Run! (20 page)

Sally bit her lip. She looked straight in front of her for about five minutes. Then she said in a young, uncertain voice,

“I've got some money too.”

“Yes,” said James—“Jocko told me. He said you had three hundred a year.”

Sally said “Oh—” Her colour was very bright indeed. She looked sideways at James out of her green eyes and murmured, “Do you mind?”

“Why should I?” said James.

Sally bit her lip again—quite hard.

“Would you mind if it was more than three hundred?”

James frowned at the King's Road.

“What has it got to do with me? I don't suppose Niemeyer will object.”

“
James!
”

“Yes, Sally?”

“Are you being a pig on purpose?”

“Yes, Sally.”

“
James!
” Sally's green eyes were full of tears.

He grinned at her for a moment.

“I owed you one for saying you were practically engaged to him.”

“It wasn't a joke,” said Sally in a miserable voice.

“What was it—blackmail?”

“Sort of.”

“All right, wait till we're clear of the traffic and you can tell me all about it.”

They made a quick run through Putney, and as they swung into Roehampton Lane, James looked round at her and said,

“Now.”

“I don't know what to tell you,” said Sally. “Jocko's gone to Rere Place. I don't think it's safe for him there. I don't think it's very safe for him anywhere if he means to try and find what Aunt Clementa hid.”

“What did she hide, Sally?”

Sally flashed him an odd, fleeting smile.

“You never believed it was a diamond necklace—did you? Not even after Daphne's story.”

“No,” said James. “Did Daphne make the story up?”

Sally shook her head.

“Oh no—it's a real story. No one knows what happened to the necklace. Aunt Clementa always said Giles pinched it. The Reres were a pretty queer lot.”

“Well, what did your Aunt Clementa find,” said James, “if it wasn't the necklace?”

“It was a book,” said Sally slowly. “I think it was a list of names in a book—names of people who were doing something they could be run in for, and enough about what they were doing to get them run in. That's what I think it was. I think they were using Rere Place. I think Aunt Clementa made a very good screen for them. She was old, and she was ill, and she was bedridden. At least that's what they thought.”

James looked around.

“I meant to go and see that maid of hers, Annie What's-her-name, but I haven't had time.”

“I went first thing,” said Sally. “I asked her whether Aunt Clementa could get out of bed, and she twinkled—she's a jolly, fat old thing—and said, ‘Many's the time, miss, only I never let on that I knew.' So I said, ‘You mean she did get out of bed?' And Annie laughed and said, ‘Pretty near every night, miss, only she didn't want no one to know, and I never let on.' So I said, ‘Do you mean she got out in the night and walked about in the house?' And Annie said, ‘Upstairs
and
down, miss.' So then I said, ‘Do you think anyone else knew—anyone except you?' And she said no, and she never told anyone, because she didn't think it was anyone's business what her ladyship did in her own house. So you see—”

James saw.

“Well then, you think she found something that compromised these people who were using the house?”

“Yes.”

“And hid it?”

“Yes.”

“And wrote and told Jocko where to find it?”

“Yes, I think so. They must have been most awfully afraid of what was in that letter to risk pushing him over the cliff. It was so dangerous that—”

“That the letter must have been more dangerous still?”

Sally nodded.

“And now if they think he's remembered what was in the letter—James, I'm so frightened when I think about it.”

“Do you think he has remembered?”

Sally nodded again.

“Something, but I don't know how much. He won't say. He's gone there alone. And they'll never let him find whatever it is—they'll stop him somehow.”

“Well,” said James in his most practical voice, “if it's all that compromising, why not burn the house down and get rid of it? There's been plenty of time.”

Sally shivered.

“I thought of that. But you know, James—fire—it's so awfully uncertain. I don't believe they'd risk it. We've got a frightfully keen local fire-brigade, and if there was anything compromising hidden in the house, you bet someone would rescue that whilst everything else got burnt to ashes. I believe it would be simply bound to happen. Besides it's a big house, and the blighted thing may be anywhere. They wouldn't risk it.”

James said without looking at her,

“Who are
they,
Sally? Don't you think it's about time you told me?”

XXVII

Sally did not speak or move. She looked straight in front of her. A queer sort of stiff silence seemed to close her in. James could feel it there like a sheet of glass between them. He stopped the car and took her by the shoulders.

“Do you want me to shake you till your eyes drop out?”

The silence broke up.

“You c-can't,” said Sally with something between a sob and a laugh.

“Oh, can't I?”

She felt his grip tighten.

“James! Not on the Kingston by-pass! Oh, d-darling—don't!”

“Sally,” said James, “I've run out of patience—right out. If you're going to talk, I'll listen, but if you're going to drop a few hints and then dry up, well, you'll get your shaking, and I don't suppose you'll like it a bit.”

“All right,” said Sally, “I will talk—I will, darling. I'd like to—really. I—oh, darling, do let go! Those people were looking at us!”

“Let them look,” said James. He gave her a little shake and took his hand away. “Now we'll go on, and you can tell me all about it. And don't try to keep anything back, because if I'm to be any use to you, I've got to know everything that
you
know.” He started the car. “Now you can begin. You said
they
wouldn't risk it. You just shove along and tell me who
they
are.”

“Ambrose,” said Sally in a little breathless voice. “At least I think so. But I don't know about Hildegarde. I don't like her, and that makes it so difficult. I mean it's so difficult to know whether you're being fair when you simply loathe someone and never want to see them again.”

There was a nice clear stretch of road before them, and James put the Rolls up sixty. He said,

“Is that how you feel about Ambrose too?”

“No,” said Sally. “I wish I did. James, that's why I've been such a fool about it. You see, I used to love Ambrose—terribly.”

James spoke roughly.

“How do you mean you used to love him?”

“He used to come and see me at school. He was frightfully famous—it's faded a bit now, but everyone was talking about him then—and when he came down to see me everyone thought he was too marvellous. I wasn't the only one. We all fell
passionately
in love with him.”

James grinned. He couldn't help it, the relief was so great. He had been black afraid, and here was the sort of thing that Kitty, and Chloe, and Meg had broken him in to—the schoolgirl passion for an actor, a film star—or Ambrose Sylvester.

“I can't think why,” said James, “but I suppose girls must have something to pash for.”

“He's frightfully handsome. Nobody could possibly say he wasn't. And it was frightfully nice of him to come down and take me out, but of course he oughtn't to have made love to me.”

“Sally!”

“Oh, nothing to look like that about. But I thought he meant it. In a way I think perhaps he did. I think he was wondering whether it mightn't be a good plan if he married me.”

“Was he your guardian then?”

Sally nodded.

“Yes, that was just it. I was only sixteen. He'd have had to wait two years at least, and he couldn't afford to wait.”

“What's all this about?” said James in a serious voice. “Why couldn't he afford to wait? Why should he want to marry you at all, if it comes to that?”

Sally's lips parted in a tremulous smile.

“Some people do,” she murmured. “Some people want to very much. You said you did yourself. But Ambrose—I'm afraid it wasn't that with Ambrose—ever. You see—I've got—rather a lot of money.”

“Three hundred a year? Jocko told me you had three hundred a year.”

“And the rest,” said Sally in a very small voice.

James said without looking round, “And what's the rest?”

“It's about three thousand a year really. Do you mind?”

“Why did J.J. lie about it?”

“I th-think he knew I was in love with you, and he didn't want to put you off.”

After a minute James said, “That's a pretty big compliment. I don't know if I do mind. It's a bit of a shock. Why have you got such a lot?”

“It was my mother's money. Jocko's a half-brother, you know. Both our mothers were Reres. But his mother hadn't any money. That's why Aunt Clementa left him hers.”

“I see,” said James. “Get back to Ambrose Sylvester. He married Hildegarde. When?”

“Five years ago. I was seventeen. I thought my heart was broken, but if Hildegarde had been nice to me, it would have mended up again and I should probably have taken her in and worshipped them both. I—I've got quite an affectionate nature, James.”

He put his hand on her shoulder.

“Wasn't she nice to you?”

“Beastly,” said Sally. “Every time I was with her she made me feel as if everything about me was wrong—the way I did my hair, and the way I put on my clothes, and the things I said, and the things I didn't say. Oh, I don't suppose any man can understand, but she made me feel just wrong everywhere, and every time she called me darling she made it sound like ‘See how kind I am to this awkward little schoolgirl.' And she used to look at Ambrose, and Ambrose used to look back at her, and I used to wish I was dead.”

“Silly,” said James with his hand still on her shoulder.

Sally rubbed her cheek against it.

“You wouldn't like to tell me I'm rather nice and all that sort of thing, would you?”

“No,” said James. He patted the shoulder. “I can't do it here—not properly. And you're not getting on about Ambrose. What makes you think he's crooked?”

He felt her wince.

“Little things—stupid things—piling up one on another. Little things—about money. He'd bought Warnley Place with the money from
Links in the Chain,
and at first when he used to come down and see me at school he used to talk a lot about it. And then he started saying what a lot of money it took to keep it up. I don't think his second book sold as well as
Links
—second books hardly ever do when you've made a tremendous hit like that. And then there were some short stories, and then he never wrote anything again. I never knew him when he
was
writing, and by the time he married Hildegarde I think he was pretty desperate. And everyone thought she must have lots of money, because they began to entertain and go about a lot. But she
hadn't,
because once she was quarrelling with Henri, and I thought they knew I was in the room, but it turned out afterwards they didn't, and he said, ‘It is your doing—you married him.' And she said, ‘What can one do without money? One must do something. I hadn't a sou.' And then Henri saw me and hushed her up, and I thought I had better pretend I was asleep. That's one of the little things. And another time I was passing the library window at Warnley, and I heard Ambrose say with a sort of groan, ‘Why did I ever begin?' And Hildegarde said, ‘One must have money, my friend.' And he said it wasn't worth it, and she laughed and called him a coward.”

“Where did the money come from?” said James.

“I don't know. I think Hildegarde and Henri showed him a way of getting it. I think it's something dangerous, something against the law. I
know
it is. They wouldn't go to such lengths to cover it up unless it was very dangerous indeed. But I don't know what it is—I really don't.”

James ran over the possibilities in his own mind. Spy work—sabotage—He frowned dubiously. Not likely. Not enough money in it. Crime—a great many dangerous possibilities here. Forgery—blackmail—dope—it might be any of these.

He said, “Go on.”

Sally drew a long breath.

“I think Aunt Clementa knew. I think she found out. I think Rere Place was being—
used.
You see, Aunt Clementa was supposed to be bedridden. My father was her trustee—he looked after everything. And when he got ill he got the trusteeship transferred to Ambrose, and after that he made him my guardian. Ambrose's mother was a Rere too—rather a distant one, but they all hang together. So there was Aunt Clementa bedridden and wandery, and Ambrose could do anything he liked. Well, he got rid of all the old servants. It was quite easy. I saw it being done. Hildegarde used to go over and snoop at them till they gave notice. She put on her most foreign accent and said things like ‘You do not know how to polish in England. In Belgium we would not call this a polished floor. A Belgian maid would think that you English servants do not know your work at all.' Well, you can imagine how they liked it. Annie stuck it out longer than any of them, but they got rid of her, saying that Aunt Clementa must have a proper nurse. Hildegarde got the doctor to say so.”

“Were the new servants foreign?”

Sally shook her head.

“Oh, no. Hildegarde was too clever for that. It would have made talk. But I didn't like them—any of them. Quite well trained and all that, you know, but a most horrid feeling as if they might say something outrageous at any moment. I simply hated going there. What nobody knew was that Aunt Clementa wasn't really bedridden at all. She got out of bed and walked about the house in the dark, and one night she found something. She found out that her house was being used, and I think she found out what it was being used for. She found out, and she got away with some very incriminating evidence—something in a book. I don't know what it was. It might have been letters—or lists—names and addresses—or signatures—I don't know. But it must have been something pretty damning, because that's where all the trouble began. They wouldn't have tried to kill Jocko if they hadn't been pretty desperate—and your Mr. Jackson—and—”