“And Moira is no help at all! I brought her up, you know, after my cousin died-at least she was sixteen, so I didn’t really have the training of her, and she has been married since, which of course makes a difference, don’t you think? But if I suggest her doing anything she only says that there are too many fingers in the pie already. She said that only yesterday, and I’m sure I can’t think what she meant, because if the Ball is going to be put off-you know, I suppose, that Lucius was giving a fancy dress ball at The Luxe next month? That is why he was getting the necklace out of the bank-Moira wanted to see it. And I can’t help feeling intensely thankful that it was stolen before it got here if it was going to be stolen at all. Lucius wasn’t going to keep it here of course-it’s too valuable. Moira wanted to see it, and then they were going to take it up to town and leave it at the jeweller’s to be cleaned and taken care of until the day of the Ball. Of course it is terribly shocking about poor Arthur Hughes, but when I think it might have been Lucius and Moira I really can’t be too thankful! I don’t suppose Lucius will think it necessary to put off the Ball-there were such a lot of people coming. Moira thinks it would be absurd, but young people are so apt to be callous. I often think it would be so much more comfortable not to have such sensitive feelings, but on the other hand does one really want to be insensitive?”
Miss Silver opining that there was a happy mean and introducing a quotation from Lord Tennyson in support of this, they went down to lunch together on the best of terms.
Lucius Bellingdon and three other people were waiting for them-a girl in smoky blue who was Moira Herne, someone taller and older who was Mrs. Scott, and Mr. Hubert Garratt. Introduced by Bellingdon, Miss Silver found herself regarded with as complete a lack of concern as she could have desired.
Her own interest was, however, warmly engaged. Every person in this household had some part in the problem she was here to investigate. Because one of them had talked young Arthur Hughes lay dead. The leakage could have occurred through inadvertence, heedlessness, lack of self-control. It could have been the result of fear, of some burst of confidence, or of malice aforethought, but somehow through one of these people it must have come about. She could not neglect Mr. Bellingdon’s secretary, Mr. Bellingdon’s daughter, or Mr. Bellingdon’s guest.
Moira Herne would have been remarked on anywhere for her ash-blonde colouring. As to her features, they were of the kind you really hardly notice. It was the gleaming hair with its soft full waves, the rather light eyes with a dark ring about the iris, and the fine white skin, which fixed and held the attention. The lashes and brows were slightly and artistically darkened to a golden brown. The mouth, which might have been too pale, had been deepened to a delightful rose, the pointed fingernails matched it to a shade. She allowed the eyes to rest upon Miss Silver in an indifferent stare and did not speak.
Mrs. Scott could hardly have exhibited a greater contrast in looks and manner. She was a tall, slim creature with smooth dark hair, dark eyes, a skin warm with colour, a wide mouth, and teeth as white as hazel-nuts. She might have been anything between twenty-five and forty. Her voice as she said “How do you do?” had a quality of youth which it would probably never lose. She smiled, showing the white teeth, slipped into her place by Lucius Bellingdon, and began to talk to him about this and that. She had an easy charm of manner, a trick of saying things that made them sound interesting, a way of laughing with her eyes. It took Miss Silver rather less than a minute to discern that Lucius Bellingdon’s feeling for her was something out of the ordinary.
Mr. Garratt was middle-aged and inclined to put on weight. He took the foot of the table opposite Mr. Bellingdon and sat there pale and depressed, eating little and talking less, with Moira Herne on one side of him and Miss Bray on the other. Miss Silver, between Miss Bray and her host, could hardly have been better placed. She need not talk, because Mr. Bellingdon was quite taken up with Mrs. Scott. She was therefore free to look and to listen.
The conversation might have been confined to that end of the table if it had not been for Elaine Bray. She appeared to be able to eat and talk at the same time, and was most solicitous about Mr. Garratt’s loss of appetite.
“These eggs-now you really should! They are done in onion sauce-a Portuguese recipe, I believe. The cheese in it neutralizes the onion to a very great extent. Now how do you suppose you are going to get up your strength if you do not eat?”
Mr. Garratt said, “I don’t know.” He took about a dessertspoonful from the proffered dish and left it on his plate.
Moira Herne took a large helping and said in a drawling, husky voice that she adored onions. Her way of speaking was so much at variance with the ethereal fairness of her colouring as to heighten its effect. Miss Silver found herself wondering whether this was deliberate.
“Mrs. Hilton is a marvellous cook,” said Annabel Scott. She smiled warmly and unconventionally at Hilton as she spoke, and turned back again to Lucius with a laughing “I shall put on pounds if I stay here too long!”
As the butler went back to the serving-table, Moira said in exactly the same voice and manner as before,
“Wilfrid is coming down for the weekend.”
Miss Bray echoed the name in a fitful manner. Lucius said,
“That fellow Gaunt? He was here last week, wasn’t he? I don’t remember being struck with him.”
Moira said, “I don’t suppose you would be. I’ve been dancing with him quite a lot in town. He is a dream.”
Elaine said, “My dear!” and Lucius enquired, “As a dancer?”
“Of course.”
“Does he make it his life work?”
“He paints. He has two pictures in the Masters galleries.”
Bellingdon’s attention was caught.
“I bought a picture there the other day-a very good one.”
Moira said “Oh-” And then, “Who was it by?”
“Not your friend Wilfrid, I’m afraid. A young man of the name of Moray-David Moray.”
The large blue eyes gazed at him without expression. There was no expression in the husky voice as she said,
“Wilfrid hates him.”
Lucius burst out laughing.
“Then that will be nice for them both! Because Moray is coming down for the weekend too. I asked him if he would like to see my pictures, and he said he would.”
Moira just went on gazing.
“Wilfrid’s picture is about a tombstone and an aspidistra. The tombstone is in a sort of blue mist, the aspidistra is in a pink pot, and there are some bones.”
Annabel laughed and said, “Why, darling?”
“I don’t know. He painted it like that. It doesn’t really mean tombstones and aspidistras-it means things going on in your Unconscious.”
“Darling, I should hate to have a pink aspidistra in my Unconscious!”
Moira shook her head.
“It was the pot that was pink.”
It was at this point that Miss Bray came in on a worried note.
“Oh, my dear! Oh, Lucius! Do you really think-a party-just at this moment-is it really suitable?”
Moira’s gaze shifted to her. She said without hurry,
“What do you call a party? Two men for the week-end? Not my idea of one, Ellen.”
An unbecoming magenta flush spread over Miss Bray’s face. To call her Ellen was Moira’s way of punishing her. As a rule she avoided giving occasion for it, but at the moment her feelings of propriety were engaged. In the spirit of the proverb that you might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb she added to her offence.
“I think we should be as quiet as possible- I think it will be expected of us. The house is full enough as it is.” Her glance touched Annabel Scott, fell away, met Lucius Bellingdon’s frown, and withdrew. “Of course”- the words came tumbling out-“the inquest was adjourned, and the funeral is over. I don’t mean that we have to shut ourselves up, or that there is anything wrong about having a friend or two down quietly.”