“Oh, nothing,” she said in a wretched voice, and turned away from him, knowing that the easy mood of confidence had been kicked out of shape like a battered football.
“You can talk to me, Hester, even if you do think of me as an ageing idiot,” he said in an avuncular manner. “Or you can march off indignantly, then I’ll have to cut the grass to reinstate myself. Shall I get the lawn mower? I’d much sooner talk.”
“It’s too hot for cutting the grass,” she admitted. “I’ll tell you what I want to say.” She looked away from him. She didn’t want it to seem that she was accusing him. “Don’t let Father take any of his money out of securities. He’s got so little. He can’t afford to lose it.” She looked round anxiously, searching for something that might ornament the bald request. “It’s such a lovely morning. I do apologise for talking about money.”
“Money is my business, but I don’t want to bring business into the garden. Hester, surely you know me well enough to trust me. I’ve spent the last three months persuading your father not to join in my wild affairs.”
“But, Maurice, of course you have. Would you like a button-hole? Here’s a lovely rosebud.” She bent to pick it, admiring its undeveloped curves, preparing her next remark. She stood up, offering the rosebud. “Father seems so determined this time.”
“Thank you, Hester, it’s very pretty.” He put the rosebud in his button-hole. “You wouldn’t approve of his turning three shillings into a pound?” he asked her, smiling.
“Not if there’s any chance at all of his losing the three shillings. It’s time that these overblown roses were cut. I must do it today. And I should cut some buds for the house.”
“Hester, your father has set his heart on making money. He’s decided the quickest way to do it is by gambling on the Stock Exchange. Do you think it better that I should handle the business for him, or would you sooner he went into the jungle alone? Tell me honestly, Hester, what you think.” He stood smiling at her, both hands in his pockets, his brown face serious behind the smile.
She hesitated. “I’d sooner he didn’t gamble at all.”
“But if he means to?”
“Then – then I suppose it would be better if you helped him,” she said in a troubled voice.
“I’m glad you say that, Hester, because if you didn’t trust me I – well, I couldn’t bear to come here. Now, I’ll tell you the truth, Hester. When people set out to make money quickly, there is no absolute certainty. High returns are only a reward for being prepared to risk your capital. If you have private information, as I have in this case, the risk is very much less, but it does exist. I’m risking everything I have on this project, but you are quite right to dissuade your father.”
Hester considered this. It sounded a very reassuring statement, until she remembered that she hadn’t managed to influence her father in any way.
“But I was counting on you to dissuade him, Maurice.”
“I haven’t encouraged him,” he pointed out. “And I’m bound to tell him that if he’s determined to risk his capital this is a smaller risk than most.”
“I leave it to you, then, Maurice,” she said, sighing. “I do trust your judgment – but remember I’m equally bound to advise Father not to speculate.”
“Naturally you are, and I’ll be happy if he takes your advice – although we’ll all be grinding our teeth if the thing comes off.”
“I hate money,” she said, exhausted. “I think I’ll slash away at those roses now. Oh, Maurice – are you worried about that man – who was in the garden and said he was following you?” “Naturally I’m not.” His face was fixed in good-humour, but she thought she saw a tremor pass across it. “No one has any reason to follow me. He must be some kind of lunatic. Harmless, evidently, or I might have seen more of him last night.”
She nodded smiling agreement, while contradictions ran through her head. “I must do something about the roses,” she said. Maurice lingered for a moment, then went to the house to find her father.
THURSDAY (3)
PRUDENCE was tidying up the sitting-room when Hester came in.
“I’ve emptied the ash-trays,” she said in a resigned voice. “If only people didn’t smoke we shouldn’t have to do anything in here for weeks but draw the curtains and throw out the newspapers. Even that makes me feel like Cinderella,” she added pointedly. “Have you been enjoying your walk in the garden?” Hester didn’t answer. She took a cushion and shook it viciously, then turned it torn side down.
“The other side’s torn too,” Prudence said. She looked at her sister with an objective interest. “What’s wrong, Hester? You’re looking old.”
“It’s Maurice.”
“Maurice? What on earth’s wrong with Maurice? I should have thought he was the only one round here not to worry about. After all, we have Morgan, and Jackie, and Harry.”
“Harry keeps saying he’s trying to get Father’s money.”
“I’ve listened to them and it always sounds as if he’s trying not to get Father’s money.”
“Harry says that’s how all the best confidence men behave.”
“Harry seems to know a lot about crime. Let me try curling my lip. Do you suppose when people curl their lips it’s convex or concave?” She went to the glass over the mantelpiece. “It looks queer both ways. If I curl it up towards my nose it’s worse, don’t you think? People in those books must look odd, most of the time. ‘She curled her lip. Her lip twitched.’ Oh, I twitch better than I curl. I’ll practise that one. Do you really think I should be twitching and curling at Maurice?”
“Stop trying to be funny,” Hester begged. “I don’t think innocent people get followed. Oh, I forgot, you don’t know about that. There was a man hiding in the garden last night. I had a long talk with him and he told me he was following Maurice.”
“Action at last,” Prudence said with satisfaction. “Things have been getting a bit boring round here. Won’t it be wonderful if Maurice is really an international criminal? Do you think he has anything to do with atom bombs?”
“I don’t think it’s funny. He may be hiding in the garden now, or the wood, waiting for Maurice.”
“I’ll look,” Prudence said eagerly. “Anything rather than make the beds.”
She rushed out of the room. She didn’t want to be stopped to listen to interminable discussions about caution and correct behaviour. She was still armed in complete innocence, and was afraid of no one.
She walked round the garden. There was no one to be seen. She lost interest in the search, and stopped to look across the valley to the dry brown hill on the other side. She knew suddenly that everything was empty and boring and that nothing would ever happen. The place was dead. It was only in cities that life went on. She stood dreaming of a thousand faces rushing past, every one alight with secret passions. She moved unrecognised through them all, understanding, but aloof. In the theatre elegant women were slipping out of their wraps; insolent, sophisticated men were preparing to be bored. Behind stage, in the little dressing-rooms, everything was frantic and expectant. It was a first night. She had only a small part, but in a way the play hinged upon it. She sighed, and shook her head, and looked angrily across the valley again. She meant to get out of this place, or die.
She remembered she was supposed to be looking for a lurking stranger. She turned into the woods, and became again a little excited at the thought that a murderer might be hiding behind the trees. She walked cautiously under the deep green ceiling of leaves until she came within sight of the ruined chapel. A man was sitting in one corner, apparently slumped in sleep. He might be dead, she thought, and was carried towards him on a wave of fear.