Miss Silver Deals With Death (8 page)

Giles didn’t ring up. He walked in after six o’clock and found Meade in the drawing-room, huddled in one of the big chairs. Ivy shut the door behind him and went away. She thought him ever so nice, and Miss Meade ever so lucky only nobody would have thought it the way she’d been looking all day. She went back into her slip of a kitchen and sang in a shrill, childish voice:

“I like your lips, I like your eyes,

You like my lips? You like my eyes

To hypnotize you?”

Meade got up, a white little ghost of the girl he had kissed last night. He kissed her now, and found her shaking and cold.

“My sweet, what is it?”

But she only shook and shook.

He sat down in the chair and rocked her in his arms.

“Silly little thing! What’s the matter?”

He could feel her little body shaken with sobs, but no voice, no words.

“Meade darling, what is it—what’s the matter? Can’t you stop crying and tell me? Look here, you must!”

Yes, she must. And when she had told him, they would never sit like this again. It would be all over, and finished, and done with. Just for a moment more she let herself feel the warmth, the strength, the love that held her. Then she lifted her head from his shoulder.

“Giles—you said you didn’t know her—”

“Lots of people I don’t know. Which particular one? And why have you been crying yourself into a jelly?”

“Carola Roland—you said you didn’t know her.”

“It sounds a pretty phoney name. Carola Roland—bet you anything you like she didn’t start that way, whoever she is.”

She was sitting up now, leaning away from him against the arm of the chair, looking into his face, her grey eyes wide and dark, her face quite drained of colour.

“She says her name isn’t Roland at all.”

“Darling, did anyone ever suppose it was?”

“She says it’s Armitage.”

“What!”

“She says you married her.”

Giles put his hands on her shoulders. They were heavy enough to hurt, and they gripped her so hard that there were bruises afterwards.

“Have you gone out of your mind?”

Meade felt a little better. He was furious—he was hurting her. She felt better. She said in rather a stronger voice,

“No. That’s what she says. She showed me a letter—”

“From whom?”

“From you. It was your writing. It said you would give her four hundred a year.”

The grip held, but the anger was gone from his face. His eyes were intent, hard, and very blue.

“Four hundred a year? Somebody’s mad, my sweet—I hope it isn’t you or me.”

“That’s what the letter said. And it said she was to drop the name of Armitage. It said of course she had a perfect legal right to the name, but she wouldn’t get the four hundred a year unless she dropped it. And was it worth all that? And that was your last word. And you called her ‘My dear Carola’.”

“It’s a plant,” said Giles.

He let go of her so suddenly that she felt giddy. Then he got to his feet, pulling her up with him.

“Giles—what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to see Miss Carola Roland.”

It was she who was holding him now.

“Giles—wait! You can’t go like this. Oh, Giles—are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I tell you it’s a plant. She’s heard I’ve lost my memory and she’s trying it on.”

Meade was trembling so much that he had to put his arm about her.

“Giles—suppose it was true. I wouldn’t have believed anything she said, but it was your letter—not only the writing—it was like hearing you talk. And there was a photograph—”

“What sort of photograph?”

“A big one—of you—head and shoulders—with ‘Giles’ written across the corner.”

He gave a quick angry laugh. The hard blue eyes had a fighting glint in them.

“As long as it wasn’t a wedding group! You don’t have to marry every girl who’s got your photograph! Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough? It was your letter—it was. You’ve forgotten writing it, and you’ve forgotten her. If you had married her you might have forgotten that too. Giles—you forgot me—”

Her voice wrung his heart.

“Meade, I didn’t—not with anything that mattered. I told you so. I loved you at once, that day at Kitty Van Loo’s, and I never stopped loving you. You don’t know how I had to hold on to myself in that taxi. It seemed the rightest thing in the world for me to kiss you. I did put my arm around you, you know, and I had to hang on like mad not to kiss you. Doesn’t that just show? Now stop wobbling and listen to me! The minute you began to talk about that Carola woman I sized her up. She sounds like a gold-digger, and I don’t like gold-diggers. And she’s probably a synthetic blonde, and I don’t like synthetic blondes. I don’t pretend I’ve been a saint, but I’m really not a fool. I can assure you that I should never have dreamed of marrying Miss Carola Roland.”

“It might have been a long time ago—”

“Oh, no—it’s only the last eighteen months or so that’s gone foggy. I don’t see myself falling for Carola at any time after I was out of my teens. You haven’t been using your head, you know. I was engaged to you, wasn’t I? I hadn’t lost my memory then. Was I planning a spot of bigamy, or had there been a divorce?”

“No—I asked her that. She said no, you were just all washed-up.”

“Then I was going to lure you into a bigamous marriage, I suppose. Wake up, darling! I didn’t hint at having a guilty secret, did I?”

“N-no—” Her eyes widened suddenly.

“What’s the matter now?”

“I was trying to think—whether you ever really said—anything about getting married. You said you loved me, and you asked me if I loved you, but… Of course there was very little time—only three days… Oh, Giles, it does seem such a long time ago!”

He picked her up, kissed her hard, and set her down again.

“I shouldn’t have talked like that to a girl like you unless I meant business—not my line of country. Now you sit down good and peaceful and keep on telling yourself that everything’s going to be all right! If you cry any more, I’ll beat you. I’m going to have a heart-to-heart talk with Miss Carola Roland, and I think she’s going to be sorry she tried it on.”

Meade ran after him into the lobby.

“Giles—you’ll be careful, won’t you? You won’t do anything silly? You won’t—”

He turned on the threshold.

“If she gets what she deserves, I shall probably wring her neck!” he said, and banged the door.

Carola Roland opened the door of No. 8. When she saw Giles her eyes lighted up and her lips smiled. Pleasure and amusement coursed through her. She had been bored, bored, bored. Here was entertainment. She had an old score to pay, and here was Giles delivered into her hands for payment. She said in her best Mayfair manner,

“How very nice of you! Do come in.”

Giles’ response lacked polish. He was plainly an angry man. He stalked into the sitting-room, and then turned to confront her.

“Miss Roland?”

The enormous blue eyes widened.

“Oh, no.”

“I understand that you are making some preposterous claim.”

The scarlet lips smiled widely.

“There’s nothing preposterous about it. You know as well as I do that I am Mrs. Armitage.”

Giles stood and stared at her. She wore a long white dress, with a string of pearls about an admirably white neck. The bright hair rose above her forehead in a high wave and then fell curling about her neck. She had a perfect figure, a fine skin, and eyes which reminded him of the nursery and his cousin Barbara’s favourite baby doll—that wide cool gaze, the size, the darkened lashes. As far as he could remember he had never seen her before. She was to his every sense strange and unknown. He could not believe in any contact, any relationship between them.

And then his eyes went past her and he saw his photograph upon the mantelpiece with the signature black across the corner.

It was a plain-clothes photograph, head and shoulders, done just before the war. He remembered having it done—a cold day with a wind, and he had met Barbara afterwards and taken her out to lunch. She was going out to join her husband in Palestine and frightfully pleased about it. He could remember all this, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember a single thing about Carola Roland who said she was Carola Armitage.

He went over to the hearth, picked the photograph up, and turned it over. Bare, blank cardboard. He set it down again.

Carola’s laugh met him as he turned.

“Giles, darling—how unbelieving! And what a rotten memory you’ve got! Not very flattering, are you?”

The anger in his eyes delighted her.

“Are you claiming to be my wife?”

“Giles—darling!”

“Because if you are, you must prove it. When were we married—and where—and who were the witnesses?”

She arched her brows. The blue eyes opened a little wider. The likeness to Barbara’s doll was intensified.

“Let me see—it was in March—March 17th 1940—just eighteen months ago. And we were married in a register office, and it’s no use your asking me which one, because you took me there in a taxi and I wasn’t noticing about addresses—neither of us was. And the witnesses were the clerk and a man he brought in from the street. I’m sure I haven’t any idea what their names were.”

“Where’s the marriage certificate?”

“Darling, I don’t carry it about with me. You see, it wasn’t a great success, so we agreed to wash it out—only of course you were going to make me an allowance.”

Giles laughed angrily.

“Oh, I was, was I? Now we’re getting somewhere! I think you told Miss Underwood that you had a letter of mine. Perhaps you’ll let me see it.”

Her lids dropped a little, the darkened lashes came down, the blue eyes narrowed.

“Well, I don’t know, darling—you’re pretty strong, and you’re in a horrible temper. If I show it to you, will you promise not to snatch?”

“I’m not trying to suppress evidence—I’m trying to get at the truth. I say you’re bluffing, and I’m calling your bluff.”

Carola burst out laughing.

“All right, darling, here we go! I’ll hold the letter up like I did for your Meade Underwood, and you shall see for yourself. Only no touching, no snatching—word of honour and all that sort of thing.”

“I don’t want to touch anything—I want to see for myself. You say you’ve got a letter of mine—well, show it to me!”

“Swear you won’t touch—you haven’t sworn.”

Giles drove his hands deep into his pockets.

“And I’m not going to. I’ve told you I don’t want to touch the thing. If that isn’t enough for you, I’m walking out. If you’ve got anything to show me, get on with it!”

“Always the gentleman—aren’t you, darling? Really, you know, it’s almost as good as a certificate. People aren’t as rude as that except in the family circle.”

Something opened and shut in Giles’ mind. It opened, and then it shut again—like a door. There wasn’t time to see what lay behind the door.

Carola was coming towards him with the letter in her hand.

“Well, here it is, and you can see for yourself. And then perhaps you’ll apologise, darling. Keep your hands in your pockets, and then you won’t be tempted to do anything you shouldn’t with them. There’s nothing like keeping out of temptation’s way, is there? Here you are!”

She held up the sheet of paper just as she had held it up in front of Meade. He saw his own writing running across it on an upward slant. The pen had driven furiously. Here and there it had grazed the paper. He had been angry when he had driven his pen like that. His eyes went down the sheet and read what Meade had read. They came upon his own name. “I will allow you four hundred a year provided you will undertake to stop using the name of Armitage. If I find that you are breaking this condition I shall have no hesitation in cutting off supplies. You have, as you say, a perfect legal right to the name. It’s a good name, but I hardly think it is worth four hundred a year to you. And that, my dear Carola, is my last word.” That he had written these words, he could not have the slightest doubt. They confronted him, black and authentic, in what was certainly his own handwriting. He had written them. And it was quite incredible that he should have written them. He had offered Carola Roland four hundred a year to stop using his name.

He turned his eyes from the evidence of his own words and saw, as Meade had seen, Carola’s hand holding the letter up for him to read, the long fingers with their scarlet nails, and the diamond ring with its one bright shining stone. His face changed so suddenly that she stepped back, folding the letter and pushing it down the front of her dress.

Giles’ hands came out of his pockets. He made a step forward.

“Where did you get that ring?”

So that was it. How very amusing. The whole thing was going with a bang. First-class entertainment from start to finish. And had she been bored! She smiled a wide, decorative smile and held out the hand with the diamond on it.

“This ring?”

“Yes. Where did you get it?”

“Why, darling, you gave it to me of course. Fancy forgetting that!”

His mother’s ring—on Carola Roland’s hand. The shock struck hard against every sense which declared her a stranger. It was the ring which he had intended to give to Meade. But it had been given already—to Carola Roland—to a stranger. You do not give your mother’s ring to a stranger. You give it only when you give your name as well. He said in a stiff, strained voice,

“May I look at it? I’ll give it back again. I want to be sure.”

Without any hesitation at all she slipped it off and put it into his hand.

Half turning from her, he held it up for the light to strike upon the inner circle. If it was his mother’s ring her initials would be there, and a date—the date of her engagement to his father. It was her engagement ring. The light struck on a faint M. B. and a date too worn to read. M. B. for Mary Ballantyne. And the date should be June 1910. It was the hardest thing in the world to give back Mary Armitage’s ring to the hand with the scarlet nails. When he had done it he knew that he could do no more. The thing was beyond him. His words, the ring, declared this woman his wife. Heart and flesh denied her. Every instinct slammed the door against the evidence. If there was a marriage, she must prove it. He said so.

“This goes for nothing. You are taking advantage of the fact that I have lost my memory. If there was a marriage, you can jog yours and let my solicitors know where it took place. I don’t believe that there was a marriage, or that you can prove it.”