All the questions which Meg wanted to ask churned in her till the next morning. She managed, however, to run upstairs whilst Mary was making the beds.
“Can I help you, Mary?” she said. “I’ve got a few minutes.”
“Well, it’s Carter’s business really, but I suppose she thinks herself too grand for the making of beds.”
“I’ll help you. I’d like to,” said Meg.
Mary gave her a sharp glance. What was the child up to, she’d like to know. Something, she’d be bound. Well, it would come out, good or bad.
They had half made Joyce’s bed before anything came. Then Meg said,
“You know the big shop in Langton—the one where you can get everything—boots, and shoes, and boxes, and knives, and dresses, and hats—”
“Jakers,” said Mary. “Of course I know it. It’s a very good shop. What about it? Did you go there yesterday?”
Meg nodded as she turned down the sheet.
“Yes, we did. And when we were on the other side of the shop from Carter there was a little dog playing, and Joyce pulled her hand out of mine and ran to look at it, but I stayed where I was.”
“You ought to have gone with Joyce,” said Mary.
Meg straightened the eiderdown on her side of the bed.
“No,” she said, “I wanted to listen. There were two ladies at the counter quite close to me, and they were talking. And what do you think they were talking about? You’ll never guess.”
Mary pricked up her ears. What in the world had the child got hold of now? She said, “Couldn’t say, I’m sure,” and waited for more.
It came, as she knew that it would.
“They were talking about Jenny—at least I think it must have been Jenny they meant, only they’d got her name wrong. They called her Jenny Forbes. Jenny Forbes—just think! As if she was our cousin!”
Mary said, “That’s as may be,” and flung the bedspread over for Meg to catch and straighten out on her side.
They moved to the other bed, but before they got there Meg caught Mary by the wrist with a cold little hand and said,
“She’s not our cousin, is she? I wish she was, but I don’t see how she could be. Mary, do tell me! There’s something going on—I know there is. About Jenny, I mean. Why did she run away in the night like she did? And why does she call herself Jenny Forbes? Oh, Mary, do tell me!”
“I can’t, Meg—I really can’t. Your mother would send me away as soon as look at me if I did.”
“I won’t tell—I won’t ever tell. I promise I won’t. If she’s our cousin, we ought to know. Oughtn’t we?”
“I’d have thought so,” said Mary with a toss of the head.
“Well then, you can tell me,” said Meg. She gave a little nod, let go of the hand that she was holding, and pranced round to the other side of her bed. “If you are nice and tell me all about it, I won’t say a word. But if you’re not, well then it’ll be just too bad for you.” She nodded her head and screwed up her mouth.
“Oh, you wicked child!” said Mary. Then as the roguish eyes met hers a little giggle escaped her. “My word, you are a one, Meg!” she said. “I don’t know what children are coming to, I don’t indeed. Well then, I can only tell you how the talk has gone, and from that it seems that Mr. Richard Alington Forbes was Jenny’s father, but her mother had an accident the day he was killed in France, so she couldn’t say they were married. And she came down here to Miss Garstone that had been her governess, and she died when her baby came. And no one knew they’d been married, so your father was the next heir, and he come in for the property, which was really Miss Jenny’s. And somehow or another the truth come out and Miss Jenny run away.”
Meg was deeply interested.
“Why did she do that?” she said.
“Oh well—” Mary had the grace to blush—“it was awkward for her being here. See?”
“No, I don’t.”
Mary had gone too far to draw back. She began to wish that she hadn’t begun.
“Oh well, you’re too young to understand, but it meant turning you out, and I dare say she’d feel awkward about that.”
“Oh, she would. Jenny wouldn’t like to turn anyone out—I know she wouldn’t. I don’t see why we couldn’t all stay here together. Do you?”
Mary thought that that would be, of course, the sensible thing to do. But did she see Mrs. Forbes doing it? She did not, and that was the truth. She didn’t know what Jenny knew, but with what she herself knew in her own mind she could very well imagine why Jenny had run away. She made some noncommittal answer, and was instantly met by further questions.
“I shall go to Mother and ask her why Jenny has gone away.”
“Meg, you promised—”
“No, I didn’t. I only said I wouldn’t say anything that would get you into trouble. And I won’t—truly. But I don’t see at all why I couldn’t go to my mother and say that I’d heard Jenny was staying at Hazeldon.”
“Meg, you can’t—you mustn’t! Mrs. Forbes doesn’t know that there’s any talk about it. She’d be mad.”
Meg considered this.
“Well then, I could write a secret letter to Jenny, and you could post it for me. I’ll tell her I’ve heard where she is, and she can write back to me and put it in an envelope that is addressed to you at your home, so that no one will know anything about it except you and me and Jenny. There’s a lovely plan for you!”
“But, Meg—I don’t see—”
Meg waved her hands in the air.
“You haven’t got to see anything. You’ve only got to take my letter to the post and put it in, and when the answer comes back you’ll just have to put it in your pocket and bring it up here and give it to me when there’s nobody looking. It’ll be our own secret and ever so exciting. And it’s quite easy, so there’s nothing for you to fuss about.”
Mary stood still on the far side of the bed. She was thinking. Suppose she did what Meg wanted her to do. She could do it quite easily…
Well, there would be an awful row if it ever came out. But how could it come out? It couldn’t, really. Not unless Meg let it out—and why should she do that? She’d get into a most frightful row if she did. She considered Meg very seriously. Very good at escaping rows, that’s what she was. And quite good at getting you into them if she wanted to. It seemed to Mary that it would be less dangerous to go along with Meg and do what she wanted. She could hold her tongue could Meg—she’d noticed that. The thoughts raced through her mind. If she went in with Meg and Jenny got to know about it, there’d be a good wedding present to be got out of it perhaps. Jack Brent had a good job. She didn’t want to get married yet, but she didn’t want to lose him. He was getting a bit impatient, and there was that bold piece Florrie Hayling doing all she could to get him.
As these thoughts chased through Mary’s mind, Meg stood watching her. She could manage Mary. She mustn’t hurry her, not at this stage. She knew very well what she was thinking—could she do it without being found out? And the answer to that one was—easily. Only they two would know, and if neither of them spoke it was just too easy.
Would it pay her? Meg thought that one out too. She didn’t know all the ins and outs, but she knew enough, and she had a very quick, sure instinct. She waited therefore with astonishing patience until Mary’s mind was made up. She wasn’t in any real doubt of the outcome. She knew all about Florrie and Jack, and took a passionate interest. She thought Mary would be very silly to let Florrie get him. She didn’t like Florrie at all. A bold giggling piece, that was what Carter had called her. And Jack was nice. She liked him very much. He had a merry eye, and he could whistle beautifully.
At this point she began to think that Mary had had enough time to make up her mind. She said with an impatient ring in her voice,
“I said there was nothing for you to fuss over. What about it?”
Mary heard herself saying,
“Well, if you promise not to tell—”
Mr. Mottingley was in his office. He had resumed his business habits, but his mind was elsewhere. Only by keeping it strictly on business was there any relief from the dreadful suspense that racked him.
There was a knock on the door, and he looked up frowning. His preoccupation was hard won and to be held on to at all costs. The girl who looked in was pretty and shy. She was quite dreadfully afraid of Mr. Mottingley, but she liked Jimmy. Everyone in the office liked him. She was hotly partisan, too. Whoever had killed that girl, it certainly wasn’t Jimmy Mottingley. Anyone who knew him could tell that.
“What is it?” said Mr. Mottingley at his shortest.
“It’s—it’s Miss Lingbourne, sir. She—she wanted to see you.”
“Miss Lingbourne?” He frowned. “What does she want?”
“She didn’t say, sir.”
“Tell her I don’t see anyone without an appointment!” The words came sharp and hard.
And then as the girl turned away and was leaving the room his mind altered. Jimmy had been friendly with the family. It was just possible that the girl knew something that would help. Well then, why didn’t she make an appointment? Her brother was there in the office. Girls didn’t always tell their brothers everything. It was just a chance. He said,
“Wait a moment—show her in!”
He sat back in his chair and waited. When the door opened and Kathy Lingbourne came in he looked at her with attention. She was very quietly dressed, and she was pale. He did not know that he had ever seen her before. He might have passed her in the road, he might have seen her with her brother. She wasn’t anything to write home about. And then she was looking him straight in the face and saying, “How do you do, Mr. Mottingley?” as if she had come on a social visit. He said rather grimly,
“What can I do for you, Miss Lingbourne?”
She took the chair on the opposite side of his table and looked at him. When she spoke he noticed her voice—a nice voice, quiet and sweet. She said,
“I’ve come to see you about your son—about Jimmy.”
“Indeed? And what have you to say?”
Kathy paused. She was not afraid of Mr. Mottingley. Jimmy was— she knew that. She said,
“I thought I had better come and see you. Miss Silver asked me not to go and see Jimmy. She said it might do him harm. But I thought if I came to see you, that wouldn’t matter.”
Mr. Mottingley said harshly, “What have you to do with my son?”
A little colour came into Kathy’s pale face.
“I’m his friend,” she said. And whether it was the words, or her look, or the tone of her voice, Mr. Mottingley underwent a surprising change of consciousness. He believed her, and not only did he believe her, but he had a sudden and most amazing understanding of her motive in coming to him. He said quietly and gravely,
“He could do with a friend, poor lad.”
Kathy’s hands clasped one another tightly.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Mottingley, you know he didn’t harm her. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Ay—I know it. He didn’t harm her to her death—I know that. But there are other ways of harming—I can’t hold him clear of them.”
Kathy looked at him.
“Was it all his fault?” she said.
“Maybe not. It’s not for us to put the blame on one or on the other. Why did you come here?”
She gave him a straight answer.
“I wanted to see you for myself.”
“And why did you want to do that?”
“I don’t know. I felt that I needed to know you.”
“Why?”
She spread out her hands.
“I don’t really know. I just felt that I had to come.”
Mr. Mottingley recovered himself with a jolt.
“Are you telling me that you are sweet on Jimmy?” he said sternly.
He was prepared for tears. He certainly expected that calm of hers to break. The curious thing was that when it remained impervious he felt, not frustration, but a secret triumph.
Kathy said, “Oh, no, Mr. Mottingley. It’s not that. It’s just that he has been like one of the family. I have two brothers and a sister, you know. He’s a friend of Len’s, so he has been at the house a good deal. And I wanted to see you. You see, I couldn’t help knowing that Jimmy was quite desperately afraid of you.”
Well, she had got it out. She had not known whether she would be able to say it, but she had got it out.
Mr. Mottingley felt as if a cold light had been turned on him. It was a very uncomfortable feeling. He frowned and said,
“You mean that he has a proper respect for me and for his mother?”
“Oh, yes! I know that he has—I didn’t mean that. I meant— Oh, Mr. Mottingley, I meant that he is quite horribly frightened of you.”
He stared at her.
“I don’t understand.”
Kathy’s hands were clasped tightly together again.
“I know it’s difficult for you. But won’t you try? Please, please do! Jimmy is so afraid of you that he goes all to bits at the thought of telling you anything. Sometimes when I’ve said to him, ‘But why don’t you tell your father?’ he has just wrung his hands and said, ‘I can’t do it—I just can’t.’ And that’s true, you know—you can see it. He’s just horribly afraid of you.”
“He is the only one that lived,” said Mr. Mottingley. “There were three that died one after the other. And then there was Jimmy. And we made a solemn promise that we wouldn’t spoil him, but bring him up in the fear of God.”
Kathy raised her eyes and fixed them upon him.
“It is better for children to love their parents than to be afraid of them,” she said. “You see, if they’re afraid, and they do something wrong, they don’t come out with it. It just piles up inside them and goes on getting worse. I think that’s what happened with Jimmy. At first he didn’t mean any harm, and there wasn’t any. And then he began telling lies about where he had been and what he had been doing. I found out quite by accident, and I didn’t get a chance to speak to him because he stopped coming to our house about then. Miriam—I don’t want to say anything about her that I needn’t—but I’ve got to make you understand that it wasn’t all Jimmy’s fault. She—she was—I don’t know how to put it, but I think that if she wanted something she would see to it that she got it. I don’t want to be unkind, but I think that she was like that. And Jimmy was—I don’t know how to put it—but he hadn’t a chance. Len did speak to him, but it wasn’t any use. He was—” she paused and said, “fascinated. But he didn’t kill her. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know that.” He got out a pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose. “Why are you telling me all this?” he said.
“I thought you ought to know. I’ll go now, Mr. Mottingley.”