‘Um – ’ said Hilary.
She began to rock gently to and fro. She was trying to get Henry to rock, too, but Henry wouldn’t. His arm had about as much resilience as a crowbar, but it was fortunately not quite so hard to lean against. She stopped trying to rock, and became mournful and earnest on the subject of Bertie Everton.
‘He would have done so beautifully for the murderer if it hadn’t been for his alibi. Darling, don’t you simply hate alibis? I do.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Bertie Everton, of course.’
‘Has he got an alibi?’
‘Dozens,’ said Hilary. ‘He’s simply stuck all over with them. And, mind you, Henry, he wanted them, because poor old James had just made a will in his favour after not being on speaking terms with him for years, or practically not, so Bertie had a pretty strong motive. But with all the motives in the world, you can’t shoot anyone if they’re in Putney and you’re in Edinburgh.’
‘And Bertie was in Edinburgh?’
Hilary gave a dejected nod.
‘Sworn to by rows of people in the Caledonian Hotel. James was shot at eight o’clock in the evening on July 16th. Bertie dined with him on the evening of the 15th-just about twenty-four hours too soon to have been the murderer. He then caught a train at King’s Cross and fetched up at the Caledonian Hotel in time for a late breakfast on the morning of the 16th. From then till a quarter past four half the people in the hotel seem to have seen him. He made a fuss about the bell in his room, and the chambermaid saw him writing letters there, and soon after four he was in the office asking about a telephone call. And then he went out and had too much to drink. And the chambermaid saw him again at about half-past eight, because he rang for biscuits, and then she saw him again next morning at nine o’clock when she brought his tea. And if you can think of any way he could possibly have shot poor old James, I wish you’d tell me. I sat up the best part of last night reading the inquest and the trial all over again, and I can’t see how anyone could have done it except Geoff. And today I ferreted out the daily help who used to work at Solway Lodge, and she told me something that makes it all look worse than ever. And yet I don’t believe it was Geoff. Henry, I don’t, I don’t, don’t!’
‘What did she tell you?’ said Henry quickly.
‘I can’t tell you – I can’t tell, and I made her, so I can’t tell anyone.’
‘Hilary,’ said Henry with a good deal of vehemence, ‘you’ve got to drop it! You’re only stirring up mud, and Marion won’t thank you for that. What do you think you’re doing?’
She pulled away from him and stood up.
‘I want to find out what Mrs. Mercer knows.’
‘Drop it!’ said Henry, getting up too. ‘Let the mud settle. You won’t help Geoff, you won’t help Marion. Let it alone!’
‘I can’t,’ said Hilary.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hilary came away from Henry Eustatius, Antiques, with a flaming colour and a determination not to be downed by Henry Cunningham. If she once let Henry down her, her spirit would be broken and she would rapidly become a dreep. Like Mrs. Mercer. Like Mrs. Ashley. Horrible and repellent prospect. They had both probably started quite young and pretty – the Ashley daily help certainly had – and some man had downed them and trampled on them until they had just given up and gone quietly down the drain. She could imagine Mercer breaking any woman’s spirit if she was fool enough to let him, and the other poor creature had probably had a husband who trampled on her, too. That was what was the matter with Henry – he was a trampler born, and bred, and burnt right in. But she wasn’t going to be the person he trampled on. If he wanted a door-mat he could go and marry a door-mat, and it wasn’t going to be Hilary Carew.
She had walked nearly a quarter of a mile before her cheeks cooled. She stopped being angry, and thought what a pity it was that they couldn’t have had lunch before they quarrelled. Henry was a hearty breakfast eater. He had probably had eggs, and sausages and bacon, and things like that no longer ago than nine o’clock, but Hilary had had toast and tea at eight, and it seemed so long ago that she had forgotten all about them. Prowling round Putney, and interviewing housekeepers and daily helps, and quarrelling with Henry were all things that made you very hungry, especially quarrelling with Henry. If Henry hadn’t been determined to quarrel he would have taken her out to lunch first, and now she would have to go and have a glass of milk and a bun in a creamery with a lot of other women who were having buns and milk, or bovril, or milk with a dash of coffee, or a nice cup of tea. It was a most frightfully depressing thought, because one bun was going to make very little impression on her hunger, and she certainly couldn’t afford any more. Extraordinarily stupid of Henry not to have given her lunch first. They could have quarrelled comfortably over their coffee if he was absolutely set on quarrelling, instead of uncomfortably in the Den with nothing inside you and no prospect of anything except a bun. It was a bad, bleak, bitter, and unbearable business. And it was all Henry’s fault.
Hilary found her creamery and ate her bun – a peculiarly arid specimen. There were little black things in it which might once have been currants but were now quite definitely fossils. Not a good bun. Hilary’s imp chanted mournfully:
‘How bitter when your only bun
Is not at all a recent one.’
When she had finished it she got out her purse and counted up her money. There was just about enough to buy a third-class return to Ledlington. She looked at the coins and wondered whether it was the slightest use for her to go there. There was no reason to suppose that it would be any use at all. She tossed her head. There are always such a lot of reasons why you shouldn’t do a thing that if it were not that something pushed you along in spite of yourself, you would never do anything at all. She was unaware that Dr. Johnson had moralised upon this theme to Boswell, or that he had called the something which impels you the pressure of necessity. There are many necessities, to each his own -a driving force which will not be denied. Hilary’s necessity was to find out what Mrs. Mercer knew. She didn’t reason ahout it. If she had, common sense would have urged that Ledlington is a considerable place, and that she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to find the Mercers – she hadn’t even the slightest idea of how to begin to look for them. To all this she opposed a firm and unreasoning purpose. She was going to buy a third-class ticket, go down to Ledlington, and look for Mrs. Mercer.
Henry had a much better lunch than Hilary. He felt a kind of gloomy satisfaction in having held his own. Once let Hilary think that she could take her way without reference to him and in disregard of his opinion and of his advice, and their married life would become quite impossible. The trouble about Hilary was that she always wanted her own way, and just because it was her own way it had to be the right one. She didn’t listen to reason, and she wouldn’t listen to him. She just took the bit in her teeth and bolted. It was a pity, because – here Henry faltered a little – she was – well, she was Hilary, and at her silliest and most obstinate he loved her better than he had ever loved anyone in all his life. Even when she was being supremely aggravating there was something about her which put her on a different footing to everyone else. That was why he was simply bound to keep his end up. If he didn’t, she’d be trying to run him, twisting him round her little finger, making a fool of him. It was when he felt all this most acutely that Henry’s voice took its hardest tone and his eye its most dominant stare. And behind all this protective armour there was a Henry who shrank appalled from the picture of a world without Hilary, a life without Hilary. How could she leave him when she was his, and knew, as she must know, that he was hers? They belonged to each other and could not be divided.