The Silent Speaker Page 7
Edward found Tom sitting in an armchair by the study fire; again his head was propped on one hand. Edward helped himself to coffee and a brandy and sat facing him.
“I’m sorry to go on at you, Tom, but you’ve got to drop this she-was-in-her-right-mind idea, it’s not fair on the children. It’s been a bad enough knock without finding their mother headline news in every paper.”
Tom was silent for so long Edward was about to repeat what he had said when Tom, as if he had come to a decision, sat up and leant towards him.
“God knows I’d spare the children if I could. But, you see, saying her mind was disturbed would be dishonest. I know why Helen killed herself.”
Edward was so sure this was nonsense that he sidestepped that issue.
“Even if you do it still does not mean Helen was not mentally disturbed when she turned on the gas. In fact, knowing Helen, we know she must have been. Supposing, in her right mind, she decided to kill herself, was she the sort of woman who would choose a means which meant lying on her kitchen floor? You know she wasn’t.”
“She had no other means to hand.”
“Hadn’t she sleeping tablets? An overdose of barbitone is the sort of thing women of Helen’s type take.”
“She wanted to be certain that it was the end—sleeping tablets, disinfectants and all those things can misfire. I can promise you it was all carefully planned.”
“She hadn’t any plans of that sort in her head while we were in the house, I’ll take my oath on that.”
Tom sounded exhausted by the effort of making Edward see something which was so apparent to himself.
“She was putting on an act. I don’t know how long she’s been planning to do it, but she chose last night because she knew I would be out.”
Edward gave Tom a quick glance. It looked as if he did know why it happened.
“Was she ill?”
“I don’t think so, and in any case that was not her reason.”
“Then why, in God’s name? She had everything to live for. You, the children.”
In answer Tom took Selina’s letter from his pocket.
“I am showing you this in confidence, you will, of course, tell nobody you have seen it.”
Edward unfolded a sheet of hotel notepaper.
Tom darling,
I have been worried to death ever since it happened wondering if Helen could possibly have found out about us, but I thought it was impossible. But just now I had a call from Aylesbury from Miss Osborne, who we had decided should take Verily over to see Tim. She said she thought we ought to know that she thinks Verily has something on her mind in relation to Helen’s death. Oh Tom, I’m so afraid. Could Verily have read your letters in my cottage—you know I told you I’d kept them all—and told Helen? I am distracted. If you don’t feel like seeing me please, please telephone.
Selina
Edward knew from endless experience that few lives are what they seem to outsiders, but Selina’s letter winded him. Selina of all people! But before he could say anything George put his head round the door.
“Can I have a word with you, Edward?” When Edward came out he whispered: “Miss Osborne’s rung up from Aylesbury. It seems Verily was to spend the night in Tim’s school. But she’s run off somewhere.”
CHAPTER 6
The Matron of Tim’s school was a widow and, much to her sorrow, childless, for she loved children, particularly boys. Others might find a crowd of chattering small boys shoving each other about and roaring at apparently aimless jokes exhausting, but not Matron, for hers was a childish nature so in her tastes and conversation she was on a level with the boys. Though she liked to see rosy faces, and hearty appetites, it was a treat occasionally to go all out on an orgy of spoiling. The spring term was her favourite for there was usually an epidemic and so scarcely a day passed when there was nobody in the sickroom. Autumn was different; set up by the long summer holidays the boys were seldom ill so, sad though the reason for his presence, Matron looked forward to mothering Tim before she allowed him back in the school.
After her talk with H.J. Matron had come hurrying back to the sickroom. Tim was, after what the doctor had given him, deeply asleep. “And I hope he stays like that until his sister comes,” she had thought. “I’ll make up the bed in the little isolation room for her, for she may as well spend the night here, it will be nice for the two to be together. And I’ll put out that Scrabble game and a jigsaw—in case they want something to do, poor little dears.”
Things had turned out as Matron had planned, for Miss Osborne, though she had not said so, was relieved to be rid temporarily of Verily, so she had gratefully accepted the offer of a bed for her. The last part of the drive to Aylesbury had been sticky going, and Miss Osborne knew she had only herself to blame. Why, with all her experience, had she blurted out her suspicion that the child knew something? She ought to see a psychologist to find out if she was still a fit person to be head of a girl’s school. If only she had kept her mouth shut she might have got the child’s confidence so that she had talked naturally to her. Obviously, once her suspicion was aroused that Verily knew something, she had to attempt to make the child talk, for it would be so much easier for everybody if a straight answer could be found as to why Mrs. Blair had done what she did. But, because of her stupid slip, she had been able to do nothing more with Verily. The relaxed child who had chattered about Ireland had gone, and in her place was a frozen little creature who had sat as far away from her in the car as possible, and, though she had talked to her about every subject she could think of which might interest her, had replied in staccato monosyllables. It was heart-breaking, not only because she felt she had failed at a moment when she might have assisted, but because she was certain that for some reason Verily was frightened. “Not that fear in itself means anything at that age,” she had thought, “for quite possibly it is imagined, but if only I had not been such a fool I might have helped. And now what?”
Could she have been a fly on the sick-room wall still more would Miss Osborne have said “and now what?” Matron, on the excuse she was fetching their supper, had left the two children alone, confident that they would know instinctively how best to help each other. It did just flash through her mind that the sister looked a surly little customer, but she had supposed that was because she was upset, and anyway, surly or not, sisters and brothers were best for each other at such a time.
Verily, as soon as the door was shut, looking truculent, had sat down on Tim’s bed.
“I hear you fainted, you ass.”
“Ass yourself. It’s something you can’t help doing. It’s an odd feeling, first it sounds as if bells are ringing, then people get further and further away and then you don’t know any more.” Tim had paused, fiddling with a corner of the eiderdown. “Did the Wizard tell you?”
Verily had scowled, why couldn’t Tim see she didn’t want to talk about what had happened?
“Yes, and if you want to know, I just said thank you and went out for a picnic with Ruth. I didn’t have to faint all over the floor.”
Tim’s eyes, looking enormous, had fixed themselves on Verily.
“What’ll happen to us?”
Verily had made herself sound as if she could not care less.
“Nothing. What should?”
“People have to look after homes, Daddy can’t.”
Verily’s voice had risen.
“Shut up. How you do flap. Something will be fixed, it always is.”
Tim had sat up, his face twisted in an effort not to cry.
“You beast, you don’t care, I might have known you wouldn’t.”
“Cry, baby, cry,” Verily had shouted, “I knew you would. Mummy’s little pet.”
Tim had flung himself face down on his pillow. His voice had been choked with sobs.
“Go away. I wish you’d never come.”
“All right, if that’s how you feel I will. You silly little cry baby, you. I don’t want to stay.”
“Where are you going?”
“That’s my business. You can tell that matron I’ve taken my luggage and I’m not coming back.”
It was half an hour later that Matron had returned carrying the supper tray. She had heard Tim’s sobs before she opened the door. She had slapped the tray down on a table and run to him and taken him in her arms.
“There, there. Don’t cry, dear, Matron’s here.”
But Tim had become hysterical and would not be comforted, so after a time she gave him the sleeping-tablet the doctor had left. The supper she had chosen so carefully was cold so she had made some cocoa, then she had sat down again beside Tim and fed him like a baby.
“Down it goes. There, that’s better and Doctor’s pill will make you go to sleep again, and things won’t seem so bad in the morning, they never do.” That was when she had remembered Verily. “Where’s your sister?”
Tim was getting drowsy.
“Gone.” He had forced his eyes open. “I’m glad, I was sorry she came, she’s a beast.”
“Only a drop more and then off we go to Bedfordshire,” Matron had said. “Gone to her room, has she? Well, I daresay she’s tired. When you’re asleep I’ll pop along and take her some supper. We don’t want any silly talk about beasts, you’ll be glad enough to see her in the morning.”
Tim’s eyes had nearly shut.
“I won’t. I never want to see her again. And she said to tell you she wasn’t staying.”
Matron had laid him down and turned out the light.
“Saying is one thing and doing is another. Good night, dear.” There was no response so she had leant over Tim. “Asleep, bless him. Now I better have a look at that sister.”
Matron had unpacked for Verily so one look into the isolation room and she saw that Tim had spoken the truth, for Verily had taken her case with her. Tch-tching, for Verily was in her charge so she might be blamed for her disappearance, she had hurried downstairs to look for H.J.
“She’s not here,” Miss Osborne had said when H.J. rang her, “but she may be on the way for she knows where I’m staying. I’ll ring the police as I can describe what she was wearing. It’s just possible she’s gone to her home. Anyway, I must ring Mr. Blair and tell him what has happened. Yes, of course I will inform you the moment I hear anything.”
* * *
Verily was soon found. An off-duty policeman and his wife had met her on their way home from the pictures. As they stepped off their bus she had come running out of a dark lane into the light of a street lamp. The policeman had no idea a child had been reported missing but one look at Verily’s socked legs, school uniform and suitcase and his mind registered “running away.” He could not nudge his wife Edna without Verily seeing so instead he gave her a gentle kick.
“Good evening. Can we help you?”
Verily had been frightened of the dark lane, but still more she was running away from herself. Why had she been so detestable to Tim? She hadn’t meant to be for it was much worse for him than for her that Mummy was dead because he was different. She had at first excused herself on the ground that he would go on and on when he ought to have seen she didn’t want to talk about it. But her conscience would not let her get away with that argument. It wasn’t Tim’s fault he didn’t know the awful thing that had happened. It was at this point in her thinking that the black lane with branches like hands stretching out for her from the hedges became less terrifying than her thoughts. It was difficult to run in the dark but she scurried, only to find speed could not rid her of fear which step by step kept pace with her. What happened to a child if a coroner found it was because of them somebody killed themselves? It was at this moment, her eyes wide with terror, that she saw the light and ran towards it.
Stupidly Verily stared at the policeman, unable to take in what he had said. He realised this and was more sure than ever that she was in trouble.
“I was wondering if we could help you. Where are you going, dear, it’s getting late for you to be out alone?”
Thoughts like bats on a summer’s night dashed round in Verily’s head.
Where was she going? The person she wanted to see was Daddy, but if she saw him she would have to tell him, he must never know about that, if he found out about Mummy he wouldn’t want to see her ever again. Suppose some sneak like that coroner found out and told Daddy, what would Daddy do? Could he make her stay at school and never go home again? If she didn’t go home now where could she go? Who was there she could talk to who would understand? It was then Selina swam into Verily’s mind. Not London Selina but Selina as she looked in Ireland, wearing a fisherman’s jersey, corduroy trousers and a funny hat with fishing flies stuck in it. There was nothing, or almost nothing, a person could say to Selina she would not understand.
“Which way is the station? I must go to London.”
The policeman raised his heel and gave Edna’s leg another nudge. She was sensible enough, but she was not trained as he was to deal with this sort of situation. He spoke slowly, thinking out his untrue statement.
“There won’t be a train to London at this time of night. But there’ll be one first thing.” He turned to Edna. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
Selina, in her seaman’s jersey and funny hat with the fishing flies, had seemed so comfortingly close her withdrawal was Verily’s breaking-point. Tears held back all day burst out of her, her words rose hysterically.
“No train! There must be a train. I absolutely must see Selina. I absolutely must.”
Edna was by nature a motherly girl, but now, her first baby expected in three months, her arms were aching to hug a child. She spoke with the lilt of her native Wales.
“You come along with us now, and have something hot to drink. You tell my husband the telephone number of this Selina and he will find her for you. That is right, isn’t it, Fred?”
Verily, now she had started to cry, could not stop, so Fred took the suitcase, gave it to Edna, picked up Verily and carried her the few yards to their home and dumped her in an armchair in their living-room. Then, leaving her to Edna, he went into the hall, lifted the telephone receiver and dialled his police station.
“That you, Sarge? I got a little girl here . . .”
* * *
Wyster was on the Buckinghamshire-Northamptonshire border so it had been decided by Edward and George that Miriam should take on Verily should the police find her in the Aylesbury area.
“She’ll probably turn up here,” Edward had said to George, “and it’s pointless worrying Tom at the moment, the poor old boy’s in no state to take on any more, and anyway there’s nothing he can do.”
George agreed that Tom could do nothing and Miriam was reasonably near Aylesbury and would be just the person to deal with Verily if the police found her in that part of the world, but as a father he felt he would not like it if one of his three was being looked for by the police and he was not informed they were missing.
“I agree we don’t want to add to Tom’s burdens, but suppose something’s happened to the child . . .”
Edward dismissed that.
“I’m not going to suppose anything of the sort. I’m on the edge of getting sense out of Tom.” He saw a question forming on George’s lips. “It’s for my ear only at the moment but he’ll tell you. Let’s deal with one thing at a time. You get on to Miriam and I’ll sort things out with Tom.”
When Edward came back into the study Tom, fathoms deep in his thoughts, was not curious as to what Edward had wanted. He spoke indeed as if there had been no interruption.
“I feel, having shown you Selina’s letter, that there are things I should explain.”
Edward poured himself out a
nother brandy and settled back in his chair.
“I can be more help to you if I know the facts.”
Tom clasped his hands and looked into the fire as though in the flames he could see the past he was trying to recall.
“I was eight when they told me my parents were killed, it was a car smash. I don’t think that I took in that I would never see either again. I suppose I would have had I seen what had happened, but they were abroad at the time and the servants were looking after me, so from my point of view their death made no change in my routine. Then I heard the servants talking and learnt they were leaving because the house was being sold, so it was uncertain where I was going to live. That hit me hard.”
Edward tried to imagine Tom aged eight. Looked even more forlorn than the middle-aged Tom, he wouldn’t wonder.
“I bet it did.”
“That was when Aunt Anne, as I called her, Selina’s mother, appeared—at that age you don’t know how or why things happen. Everything I owned was packed and she took me to Tallboys.”
Edward felt Tom wanted a word or two to show he was attending.
“It was all right there, wasn’t it?”
Tom stared even more fixedly at the fire, as if from the coals he could reconstruct the old house.
“Yes, my home had been at Slough. I thought it fine at the time, I imagine, but I realise now it was an ordinary piece of grandiose villadom, but Tallboys was seventeenth century. It had been repaired but some of the timber was original. I fell for the place at first sight.”
Edward did not want to interrupt Tom, who was clearly finding relief in talking, but he had heard before about his affection for the old house; what he wanted to hear about now was his feeling for the daughter.
“How old was Selina then?”
“Seven, rising eight, we were much of an age, all eyes and hair she was, with a band round her teeth. First time I saw her she was on her pony.”
At this rate, thought Edward, we’ll be all night before Selina grows up.
“You were brought up as brother and sister, weren’t you?”