The Moving Toyshop (13 page)

But as she was going she turned again to Sally, who was now faced with the additional delay of getting all the handkerchiefs back to their proper places, and said unexpectedly: “I suppose I’ve delayed you terribly, my dear. you’ll be wanting your lunch.”

“Not at all, madam,” said Sally, smiling (with something of an effort, it must be confessed). “I’m sorry there was nothing you liked.”

The old lady regarded her intently for a moment. “You’re a courteous girl,” she said. “Courteous and considerate. I like people who are courteous and considerate, and there aren’t many of them nowadays. I wonder—”

She was interrupted by a scratching on the other side of a door leading out of the shop, behind the counter; and Sally was shocked to see that she started and trembled violently.

“What’s that?” she whispered.

Sally stepped back to the door. “It’s only my dog,” she said, herself startled by the violence of the old lady’s reaction. “Danny. I expect he wants his dinner.”

“Oh.” The old lady got a grip on herself with difficulty. “Let him in, my dear.”

Sally opened the door, and Danny, then a six-months-old puppy, frisked towards them.

“Well, well,” said the old lady. “A small, spotted dog. Jarvis, pick him up so that I can pat him.” The chauffeur obeyed, and Danny, whose taste in human beings was at this stage unexclusive, licked him heartily on the nose.

“There’s my pretty…” The old lady chuckled suddenly. “And you’re the young lady of Ryde,” she said to Sally.

Sally, not knowing what else to do, smiled again.

“Will you be here tomorrow, child, if I come in? It won’t be about handkerchiefs this time.”

“Yes. Yes, I shall.”

“I shall see you then. Now, I won’t delay you any longer… Jarvis, take my arm.” Slowly the old lady hobbled out.

That, for the moment, was that. But on the next day the old lady did come in, as promised, took Sally’s name and address, and gave her an envelope.

“Keep this,” she said, “and don’t lose it. Do you see the
Oxford Mail
every day?”

“Yes.”

“Go on seeing it, then. Look in the personal column every day without fail. When you see the name Ryde—not your own name, but Ryde—in an advertisement, take that envelope to Lloyds Bank and give it to the manager, he’ll give you another one in exchange. Take that to the address given in the advertisement. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand, but—”

“It’s a little trinket.” The old lady’s manner was curiously emphatic. “Not worth more than a few shillings, but I want to leave it to you in my will. It has a great sentimental value to me. Now, will you promise to do all this?”

“Yes, I promise. It’s very kind of you—”

“On your word of honour?”

“On my word of honour.”

And that was the last Sally ever saw of her.

She put the envelope away in a drawer, unopened, and only remembered it when she looked down the personal column of the
Oxford Mail.
 This became a rather meaningless ritual, but she continued to do it just the same, for it took no trouble and very little time; and she was surprised to find that on one occasion when she had forgotten, and thought the paper had been burnt, she was really quite agitated. Which was absurd, of course, the whole thing was too fairy-godmotherish to be real, and, as far as she came to any conclusion at all, she decided that the old lady must have been mad.

And, then, one day more than a year later, the advertisement actually appeared: “Ryde, Leeds, West, Mold, Berlin.—Aaron Rosseter, Solicitor, Cornmarket.” Sally was so surprised that for a moment she could do nothing but stare at it; then she pulled herself together and glanced at her watch. The shop would be closing soon for lunch, and she would go to the bank straight away. Of course it would look extremely idiotic if the whole thing was a practical joke, but that had to be risked. In any case she was too curious to leave matters where they were.

And the thing happened precisely as the old lady had said: in exchange for her envelope she was given a large, bulky brown one, and emerged into the busy rush of Carfax, feeling dazed, with a dream-like sense of unreality. She went straight to the address given in the advertisement, but the office was closed for lunch, and so she had to return later in the day.

She disliked Mr. Rosseter the moment she saw him, and it was with considerable mistrust that she delivered up the envelope to him. He was very polite, very obsequious; he asked questions about her occupation, her family, her income. And finally he said:

“Well, I have a very good piece of news for you, Miss Carstairs: you have been left a large sum of money under the will of Miss Snaith.”

Sally stared at him. “Do you mean the old lady who—”

Mr. Rosseter shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not aware of the circumstances in which you made Miss Snaith’s acquaintance. There, in any event, is the fact. There will be another six months before the estate is wound up, but you may rely on me to communicate with you again as soon as possible.”

Sally said: “But there must be some mistake.”

“No mistake at all, Miss Carstairs. These papers prove your claim. Of course, there will be some small delay before you actually receive the money, but I’ve no doubt the bank will in the meantime advance any sum you may require.”

“Look,” said Sally desperately. “I only saw this Miss—Miss Snaith twice in my life. She came into the shop as a customer. Golly, you’re not telling me she’s left me some money just because she looked at some handkerchiefs and didn’t buy any?”

Mr. Rosseter whipped off his glasses, polished them with his handkerchief, and replaced them on his nose. “My late client was a very eccentric old lady, Miss Carstairs—very eccentric indeed. Her actions were seldom what other people would consider reasonable.”

“You’re telling me,” said Sally. “But, anyway, why all this business about the envelopes and the advertisement? Why couldn’t she just leave it to me in the ordinary way?”

“Ah, there you’ve touched on another aspect of her eccentricity. You see, Miss Snaith lived in constant terror of being murdered. It was a mania with her. She took the most elaborate precautions, and lived in a state of siege, even against her own servants and relations. What more natural than that in leaving money to strangers she should see to it that they knew nothing of the arrangement beforehand and so, should they perhaps be of a murderous disposition, should have no temptation to—shall we say?—hasten matters.”

“That’s right,” said Sally, remembering. “She told me she was only leaving me a cheap trinket. What a queer old thing she must have been—I feel rather sorry for her, really.” She paused. “Look, Mr. Rosseter. I don’t want to seem curious, but I don’t see—”

“Where the envelopes come into it? That’s very simple. Miss Snaith chose to leave her money in the form of a secret trust—that is to say that in the will I was nominated as her heir. The real heirs—as yourself—had then to apply to me for their inheritance. The papers you obtained and of which there are duplicates at the bank, are devised to make sure that I do not wrongfully cheat you of your inheritance.” Mr. Rosseter permitted himself a discreet chuckle.

“Oh,” said Sally blankly. “Oh, I see.” She collected her bag and was getting ready to go, when something else occurred to her. “And how much do I inherit?”

“In the region of a hundred thousand pounds, Miss Carstairs.”

“I—I don’t think I heard—”

Mr. Rosseter repeated the sum. Sally was simply dumbfounded: she had never dreamed of anything like this. A hundred thousand! It was astronomical, incredible. Sally was not selfish or prone to pamper herself, but what girl, at a moment like that, would not have seen the beatific vision of frocks, of cars and travel and ease and luxury? Anyhow, Sally did. And she had expected a hundred at the most.

She sat down again, rather suddenly, thinking: this a dream.

“Quite a considerable fortune,” Mr. Rosseter pursued amiably. “I congratulate you, Miss Carstairs. Of course, you will need someone to handle your affairs. May I suggest myself?”

“I—yes, I suppose so. This is all quite a shock, you know.” It certainly was a shock: so much so, that when Sally left Mr. Rosseter’s office she had to keep reminding herself that, after all, the interview had been real. It was like trying to persuade someone of something which they
would 
not believe was true; and at the same time, being that other, incredulous person as well.
A
curious, irrational feeling of superstition prevented her from saying anything about it, even to her mother, for Sally had had some experience of counting chickens before they were hatched, and of the disenchantment which sometimes followed. So for the moment she went on with her normal life.

Then, next morning, a letter arrived for her. The address at the head of it was 193A Cornmarket, and apart from the signature it was typewritten. It ran:

Dear Miss Carstairs,

I hope you will forgive my presumption in writing to you in this way, but I was wondering if you would do me a small favour. Another of the beneficiaries under Miss Snaith’s will, a Miss Emilia Tardy, is arriving in Oxford by train this evening, and it is important that I should see her at once. Miss Tardy does not know Oxford at all, and, moreover, is rather a helpless old lady. Would it be asking too much of you to meet her and bring her down to my flat in the Iffley Road—No. 474? Of course, I would do so myself, but I shall be unavoidably detained on business, and my clerk, whom I would otherwise have sent, is away on holiday.

The train gets in at 10:12, and Miss Tardy is a plump, elderly lady with gold pince-nez. If it is possible for you to do this kindness, do not trouble to reply to this; if not, would you ring me at my office—Oxford 07022? With many apologies for troubling you,

Yours truly,

Aaron Rosseter.

It was possible; and Sally went to the station that evening as she had been asked.

In the parlour of the cottage, Sally looked up at her listeners. “I don’t know if I’m making it all frightfully obscure,” she said apologetically.

“Not in the least,” said Fen grimly. “Certain things are becoming quite crystal clear.”

“Scoundrel,”
 said Wilkes in a surprising outbreak of ethical fervour. Cadogan had sketched out the situation to him while Mr. Hoskins had been exercising his wiles.

“What did you do with the letter?” Fen asked.

“I’m afraid I burned it,” said Sally helplessly. “I didn’t think it was important, you see.”

“Oh,” said Fen. ‘Well, it can’t be helped. You know, I want to be a bit more certain about dates. This is October 5th… Just a minute.” He disappeared into the hall, where he could be heard talking into the telephone, and after a while returned. “I thought so,” he said. “I’ve been getting the
Oxford Mail
to go back through their files. Miss Snaith departed this miserable planet six months ago yesterday, that is, on April 4th of this year.”

“So Miss Tardy’s lease ran out at midnight last night,” Cadogan interposed.

“Yes—midnight last night. But the more interesting point is that Rosseter’s advertisement, which ought to have gone in
to-day,
went in the day before yesterday—isn’t that right?” Sally nodded “Two days early, in fact. Go on, Sally. We haven’t really got to the point yet, have we? Have another cigarette.”

“Not another just now, thanks.” Sally wrinkled her brow. “No, there’s worse to come yet. I met the train, you see, and found Miss Tardy all right, and explained that I was from Mr. Rosseter, and she seemed quite to expect it, so that was all right. We got a taxi and drove down to Iffley Road—the train was ten minutes late, by the way, and, of course, it was quite dark by then. I liked Miss Tardy: she’d travelled an awful lot, and talked very interestingly about it and a lot, too, about some children’s homes she was interested in. But I didn’t say anything to her about the will.

“Well, Mr. Rosseter’s flat was just above an awful little toyshop place, and we went in at the door of the shop and up the stairs at the back, like he’d told me, and into the sitting-room at the front. It looked awfully dusty and unoccupied, and we were very surprised that there was no one there. But I thought we must have got the wrong room, so I told Miss Tardy to sit down there a minute—she wasn’t in very good health, poor dear, and those steep stairs had exhausted her—and I went to the next door along and knocked. Then I got an awful fright, because a man came out with bandages all over his face: I don’t know who he was. But he explained he’d had an accident and burned his face, and that Mr. Rosseter wasn’t back yet. He apologized for the state the flat was in, too—he said a cistern had burst in Mr. Rosseter’s own house and he’d had to move into the flat temporarily. Then he said Mr. Rosseter had asked him to entertain Miss Tardy until he arrived, and gave his name as Mr. Scadmore; so I introduced them and after a bit I left. Or rather, I
pretended
to leave. Actually, I felt there was something queer about it all—a sort of intuition, I suppose—and I wanted to see Miss Tardy safely out of the house. So I banged the shop-door loudly (it squeaked, too) and settled down to wait a bit in the shop. It was hellish creepy and I didn’t really know what I was doing, but somehow I was anxious.

The first thing I realized was that there were other people in the house besides Miss Tardy and the man who called himself Mr. Scadmore. There was a lot of talk and walking about, and then a long silence, and then after about twenty minutes there was quite an outburst of excitement. I wanted to see what was happening, so I crept up the stairs. And then before I could get away Mr. Rosseter came down the stairs, and with him a man and a woman, both of them with masks on.

“He stopped dead when he saw me, and said in a shaky sort of voice: ‘Oh, you’re still here, are you? You were very foolish to stay. You’d better come up and see what’s happened.’ I was terrified, but I thought I’d better go up for the sake of Miss Tardy. She—she was lying on the floor, all blue and puffy, with a piece of string round her neck. The man with the bandaged face was bending over her. He—Mr. Rosseter—said: ‘She’s been murdered, you see, but you’re not going to say anything about it—ever. You keep quiet and you’ll get your money and no one will bother you. You see, you were only to get the money if she didn’t claim it before midnight, and she’s been murdered before she could make a proper legal claim.’ He talked very quickly, in a dull, monotonous sort of voice, and he was sweating horribly. The others all kept their eyes on me all the time, and no one moved. I was cramped and dirty from the shop below, and I felt all itchy, as though there were insects crawling over me.” Sally shivered. “He said: ‘Perhaps you killed her. I don’t know. It’s very convenient for you, and the police will want to know all about it, especially as you brought her here.’ I said: ‘But you told me to.’ He said: ‘I shall deny it, and no one will believe you. I shall say I didn’t send you that letter, and you can’t prove I did. These others will all swear you knew perfectly well you were bringing her to her death. I don’t get any advantage out of it: you do. They’ll believe me rather than you. So you’d better keep quiet. We’ll look after things here. All you’ve got to do is to go home and forget about her and us.’ So—I—I—”