Touch and Go (28 page)

“What happened? What happened, my child?”

The little grey cap and the grey squirrel coat, which had been so becoming at lunch, now accentuated Lucilla's ghastly pallor. She said without looking at him,

“I slipped.”

And John Hildred said, “We won't discuss it here, Geoffrey.” After which no one spoke at all until they reached the hotel.

Millington's Hotel is a relic of the Victorian age. It has what might be described as an hereditary clientele. It stands in a small secluded square, and it is as respectable as the Victoria and Albert Museum. Until a year or two before the war it had no electric light. Rumour says that a gas globe or two still haunt the top landing, and it is sober truth that there is a gas fire in every bedroom.

Geoffrey Hildred was received with a sort of decorous enthusiasm rather suggestive of a welcome from loyal retainers. He had a pleasant word for everyone, and inscribed the names of his party in the register with a pleasing return of his usual geniality.

As he laid down the pen, John Hildred took it up. There was a moment when both men stood there with the register between them. Geoffrey Hildred looked sideways, and saw a face more sternly set than he had seen it yet. He looked away again.

“But I did not know you were staying here too,” he said.

John Hildred's eyebrows went up a little.

“Didn't you?” he said. And then he pulled the book towards him and leaned down and wrote his name—“John Hildred.” And in the space for the address—“Holme Fallow.”

CHAPTER XXX

Sarah and Lucilla went upstairs together. Two single rooms had been booked for them, and in reply to Sarah's enquiry the stout grey-haired chambermaid was sorry but they had no double room available.—We're that full, miss. But there—you're ever so close together. Mr. Hildred was most particular about that—asked special for these two rooms he did. They're what Miss Hildred and her maid always had, and we've kept them special. Here you are, miss—29 and 30, with just the bathroom between you. Miss Hildred she always says it's so good as having her own private bath.”

The rooms were small but comfortable. The luggage was already there, the chauffeur having deposited it earlier in the day. The two bedrooms and the bathroom had communicating doors, the bathroom being obviously a converted bedroom. Sarah tried both doors and found them locked. She went into the bathroom and had a look from that side. There was no sign of a key anywhere. The chambermaid said, no, miss, there wasn't a key—“and you won't find it only a step to go round.” And with that she went away and shut the door.

Lucilla had been standing at the window with her back to the room, but as the latch clicked she turned round and laughed. The sound struck Sarah's heart and jarred it. She said involuntarily, “Don't!” and immediately Lucilla laughed again.

“My angel Sarah—if you could see your face!
Grim!
”

Sarah came up to her and took her hand.

“Lucilla—how did you fall?”

“It seems as if you were always asking me that. Sort of habit, isn't it? Bad habit, I think. Don't you?”

“Yes.”

“I slipped, my angel.”

“Why did you slip?”

“Just did. Dunno why.”

Sarah let go her hand and stepped back.

“Why don't you tell me the truth?”

Lucilla's face worked for a moment. Then she went to the wash-stand and began to pour hot water into the basin. The hot-water can was brown picked out with black, and the basin an immense and solid affair wreathed in brightly painted roses.

Lucilla plunged her hands into the hot water with a little shriek.

“Boiling I Absolutely boiling! Darling, don't you simply love putting your hands in water that's just not quite boiling enough to scorch your skin off? I can feel it squirling right down to my toe-nails and up to the roots of my hair. It's lovely!”

Sarah stood irresolute. That cold doubt which had come to her once or twice before just touched her again. She had hoped for something that would exonerate Geoffrey Hildred. Had she found it?… She recoiled, as she had always recoiled. Yet whatever there was to know, Lucilla must know it. Then why didn't she speak? John said she was afraid. Afraid of what? She risked death by remaining silent. And she had courage.

Sarah went out of the room and into her own room and shut the door. Presently there came a knock on it. John Hildred stood there.

“I want to speak to you. Where can we talk?”

She said, “I don't know—not here, I suppose.”

He shook his head.

“They'd have a fit. There used to be a little hole of a sitting-room along here. We can see if it's empty.”

Empty it was—a small gloomy room, with heavy maroon curtains, a drab carpet, and the more unyielding kind of Victorian chair. A debilitated electric bulb shed a kind of wan twilight in the contracted space.

John shut the door and took her as far from it as possible.

“What docs she say?” he asked.

Sarah made a gesture of despair.

“What does she ever say? Just nothing.”

“You asked her?”

“Of course I asked her. She said she slipped. She said she didn't know how.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said,

“She slipped. And Geoffrey was three rows back in the crowd—wedged. I saw him.”

“Yes, I saw him too.”

“There was no general push forward—it wasn't done that way. I wasn't pushed at all. It was her weight that nearly took me over. Sarah, he's damned clever. If you hadn't held on just long enough to give me time to get my balance, we'd have been gone and out of his way—both of us, Lucilla and I. Do you realize that?”

Sarah looked at him steadily. Her eyes were dark and her face very pale. She said,

“Yes, John.” And then, “How did he do it?”

“I think I know, but knowing isn't proving. If we'd gone under the train, it would have been an accident or—or suicide—and the way all nice and clear for Geoffrey. I think it was done with his stick. I think he was watching for a chance, and he got it. That stick he always carries would have done the trick. One good hard shove would be enough. Everyone was looking at the train—”

Sarah was paler still.

“Then why doesn't she say so? She must know. John, that's what defeats me—she must know.”

“Yes, she knows. But she's afraid. She can't prove anything, and she's afraid he'll try to make out she's mad.”

“John!”

“I'm sure of it. I'm sure he's threatened her with a lunatic asylum. And she'd rather face death—my poor plucky girl! Don't you see, there's no proof—there's never been any proof. If she talked, he'd have the doctor in and make out a case for persecution-mania. I guessed at something of the sort when they played that damnable trick to frighten her—the Thing dashing at her window. It would have suited their book remarkably well if she had run screaming through the house, but they dropped it like a hot brick as soon as they knew you had changed rooms. It wouldn't have suited them to have Lucilla's story corroborated.”

“She said it would stop when I'd seen it.” Sarah's lips were stiff on the words.

John Hildred nodded.

“Yes—she knew. She's been playing a lone hand ever since Henry died. Do you happen to know whether she's refused Ricky lately?”

“I don't know. I shouldn't wonder—he's looked so sulky.”

“I think that's been the alternative. Now they're desperate—and so am I. Sarah, I don't know what to do. He's her guardian. We can't prove a thing, and Ronald Eversley doesn't land till Friday at earliest. I'd like to take you both away to-night, but if Geoffrey called in the police, I'd be done. I can't prove I'm her father till Ronald comes. And I'd give a good deal not to drag Lucilla and the family name into court. Geoffrey knows that. What am I to do?”

Sarah said, “I don't know.”

He smiled suddenly.

“I did a stupid theatrical thing just now—I registered as John Hildred of Holme Fallow, right under Geoffrey's nose. I wish you'd seen his face. I'm afraid I'd do it again—just for that. By the way, did you know he wasn't staying here?”

She had known, but it came freshly and brought an overwhelming sense of relief. She said rather breathlessly.

“No—of course—he's got his flat—he wouldn't. He and Ricky will be at the flat. He said so. Oh, but then we'll be all right here—won't we?”

“It's the most respectable place on earth,” said John Hildred. His voice lagged a little on the words. “I'm along at the end of the passage—No. 45. It ought to be all right. Now look here—I'm coming to the theatre with you to-night. I've told Geoffrey so, and he's offered me Ricky's ticket. Ricky is said to be at the flat, very seedy with a bad head. Bad conscience and funk, I should say. But anyhow he's off the map, and I'm going instead. Geoffrey was very polite, after looking as if his eyes were going to pop out of his head when I signed the register in my own name. He was very polite, and very upset about Lucilla. He rather gave the show away by saying he'd been anxious about her nerves for some time, and didn't I think she ought to see a specialist? He's a good actor, and I let him think it was going down all right, because I don't want to push him into a corner at this juncture. I've got to play for time. Now these are the plans for this evening, and you must back them up. We dine here, and we all go in a taxi together to the theatre. If Geoffrey's arranging a smash, he'll have to be in it himself—and I think he's a great deal too fond of his own skin, so that will be all right. Coming back, same thing. And if I have to go for a taxi, you and Lucilla don't leave the foyer till I come for you. Then we all come here, and Geoffrey can take the taxi on to his flat, which is only just round the corner. I think that's a pretty watertight arrangement. You both bolt your doors, and if you could bear it for once in a way, I think I'd like you to fasten the windows too. There's a sort of built-out place on the next floor below, and—I think I'd feel happier if your windows weren't open. Any active person could climb up by way of that bit of roof.”

Sarah said, “All right.” And then, “John, it's a bad dream. I'd like to wake up.”

The dream-like feeling persisted through the evening. They dined together at seven, the four of them—Geoffrey, Lucilla, John, and Sarah. John Hildred had wondered whether Geoffrey would show up, but there he was, the agreeable host to the life, with no more than a shade of concern in his manner. He held Lucilla's hand for a moment and patted it. Sarah asked after Ricky, and they heard that he had gone to bed—a chill, Geoffrey opined, but considered that he would be all right in the morning. He continued to talk easily and fluently.

Lucilla wore her black georgette frock, but she wore it with a difference. She would not have come down to dinner at the Red House with her fair eyebrows darkened and shaped into a slender arch or her mouth painted in a scarlet cupid's bow. She had darkened her lashes too and faintly stained the smooth pallor of her cheeks with rose. The whole effect was very decorative, but Miss Marina would certainly not have approved of it. Sarah discerned the courage which flies all its flags in the presence of danger.

Dinner over, John's plan was carried out without a hitch. They had seats in the third row of the stalls, and sat in the following order—Geoffrey, Sarah, John, and Lucilla. Again, John's arrangement. It might, indeed, have been his party rather than Geoffrey's, and to Sarah's surprise Geoffrey took it all mildly enough, only smiling pleasantly when his offer of chocolates was very peremptorily refused.

“You think them unwholesome?” he said. “Now I wonder why—I really do wonder why.”

Sarah thought the innocence a little overdone, and for the last time the question came beating at her heart, “Is it real? Is it possible that it's real?” Well, it was all part of the dream, and at some time and in some way the evening would be over.

The curtain went up and the play began. As it proceeded, Sarah found amazement struggling with indignation. What a piece to have chosen for a girl of Lucilla's age who was ostensibly to be cheered up and taken out of herself! It seemed as if Geoffrey must have guessed her thoughts, for when the curtain fell on the first act, he turned to her with an appearance of distress.

“I had no idea it was this sort of piece. Some friend of Ricky's recommended it. And of course it is very well acted—but I wanted to take Lucilla to something amusing—I had really no idea at all.” He continued in this strain, and presently leaned across to ask Lucilla whether she would like to come away without waiting for the other acts.

The slender darkened eyebrows arched themselves in dismay.

“Come out? But why?”

His tone was solicitous.

“Well, it's rather a gloomy piece for you, my dear.”

“Gloom doesn't matter when you're feeling cheerful. I'm feeling
very
cheerful, and wild horses won't get me away before the end. You and Sarah can go home if you like. The Preserver and I are staying.” She hooked her hand inside John's arm and squeezed it.

Geoffrey Hildred sat down with a sigh and told Sarah all over again that he had had no idea what the piece was about.

It was certainly a very gloomy piece. There was a young man who was going mad, and a girl who tried to drown herself, and three very depressing middle-aged women who poured out the stories of their thwarted lives whenever any of the other characters could be got to listen, but as everyone in the play was entirely and exclusively preoccupied with his or her own feelings, this fortunately did not happen as often as it otherwise might have done. There was an elderly man who drank, and a girl of sixteen who doped. The piece was called
A Slice of Life
, and Geoffrey Hildred kept on explaining that he had expected it to be a farce.