There was an instantaneous alteration as the solicitor took in his goddaughter’s identity. His smile returned, forlornly bringing into play the deep, semi-circular grooves which in gravity had seemed so unfamiliar.
“Well, well, well! So it’s little Didi! Home again?”
“Just. Have you been calling on the family?”
He had laid one good-humoured hand on her arm to stop her fumbling in her purse, but she did not realise his intention till she saw his other hand reach into his change-pocket and bringing out a couple of silver coins hand them to her taxi-driver.
“Oh, you mustn’t!” she begged, trying to stop him. “Really, Uncle Nick! You make me feel so silly when you will do things like that.”
“Nonsense, nonsense! Don’t often get the chance, do I?”
Though he detained her, patting her arm, she sensed his preoccupation. He seemed to hesitate, baulked of his immediate purpose, and only tardily to realise he had not answered her question.
“The family?” he repeated absently. “Oh, I brought your mother home—from my place, you know. I’d a word with your father, too, but he was just buzzing off to Wimbledon. I suppose you’ve not seen either of ’em yet?”
“No, it was so hurried. I just thought I’d take them by surprise.”
She supposed she ought to offer him sympathy, or at least make some reference to Aunt Rose’s death, but it was difficult, for the awkwardness she invariably felt in his presence had descended on her, and besides, though he still stood there holding on to her arm, he seemed oddly shy of conversation. For a second, she fancied he was about to ask her some question. She glanced at him expectantly, saw he had apparently changed his mind, and got out her latch-key. He released her with a final pat.
“That’s right, best get inside out of this raw night,” he mumbled hastily. “You’ll lunch with me one day soon, eh? That’s right,” and with a wave of his gloved hand he got into the Sunbeam, which, as often happened, he was driving himself.
Diana gazed after him, thinking that a moment ago, before he had seen her, his battered old features had seemed less sorrowful than angry. Furious, she would have said, only the change had come so swiftly she could not be sure. Whatever his emotion, the bluff kindliness replacing it had been forced. Altogether she had the feeling of having seen for an instant beneath the surface something vaguely disturbing. She thought of her mother’s letter, and a tiny query re-entered her brain.
“Rubbish!” She pushed the wall-button which flooded the green-carpeted interior with light. “It can’t be. Adrian would have been sure to suspect. No, there’s nothing in it—but Mummy, of course, will have heard about this extraordinary will, so part of my thunder has been stolen. Not the best part, though . . .” and with this happy reflection she raced, fleet-footed, up the three flights of stairs.
A brilliant radiance greeted her when she let herself into the small, tidy hall with its Bokhara rug and its prim row of old woodcuts. That meant Mummy’s play was a hit—and another sign was the big bowl of orange marigolds on the dark oak chest, for Margaret Fairlamb, so canny in most respects, ran riot with lights and flowers the moment she was in funds. Home again, after seven weeks of fusty, provincial lodgings—and with news like hers to impart! Light-headed with joy, Diana tore off her hat, and gave an echoing shout.
Far down a passage a crimped grey head thrust itself turtle-wise from a door whence were wafted warm cooking odours. Stern eyes surveyed her from over steel-rimmed spectacles, then the owner bore down on her staidly, dusting floury hands on a spotless apron.
“You, Miss Di?” It was almost an accusation. “What’s brought you back so unexpected? And what’s that red in your cheeks? Fever?”
“Not rouge, anyhow, Mrs. Todd,” the returned wanderer laughed. “Where’s Mummy?”
“She’s having a bit of a wash. Just got in, she has. There, give me that bag! In you go. She can do with a treat, hard-worked as she’s bin, poor little lady!”
So saying, the factotum who for ten years had ordered the Lake household with Spartan rigour gave Diana a push which sent her into a bedroom gay with starched chintz and glowing with a bright gas-fire. It was an empty room at the moment, but it bore the usual comforting signs of its little owner’s cosy, utilitarian personality. Here were her new press-cuttings, jumbled helter-skelter with her husband’s unmended socks; there, over a Sheraton chair, hung an absurdly small brown taffeta blouse, waiting to be put on; midway the smooth, mauve surface of the bed sprawled a shabby handbag, burst open, like an over-ripe pod, and spilling its contents in varied confusion. A card-table, drawn near the fire and covered with a snowy cloth, was laid for the high-tea most stage people were having at this hour, while on a brass trivet below stood the silver tea-pot and muffin-dish presented to Herbert and Margaret on their twenty-fifth anniversary, just past.
Diana called, “Mums! Are you there?”
Water in the adjacent bath ceased to splash. The communicating doorway framed a diminutive, half-clad figure from whose dripping face an eye bright as a robin’s cocked an inquiring glance. The next instant Margaret Fairlamb uttered a small shriek of delight, and with arms widespread rushed to enfold her tall daughter.
“Darling! What fun! How did it happen?”
Diana explained, they laughed in unison, and hugged again. What, so old Tom Chetwynd—Sir Thomas, indeed!—had come another cropper and thrown all those poor young things out of work? Just what one might expect if he would keep casting that great meal-sack of a wife for Rosalind and Juliet. Diana need not mind, though. Things here were simply booming, and it would be lovely to have her at home.
“Then your show has clicked?”
“Too wonderfully! Oh, Gwen’s raging, of course, because Hal’s up to his old trick of backing upstage—the joke being that the scene he really ruins isn’t hers but mine, only she doesn’t know it.” The robin’s eye twinkled merrily. “As though it mattered! With a marvellous press and a huge library deal, what more can one ask?”
What, indeed? That was Mummy, thought Diana, never troubling if her scenes were pinched, content to be earning regular money, so cheerfully ready to tackle all the most thankless tasks that in the theatre she was called “Little Red Hen.” A brisk, apple-cheeked little creature she was, with round brown eyes wholly innocent of make-up, quite the wrong shade of powder—if any!—and thick, russet hair, just tinged with grey, braided unfashionably over her small ears. Here she was already prattling about the new clothes her daughter must have when her own wardrobe was in its usual hopeless state of neglect. Diana, eyeing with disfavour the shapeless tweed skirt just being wriggled into, formed firm resolutions to take her mother in hand.
“And Daddy?” she asked, deliberately postponing her great news. “Stand still while I brush you. Why, you’re all over fluff!”
“Daddy?” The small face puckered with regret. “Poor darling, I’m not at all happy about him. He closes this week, and really there does seem so little for him these days. I can’t think why. There’s not the slightest reason for his going on tour. Not now—but you do know how absurd he is, don’t you?”
“Absurd? Not a bit! Do you honestly expect Daddy and me to toast our toes by your nice warm fire while you do the work?”
“Baby! Don’t be a beast.” Margaret looked hurt. “What possible difference can it make which of us happens to be earning? I’m sure there have been times . . .”
If so, Diana did not remember them; but the glance she directed at the silver-framed photograph of her father, prominent on the mantel, was full of affectionate sympathy. What she saw was a singularly handsome face, rather like her own, only more dreamy and wistful. It was a sad irony that a face like this, so admirably suited for Hamlet and Lear, should inevitably be cast for nondescript uncles and make-weight friends-of-the-family in plays which expired after a fortnight. Mummy had plans. She always had, but they would come to nothing.
“I’m going round to Felix to-morrow,” she was confiding, hairpins in mouth. “He does owe me something, for, after all, didn’t I go on half salary all during the last general election when things were so bad? He simply must find Herbert a part—but not a word, mind! We must never let Daddy think I’m pulling wires for him.” Margaret emerged from the temporary eclipse of her blouse with a queer, excited gleam in her eye.
“And now,” she whispered, “what do you suppose I’ve just heard from Nick about my poor, precious Rose? Quite staggering! She—”
“I know,” Diana interrupted. “She left all her money to Adrian. But wait. That’s nothing. Adrian and I—well, we’re getting married. We fixed it up an hour ago. There! Aren’t you pleased?”
There was a flutter and a squeak—as though a robin had been trodden upon. Comb in hand Margaret twisted round on the stool before the dressing-table and stared at Diana in a strange, pained fashion.
“Baby! You’re joking. Adrian and you—?”
“Well, why not? Is it so astonishing?”
Her mother was surveying her with hard, bright attentiveness. One would say she was trying to fit together bits and pieces and finding the result not wholly satisfactory. Diana felt slightly damped. She had been so sure!
“Oh, darling, do be glad!” she begged. “Only think that but for this marvellous thing happening he’d never have dared ask me. I’d have lost him. Oh, don’t you see what that would have meant?”
Margaret melted utterly, kissed her.
“Sweet! Of course, I’m glad. You took my breath away, that’s all. I’ve been an owl, I suppose, not to have seen this coming; but there, it’s all perfectly heavenly, and just what I could have wished—since you’re happy. You do love Adrian?”
“Terribly!”
“I see—and Rose’s money will make everything so comfortable. What a blessing! Early struggles are all very well and so good for the character, but I confess I’d rather hate seeing you go through the mill like—like some we’ve known.”
Margaret was gagging. Oh, very cleverly, but Diana was not to be fooled.
“You like Adrian, don’t you?” she demanded anxiously. “On his own account, not just because I’m marrying him?”
“Like him? Why, Didi, how can you ask? You know quite well that both your father and I are extremely fond of Adrian—and we have such a high opinion of his ability. I’m sure we’ve often said that with that one-track mind of his he’ll get just whatever he sets out for. In his profession, I mean,” Margaret hastened to add. “No, it would not surprise me if he became a very famous brain-surgeon. I expect Rose thought that, too, or else . . . but no, I mustn’t be small-minded! You knew, of course, that they’d got quite intimate?”
“I’m certain they weren’t at all intimate. Adrian was just as bowled over as we are; but what did Uncle Nick say on the subject?”
“Not a great deal.” Margaret sounded oddly distrait. “I hadn’t long with him, and there was so much to talk over. You see, I’d snatched my first free moment to run over for a word with old Petty, who I’d heard was still at the flat. I was chatting with her when Nick came in to give some instructions; I had only about ten minutes’ conversation with him and then he drove me home. When we got here, your father was just leaving, so I’d no chance to tell him about Rose’s will. How astonished he’ll be!”
“I understood Uncle Nick drew up this will. Did he approve?”
“I—I think so.” Margaret was fastening her collar with unwonted care and did not look round. “Oh, yes, to be sure, he must have approved! He brought them together, after Adrian had rather sounded him on the subject of Rose’s attitude towards him. Adrian wanted to see her, and wasn’t sure how she’d take it. Well, you know how Nick likes to have every one on good terms. It seems he had a bit of an argument with Rose, who let him bring Adrian to call. One can only suppose her old fondness revived, for suddenly, in a rather shame-faced way, she consulted Nick about making a will in the boy’s favour. Naturally Nick insisted on making certain inquiries, just as a wise precaution, you understand; but he declares Rose was most determined—impatient, even—to have her way. Odd, wasn’t it, after never seeming to bother about him?”
“Very odd!”
An awkward silence fell. Diana was thinking that this version differed a little from the one Adrian had given her, but that it was easy to see why Nicholas Blundell, a vain man, liked altering facts to suit his own book. Knowing Adrian, she could not believe the initial move had come from him. He had cared nothing whatever for the woman who for six years of his early boyhood had been his stepmother. Even now, he was not pretending the least sorrow over her death.
“Mummy,” she said abruptly, “how did we get the idea that Aunt Rose intended leaving her property to Uncle Nick?”
Margaret made embarrassed murmurs. Had they thought this? Well, perhaps they had.
“I—I must have got a wrong impression from some remark Rose made oh, quite a long time ago! She had certainly made no such will, any will at all, in fact. As so often happens, she’d put it off—and as for Nick’s inheriting anything—well, didn’t we always say how ridiculous that would have been? I’m positive such a notion never entered his head. He doesn’t want money, least of all hers. Coals to Newcastle it would have been.”
“But has Uncle Nick always been so prosperous?”
“I see what you mean. No, certainly not; but for some years everything he’s touched seems to have turned up trumps. Rose knew that. Indeed, she was always boasting to me about his wonderful business ability. Above all things, she admired success. As I may have said, that would have been her reason for making him her heir—that, and her gratitude to him for so cleverly handling her own investments. Still, I now question she ever seriously meant to do so. She was a bit fond, you know, of weaving romances.”
At this juncture the housekeeper stuck a disapproving face in at the door to remind them of the time. Margaret sprang up, guilty as a schoolchild caught whispering in class.
“So sorry, Toddie! We’ll eat now—but it’s all right, I’m not on till the middle of the act.”
As they sat down at the small table, Diana noticed that her mother’s expression was troubled and evasive. Again she experienced the dim sense of disturbance which the sight of Nicholas Blundell’s face had given her.
“It was stroke, I suppose?” she asked tentatively. Wariness leaped into the brown eyes. Margaret was alert, on guard.
“Why do you ask that? Oh, I see, it was the letter I wrote you. Yes, it was stroke. At least—well, Nick does seem to be brooding a trifle, but—”
“Brooding! Why?”
“Because—and I was struck by this, too—Rose’s own doctor, Sir Eustace Milford, never saw her at all. He was in Bournemouth, nursing a septic throat. It was his partner, Dr. Cross, who came. Oh, a good man, undoubtedly, but—well, the end came so quickly, and her tongue being paralysed she was never able to tell them just how she felt. It may have made no difference to the diagnosis, and then again—”
Why did Margaret falter, only to dart off at a seemingly irrelevant tangent? Diana herself was beginning to feel vaguely curious about what, when all was said, could not be very important. Rose Somervell was dead, laid to rest in a quiet Berkshire churchyard. Discussion now would not make the cause of her death one whit the clearer, nor was it likely that Sir Eustace Milford—favourite with the aristocracy, but a joke amongst his medical confrères—would have seen what his partner missed.
The gas fire shone red on teapot and muffin-dish, coaxed burnished gleams from her mother’s plump braids. At peace again, Diana gave absent attention to her companion’s rambling discourse, while her inner consciousness strayed ecstatically in a region wherein illness and death played negligible parts. Presently a name caught her ear. She roused lazily.
“Petty?” she repeated. “What were you saying about her?”