Miss Silver agreed. He went on.
“Well, culture and Ruislip-neither of them very hot scent.
And then there’s Lady Jocelyn. There must be a connection there if we can find it.”
Miss Silver coughed.
“The connection would be, I think, with Annie Joyce.”
Frank ran a hand over his shining hair.
“Who left England more than ten years ago, and whose associations and dossier since then are submerged in occupied France. What a hope!”
CHAPTER 22
It was next day that Lyndall went around to see Anne Jocelyn. Impossible to stay away. Impossible to remain aloof when Lilla, who hadn’t even known Anne before, had spent hours helping her to unpack and get things straight. Even if there wasn’t anything left to do, she who had been Anne’s bridesmaid must at least go round and see her. Her feet carried her reluctantly. If it hadn’t been that she was expected, she might even then have been tempted to turn back. No, that was nonsense. She wouldn’t listen to thoughts like that, she certainly wouldn’t let them influence her. But her feet dragged, and her heart dragged too.
It was very cold in the street. Low clouds looked as if they might come down in snow at any moment. A freakish wind lay in wait at every corner, stinging her face, her knees, her legs in their thin silk stockings, trying to twist the hat from her head. She had no distance to go, but she was tired before she reached Tenterden Gardens.
It ought to have been pleasant to pass into the warmth and golden light of Anne’s drawing-room, but something in her looked back to the icy street. Anne came to meet her, smiling, and they kissed. That is, Anne offered a cool cheek, and Lyndall touched it with cold lips. As she did so, an aching shudder went through her. Up to that moment her love for Anne had been in her heart as something real and treasured, even if there were pain there too. Now quite suddenly, with that faint touch of her lips, the place was empty, there was nothing there anymore. She did not know how pale she was as she drew back, or how wide and startled a look met Anne’s enquiring one.
“What’s the matter, Lyn? You look frozen. Come to the fire and get warm. Tea is all ready. I’ll just get the kettle.”
When she came back, Lyndall had taken off her gloves. She was bending over the fire, her hands held to the blaze. An extraordinary feeling of unreality filled her consciousness. The pleasant room, the warmth, the flowers in their Lalique bowl, the familiar tea-things-Queen Anne silver and bright flowered cups bordered with gold and apple-green-Anne in her blue dress and her pearls with Philip’s sapphire on her hand-all were apart from her in some bright vacuum. Nothing came to her from them, nothing passed to them from her.
She turned round slowly from the fire, drank the tea which Anne gave her, and crumbled a piece of cake. And then quite suddenly the feeling passed. She was warm again, and she was right here in the room, with the firelight reaching her and Anne pouring her out a second cup of tea. It was like waking up out of a nightmare, but she could hardly trust her own relief. She sipped the tea and listened to Anne telling her how quickly they had settled down.
Presently she said what she had come to say. She hadn’t been sure that she would be able to say it, but she knew that it must be said. Because if it wasn’t, she would never be able to get it out of her mind again, and that sort of thing poisoned you if you kept it shut up amongst your thoughts-it poisoned everything.
She put down her cup on the edge of the silver tray and said simply and directly,
“Where do you have your hair done, Anne?”
Anne Jocelyn looked just a little surprised.
“I had a permanent wave at Westhaven after I landed. I thought I told you. They didn’t do it at all badly. Of course I really ought not to have it waved, because it spoils the natural curl, and my hair used to curl naturally, but it’s been terribly neglected, and I don’t see going about looking a complete mess whilst I’m waiting for it to come back.”
Lyndall had let go of her cup, but she kept her hand on the edge of the silver tray. A finger moved there, tracing the pattern.
“But where do you go in town?”
“Why? Have you got someone to recommend?”
“No-I just wondered. Do you know a shop called Félise?”
There-she had got it said! Nothing is so difficult as the first step. When you have taken that the others follow. But she couldn’t look at Anne. She looked down at the edge of the silver tray. A drop of tea had fallen there and dried. There had been time for it to fall, and time for it to dry. It wasn’t true that everything was standing still. The drop of tea had dried. It made a small brown stain on the bright surface of the silver.
Anne said, “I don’t know-I seem to have seen the name. Why?”
“I happened to pass it. I thought I saw you go in. It was the Wednesday of last week.”
“Well, I may have done-I don’t know. I go into all those shops. I haven’t got a powder I like yet, or the right lipstick or anything. It’s all so difficult-isn’t it?”
Lyndall lifted her eyes. They didn’t really see very much, because there was a mist in front of them, but to Anne Jocelyn their grieving look accused her.
“Anne, I must tell you-I think I must-”
Anne’s delicately arched eyebrows rose. She said sweetly, “What is all this about, darling?”
The sweetness was like saccharine, it cloyed and left a bitter taste. Anne was angry. But Lyndall couldn’t look away, and she couldn’t stop now. Something drove her on. She said,
“I thought I saw you go into the shop, and I went in after you. I didn’t want you to think I had seen you and just gone on, so I came into the shop-”
Anne looked at her with the bright eyes of anger.
“And I suppose we met and had a long conversation-in this dream of yours!”
“No-you weren’t there.”
“How very surprising!”
“I went right through the shop. There were two women there. The assistant was looking for something on a shelf behind the counter. No one took any notice of me. I thought you might be in one of the cubicles, so I went through. There was another door at the end. I opened it, I don’t know why. There was a bit of dark passage with a stair going up, and more doors. One of them had a little light at the edge-it wasn’t quite shut. I heard you say, ‘You might as well let me write to Nellie Collins. She’s quite harmless.’ And a man said, ‘That isn’t for you to say.’ And I turned round and ran back through the shop.”
Anne’s face was bleak. Lyndall would have liked to look away, but she couldn’t. Anne’s eyes held hers-scornful, rejecting not only what she had said, but herself-putting her amongst foolish, negligible things.
“Really, Lyn! What a story! Do you expect me to believe it?”
Lyndall said nothing. Her eyes were steadfast as well as grieving.
Anne laughed and said, “Go on! I’m sure there must be something more-another thrilling instalment in our next! What happened after that?”
“I went home.”
“Rather an anti-climax.”
“I wasn’t sure about its being you. I hadn’t ever heard about Nellie Collins-then.”
“Nellie Collins?”
“Yes. I didn’t know the name when I heard it in the shop, but it’s in the paper today, because she is dead. Did you know that she was dead?”
“Lyndall-what do you mean?”
“It says in the paper that she was coming up to meet someone under the clock at Waterloo Station at a quarter to four on Monday. They give a description, and they say the police would like to hear from anyone who saw her or noticed who she met. She was found dead in a lane near Ruislip early next morning, and they want to know how she got there, because it was right out of her way. She had come up from Blackheath. She was expecting to meet you-wasn’t she?”