She put a new dose of eau de Cologne on her forehead, and leaned on one elbow. On the mantelpiece lay the tissue parcel containing the slim silver belt, the price of Li’s death. She wanted to stick it in the fire. And only the fact that it would not burn prevented her savagely doing so. There was something wrong, too, with the occultism. To receive a paltry sovereign for murdering the greatest statesman of the Eastern hemisphere was simply grotesque. Moreover, she had most distinctly not wanted to deprive China of a distinguished man. She had expressly stipulated for an inferior and insignificant mandarin, one that could be spared and that was unknown to Reuter. She supposed she ought to have looked up China at the Wedgwood Institution and selected a definite mandarin with a definite place of residence. But could she be expected to go about a murder deliberately like that?
With regard to the gross inadequacy of the fiscal return for her deed, perhaps that was her own fault. She had not wished for more. Her brain had been so occupied by the belt that she had wished only for the belt. But, perhaps, on the other hand, vast wealth was to come. Perhaps something might occur that very night. That would be better. Yet would it be better? However rich she might become, Stephen would coolly take charge of her riches, and dole them out to her, and make rules for her concerning them. And besides, Charlie would suspect her guilt. Charlie understood her, and perused her thoughts far better than Stephen did. She would never be able to conceal the truth from Charlie. The conversation, the death of Li within two hours, and then a sudden fortune accruing to her—Charlie would inevitably put two and two together and divine her shameful secret.
The outlook was thoroughly black anyway.
She then fell asleep.
When she awoke, some considerable time afterwards, Stephen was calling to her. It was his voice, indeed, that had aroused her. The room was dark.
‘I say, Vera,’ he demanded, in a low, slightly inimical tone, ‘have you taken a sovereign out of the empty drawer in your toilet-table?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, without thinking.
‘Ah!’ he observed reflectively, ‘I knew I was right.’ He paused, and added, coldly, ‘If you aren’t better you ought to go to bed.’
Then he left her, shutting the door with a noise that showed a certain lack of sympathy with her headache.
She sprang up. Her first feeling was one of thankfulness that that brief interview had occurred in darkness. So Stephen was aware of the existence of the sovereign! The sovereign was not occult. Possibly he had put it there. And what did he know he was ‘right’ about?
She lighted the gas, and gazed at herself in the glass, realizing that she no longer had a headache, and endeavouring to arrange her ideas.
‘What’s this?’ said another voice at the door. She glanced round hastily, guiltily. It was Charlie.
‘Steve telephoned me you were too ill to go to the dance,’ explained Charlie, ‘so I thought I’d come and make inquiries. I quite expected to find you in bed with a nurse and a doctor or two at least. What is it?’ He smiled.
‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘Only a headache. It’s gone now.’
She stood against the mantelpiece, so that he should not see the white parcel.
‘That’s good,’ said Charlie.
There was a pause.
‘Strange, Li Hung Chang dying last night, just after we had been talking about killing mandarins,’ she said. She could not keep off the subject. It attracted her like a snake, and she approached it in spite of the fact that she fervently wished not to approach it.
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘But Li wasn’t a mandarin, you know. And he didn’t die after we had been talking about mandarins. He died before.’
‘Oh! I thought it said in the paper he died at two o’clock this morning.’
‘Two a.m. in Pekin,’ Charlie answered. ‘You must remember that Pekin time is many hours earlier than our time. It lies so far eastward.’
‘Oh!’ she said again.
Stephen hurried in, with a worried air.
‘Ah! It’s you, Charlie!’
‘She isn’t absolutely dying, I find,’ said Charlie, turning to Vera: ‘You are going to the dance after all—aren’t you?’
‘I say, Vera,’ Stephen interrupted, ‘either you or I must have a scene with Martha. I’ve always suspected that confounded housemaid. So I put a marked sovereign in a drawer this morning, and it was gone at lunch-time. She’d better hook it instantly. Of course I shan’t prosecute.’
‘Martha!’ cried Vera. ‘Stephen, what on earth are you thinking of? I wish you would leave the servants to me. If you think you can manage this house in your spare time from the works, you are welcome to try. But don’t blame me for the consequences.’ Glances of triumph flashed in her eyes.
‘But I tell you—’
‘Nonsense,’ said Vera. ‘I took the sovereign. I saw it there and I took it, and just to punish you, I’ve spent it. It’s not at all nice to lay traps for servants like that.’
‘Then why did you tell me just now you hadn’t taken it?’ Stephen demanded crossly.
‘I didn’t feel well enough to argue with you then,’ Vera replied.
‘You’ve recovered precious quick,’ retorted Stephen with grimness.
‘Of course, if you want to make a scene before strangers,’ Vera whimpered (poor Charlie a stranger!), ‘I’ll go to bed.’
Stephen knew when he was beaten.
She went to the Hockey dance, though. She and Stephen and Charlie and his young sister, aged seventeen, all descended together to the Town Hall in a brougham. The young girl admired Vera’s belt excessively, and looked forward to the moment when she too should be a bewitching and captivating wife like Vera, in short, a woman of the world, worshipped by grave, bearded men. And both the men were under the spell of Vera’s incurable charm, capricious, surprising, exasperating, indefinable, indispensable to their lives.
‘Stupid superstitions!’ reflected Vera. ‘But of course I never believed it really.’
And she cast down her eyes to gloat over the belt.
VERA’S SECOND CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE
I
Curious and strange things had a way of happening to Vera—perhaps because she was an extremely feminine woman. But of all the curious and strange things that ever did happen to Vera, this was certainly the strangest and the most curious. It makes a somewhat exasperating narrative, because the affair ended—or, rather, Vera caused it to end—on a note of interrogation. The reader may, however, draw consolation from the fact that, if he is tormented by an unanswerable query, Vera herself was much more tormented by precisely the same query.
Two days before Christmas, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, just when it was getting dusk and the distant smokepall of the Five Towns was merging in the general greyness of the northern sky, Vera was sitting in the bow-window of the drawing-room of Stephen Cheswardine’s newly-acquired house at Sneyd; Sneyd being the fashionable suburb of the Five Towns, graced by the near presence of a countess. And as the slim, thirty-year-old Vera sat there, moody (for reasons which will soon appear), in her charming teagown, her husband drove up to the door in the dogcart, and he was not alone. He had with him a man of vigorous and dashing appearance, fair, far from ugly, and with a masterful face, keen eyes, and most magnificent furs round about him. At sight of the visitor Vera’s heart did not exactly jump, but it nearly jumped.