In the Little Parlour
She led him through a dark green doorway from the leafy dimness of the ramparts to the greater dimness of a hall. As she paused to peer for an instant towards a curtain at the back he had a sense that he had left pure air for an atmosphere less salutary, and a vision of that unnaturally tragic room a hundred miles away came to him suddenly with macabre vividness. What had this girl, standing momentarily in a strained position, to do with such horror? And why was her position strained? He was the one who should have caused her uneasiness, but he was convinced she felt far less easy about somebody beyond that curtain. In the dark silence of the hall he heard her heart beating.
Then she moved—away from the curtain. She turned into a narrow passage that ended in a staircase, a short one of only half a dozen steps. The top step led almost immediately to a small door.
“You’ll have to stoop, or you’ll bump your head,” she said.
A moment later they were in a parlour, and the door had been quietly closed.
It was a low-ceilinged room, quaintly proportioned, and almost as dim as the passage. The one little window had diamond panes, and half its meagre area was screened outside by the branches of a tree. A quick glance told him that it looked out upon the ramparts. He saw one end of the seat.
“No one will disturb us here,” murmured the girl. “Please sit down.”
He took a chair near the window. She took another by a small table. In the little silence that followed, each seemed to be waiting for the other to begin. The atmosphere between them had subtly changed. It was as though the closer walls had focused the unnamed mysteries that separated them, demanding with painful insistence that the mysteries should now be shared.
“Well—you want me to tell you things,” she exclaimed suddenly, with a nervous raising of her voice.
“Yes, and you want me to tell you things, too,” he answered. “But first can we settle a few preliminaries?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said no one would disturb us. Would it be awkward for you if any one did?”
“I see. Yes. Well, wouldn’t it? I’d have to explain you.”
“And you wouldn’t know how to, because you’re waiting for the explanation yourself! Is there a map of Boulogne in this room? Guide-book? Anything of that sort?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it?”
“On the shelf at your elbow. A map.”
“Thank you.” He turned and drew it out. “Fine! I’m a tourist, and I asked you if you could direct me to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. ‘Certainly,’ you said. You said it so nicely that I went on: ‘It was built by Bishop Haffreingue, wasn’t it?’ And you said, ‘Yes, it was.’ And as you still hadn’t snubbed me, and I was all alone in a strange town, I got most frightfully bold, and I said, ‘I don’t suppose you could also tell me where La Beurrière is? I don’t even know what it is, but I’ve been told I simply must go there.’ ‘That’s the fishermen’s quarter,’ you laughed. ‘Do you want to go anywhere else, too?’ ‘Lots of places,’ I answered. ‘Then I think you’d better come in and consult my map,’ you said. It was frightfully kind of you. And I came in. And here I am. And here’s the map.” He opened it on his lap. “And now, please, while I’m studying all these confusing roads and names, tell me everything that happened yesterday, and after that I’ll tell you why I want to know.”
“There’s one thing I want to know now,” she replied after a short pause.
“What is it?”
“Why I’m trusting you like this?”
“But that’s easy, Miss Fenner! You’re trusting me because you know you jolly well can.”
“Yes—I think that must be it. Well, where shall I begin? Perhaps it had better be over breakfast. Yesterday, you know. My uncle and I—” She hesitated, then went on, with a faint flush on her pale cheeks. “We almost had a row. It sounds silly. I mean, the subject of it. He wanted to come to Boulogne, and I didn’t want to.”
“Well, I suppose you had some reason,” prompted Hazeldean.
“Yes, of course. But that may sound stupid to you, too. I—I didn’t care for the people here.” She had dropped her voice, and she glanced towards the door. “It was just that.”
“And did you have any special reason for not caring for the people?”
“Do you want that, too?”
“Not if you don’t want to tell me; but I think it would be wise.”
“Yes, only—only I don’t think I can. At least—no, that can’t have anything to do with what you’ve come here about.”
“Then we’ll let it drop,” said Hazeldean, “and I won’t refer to it again unless we both think it necessary. May I ask this, though? Did your uncle have any particular reason himself for coming to this pension? I mean, you could have gone to some other place, couldn’t you?”
She shook her head.
“He’d never do that. We always come here.”
“I see. Had you been here before, lately?”
“Not for about a month.”
“And was it a sudden decision of your uncle’s to come here this time?”
“Yes, quite sudden. I didn’t know anything about it till he suddenly spoke of it over breakfast. It sort of—caught me on the wrong foot. I mightn’t have made a fuss if there’d been longer to think about it. We’ve never had a quarrel before—I mean, a serious one. But, anyway, after breakfast I went back on myself… No, wait a moment. Something else happened first. The—cricket ball.”
“Ah, the cricket ball,” murmured Hazeldean, his interest tightening. “What about the cricket ball? Did your uncle hurl it at you in a rage?” She looked astonished. “Sorry, Miss Fenner,” he smiled. “I was just trying to be funny. It’s that bad habit.”
She answered, rather unexpectedly, “No, it’s a good habit—one ought to do it more.” It was the little child speaking again—the child who had forgotten how to laugh. Something tugged at Hazeldean’s heart. He wished he could have dissolved the ugly facts that had brought him to her, and taken her to a dance. “Where was I? No, my uncle didn’t throw it. He didn’t have it. Somebody else threw it. It came through a window… All this sounds ridiculous.”
“Perhaps it is. Did it break the window?”
“No, it was open.”
“Which window was it?”
“My bedroom window. I was making my bed.”
“Doesn’t the maid make your bed?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“You know as well as I do. I am trying to find out, very subtly, whether you keep a maid.”
“You needn’t be subtle,” she responded. “We don’t keep a maid.”
“But a cook?”
“Not even a cook. I look after things. Not here in Boulogne, of course. Where was I?”
“Still at the cricket ball,” he answered. “I hope you don’t mind all my interruptions. The ball has just come through your open bedroom window—and, naturally, you immediately rush to the window and look out.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why on earth not? That’s what I’d have done.”
“I dare say; but I’m not you. People don’t always do the same things.”
“That’s true.”
“Besides, I was startled—and then upset, too, from the row. I hate rows. I always feel I’m in the wrong. I mean, with everybody, whether I’m really in the wrong or not. I didn’t used to. When my father was alive I remember I always thought I was in the right… I don’t know why I’m saying all this. Where—oh, yes. Anyhow, what I did was to stare at the ball. It came right on the bed. A horrid old thing. It looked as though it had come up from the bottom of the sea! I don’t know why it gave me such a shock—I mean, even apart from coming in suddenly like that—but it did. When I did go to the window—at last, you know—I couldn’t see anybody. Whoever had thrown it had gone.”
“Your window’s at the back, isn’t it?”
“Yes, how do you know?”
“That’ll come presently. What did you do then?”
“I took the ball to Uncle John—to my uncle.”
“And what did he do?”
The worry in her half-shadowed face, a worry that only retreated temporarily when he joked, became more definite.
“It—it was very queer,” she said. “I mean, he seemed even more startled than I was. He looked at it for a few moments without saying anything. I got a funny feeling—oh, well, that wasn’t anything—”
“Please tell me,” he interposed. “I believe in funny feelings!”
“Well—this is silly—I felt as if he was looking at a ghost!”
“The ghost of a cricket ball,” murmured Hazeldean. “Why not? That ball was dead enough to have one.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Yes.” He responded quickly to a startled light in her eyes. “No, I didn’t throw it! At present I know as little about it as you do—almost. Yes? And then?”
“He ran to the window.”
“What room were you in then?”
“Oh, I see. I’m afraid I’m telling this very badly. We were in the drawing-room. That’s where I took the ball to him. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. The drawing-room. You were using the drawing-room, then?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Only that when people manage without servants they sometimes close a room up. You know—fasten the shutters and lock the door, and have one less room to look after. But you didn’t do that.”
She gave him a swift, shrewd glance before replying, “No.”
“Well—Uncle John ran to the window. By the way, which one?”
“All these details are important, aren’t they?”
“Tremendously. No, that’s wrong. They just may be.”
“I’ll give you all I can. He went to both windows: first the window in the front, and then the window that opens on to the lawn at the side of the house.”
“Did he see anybody?”
“He didn’t say so.”
“But you thought he did?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, I’m asking you to say it now.”
“Well, I—”
She stopped dead, then rose quietly and walked to the door of the parlour.
“Careful!” he warned in a low voice.
The warning came too late. She seized the handle suddenly and flung the door open. Then she closed it almost as quickly and returned rather weakly to her chair.
He looked at her with sympathetic reproof.
“Miss Fenner,” he said, “may we interrupt our story for a moment—for the sake of the end of it?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, but her voice was rather guilty, as though she half-guessed what was coming.
“What would you have said if you’d found somebody outside that door?” he inquired.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Would that have been a bit awkward?”
“Yes, I see.”
“It would have rather upset our neat little tale about the map, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose it would.”
“When you’re at sea—in a boat—and you think a storm’s coming, you don’t try to hurry it up. Not that you could; but no matter. You study the signs and concentrate on being prepared, in the best position, for the storm when it strikes you—if it does strike you. Get the idea?”
“Of course. But I’m not clever at this sort of thing.”
“Nor am I, particularly, but the two of us will make a team. Now, then, back to the story. Uncle John didn’t say he saw anybody, but you got the impression that he did. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“What gave you the impression?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do. It was his manner. It—seemed to alter. Only I really wasn’t sure. You can’t always remember just how your mind works—anyway, I can’t—and his manner may have been just about the cricket ball. I mean, he’d been upset—well, worried—no, upset—before that. As I told you.”
“Did you have another look out of any windows?”
“No.”
“What did he do next?”
“He came back to me, and I asked him what was the matter. He looked awful. He’s been overworking. I asked him if he felt ill. At first he said he did, and then he said he didn’t, but he needed a change and a rest. ‘That was why I suggested Boulogne,’ he said. Of course, I said then that I’d go, though I did say it wouldn’t be much of a change.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“He said he agreed with me, and we’d probably only start at Boulogne. We might go on to Switzerland or the South of France afterwards. He seemed relieved and also excited. I really was worried about him, and I’d have done anything he’d asked then. I thought less about the cricket ball and more about him—and, after all,” she added, “as he said himself, the ball had probably been hit by some boys in the road, and they’d scooted immediately afterwards.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “You don’t think that?”
“It’s a possible theory,” he answered.
“Only you don’t think it. All right, your turn will come presently. Anyway, I don’t see what road the ball could have come in any window from. Where was I? Oh, yes, his excitement. He got something like a boy himself—who was off on a holiday, and who couldn’t wait—like I used to be—and told me I was to catch the next train to London. There’s one at ten minutes to ten. He told me to catch that.”
“Bit of a rush, wasn’t it?”
“Awful. I wanted to take a later one, especially when he said he’d have to take a later one himself. But he said I could buy some things in London if we were going on a long trip, and he nearly bowled me over by giving me twenty pounds for clothes. I’d never had so much in my life!”
“And that made you agree?”
“I expect it was part of the reason. Yes, of course. I wanted some new things badly, but it was also because he seemed to want it so much. I couldn’t bear the idea of another dispute. I think I’d have died. I hate trouble. Well, never mind about that. I know I’m silly. Anyhow, when he said he’d join me at Victoria for the 4.30 boat train, I rushed up to my room, changed, hurled a few things in a suitcase, and somehow or other I got the 9.50. When the train began to move I felt quite dizzy.”
“I’m not surprised. What happened to the cricket ball?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I suppose he put it somewhere?”
“I didn’t see where.”
“Do you know what kept your uncle? I mean, why he didn’t leave with you?”
“He said he had some business to do.”
“I see. By the way, what is his business?”
Her brow puckered, and she looked at him a little helplessly.
“He never talks about his work to me,” she answered. “It’s—it’s a sort of rule. But he told me one thing. He’s writing a book, and has to do a lot of study for it.”
“Do you know what the book’s about? I’m sorry for being so abominably inquisitive.”
“That’s all right. I’m answering all your questions because I know there’s a good reason, and that, of course, you won’t pass on anything private that I tell you.” He wished she had not said that. “I’ve no idea what the book is about, but I think it’s something to do with some theory or other, or experiment. Does it matter, or shall I go on with what I was telling you?”
“Please go on,” replied Hazeldean. “You have flopped into your train, and are getting your breath back.”
“Yes. When I got to London I shopped—I don’t suppose you have to know the things I bought?—and in the afternoon I went to Victoria Station. Yes, what is it?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but you nearly did. I could tell by your face. Do you want to know what time I reached Victoria? It was at about four.”
“I was wondering about your passport. But, of course, if you visit Boulogne a good deal, you’d have one.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, I’ve had one for some time. I didn’t have to get it specially. Well, as my uncle wasn’t there yet—I didn’t expect he would be; I was half an hour early—I had a cup of tea, but afterwards he still wasn’t there. I began to grow anxious. The 4.30 boat train is the last one of the day, you know, so if he missed that he was done. Of course, he’d told me he might miss it, and that I was to go on anyway, but I didn’t want to travel by myself, and to come here alone, so just before the train started I jumped out—I’d taken my seat—well, of course I must have, or I couldn’t have jumped out—and let the train go on without me.” She broke off with a little self-conscious laugh. “It was silly of me.”
“I don’t think so,” said Hazeldean.
“But you know—I’ve told you—he was on the train,” she answered. “He caught it by a matter of seconds, and must have got into his compartment just before I got out of mine. It was rather funny, really. At least, it would have been if I’d known and not got in a panic.”
“Box and Cox, eh? But why the panic?”
“I don’t know. I get panicky too easily. I didn’t used to. I had a feeling I can’t explain that—but, of course, that was silly too.” She gave him a quick glance, as though seeking corroboration. “Anyway, what I did was—after the train had gone and left me there—I looked about for him, and then—as you know, because you said you knew—I telephoned to the house. That is, tried to.”
“About ten minutes after the train had gone?”
“Yes. I remember seeing the station clock. It was just twenty minutes to five.”
“And what did you do when you found you couldn’t get on?”
“At first I didn’t know what to do.”
“What did you think?”
“I supposed my uncle had left, and that the house was empty. There’s no one else. We haven’t a maid. Oh, I told you that. And, of course, that’s just what it was.”
“The train journey from Benwick to Liverpool Street takes—how long?—a couple of hours?”
“About that. A little over.”
“And your uncle had to get from his house to Benwick station, and then from Liverpool Street to Victoria. Say, four hours for the whole journey, eh?”
“I suppose about that.” They both paused to calculate. “No, not quite so much, if he made good connections.”
“I agree. Then we’ll say three and a half hours. Oh, by the way, what about a car? You know, to Benwick station?”
“We haven’t one.”
“Then he’d walk?”
“Yes. Unless he cycled. No, he’d hardly do that.”
“Oh, you’ve got bicycles?”
“He has one.”
“But it wouldn’t take luggage—though I suppose, like you, he only had a suitcase?” He watched a frown develop. “I’m asking too many questions?”
“No, you’re not,” she replied, “but they’d have to seem funny before I knew the reason, wouldn’t they?”
“They would, and you’re very patient, Miss Fenner. You’ll hear the reason presently. Three and a half hours, and he just caught the 4.30 train. So he must have been out of the house by about one—one at latest. And since one the house has been empty, as it was at twenty to five, when you phoned. Well, what did you do after that? You were just going to tell me.”
“I did another silly thing.”
“You can leave out the adjectives.”
“No, it was idiotic. I looked up the trains back to Benwick, and found there was one just before six. I decided to go back.”
“For once I agree with your adjective,” smiled Hazeldean.
“What?”
“When you got no reply to your telephone call, you assumed that your uncle had gone and the house was empty. So it was idiotic to return—unless, of course, you had some other reason?”
She considered for a few moments, eyeing him rather guardedly. During the little silence he heard footsteps pass by the window. Well, there was nothing in that, he told himself. Plenty of people walked along the ramparts…
“What would you have done,” she suddenly challenged, “if you’d been me?”
“Waited to see whether my uncle turned up,” he replied.
“We know he didn’t turn up—I mean, he already had!”
“Yes, we know now, but you didn’t know then. For all you could say, he might have been on his way, and you might have passed each other—one coming, t’other going.”
“I see. Yes, we might. But you’ve forgotten something. I mean, that feeling I had. The panicky feeling.”
“The feeling you couldn’t explain?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think something had happened to your uncle?”
“No, though he’d certainly acted funnily in the morning.”
“Did you think something might have happened at the house?”
Her expression grew startled.
“Why should I?” she demanded.
“Well, if you did, I expect you had a reason,” he responded.
“I didn’t think that,” she said. “At least—no, I didn’t. Not then.” He noted the qualification. “If I had, I wouldn’t have gone back, would I? I mean, so late, and alone.”
“That’s true. But I’m still waiting to hear why you did go back.”
“If you must know, it was because, though I’d agreed to go to Boulogne, I still loathed the idea,” she explained, in a tone that lacked self-confidence. “I—I think I was just closing my eyes—sort of—and jumping at any excuse not to go.”
“Well, I can understand that,” he nodded.
“No, can you?”
Her quick eagerness at his agreement was a pathetic symbol of her lonely mind.
“Of course. You told me you didn’t care for the people here.”
“Yes.”
“And, you remember, I didn’t press you for the reason. But I did say I’d return to the subject if we both thought it necessary. Well—what do you think now?”
Suddenly the reason came, in a rush of released emotion.
“Dr. Jones tries to make love to me—and Madame Paula frightens me!”
She turned scarlet.
“That sounds pretty wretched,” answered Hazeldean quietly, after a little pause. “Naturally you didn’t want to come to Boulogne. May I go on with this subject for a moment and ask if you’ve told your uncle?”
She hesitated, then nodded, half against her will.
“What does he say?”
“He—tells me I’m silly.”
“That there’s nothing in it?”
This time she did not reply. In the silence that followed he tried, without success, to connect this new personal tragedy with the original tragedy which had brought him to Boulogne. He felt certain there was a definite connection, but the link between the two remained hidden. He wondered whether Inspector Kendall would have approved of this interview, and the manner in which he was handling it. He also wondered what his editor would think of the story he could write up if he chose. But he found his centre changing. Neither the police nor journalism had any interest for him now. He was not sure that they ever had. It was the picture of Dora Fenner that had sent his boat skipping across the water, and now it was Dora Fenner herself, materialising out of two-dimensional canvas, who clinched his determination to see the matter through.
The girl’s silence was eloquent. It told him that her uncle was not only aware of the situation, but that he approved of it. Deliberately Mr. Fenner brought his niece to the pension of a woman whose husband was behaving like a cad. There must be some compelling reason for this, and suddenly Hazeldean wondered what part Madame Paula had in that reason?
“Miss Fenner,” he said, “I want to say something before we continue with your story. I’ve implied it before, but now I’m stating it quite definitely. I’m tremendously honoured that you are confiding all this to me—a stranger. If ever you need a real friend—if you need one now—you can count on me completely from this moment.”
“I do need a friend,” she answered unsteadily, “and—I don’t know why—but somehow I seem to be counting on you.”
“Then that’s fixed!” he responded cheerfully. “And we’ll get on. You caught that six o’clock train back to Benwick?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Actually it was three minutes to six, though I don’t suppose that matters.”
“Everything matters. The train left Liverpool Street at 5.57. And arrived at Benwick?”
“At a quarter past eight.”
“Did you walk back to the house?”
“I think I ran part of the way.”
“You were in a hurry to get back?”
“Yes, though somehow I dreaded it, too. I don’t know why. I’m afraid I always seem to be saying that. It was a relief not to be going to Boulogne, but I was in such a state that even the house didn’t seem to be much better. When I got there—”
“Did you meet any one?”
“No. It’s rather a lonely road. When I got there I took out my key, and then I did the silliest thing of all—which shows the foolish state I was in. I fumbled with it and dropped it, and it went down a little grating. Of course, that finished it. It was no good ringing, because there was no one inside to let me in.”
Hazeldean wondered!
“So then what?” he inquired.
“I didn’t give up at once. When I found I couldn’t get the key back—well, I did try ringing, just on the chance. But my uncle wasn’t there. Then I thought of the french window. There’s one round the side, from the drawing-room.” She paused for an instant. “It wasn’t any use. Uncle had put the shutters across.”
“I suppose you always leave the windows shuttered when you go away?” he asked, making his voice as casual as he could.
“No, never,” she answered. “I don’t know why he did it this time.”
“So, of course, you couldn’t get in that way. Did you try anywhere else?”
“No. All at once I felt—quite definitely—that I didn’t want to.” She gave a little shudder. “When a cat ran by, I nearly jumped out of my skin.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. A completely dark house—even when it’s your own—wouldn’t be very pleasant under those circumstances. If there’d been a light anywhere you’d have known that somebody—your uncle—was inside.”
Again he spoke as casually as he could. He was wondering whether the lights in the drawing-room had been on at that time, and whether she had glimpsed them through the shutters.
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“What did you do next?”
“I went back to the station and just caught the last train back to London. It got in at a quarter past eleven. I booked a room at the station hotel, and next day—this morning—I came to Boulogne. I got here in time for lunch—and a lecture from my uncle. He said he’d been worried stiff.”
“He must have been anxious,” answered Hazeldean. “I suppose you told him all that had happened—just as you’ve told me?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“What I can’t make out,” he went on, “is why your uncle didn’t turn back when he found you weren’t on the train.”
“Yes, Madame Paula gave it to him hot for that,” smiled Dora. “But it really wasn’t his fault; it was quite simple. He thought I must have taken an earlier train to Folkestone, and that I’d be waiting for him there; and anyhow the train doesn’t stop on the way. Then, when he didn’t find me at Folkestone station, he thought I must be on the boat.”
“But when he found you weren’t?”
“The boat had started—like the train. You see, he wasted most of the time looking for me at the station… And that’s all,” she concluded. “And now it’s your turn.”
“No, not just for a moment,” answered Hazeldean. “Have you had any trouble since you arrived here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well—Dr. Jones—”
“I’ve not seen him yet. He was away when I arrived.”
“Yes, I remember, you told me. And your uncle went out after lunch. Hallo, perhaps this is him back again.”
Someone had knocked at the front door. The sound echoed eerily to them through dim passages. In response to his raised eyebrows, Dora Fenner shook her head.
“He wouldn’t knock,” she murmured nervously.
“Nor would Dr. Jones,” he replied, “so it must be somebody else. Probably someone inquiring for rooms, eh?”
A sound came from the passage. It was a soft sound, and it began too near the parlour door for Hazeldean’s comfort. A vaguely rustling sound, that conjured the vision of Madame Paula—he visualised her, large-bosomed, voluptuous and over-complexioned—moving away to answer the knock.
He turned to the window and glanced out cautiously. He got a glimpse of the visitor. It was the dark-skinned vendor of silks.