Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh
said Verity.
‘That’s right.’
She asked him in and he sat in her sunny drawing-room as if, she thought, he had been left till called for. He wore a T-shirt that had been made out of a self-raising-flour bag and bore the picture of a lady who thrust out a vast bosom garnished with the legend ‘Sure to Rise’. His jeans so far exceeded in fashionable shrinkage as to cause him obvious discomfort.
He said he’d been up to Quintern Place where he’d found Mrs Jim Jobbin who told him Mrs Foster was away and she couldn’t say when she would return.
‘Not much of a welcome,’ he said. ‘She made out she didn’t know Prue’s address, either. I asked who forwarded their letters.’ He blew three times down his nose, which was his manner of laughing, and gave Verity a knowing glance. ‘That made Mrs Jim look pretty silly,’ he said.
‘Sybil’s taking a cure,’ Verity explained. ‘She’s not seeing anybody.’
‘What, again! What is it this time?’
‘She was run down and needs a complete rest.’
‘I thought you’d tell me where she was. That’s why I came.’
‘I’m afraid not, Claude.’
‘That’s awkward,’ he said fretfully. ‘I was counting on it.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Oh, up there for the time being. At Quintern.’
‘Did you come by train?’
‘I hitched.’
Verity felt obliged to ask him if he’d had any lunch and he said, not really. He followed her into the kitchen where she gave him cold meat, chutney, bread, butter, cheese and beer. He ate a great deal and had a cigarette with his coffee. She asked him about Australia and he said it was no good, really, not unless you had capital. It was all right if you had capital.
He trailed back after her to the drawing-room and she began to feel desperate.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I was depending on Syb. I happen to be in a bit of a patch. Nothing to worry about really, but, you know.’
‘What sort of patch?’ she asked against her will.
‘I’m short.’
‘Of money?’
‘What else is there to be short of?’ he asked and gave his three inverted sniffs.
‘How about the hundred pounds she sent to Tenerife?’
He didn’t hesitate or look any more hang-dog than he was already.
‘Did she send it!’ he said. ‘Typical of the bloody Classic Line, that is. Typical inefficiency.’
‘Didn’t it reach you?’
‘Would I be cleaned out if it had?’
‘Are you sure you haven’t spent it?’
‘I resent that, Miss Preston,’ he said, feebly bridling.
‘I’m sorry if it was unfair. I can let you have twenty pounds. That should tide you over. And I’ll let Sybil know about you.’
‘It’s a bit off not telling where she is. But thanks, anyway, for helping out. I’ll pay it back of course, don’t worry.’
She went to her study to fetch it and again he trailed after her. Horrid to feel that it was not a good idea for him to see where she kept her housekeeping money.
In the hall she said, ‘I’ve a telephone call to make. I’ll join you in the garden. And then I’m afraid we’ll have to part. I’ve got work on hand.’
‘I quite understand,’ he said with an attempt at dignity.
When she rejoined him he was hanging about outside the front door. She gave him the money. ‘It’s twenty-three pounds,’ she said. ‘Apart from loose change, it’s all I’ve got in the house at the moment.’
‘I quite understand,’ he repeated grandly, and after giving her one of his furtive glances said, ‘Of course, if I had my own I wouldn’t have to do this. Do you know that?’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘If I had the Stamp.’
‘The Stamp?’
‘The one my father left me. The famous one.’
‘I’d forgotten about it.’
‘You wouldn’t have if you were in my boots. The Black Alexander.’
Then Verity remembered. The story had always sounded like something out of a boy’s annual. Claude’s father had inherited the stamp which was one of a set that had been withdrawn on the day of issue because of an ominous fault: a black spot in the centre of the Czar Alexander’s brow. It was reputed to be the only specimen known to be extant and worth a fabulous amount. Maurice Carter had been killed in the blitz while on leave. When his stamp collection was uplifted from his bank the Black Alexander was missing. It was never recovered.
‘It was a strange business, that,’ Verity said.
‘From what they’ve told me it was a very strange business indeed,’ he said, with his laugh.
She didn’t answer. He shuffled his feet in the gravel and said he supposed he’d better take himself off.
‘Goodbye then,’ said Verity.
He gave her a damp and boneless handshake and had turned away when a thought seemed to strike him.
‘By the way,’ he said. ‘If anyone asks for me I’d be grateful if you didn’t know anything. Where I am and that. I don’t suppose they will but, you know, if they do.’
‘Who would they be?’
‘Oh – boring people. You wouldn’t know them.’ He smiled and for a moment looked fully at her. ‘You’re so good at not knowing where Syb is,’ he said, ‘the exercise ought to come easy to you, Miss Preston.’
She knew her face was red. He had made her feel shabby.
‘Look here. Are you in trouble?’ she asked.
‘Me? Trouble?’
‘With the police?’
‘Well, I must say! Thank you very much! What on earth could have given you that idea!’ She didn’t answer. He said, ‘Oh well, thanks for the loan anyway,’ and walked off. When he had got half way to the gate he began, feebly, to whistle.
Verity went indoors meaning to settle down to work. She tried to concentrate for an hour, failed, started to write to Sybil, thought better of it, thought of taking a walk in the garden and was called back by the telephone.
It was Mrs Jim, speaking from Quintern Place. She sounded unlike herself and said she was sure she begged pardon for giving the trouble but she was that worried. After a certain amount of preliminary explanation it emerged that it was about ‘that Mr Claude Carter’.
Sybil had told the staff it was remotely possible that he might appear and that if he did and wanted to stay they were to allow it. And then earlier this afternoon someone had rung up asking if he was there and Mrs Jim had replied truthfully that he wasn’t and wasn’t expected and that she didn’t know where he could be found. About half an hour later he arrived and said he wanted to stay.
‘So I put him in the green bedroom, according,’ said Mrs Jim, ‘and I told him about the person who’d rang and he says he don’t want to take calls and I’m to say he’s not there and I don’t know nothing about him. Well, Miss Preston, I don’t like it. I won’t take the responsibility.