‘Ought we to?’ said Jane.
But Merry had already gone, closing the door behind her.
‘Why not, if she fancies it?’ said Clare. ‘I certainly don’t.’
Neither did Jane. She had decided she would not tell the police of Rupert’s visit but was none too sure she might not, if questioned, end by giving it away – in which case would she not become an accessory or a conniver or something else illegal?
‘Let’s keep dead quiet,’ said Clare.
They strained their ears but could only hear a murmur of voices. At last Clare opened the door a few inches. Merry could now be clearly heard, speaking in a voice choked by emotion.
‘What right have you to accuse my father when he’s not here to defend himself?’
‘She’s overdoing it,’ Clare whispered to Jane.
Jane, too, detected a histrionic note but Merry’s visitors obviously didn’t. Two male voices attempted to soothe her.
‘No one’s accusing him of anything yet, miss.’
‘We’re simply inquiring if he’s here.’
‘Well, I’ve told you he isn’t but you probably don’t believe me. Have you a search warrant?’
‘No, miss – and we do believe you.’
‘That’s right, miss. No need to get so upset.’ Merry now changed her tactics. Her voice, though pitifully shaken, became controlled by exquisite breeding.
‘Forgive me. Of course you have to do what’s expected of you. And my father would wish me to treat you with every courtesy. May I offer you some refreshment?’
‘Maddening of her,’ whispered Clare, closing the door. ‘We may have to stay up here for ages.’
But the men presumably declined Merry’s kind offer and very soon left. Jane and Clare, hurrying downstairs, found her mopping her eyes.
‘Oh, you poor darling, you’ve really been crying,’ said Jane.
‘I should hope so – any actress worth her salt can cry to order. But there was an awful moment when I nearly laughed. One of them asked me: “When did you last see your father?” and I thought of that picture of the little Cavalier boy surrounded by Roundheads. Oh, dear!’ She laughed now, with happy reminiscence.
There was a loud knock at the door.
‘It’s only the papers,’ said Clare. ‘The boy always knocks like that. Let’s see what we can find in them.’
‘Do you take six daily papers?’ said Jane, as the pile was brought in.
‘Well, it’s only one for each of us and the picture papers for Cook and Edith,’ said Clare. ‘But I suppose we must give some of them up, and all the magazines.’
‘We can’t give up any newspapers while Father’s in the news,” said Merry, searching eagerly.
Jane was pleased to find Rupert had underestimated his news value. He had made most of the front pages, if only in a small way. There was one bit of information that hadn’t been on television. His whereabouts were said to be unknown.
‘Sounds as if he’s got clean away,’ said Merry. ‘Still, we’ll keep our fingers crossed for him a bit longer.’
The telephone rang. Clare returned from answering it to say one of Drew’s old ladies had wanted to comfort him.
‘She’s sure it’s all a mistake. I hope a lot of people won’t ring up – though if they don’t, I shall think they’re unfeeling.’
The telephone rang again. ‘I’ll go this time,’ said Merry. It proved to be the Vicar, asking if he could help in any way and undertaking to pray for them all.
‘Nice of him,’ said Clare. ‘Considering we never go near his church when he’s doing anything in it.’
Again the telephone rang. This time it was their village grocer, wanting Clare to come in and have a word with him. ‘And I can guess why,’ she said, when Merry brought the message. ‘Let’s go and see how much we owe him.’
They went into the study and ended by going through all the unpaid bills. Only the previous month’s were outstanding but Jane was staggered by what they amounted to, as they were not only for the very lavish household expenditure but also for clothes, books, gramophone records …
‘Did none of you have allowances?’ she asked.
‘Well, we’ve always had spending money,’ said Clare. ‘And quite a bit of it. But Father paid for most things – and we could order what we liked, within reason. What a lot we owe for meals at the Swan. And Merry’s school fees aren’t paid.’
‘Just as well, as I don’t intend to go back.’
‘Even if you didn’t, we’d owe a term’s fees in lieu of notice. And you must go to some school.’
‘Must I? You just wait and see.’
‘But it’s the law, Merry.’ Clare turned to Jane for support.
‘Here’s the car back,’ said Merry.
They all went to greet Cook, Edith and Burly, who had been driven back by Drew, Richard having gone to London to see his father’s solicitor.
‘And one or two other people who needed seeing,’ said Drew, while the maids embraced Clare and Merry with lugubrious affection.
‘No doubt you have relatives who can advise you,’ said Jane.
‘We’ve no relatives at all but Father’s Aunt Winifred, and no one could hanker for her advice,’ said Clare. ‘Oh, heavens, Drew, I’ve just remembered Father gave her an allowance.’
‘It was only to make up for sending her away. She’s got plenty without it.’
‘We’ve enough on our minds without thinking of her,’ said Cook. ‘Do you know my worst nightmare? It’s when I dream she’s back here again. Well, Miss Minton, this is a sad day for us all. But no doubt it’ll turn out for the best.’
‘A door never shuts but another opens,’ said Edith.
‘So one’s always in a draught,’ said Drew, sotto voce, as Cook, Edith and Burly proceeded to the kitchen. ‘They’re being absolute heroines, Clare. They swear they won’t take a penny of their wages and they’re full of plans for keeping the old home going but I promised not to tell you.’
Merry collected the newspapers. ‘They’ll want to see Father’s name in these.’
‘They will indeed,’ said Drew. ‘But what they want most is to hear him mentioned on television again. Well, they’ve done me a power of good. I was feeling a mite embarrassed about our situation but now I see disgrace is swallowed up by drama – and not only for Cook and Edith. You never saw such bright smiles as we drove through the village. People practically blew kisses.’
‘How kind of them,’ said Clare. ‘Especially considering we’ve never been popular.’
‘Ah, but our stock’s gone up now. I don’t deny the kindness but I think it’s combined with enjoyment – nice to know someone whose name’s in the news, for whatever reason. Well, we must learn to bask in reflected publicity.’
Merry returned from the kitchen to say that Cook and Edith were hurrying on a marvellous lunch, to include pancakes.
‘Like Shrove Tuesday, before Lent starts,’ said Drew.
After lunch, the maids announced that they wished to go out for an hour or so. No, they did not want to be driven anywhere. And they would be back in time to get tea. Jane noted that they now wore unrelieved black.
‘Those are the outfits they wear for funerals,’ said Drew, watching them walk down the drive. ‘Even Burly’s wearing his old black collar.’
‘Perhaps they’re in mourning for Father’s reputation,’ said Merry. She then went off to see her friend Betty, who had telephoned most sympathetically.
‘It may be unfeeling of me but I’m going to watch television,’ said Clare.
‘If the telephone will let you,’ said Drew, who had already declined three telephoned invitations to tea.
Jane, arranging the flowers she had brought in the previous day, found herself depressed. She still felt emotional about Rupert, but exhilaration seemed to have gone off duty. She had intended the flowers for the music room, but now disliked the thought of revisiting it, so she took them to the hall. Being with Drew and Glare cheered her, until
she reminded herself that only for a few weeks could she stay at Dome House. Eventually she must lose Rupert’s children as well as Rupert.
Soon after four, Cook and Edith returned to say they had got work at the Swan, where the manager had welcomed them with open arms.
‘Ever so pleased he was that we’d given him the first refusal of us,’ said Cook. ‘We’re going five days a week, starting Monday. We’ll get our lunch free, and Burly will too; we bargained for that. We’re to be paid by the hour – my word, that’s the way to coin money. And we’ll be home in plenty of time to give you dinner. Of course we’ll pay for our share of the food and we’ll rent our room from you.’
‘But darlings, we couldn’t let you pay us,’ Clare protested. ‘You’ll be working for us.’
‘Oh, no, we won’t,’ said Edith, firmly. ‘We’ll be working at the Swan. You’ll let us cook our dinner in your kitchen and it’ll be no trouble to cook enough for you. And if we want to clean the house a bit at weekends, that’s our affair.’
‘And it’s no use arguing,’ said Cook. ‘Because we couldn’t face your grandmother in heaven if we walked out on you now.’
‘We wouldn’t even get to heaven,’ said Edith.
A discussion then began as to how much they would pay for their room but Jane listened with only half an ear. It had delightfully dawned on her that she, too, might get local work and contribute to the household expenses. But she did not speak of this as she felt Cook and Edith were entitled to the unshared glory of their generosity.
‘Sounds as if we are starting a guest house,’ said Drew, when the maids had gone to get tea. ‘With the guests paying for the privilege of running it.’
After tea, Merry returned to say she had changed her mind about leaving school. ‘Betty thinks I might get given a scholarship by Weary Willy – that’s our head mistress, Jane; her real name’s Vera Willy. She gave one to a girl who lost both parents in an accident. And she had it for years; I’d only need mine till I’m fifteen. It’ll save trouble with the law if I don’t leave at once, and I can write and ask managers to see me in the Christmas play.’
‘“But will they come when you do call for them?”’ Drew quoted.
‘They might, in my pathetic circumstances. So if someone would give Weary Willy a hint—’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Clare. ‘I’m still terrified of her.’ Merry turned to Drew. ‘You tackle her. You’re always a success with old ladles.’
‘But she’s barely middle-aged – much too young for me. No, Merry, really.’
Jane said: ‘Could I talk to her?’
Merry beamed. ‘Oh, would you, Jane? She’d be terribly impressed by you, especially if you went in your car. Could you go tomorrow? The term starts on Monday.’
‘Ought I to telephone for an appointment?’
Merry thought not. ‘She might ask what you wanted and it’d be easier for her to refuse by telephone. You just pop in on her. I do think you’re kind. Oh, Clare, before I forget, Betty’s mother says that if Cook and Edith need a job—’
‘They’ve got one,’ said Clare.
Merry, on hearing the details, was ecstatic. ‘How adorable of them! It makes me want to cry. Only it’s terribly funny too.’ She stifled giggles. ‘I mean, it’s like some Victorian children’s book, all robins and snow – except that they’re being paid by the hour and raking in lovely money. I must go and hug them.’
‘And bring them back for the six o’clock News,’ said Clare. But the News contained no reference to Rupert Carrington, nor did it when they listened again after dinner.
‘Poor Father’s just a has-been already,’ said Drew. ‘Well, let’s see if Richard brings any news about the forgotten man.’
He drove off to meet Richard’s train.
Jane, wondering why Drew’s flippancies did not jar on her, decided that the deep, almost caressing quality of his voice took the edge off them. And there was a basic gentleness in him which neutralized any suspicion of unkindness. Nor did she find Merry’s continual high spirits unsympathetic. These two were her favourites. Clare interested her far less. As for Richard… Really, it was unfair to think him depressing simply because he was taking the family trouble seriously. And if she did not feel she knew him as well as she knew the others, that might mean he was all the more worth while knowing.
He arrived back from London looking pale and tired, and had little to tell. The solicitor he had gone to see had not been helpful.
‘He said he only dealt with our family affairs, thank God. It seems the solicitor who copes with Father’s business has vanished just as Father has. The only advice I could get was to carry on as best we can and see what happens.’
‘Did you go to your father’s office?’ Jane asked.
‘Yes, and found it closed. I didn’t go to his flat because it’s an expensive service flat and he may have left money owing. Really, the less we know about his affairs, the better. We must live from day to day – and get jobs as soon as we can. Which reminds me—’
He turned to thank Cook and Edith, Drew having told him of their plans. Cook said it was the least they could do – looking, Jane thought, a trifle smug. Then both maids bustled off to get him some supper.
‘I want to wash now; we’ll talk some more afterwards,’ he said to Clare, exchanging a quick glance with her.
Jane guessed that something private would be disclosed later.
‘Let’s decide what you’re going to wear when you see Weary Willy tomorrow,’ said Merry, putting her arm through Jane’s and steering her upstairs. ‘Your tweeds, of course, and one of your lovely cashmere sweaters. And may I see your best gloves?’
‘And then go to bed, Merry, darling,’ Clare called after them. ‘It’s nearly eleven.’
Merry approved of Jane’s gloves. ‘Perhaps they’re a mite long for tweeds but not if you wear them all wrinkled and nonchalant. I bet you’ll see Weary Willy eyeing them. Now, shoes …’
Eventually Jane’s entire outfit was decided on; then Merry went to bed. Jane intended to go downstairs again but as she opened her door she heard Richard talking in the hall.
‘She was terribly upset, Clare. Father didn’t even say goodbye to her.’
‘Oh, poor Violet!’
‘I asked if the rent of her flat was paid …’
Jane stepped back into her room and quietly closed the door. So Richard had been to see some woman friend of his father’s – though ‘friend’, presumably, was hardly the right word … perhaps one ought to be shocked but one wasn’t. And one felt sorry for the woman – how dreadful not to have been said goodbye to! Surely if Rupert cared seriously …?
Tempted to open the door again and listen, she firmly switched her thoughts to the coming interview with Miss Willy. The shoes she meant to wear could do with a polish.
He had asked her to help his children. Well, tomorrow she would do her best for Merry.
4
Thursday
The next morning, Merry suggested she should accompany Jane. ‘I could sit outside in the car and you could call me in to thank Weary Willy if everything’s all right – as I’m sure it will be; she was really very kind to that girl who lost both parents. And then I could take you round the school and the grounds and show you the darling ponies.’
But Jane said it would make her nervous if Merry waited almost on the doorstep; also it would be unfair to Miss Willy.
‘You mean it would make it harder for her to refuse? Well, we want to, don’t we? Still, if you’d rather I didn’t come …’
Jane got ready and was carefully inspected.
‘You look marvellous – what she calls beautifully groomed. Just wrinkle your gloves a bit more.’
They went out into the sunny autumn morning and Jane started her car. Merry issued last instructions.
‘Park a bit to the right of the front door; then Weary Willy can see the car from her window. You can’t miss the school. It’s less than half a mile beyond the village – a big
Queen Anne house with lots of additions. It used to be the Hall. If you get nervous, try not to let her see it. Be a bit grand.’
Jane already felt nervous and became even more so when she sighted the school across its large grounds. It was so impressive that she feared she would not be seen without an appointment. But after sending her name in by the smartly uniformed maid she was kept waiting only a moment and Miss Willy, rising to shake hands, seemed pleased to see her.
The head mistress was willowy, long-necked and very fair, her flaxen hair slightly greyed. In Pre-Raphaelite days she might have passed for a beauty. In her strictly tailored suit she looked somehow wrong. Still, Jane eyed the suit’s cut with respect. She accepted the indicated chair, facing the light, thanked Miss Willy for seeing her and began to introduce herself.
Miss Willy interrupted, her languid voice curiously at variance with the shrewdness of her glance. ‘Oh, I know who you are. In this village, everyone knows everything, though facts frequently get garbled in transit. Which reminds me, is it true, the Carringtons’ maids have been snapped up by the Swan? If not, I should be delighted—’
‘You’re too late,’ said Jane, with satisfaction; she had taken an instant dislike to Miss Willy.
‘Ah, well … Now tell me about yourself. Could you start work at once?’
‘Work?’ said Jane, astonished.
‘You do know I’m in need of a secretary?’
‘I certainly didn’t,’ said Jane. ‘I’ve come about Merry.’
‘Oh, is that it? I suppose Clare funked seeing me. Well, you can tell them I’ve no intention of suing anyone for my unpaid fees. It wouldn’t be any use if Rupert Carrington’s got out of England, as I quite hope he has. Such a charming man, if a criminally unwise one – and I don’t mean as regards his present débâcle. The way he’s spoilt those children! But you’ve seen for yourself.’
Jane’s nervousness was now replaced by annoyance. ‘I’ve found them all charming and intelligent,’ she said truculently.
‘Drew certainly is. Surely no one could call Clare intelligent or Richard charming, though I’ll admit he’s handsome. As for Meriella …’ Miss Willy paused and appeared to be considering the matter dispassionately. ‘No, I’d never describe her as charming and intelligent. The words are inadequate. She is undoubtedly the most brilliant child I’ve ever had in my school.’