he came to dinner.

The next few days were entirely uneventful, and it seemed to Leonora as though they were all waiting a little breathlessly for something to happen.

On the surface everything was as it always had been. Only Dr. Brindbent’s visit every other day broke the usual routine, and even that was completely unremarkable at this juncture.

“Does he say you’re getting on all right, dear?” Agatha asked once.

“Oh yes,” Leonora assured her, feeling a terrible sham.

And then came the evening when Martin was expected to dinner.

Leonora felt quite absurdly nervous about it, and even the fact that she knew she looked her best, in her dress of pearly-white taffeta, did very little to help her. She wore no jewellery except her engagement ring, and when her hand was against her dress she thought more than once how like a great drop of blood the ruby seemed.

But the evening opened quite uneventfully. Bruce, looking very much the perfect host, was imperturbably charming to Martin. Leonora had never see him in this deliberately correct and attractive mood, and it half amused her that he should follow out his promise to literally, half frightened her that he proved himself again such a wonderful actor.

Martin, too, very carefully kept the surface of things unruffled. He was extremely pleasant to Agatha and Millicent, and if not overwhelmingly cordial to Bruce, at least he was reasonably agreeable.

Leonora caught herself wondering ridiculously if he were insensibly yielding a little to Bruce’s charm. He had declared very grimly that he had no intention of doing so, but there they were now, talking away quite amicably—in fact, so intent on their conversation that she and Agatha and Millicent left them to finish it and their cigarettes together.

“I like Mr. Velnott very much,” Agatha told her. “He’s amusing without being flippant, and I should think he would be a very good friend.”

“Oh, he
is
,” Leonora assured her most earnestly.

“You’ve know him quite a long while, haven’t you?” Millicent said.

“Yes. Since some while before my aunt died.” And Leonora explained, with a little smile, how Aunt Sophie had disapproved of most men on principle but had somehow relaxed the ban in favor of Martin.

“I see.” Millicent looked thoughtful. “So, really, you didn’t know many men before you were married?”

“Well—no.” Leonora didn’t specially want to discuss the subject. It was likely to lead to one of Millicent’s tiresome little lectures about how difficult and incomprehensible men were.

“She doesn’t know such a great number now,” Agatha said with a laugh. “But she’s very sweet and clever the way she manages Bruce.”

Leonora looked surprised, and supposed she was rather a fool to feel so gratified.

“
Do
I manage Bruce?” she asked doubtfully.

“Why of course you do.” Agatha still looked amused. “I’ve never known him so—so docile and happy.”

For a moment Leonora thought of that terrible dispute over Farron. But then, of course, everything had been very different since then.

“Well, I suppose he just
is
happy,” Millicent said, “now that he’s got what he wants.”

She didn’t seem specially pleased about something. Perhaps, thought Leonora a trifle amused, she resented the implication that someone else knew a bit about managing men.

But Agatha always knew how to smooth over these little pieces of touchiness on her friend’s part.

“Yes, yes,” she agreed equably. “There is no question but that Bruce is happy these days, and evidently you
were
what he wanted, Lora dear. I must say that the speed of it all worried me a bit at first. But obviously it was the happiest arrangement possible.”

“Oh, thank you, Agatha.” Leonora was half amused and half touched. “Yes. We certainly are very happy.”

Just then Millicent got up rather abruptly and went out of the room. Leonora glanced after her with slight anxiety, and wondered if they had said anything to hurt or annoy her.

“Is Millicent all right?” she said. “I mean—she’s not upset or anything, is she? I always feel a bit doubtful when I talk in front of her about being happily married.” What an extraordinary expression that was to use in the circumstances!

“Yes, I know. Poor Millicent.” Agatha sighed. “Her marriage was quite a dreadful business, you know. We none of us knew him much, but I believe he drank shockingly and gave her a terrible life. She doesn’t usually speak much about it, but she has told me a good deal from time to time, of course.”

“It was almost a good thing for her really, then, when he died?” Leonora said.

“Well, yes. One can’t pretend anything else,” Agatha agreed. “It’s rather lonely for her now, of course. That’s why I like to have her here so much. But I think she is fairly happy in her own way.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Leonora said soberly. And then the housekeeper came into the room to ask if Miss Mickleham could come for a moment to see to something.

Agatha got up at once, and, when she had gone, Leonora thought: “Agatha is good and kind. She bothers much more with Millicent than I ever could. And then she’s always been such a dear to me, and evidently to Bruce—” Why, where
was
Bruce—and Martin, too?

Leonora glanced at the clock. It was not quite so late as she had supposed, but really, it was more than long enough for them to have sat smoking and talking. Evidently they must be getting on very well together, or else—It was impossible not to wonder uneasily just what they
were
finding to say to each other all this time.

She had even half made up her mind to go see for herself, when the door opened and Martin came in alone.

“Oh, hallo, Martin. I was beginning to wonder how touch longer you two were going to talk,” she exclaimed, and her smile was nervous. Then she added sharply: “Where is Bruce?”

“Just coming.” Martin didn’t seem agitated exactly—just carefully expressionless. But somehow that frightened her.

“Is anything wrong?”

“No.”

“What
is
it, Martin?”

“Nothing. We just had a—talk, and I suppose we rather forgot the time.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Really, Lora, does it matter?” Martin smiled faintly, but she saw that he was fencing.

“Yes. I think it does. Was it about me?”

“Well, part of the time—yes.”

“About—my health?”

“Yes.”

“Martin, what did you say? What did
he
say?” It was maddening of him to be so sparing with his answers. Martin hesitated.

“He spoke about my taking you to see Brindbent, of course—”

“Did he seem to mind much?”

“Well, yes. I don’t think he was very pleased. He spoke as though he were desperately anxious to know what Brindbent really thought, but didn’t much like having to ask me.”

“I suppose it
is
a little galling to have to ask another man when you’re very worried about your wife,” Leonora said obstinately.

“It must be,” agreed Martin a trifle dryly.

“And then, Martin? What did you say then?”

“Oh I—explained just why we’d gone to see him, you know, and that Brindbent took quite a serious view of it, said you needed careful watching and so forth.” Martin seemed reluctant to say anything more.

“There’s something else,” Leonora said sharply. “Why don’t you
tell
me?”

“Well—” Martin frowned unhappily—“no doubt you’ll be very angry with me, and perhaps it wasn’t the best thing to do, but—I as good as let him know what I suspected.”

“Martin!” She could scarcely find words. “You didn’t do anything so awful?”

“Yes, I did. Haven’t we all wrapped things up long enough?”

“And what did he say?”

“At first he pretended to—I mean—” Martin looked a little confused. “He apparently found the idea almost amusingly impossible. Pooh-poohed it, in fact, and practically said Brindbent and I were a couple of fanciful fools. He doesn’t much like Brindbent, by the way, does he?”

“Not—very much,” Leonora admitted reluctantly. Then—“So he just dismissed the whole idea.”

“He tried to, but I stuck to my guns, and when I said it began to make one wonder what possibility there was of any accident, and even who there was who could have a motive—”

“Yes?”

“He started to smile again, and then suddenly went terribly white, and gave up the argument completely—simply refused to say another word. We—just left it there.”

There was silence for a moment, and then she said helplessly:

“You’re—you’re
sure
about all this?”

“Oh, Lora dear, should I say it if I were in any doubt?” Martin looked extremely unhappy.

“No, no. Of course not” silence again. “Then you’re trying to tell me that he looked—completely guilty?”

“I’m trying to tell you just what I saw,” Martin said rather grimly. “You must draw the conclusions for yourself.”

She supposed he must see from her face that she had drawn them. And for a while there seemed nothing to say.

Then they heard Agatha coming back. For the sake of appearances they had to find something—anything—to talk about, and they broke into random conversation, both of them wondering if it sounded as unconvincing to Agatha as it did to them.