'Miss Francis did not receive any mail.'
Well, that rang true, however uninformatively. But at this rate he'd be here all day, and still not be much the wiser. So dummy2
he must push harder. 'But she did have callers, Mrs Champeney-Smythe.' He made this a statement, not a question. 'There was a boyfriend, I believe?'
'There was no boyfriend.' She rejected his ploy almost contemptuously. 'And there were no callers.'
They stared at each other like evenly-matched duellists.
'I find that hard to believe, Mrs Champeney-Smythe.' He allowed an edge of irritation into his voice.
'Then . . . you must believe what suits you, Mr Robertson.'
She parried the first thrust easily.
'But she was an attractive young woman.' In their different ways, Mrs Simmonds and Gary had both been agreed on that.
'She was, yahss.' A hint of distaste: Mrs Champeney-Smythe would incline more towards Mrs Simmonds there, having no interest in General Custer and firearms and recruitment to the British Army. But she still refused to be drawn any further.
Another thrust, then. 'She left you rather suddenly, I believe
— ?' Once on the attack, he had to go forward. 'Just before her very tragic death, that would have been, of course . . .
And you read about that, in the newspapers, naturally — ?'
The mask didn't crack. But this time he received only the slightest of nods, and no ' yahss' . Yet that concealed pain, he judged.
Suddenly he saw a gap in her defences — or, if not a gap, dummy2
then at least the faintest impossible hope of one. 'Did she come back to you, to say goodbye?'
No reaction at all.
Wait — or attack harder? The possible dividend of success was great, but so was the penalty of failure. Then, even though the mask still didn't crack, he knew that she was old and frail behind it, and he was young and strong. 'She didn't come back — did she?' And there had been no forwarding address: she had already admitted that! And how many suitcases, and other minor pathetic luggage, were up there in the attic — or down there in the cellar — belonging to other 'guests' who had made the proverbial 'midnight flit', rather than settle their accounts? Belongings which were either festooned with cobwebs up above, or mouldy-green with damp down below — ? 'So her things are still here, then?'
She looked away from him, towards one bric-a-brac-choked table over which Basil Champeney (without the plebeian
'Smythe') presided out of another silver frame.
But he could see nothing on it which was of the slightest interest — a wooden ashtray, with a mouse carved on it; a brass frog grinning foolishly; a crude rhomboid First World War tank in seaside souvenir china (which was probably worth a tidy sum in any auction!); a hideous piece of Venetian glass, from Murano Island . . . none of which had
'Marilyn Francis' imprinted on it. And then the washed out eyes (which, for a guess, had once been ingenue china-blue) dummy2
came back to him.
'Tell me, Mr Robertson . . . what is all this about?'
He had won. Or, if he was careful now, and gentle with it, he could win. 'I am concerned with a legacy, Mrs Champeney-Smythe — ' He touched his spectacles, as though slightly embarrassed ' — one of those difficult next-of-kin family affairs, which could go on for years . . . which could swallow up most of the money in legal fees, and all the other costs.
But, you know, I don't believe that's what my job ought to be about, you see — ?' He gave her his most innocent look, which Jenny always said almost melted her heart. Only now, when he came up against all Marilyn Francis's contradictions, he found to his surprise that he was no longer quite pretending, even in the midst of this elaborate tapestry of lies. Because, if he'd been in the law and clever little Marilyn had had a blue-eyed Mills-and-Boon offspring, he really would have been fighting for its inheritance. 'Do you see — ?'
She frowned so hard that the make-up on her forehead cracked. 'No.'
He was surprised as well as disappointed. Because she didn't seem to be rejecting his appeal. 'No?'
'Her brother took all her things . . . afterwards, Mr Robertson.'
dummy2
'Her — ?' Damn! He should have expected that. 'Her brother?'
She shook her head. 'She telephoned me — of course . . . But that was the next day, after she didn't come back from work.
She said how sorry she was . . . She always phoned me, when she was working late, or when she had to go away — she was always thoughtful . . . Because she knew that I worried about her, when she was late . . . But she didn't phone that time —
when she went away, the last time. Not until the next day, very late — ' She stared at him, and then through him. And then at him. 'Such a lovely girl, she was — in spite of all appearances to the contrary — ' The stare fixed him, demanding his agreement ' — so intelligent — so thoughtful. . . She knew I worried. Especially when it was dark, at night.'
The image of Marilyn-in-the-dark jolted him. Because Gary had worried also for his darling Miss Francis, when she worked late. He had even followed her all the way back here, one late October evening when the mist was up, to make sure she got home safe: that had been how Gary knew about 'old Mrs Smith'.
'She phoned you — ? The next day?' They had both loved her: in quite different ways they had both loved her.
'Yes.' She nodded. 'After her dinner — or, if she was late, after her supper, which she'd often take with me, in this room . . .
after that she'd often stay, and we'd talk . . . About her day at work, sometimes. Or about what was on the nine o'clock dummy2
news, or in the papers — she was always very well-informed, about what was going on ... And then we would read our books, until it was time to go to bed — ' She inclined her head upwards ' — her room was right at the top of the house, and not really very comfortable — not for reading, anyway. So she'd stay down here with me. And we'd have a cup of cocoa
— so much better than coffee, or tea, which are stimulants.'
From getting nothing, now he was almost getting too much.
Or ... cocoa and reading before bed-time mixed as inappropriately with see-through blouses and 'anything in trousers' as with Red Indians and the army's new rifles. But there was something much more important than all of that.
'She had a brother — ? He took her things, you said.'
Her mask tightened. 'That was unfortunate.'
'How — unfortunate?'
'He came when I was out, Mr Robertson.'
'When — ?' But, then, it wasn't unfortunate, of course: it figured exactly, that Marilyn's 'brother' would have watched for his moment.
'When I was out. She said he would be coming — ' The mask softened ' — and that she would be coming back to see me, some time. But she'd obtained this new position, up north —
not a temporary one, but a permanent post, with a pension and opportunities for promotion, you see-'
Ian nodded. There had been no pension, and no opportunities. But it had certainly been up north. And it had dummy2
been permanent, too. But, in those last hours of her life, Marilyn Francis had been nothing if not professional, sewing up all her loose ends tightly.
'My maid — my house-keeper — was here.' Mrs Champeney-Smythe corrected herself. 'Her brother cleared everything out . . . And, of course, she — Miss Francis . . . she was paid up to the end of the month — she always insisted on that, even though it was quite unnecessary — ' She stopped suddenly, as she saw his face fall.