Too Many Cousins, page 6
“A bad business, however you look at it,” Harvey said at the end of the story. “And now we have talked the whole thing over, how do you look at it, Mr. Shearsby?”
The chemist took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his high forehead.
“I don’t know what to think. At the time—at the inquests —everything seemed perfectly straightforward. No doubts entered my mind. But now, after Cecile’s story. . . . After all, three of us. . . . ” He peered hopefully through his spectacles. “It was to glean your opinion, Mr. Tuke——”
“It may comfort you to know that the police still hold the view that Captain Dresser’s death was accidental.” The chemist brightened. “I am indeed glad to hear it.”
“But of course it may have given somebody ideas.”
Mr. Shearsby looked depressed again.
“Did you see much of him, by the way?”
“Sydney? Even less than I did of Raymond. He was at Birmingham before the war, and then. . . . it was a little difficult . . . there were reasons. . . .” Mortimer Shearsby cleared his throat and went on rather hastily: “Yes, I fear we cousins have drifted apart. Cecile saw more of Sydney than any of us. It was she who wrote to tell me of his death.”
“You did not reciprocate in the two recent instances?” The chemist waved his hands in a vaguely apologetic way.
“No, I have been very remiss. Cecile rightly reproached me. I have been exceedingly busy——”
“I should have written,” Lilian Shearsby said, though in a rather perfunctory tone. “But with one thing and another——”
“We are both busy bees,” said her husband with heavy humour. “Between us I think I may say we do our bit towards the war effort. We pull our weight.”
“It was not you, I take it,” Harvey said, “who sent Mile Boulanger a Guildford paper with an account of the inquest on your sister?”
“No, indeed. I should at least have written. Which reminds me. Cecile told me this morning that she had learnt of Raymond’s death only an hour or so before. From Mrs. Tuke.”
“Yes, I asked my wife to tell her.”
The chemist obviously would have liked to know how Harvey obtained this news, but the latter went off on a fresh track.
“One of your cousins still remains shrouded in mystery. Miss Ardmore.”
“Ah, yes, Vivien,” said the chemist. “H’m. Yes. I am afraid I have put off writing to Vivien too. It must be done,” said Mr. Shearsby firmly.
“She is in the Ministry of Supply, I believe?”
“She is personal secretary to Mr. McIvory.” An unctuous note had crept into the chemist’s voice. “A highly confidential post. Vivien is extremely fortunate. Especially as there was a time—well, well, that is better forgotten. We all have our ups and downs. Or some of us.”
“We do indeed!” Lilian Shearsby put in with a touch of astringency.
“Now, my dear,” said her husband uneasily.
“I am not going to kow-tow to that stuck-up madam just because she’s secretary to some big-wig——”
“Never mind that now, Lilian.”
The pair seemed to have forgotten Mr. Tuke. Mrs. Shearsby’s pince-nez flashed. Words began to pour out.
“You know perfectly well, Mortimer, how she’ll talk of us! Look how she behaved. Well, I suppose I oughtn’t to be surprised now. As I said before, if anyone does come asking questions——”
“Lilian/”
In his agitation the chemist almost shouted. After a moment’s stare of defiance, her lips parted, his wife closed them in a tight, angry line. Colour was Haring again in her cheeks. Harvey, who had watched this fresh display of temper with interest, turned to Mortimer Shearsby.
“I have your address, and my wife knows Mile Boulanger’s. Where does Miss Ardmore live?”
“In South Kensington,” the chemist said, passing a harassed hand over his brow. “10 Falcon Mews East is the address.”
Harvey had again taken out his watch.
“I am sorry,” he went on, “but I really have an engagement. You wanted advice, Mr. Shearsby. I have given it to you. This matter will have to be cleared up now, and after all, until it is the three of you cousins who are left will have no real peace of mind. You don’t want to go about for the rest of your lives thinking that one or other of you may have engineered these tragedies. That is what it comes to, isn’t it? It would give even your inheritance a nasty taste,” he added sardonically as he rose to his feet.
The visitors rose with him. The angry flush had not left Lilian Shearsby’s face. Her husband looked profoundly gloomy.
“There is another point,” Mr. Tuke observed as he moved to the door. “I understand that your step-great-grandmother may live for some time yet. How unpleasant it would be if another fatal accident were to occur in her lifetime. A little police supervision should at least be a deterrent.”
“You horrify me,” said the cheimst.
CHAPTER VII
AT half-past six that evening the incongruous red-brick building in Queensberry Place which is the home of the Institut Frangais du Royaume Uni, disgorged a chattering crowd into the desert of South Kensington. The crowd was preponderently French. Most of the men were in uniform. Mrs. Harvey Tuke, who seemed to know everybody, passed from group to group giving news of Paris, which she had so recently seen again. It was some minutes before the throng, which created the illusion that this desolate region was densely populated, began to disperse, allowing Mrs. Tuke to rejoin her husband, who was discussing wine with one of his own cronies, a very tough looking commandant of 73, himself not very long back in London from a little trip to organise the Maquis of the Jura.
When at length Harvey and his wife were alone, he remarked that he needed a walk.
“My legs want stretching. It was a good talk, but too long.”
“You mean your legs are.”
“Well, it comes to the same thing.”
Very elegant in black, with a small black tricorne hat, Mrs. Tuke shrugged.
“And where shall we walk—in this?”
A wave of her gloved hand embraced the depressing scene. Queensberry Place, freakishly spared, much of its glass even intact, stood amid ruins that measurably resembled those of Caen or Aachen or Cologne, the result of four flying bombs exploding within a week in an area a few hundred yards square. Roads were still blocked; demolition gangs were noisily at work; debris cascaded upon debris, and dust clouds rose and hung in the air.
“I have seen London looking tidier$” Mr. Tuke agreed. “But I thought we might stroll as far as Falcon Mews East— if it still exists, and if we can get there.”
“That is where this other cousin of Cecile’s, Miss Ardmore, lives. Why do you wish to see her mews, Harvey?”
“I really couldn’t tell you. Local colour. Background. I’m interested in that family. And it’s about time Mr. McIvory’s secretary was returning from the office. She is the only surviving cousin we haven’t seen.”
Yvette shrugged philosophically. “Do you know the way? ”
“It’s just off the Old Brompton Road. Five minutes’ walk.”
Mr. Tuke’s acquaintance with certain parts of London was extensive and peculiar. Well though his wife thought she knew South Kensington, where so many French and other exiles were living, and where the headquarters of the Service Feminin itself was situated, she was now led along a route quite strange to her. A mews brought them into Queen’s Gate: across that wide thoroughfare they dived into another; and a perfect labyrinth of these relics of Victorian carriage days emerged presently in Gloucester Road. The southern end of this being closed by more ruins, a fresh circuit was taken to the Brompton Road; and a little way along this Harvey turned into yet another mews, disguised under the title of Brampton Street. Within a hundred yards it became two more—Falcon Mews East and West. It was as they approached the junction that Mrs. Tuke exclaimed in surprise.
“Why, here is Cecile.”
Mile Boulanger, in her blue uniform, accompanied by a tall man in the blacks and greys of business or the official world, was in fact coming out of Falcon Mews West. She saw the Tukes at the same moment, paused, and came to join them.
“Bon jour, madame.”
“Bon jour, Cecile.”
“I am calling on my cousin Vivien,” Cecile added.
“And we, I am told, are in search of local colour.”
Cecile effected introductions with a touch of self-consciousness. Her companion, whose name was Mainward, was probably a little the younger of the two. He was good looking in a slightly florid way, with a high colour and large brown eyes behind horn-rims with side-pieces so thick that they resembled young hockey sticks. When he raised his black felt hat, which had a rakish curl to its brim, he revealed wavy dark hair allowed to grow a trifle long. He carried a pair of light tan gloves, and a heavy gold ring, suggesting a nugget, gleamed on his left hand.
“Have you come to see Vivien too?” Cecile asked rather curiously of Mr. Tuke. “I am tired of trying to get her on the telephone. If she is not back, I shall leave a note. We must have a talk. I told Mortimer he ought to see her. Did he call on you?”
“He did.”
“He is a little offended with Vivien just now. Or Lilian is. What did he say, Mr. Tuke? What does he think?”
But before Harvey could reply, Gecile’s attention was distracted. A young woman had turned into Brampton Street from Old Brompton Road.
“Here is Vivien,” the Frenchwoman exclaimed.
Miss Ardmore strode towards them like Diana, hailing her cousin in a clear and pleasant voice.
“Hello, Cecile! I haven’t seen you for months.”
A pair of candid grey eyes roved curiously among Mile Boulanger’s companions. Vivien Ardmore had perhaps no claim to beauty; her features were irregular, her nose too long, her scarlet mouth too wide; but her fine eyes were widely set, and she obviously had intelligence. Her expression, a little hard in repose, was lightened and transformed when she smiled. An admirable figure was admirably set off by a tailor-made coat and skirt of light grey flannel. On her pale gold hair, elaborately waved, perched a tiny grey hat with white flowers. White gloves, a white handbag, and stockings and shoes which suggested neither economy nor utility completed an ensemble upon which Mrs. Tuke cast an approving eye. Miss Ardmore’s glance at Yvette returned the compliment.
There were more introductions in Cecile’s formal manner. Vivien Ardmore’s left eyebrow rose as she said to Mrs. Tuke:
“Of course I’ve heard of you from Cecile. But I didn’t realise your husband was Harvey Tuke.”
“I am always discovering that he is famous,” Yvette said. “Or do I mean notorious?”
Miss Ardmore waved a hand towards Falcon Mews East.
“Well, won’t you all come in? I live in a queer little hovel, but at least there are some drinks. No, please”—as Mrs. Tuke seemed about to make excuses—“I’d love it if you’d come. I was feeling bored, and it will be a party.”
Mr. Tuke said nothing in a masterly way, and Cecile added her plea to her commanding officer.
“Oh, if you would. . . . I must talk to Vivien, and you and Mr. Tuke know all about it. It’s terribly important, Vivien.”
Miss Ardmore’s eyebrow rose again. Taking acceptance for granted, she began to lead the way with her long stride, and the impromptu party followed her into Falcon Mews East.
This, unlike Falcon Mews West, which had a double connection with the outer world, was a cul-de-sac. Two rows of stablings, six a side, having been converted into garages, had mostly been re-converted into residences for what would no doubt be described (in the new jargon invented to spare everybody’s feelings) as the lower middle income group, for whom the chauffeurs of Mayfair, Knightsbridge and Kensington were already being driven forth, like the Acadians, to seek new homes long before war conditions in general and bombing in particular made large houses still more unpopular. In appearance, Falcon Mews East conformed to type: with its little dwellings painted white, its gaily coloured doors, its pots of flowers and window-boxes and dust-bins, and its cobbled roadway down the middle, it bore an odd resemblance to a Cornish fishing village. Only a few boats and lobster pots were lacking.
No. 10 was a flat above a garage, A stone stair with an iron handrail and worn treads about six inches wide led up to an apple green door. The party followed Miss Ardmore up the steps and through a narrow hall painted the same apple green into a pleasant low room distempered a soft honey colour and equipped with a divan, some comfortable chairs, and a few other pieces of good furniture. There was one big grey rug on the floor, and a large copy of a Provencal landscape by Van Gogh seemed to light up the rather shadowed wall facing the low window. Bookshelves, divided by a fireplace, ran the whole length of the end wall. It was an attractive room, and proof that Miss Ardmore’s good taste was not limited to clothes.
“Charming. Charming,” Mr. Mainward said as he entered, waving a plump hand to emphasise his admiration.
“Sit down, everybody,” said Miss Ardmore. “Except you,” she added, fixing Mr. Mainward with a compelling eye. “You can help me with the drinks. I’ve got gin and lime and a spot of whisky, and, believe me or not, the best part of a bottle of Pernod. A boy in the Air Force brought it. Oh, and there’s some punch. I don’t usually,” she explained as she made for the door, “live with all this liquor about. It’s left over from a party a fortnight ago.”
“But, Vivien——” Gecile Boulanger said.
Miss Ardmore, however, had vanished, Mr. Mainward at her neat heels. Cecile stood frowning, the serious strain she inherited from her French father combining with her present anxieties to revive latent Gallic irritation at the carefree and informal habits of the English. Mrs. Tuke smiled at her, and her fretful face lightened a little.
“Of course, Vivien doesn’t know yet,” she said.
Harvey had turned to examine Miss Ardmore’s books. They revealed a catholic taste. Fiction ranging from Jane Austen through Dickens and Little Women to G. B. Stern, Angela Thirkell and Dorothy Sayers, was mingled untidily with modern verse and plays, Macaulay, Shakespeare (the comedies), books on costume and furniture, some tattered Tauchnitz volumes and assorted literature of travel in Great Britain, France and Spain. The lighter touch seemed to appeal to Miss Ardmore. As his eye ran along the shelves, Mr. Tuke reflected on the immense apparent differences between these three surviving descendants of old Rutland Shearsby, the Victorian importer—Mortimer, a provincial prig, who had no time to read fiction because he was sticking frightful gnomes and frogs about his garden; Gecile, half French, canny, suspicious, without much humour, attracted by a poseur some years younger than herself; and Vivien, easy-mannered, sophisticated, at least interested in things of the mind—a very typical modern product. And then there were, or there had been, the other three: Raymond, the man of imagination, Blanche, who resented being poor, and the estate office clerk turned soldier, Sydney Dresser, who was a mere shade—just ‘kind’, as Cecile had said. Yet in all the six ran a strain of the same blood, and these dissimilarities might be more superficial than profound. Harvey Tuke, a convinced believer in the influence of heredity, felt he would like to know more about the Victorian merchant and the intermediate generations. For there was a plain possibility that one of these three survivors, two of whom were women, had deliberately set about the destruction of several cousins and collateral heirs. No one, it was true, could look the part less than the fussy chemist, or the perfumier’s daughter, or the smart secretary of that rising civil servant, Mr. McIvory; but the experience of fifteen years in the Department of Public Prosecutions had engrafted on Mr. Tuke’s innately cynical temperament a deep distrust of appearances. All the world, in his view, w^s indeed a stage; and the more compelling the motive, the better the actor.
Vivien Ardmore, returning with a tray of glasses, and followed by Mr. Mainward bearing another crowded with bottles, found Harvey still examining her books, Mrs. Tuke reclining elegantly in an easy chair, and Gecile Boulanger, her hands thrust in the pockets of her navy jacket, staring out of the window at the mews below.
“A souvenir of France, Mrs. Tuke?” said Miss Ardmore. “In other words, Pernod? Or gin and lime? Or will you put your fate to the touch, and dare the punch?”
Mrs. Tuke declared for Pernod, and so did her husband. Gecile Boulanger signified, by an impatient shrug, that what she drank was all one to her, and had some punch foisted on her. Mr. Mainward, with an air of gallantry, elected to try this concoction, and sniffed it in a connoisseurish manner before he drank.
“Remarkably good,” he declared.
“So it ought to be,” said Miss Ardmore innocently. Remarking that aniseed was wasted on her, she had taken punch herself and was sipping it cautiously. “I remember now. Someone brought some brandy—Courvoisier—and we shot that in. The rest’s practically pure Algerian and gin and sugar.”
Holding the strong opinions he did on the proper treatment of wine and spirits, Mr. Tuke looked at her with pity. Gecile Boulanger, who had set down her glass untasted, evidently thought that her cousin had already taken enough stimulant to fortify her against shocks, and said abruptly:
“Vivien. I suppose you haven’t heard about Blanche?”
“What about her?”
“She’s dead.”
Vivien Ardmore stared. “Dead? Blanche? . . . I didn’t even know she was ill.”
“She wasn’t ill. I mean, she took poison. By accident. Or that’s what they say. And Raymond—he’s dead too. I don’t suppose you knew that either.”
As a method of breaking bad news, this lacked finesse. Vivien Ardmore’s grey eyes widened. She gulped down some more punch as though she hardly knew what she was doing.
“ Two of us?” she said. “Good lord. Of course I didn’t know. About either. Anyway, I haven’t heard from Raymond for a couple of years, at least. What happened to him?” “He was drowned, in a stream. Another—accident.”
