He laughed.
“I’ll have her questioned, but don’t be disappointed if we find the blight is due to the boy friend having missed a date. Well, I must be off. By the way, Drake is fed to the teeth about your footprints. You are always adding to the debt of gratitude I owe you.”
“My dear Randal!”
“My dear Miss Silver, you have no idea how I dislike that worthy and efficient man, and I can’t say so to anyone but you. Zeal, zeal-all zeal! You may be interested to know, on his authority, that the lady of the footprints takes a small four.”
“I take a small four myself, Randal.”
He could not restrain an exclamation.
Miss Silver coughed.
“And so does Mrs. Welby,” she said.
CHAPTER 37
Catherine Welby got off the bus in the Market Square at Lenton and took the narrow cut called Friar’s Row. The Friary has been gone for so long that only the name survives, but there are some old houses lurking behind modern shop windows in Main Street. In one of these Mr. Holderness had his offices. The bookseller’s shop on the ground floor had changed hands more than once, but the firm of Stanway, Stanway, Fulpurse and Holderness had occupied the upper storeys for a hundred and fifty years. There was only one Stanway now, an invalid whose appearances at the office had become few and far between. A nephew of the name would in due course be admitted to the firm. He was at the moment completing his military service. Dark portraits of ancestral Stanways showed them shrewd-eyed, hard-mouthed, and eminently respectable. The type had not changed with the years. There had only been one Fulpurse, dead in 1846 when the first Holderness appears-his mother Amelia Fulpurse, his father connected in the female line with the Stanways. Altogether one of those old-established family concerns which are still to be found in country towns.
Catherine went up two steps to the open doorway beside the bookseller’s entrance. A flagged passage led to the gloomy stair, and the stair to the first floor and the room where Mr. Holderness kept his state. On the door next to his the name of the last Stanway lingered, only to be discerned on some unusually bright day.
Catherine Welby hesitated for a moment, then passed this empty room, devoted now to deed-boxes and dust, and opened the door of the room beyond. The tapping of a typewriter ceased, a girl looked up, and down again. Allan Grover rose to meet her.
He was to remember it all afterwards so many times. This room had a single window on to Friar’s Row. In any except the brightest weather the electric light was on all day. It was on now. It dazzled on the gold of her hair, on the small diamond brooch at her throat. It emphasized the deep blue of her eyes. She brought with her the very breath of beauty, the very pulse of romance. At twenty-one these are easily evoked. Youth is its own enchantment. He heard her say, “Good-morning,” and stammered over his reply.
Miss Janet Loddon, who had returned to her typing, gave him a quick glance of contempt and set the ensuing wrong letter down to his account. She was a year older than he was, and had been despising men a good deal for the last week or two owing to an obstinate quarrel with a boy friend whose stubbornness in refusing to eat humble pie was giving her a good deal of trouble. It restored her self-respect to observe Mr. Grover’s change of colour and the hesitation in his speech, but she felt no warmth towards Mrs. Welby, whom she set down as old enough to know better. She heard Allan go out of the room, she heard him return. Then they both went out together. He was taking her along to Mr. Holderness’s room, and being long enough over it.
To Allan there was a flash of light when Catherine came in, an interval of darkness during which he went along to Mr. Holderness’s room and came back again, and another terribly brief flash during which he walked beside her to the door at the end of the passage, threw it open, announced, “Mrs. Welby, sir,” and withdrew. He went back to his table and the contempt of Miss Loddon. She could hear a rustling of papers, the scratching of a pen. Then suddenly his chair was pushed back, he got up, and made for the door. He said,
“If I’m wanted, I’ll be in Mr. Stanway’s room. Mr. Holderness wants to look at the Jardine papers.”
Miss Loddon remarking that she supposed everyone would be able to get along without him for ten minutes or so, he went out and shut the door rather more sharply than Mr. Holderness would have approved.
Catherine Welby sat where James Lessiter had sat during his last interview with his solicitor. The windows looked upon Main Street. Being closed, the hum of the traffic was pleasantly subdued. The light striking over her left shoulder fell upon one of the Stanway portraits-William, first of the name, dark against the panelling. Beyond the fact that it was a portrait there was very little to be seen. The past engulfed it. There was a flavour of respectability, and a great deal of gloom.
Mr. Holderness appeared in vigorous contrast, his colour high, his grey hair thick and handsome, his dark brows arching over fine dark eyes. Having known Catherine from a child, he addressed her by her name. The echoes of his resonant voice saying, “My dear Catherine!” followed Allan Grover down the passage.
The interview lasted for about twenty minutes. Catherine, not unusually given to confidence, had now no impulse to withhold it. Under Mr. Holderness’s startled gaze she imparted details of a predicament which were certainly calculated to occasion his grave concern.
“You see, I have sold some of the things.”
“My dear Catherine!”
“One has to have money. Besides, why shouldn’t I? Aunt Mildred gave them to me.”
Mr. Holderness looked shocked.
“Just what have you sold?”
“Oh, odds and ends-there was a Cosway miniature-”
He made a horrified gesture.
“So easily traced!”
“I tell you Aunt Mildred gave it to me. Why shouldn’t I sell it? I would rather have kept it of course, because it was quite charming. Romney period, you know-curls and floating scarf, like the pictures of Lady Hamilton. Her name was Jane Lilly, and she was a sort of ancestress. But I had to have the money-things are such a shocking price.” This refrain recurred. “I must have a decent amount of money-you do understand that, don’t you?”
Mr. Holderness’s complexion had taken on a considerably deeper shade. He said with less than his usual suavity,
“You must cut your coat according to your cloth.”
Catherine had a rueful smile for that.
“My trouble is that I do like the most expensive cloth.”
He told her bluntly that she had got herself into a very dangerous position.
“You were foolish enough to sell things that didn’t belong to you, and James Lessiter did more than suspect you. He sat in that chair where you are sitting now and told me he was convinced that you had been defrauding the estate.”
Catherine continued to smile.
“He always had a very vindictive nature. Rietta was well out of marrying him. I told her so at the time.”
Mr. Holderness made the sound which is usually written “Tush!”
“He told me he was prepared to prosecute.”
“He told me that too.” She paused, and added, “So naturally I went up to see him.”
“You went up to see him?”
“On that Wednesday night. But Rietta was there, so I came away.”
“My dear Catherine!”
“But I went back-later.”
“What are you saying?”
“Just what you said to me-that I am in a very serious position. Or I should be if it was all going to come out.”
“There is really no reason why it should come out. You can hold your tongue, can’t you?”
“Oh, yes-I have-I do. And I shall go on-unless I simply can’t help myself.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Well, there’s a tiresome meddling old maid of a governess who has got herself mixed up in the affair. She’s staying with Mrs. Voycey.”