Authors: Ethel White
He picked up a flimsy yellow sheet of badly printed newspaper.
“It’s in the stop press,” he explained, “but as he was at his hunting-lodge at the time, the final sensation’s squashed. However, nobody will bother. It’s quite true about the feudal system being in force in these remote districts.”
“But it proves me right,” cried Iris in great excitement. “How could I know all about her employer, unless Miss Froy told me? And there’s something else. When I told Miss Froy about my sunstroke the baroness was listening. She couldn’t know about it in any other way. So Miss Froy
was
there in the carriage with me.”
She looked so radiant that Hare hated to crush her confidence.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that it only proves that Miss Kummer was there.
She
told you about her employer, and perhaps a spot of family history when you were having tea with her. Later on, you mentioned your sunstroke to
her
. If you remember, when you came on the train, directly after your sunstroke, you were under the impression that all the other passengers were foreigners. Then you dozed and woke up all confused, and suddenly, Miss Froy, an Englishwoman, comes to life.”
“But she had blue eyes and giggled like a schoolgirl,” protested Iris. “Besides, there were her old parents and the dog. I couldn’t have made
them
up.”
“Why not? Don’t you ever dream?”
Dejectedly, Iris conceded the point.
“I suppose so. Yes, you must be right.”
“I must remind you,” continued Hare, “that Kummer was positively identified by the parson as the lady who sent them their tea. Now, I’m the last person to be biased, because all my uncles and fathers are parsons, and I’ve met them at breakfast—but the church does imply a definite standard. We insist on parsons having a higher moral code than our own and we try them pretty hard; but you must admit they don’t often let us down.”
“No,” murmured Iris.
“Besides that parson has such a clinking face. Like God’s good man.”
“But he never saw Miss Froy,” Iris reminded him. “He was speaking for his wife.”
Hare burst out laughing.
“You have me there,” he said. “Well, that shows how we can slip up. He took the stage so naturally, that he got us all thinking he was the witness.”
“If you’re wrong over one thing, you can be wrong over another,” suggested Iris hopefully.
“True. Let’s go into it again. You suggest that the baroness got rid of Miss Froy—never mind how—and that the other passengers, being local people and in awe of the family, would back her up. So far, you are right. They would.”
“Only it seems such a clumsy plot,” said Iris. “Dressing up some one quite different and passing her off as Miss Froy.”
“But that bit was an eleventh hour twist,” explained Hare. “Remember, you upset their apple-cart, barging in at the last minute. When you made a fuss about Miss Froy, they denied her existence, at first. You were just a despised foreigner, so they thought they could get away with it. But when you said that other English people had seen her, they had to produce
some one
—and trust to luck that your friends had never heard of Pelman.”
He was talking of Miss Froy as though he took her existence for granted. It was such a novelty, that, in her relief, Iris’ thoughts slipped off in another direction.
“Can’t you get that bit of hair to lie down?” she asked.
“No,” he replied, “neither by kindness nor threats. It’s my secret sorrow. Thank you. That’s the first bit of interest you’ve shown in me.”
“Miss Froy is bringing us together, isn’t she? You see, you believe in her too.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go quite so far. But I promised to believe in
you
—false lashes and all—against the Flood-Porter Burberry. In that case, we must accept a plot, inspired by the all-highest, and carried out by his relative, the baroness—in connection with the doctor, to bump off Miss Froy. So, naturally, that wipes out all the native evidence—train-staff and all.”
“You are really rather marvellous,” Iris told him.
“Wait before you hand out bouquets. We pass on to that English crowd. The Misses Flood-Porter seem typical John Bulls. What are they like?”
“They’ve been to the right school and know the best people.”
“Are they decent?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’d do the decent thing. I’m afraid that is one up against Miss Froy. Now we’ll pass the honeymoon couple—who are presumably not normal—and come to the vicar’s wife. What about her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Remember, you’re on oath, and I’m believing
you
.”
“Well,”—Iris hesitated—“I don’t think she could tell a lie.”
“And I’m positive she wouldn’t. I mix with publicans and sinners and know very little about saints. But, to me, she looks like a real good woman. Besides, she supported you the first time. That shows she has no axe to grind. She said Miss Kummer was the lady who accompanied you to tea. Don’t you think we must believe her?”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“Well, then, the weight of evidence is against Miss Froy. But since I’ve declared my distrust of evidence—however convincing it may sound—I’m going to wash out the lot. To my mind, the whole point is—motive.”
Iris saw Miss Froy fading away as Hare went on with his inquisition.
“I understand Miss Froy was quite small beer. Would she be mixed up in any plot?”
“No,” replied Iris. “She was against the Red element.”
“And neither young nor pretty? So she wasn’t kidnapped by the order of the high hat?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Any enemies?”
“No, she boasted of being friends with every one.”
“Hum. It’s hardly a motive for murder, but was the family annoyed because she was going to teach in the opposition camp?”
“No. She told me how her employer shook hands with her when he said ‘Good-bye,’ and thanked her for her services.”
“Well—is it clear to you now? Unless you can show me a real motive for a high life conspiracy against a poor but honest governess, I’m afraid there’s an end of Miss Froy. Do you agree?”
There was a long pause while Iris tried to battle against the current that was sweeping Miss Froy away. She told herself that so many people, with diverse interests, could not combine to lie. Besides, as Hare had said, what was the motive?
It was useless to struggle any longer and she let herself be swung out with the tide.
“You must be right,” she said. “One can’t go against
facts
. Yet, she was so real. And her old parents and the dog were real, too.”
She had the feeling that she had just slain something fresh and joyous—that fluttered and fought for life—as she added, “You’ve won. There is no Miss Froy.”
Mrs. Froy would have been furious had she known that any one doubted her reality.
While Iris was sighing for the passing of a pleasant ghost, she was at home in the depths of the country, and entertaining friends in her drawing-room.
It was a small room with diamond-paned windows—hung with creepers—which made it rather dark; but in spite of the shabby carpet, it was a gracious place, where odd period chairs fraternised with homely wickerwork, and a beautiful red lacquer cabinet lent the colour which the faded chintz could not supply.
Pots of fine golden chrysanthemums, grown by Mr. Froy, screened the empty iron grate. The guests might have preferred a fire, for there was that slight chill—often associated with old country houses—suggestive of stone flags. Yet the sun could be seen, through the curtain of greenery, shining on the flower-beds outside; for, although the electric lamps were gleaming in the express, the daylight still lingered farther north.
Mrs. Froy was short and stout, with grey hair and great dignity. In addition to having a dominant personality, today she felt extra full of vitality. It was born of her excitement at the thought that her daughter was actually on her way home.
The postcard was on the marble mantelshelf, propped up against the massive presentation clock. On its back was printed a crudely coloured picture of mountains, with grass-green bases and white tops, posed against a brilliant blue sky. Scribbled across the heavens, in a round unformed handwriting, was the message.
“Home Friday night. Isn’t it topping?”
Mrs. Froy showed it to her guests.
“Everything is ‘topping’ to my daughter,” she explained with proud indulgence. “I’m afraid at one time it used to be ‘ripping.’”
A visitor looked at the string of consonants printed at the base of the picture—shied at them—and compromised.
“Is she
there
?” she asked, pointing to the line.
“Yes.” Mrs. Froy reeled off the name rapidly and aggressively. She did it to impress, for it was only the home-interpretation of Winnie’s address. But, on her return, their daughter would give them the correct pronunciation, and put them through their paces while they tried to imitate her own ferocious gargling.
Then the room would know more of the laughter on which it had thriven and grown gracious.
“My daughter is a great traveller,” went on Mrs. Froy. “Here is her latest photograph. Taken at Budapest.”
The portrait was not very revealing since it was expensive. It hinted at the lower half of a small vague face, and a hat which photographed very well.
“She looks quite cosmopolitan with her eyes covered by her hat,” remarked Mrs. Froy. “Now, this is the Russian one. This one was taken at Madrid, on her birthday. Here she is in Athens.”
The collection was chiefly a geographical trophy, for while Mrs. Froy was proud of the printing on the mounts, she secretly resented the middle-aged stranger, who—according to her—was not in the least like her daughter.
She ended the parade by stretching to reach a faded portrait in a silver frame, which stood on a shelf. It was taken at Ilfracombe, and showed a young girl with a slim neck and a smiling face, framed by a mass of curling fair hair.
“This is my favourite,” she declared. “Now, this really
is
Winnie.”
It was the girl who had taught in Sunday school, giggled at churchwardens, and refused her father’s curates, before she spread adventurous wings and fluttered away.
But she always returned to the nest.
Mrs. Froy looked again at the clock. She tried to picture Winnie in a grand continental express, which stamped proudly all over the map of Europe. The poor girl would have to endure two nights in the train, but she always vowed she loved the experience. Besides, she knew all the little dodges of an experienced traveller, to secure comfort.
Although a gregarious soul, Mrs. Froy began to wonder when her guests would go. There had been a hospitable big tea round the dining-room table, with blackberry pie, and a guest had made a stain on the best tablecloth. Although she had guiltily pushed her plate over it, Mrs. Froy had seen it. And since every minute’s delay in rubbing salt into the mark would make its removal more difficult, she had found it difficult to maintain the myopia of a hostess.
Besides she wanted to watch the clock alone, and gloat over the fact that every minute was bringing Winnie’s return nearer.
Although her fingers were itching to remove the tablecloth, after she had escorted her visitors to the gate, she did not return immediately to the house. In front of her was the field where she gathered mushrooms every morning. It was vividly green, and the black shadows of the elms were growing longer as the sun dipped lower.
It was rather melancholy and lonely, so that she thought of her husband.
“I wish Theodore would come home.”
Apparently he heard her wish for he appeared suddenly at the far end of the meadow—his tall thin black figure striding over the grass, as though he were in competition with the elm-shadows.
Around him capered a dog which had some connection with the breed of Old English sheepdog; but his original line had slipped and he was suppressed in the family tree. During a recent hot spell, his shaggy coat had been clipped, transforming him to a Walt Disney creation.
Sock was the herald and toastmaster of the family. Directly he espied the little dumpy grey lady at the garden gate, he made a bee-line towards her and circled round her, barking excitedly to tell her that the master was coming home.
Having done his duty at her end of the field, he tore back to Mr. Froy with the glad news that the mistress of the house was waiting for him. As he gradually drew them together, both his owners were laughing at his elephantine gambols.
“It must be a great relief to the poor fellow, getting rid of that thatch,” said Mr. Froy. “He evidently feels very cool and light now.”
“He probably imagines he is a fairy,” remarked his wife. “Look at him floating through the air like a puff of thistledown.”
“The dear old fool. Won’t Winsome laugh?”
“Won’t she?”
In imagination, both heard the joyous girlish peal.
“And won’t she be thrilled with her room?” went on Mrs. Froy. “Theo, I’ve a confession. The carpet came when you were out. And I am only human.”
Mr. Froy hid his disappointment.
“You mean, you’ve unpacked it?” he asked. “Well, my dear, I deserved it for running away with Sock, instead of staying and helping you to entertain your visitors.”
“Come upstairs and see it. It looks like moss.”
They had bought a new carpet for Winifred’s bedroom, as a surprise for her return. It represented stringent personal economy, since with a rigid income, any extra purchase meant taking a bite out of the weekly budget.
So he had cut down his allowance of tobacco, and she had given up her rare visits to the cinema. But now that the forty days were over, these good things would have been nothing but ashes and counterfoils.
The carpet remained—a green art-square.
When they reached the bedroom, Mr. Froy looked round him with proud satisfied eyes. It was a typical schoolgirl’s bedroom, with primrose washed walls and sepia photogravures of Greuze’s beauties—limpid-eyed and framed in dark stained oak. The modern note was there also in photographs of Conrad Veidt and Robert Montgomery, together with school groups and Winnie’s hockey-stick.