“How much did Aunt V. know?”
“She knew, at least, that she must keep still and pretend to be asleep for as long as the nurse was waking. She had been well instructed, it seems. She has made one statement. I’m afraid it will not be much use as evidence but it is illuminating. Dr. Curtis tells me she has said over and over again: ‘Why were they not asleep? She said they would all sleep like the dead.’ And when he asks her: ‘Who said this?’ she answers ‘Tinkerton’!”
“Well, that’s over,” said Charlot, raising her black hat until it perched on her grey curls and tipped over her nose. “I must say that we do look a collection of old black crows.”
“We always turn rather peculiar at funerals,” said Frid. “I suppose it’s because we all wear each other’s clothes. Where did you get that hat, Mummy?”
“It’s Nanny’s. I haven’t got a black. And these are Nanny’s gloves. Aren’t they frightful?”
“Really, it’s rather as if we were dressed up for another charade,” said Stephen. “Robin’s the only girl among you who doesn’t look p-peculiar.” And perhaps remembering that Roberta’s black clothes were rather tragically her own, Stephen hurried on. “Why didn’t you all b-buy yourselves funeral garments, darling?”
“Much too expensive,” said Charlot. “And that reminds me. You’ve all got to pay the greatest attention. I’m going to speak seriously to you.”
“Immy,” said Lord Charles suddenly, “where is Aunt Kit?”
“For pity’s sake, Charlie, don’t tell me Aunt Kit is lost again.”
“No, Mummy,” said Patch. “She’s just ‘disappeared’ into 26.”
“Well, you know what happened the last time she did that.”
“Talking about hats,” said’Frid, “did you ever see anything to equal hers?”
“We are not talking about hats,” said Charlot seriously. “We are talking about money.”
“Oh gosh!” groaned Mike. He was lying on the hearth-rug with sheets of expensive note-paper scattered about him. He was writing.
“About money,” Charlot repeated firmly. “I do think, Charlie darling, don’t you, that we should make our plans at the very outset. Let’s face it; we’re poor people.” And catching sight of Roberta’s astonished eyes, Charlot repeated: “We’re going to be very hard up for a long time.”
“Well,” said Colin, “Step and I are going to get jobs.”
“And I shall be playing small but showy parts in no time,” added Frid.
“My poor babies,” Charlot exclaimed dramatically, “you are so sweet. But in the meantime…” She broke off. “What are you doing, Mike?”
“Writing a letter,” said Mike, blushing.
“To whom, darling?”
“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”
“What about?” asked Colin.
“Oh, something. As a matter of fac’ I just wanted to remind him about something. We were talking about jobs and I said I might rather like to be a detective.” He returned to his letter. Charlot shook her head fondly at him, lit a cigarette, and with an air of the greatest solemnity took up her theme. “In the meantime,” she said, “there will be the most ghastly death duties and then we shall have Deepacres and Brummell Street, and all the rest of it, hung round our necks like milestones.”
“Millstones, darling,” said Henry.
“You’re wrong,” said Charlot. “Hung round our necks like the upper and nether milestones is the full expression. You’re thinking of the mills of God. Charlie, how much do you suppose we’ll have when everything has been paid up?”
“Really, darling, I don’t quite know. Old Rattisbon will tell us, of course.”
“Well, at a guess.”
“I really — well, I suppose it should be about thirty thousand.”
“Per annum,” asked Patch casually, “or just the bare thirty thousand to last for ever?”
“My dear child; a year of course.”
“And, of course,” said Charlot, “at least half of that will go in taxes and then there will be people like Mr. Grumball to pacify and those enormous places to run. What shall we have left?”
“Nothing,” said Colin deeply.
“So there you are, you see,” cried Charlot triumphantly. “Nothing! I was thinking about it during the funeral and I clearly foresee that we must use our cunning and cut our capers according to our cloth. Now this is my plan. We’ll never manage to let Brummell Street, shall we?”
“Well—” began Lord Charles.
“My dear, look at it! It’s monstrous, Charlie. Still it’s a house and it’s quite large. My plan is that we get rid of this flat and live in it. Rent free. Until we decide whether we are to use Deepacres.”
“Mummy, we can’t,” said Frid. “It’s too ghastly.”
“What?”
“The Brummell Street house.”
“Do you mean Giggle or the furniture, Frid?”
“Well, both. The furniture, really. I don’t believe in ghosts though of course it would be rather awful if Giggle’s blood—”
“That will do, Frid,” said Lord Charles.
“Drip, drip, drip.”
“Frid!”
“What does Frid mean?” asked Michael.
“Nothing,” said Frid. “But Mummy, 24 Brummell Street! Honestly!”
“My poor baby, I know. But attend to me. Let me finish. My cunning tells me that we can improve Brummell Street. Sell the most valuable of Aunt V.’s monsters—”
“Good heavens, Immy,” Lord Charles interrupted, “what about V.? I mean, haven’t we got V. on our hands? I mean she’s mad.”
“We must keep our heads about that,” said Charlot capably. “Dr. Kantripp will help. As soon as she has given her evidence—”
“But will she give evidence?” Henry asked. “She’d cut a pretty queer figure in the witness-box talking about soporific spells.”
“Do let’s keep to the point,” said his mother. “We were in Brummell Street. Now with what we save on rent we shall be able to make a few meagre alterations to the Brummell Street house. Paint the walls and change the curtains and get at least enough bathrooms for ordinary cleanliness. We could cover the worst of the chairs that we don’t sell with something dirt cheap but amusing.”
“French chintz?” suggested Frid, taking fire.
“Yes, I mean something that will simply tide us over our bad times. We’ll consult a clever decorator. What I do want to hammer into your heads,” said Charlot, “is that we are poor. Poor, poor, poor.”
Henry, who had been watching Roberta, burst out laughing. Charlot gazed at him with an air of injury.