The Walking Stick

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  She let me go and I left.

  Down Latchmere Road toward Battersea Bridge. On the bridge I stood and leaned over the coping looking up the river and at all the glittering lights. A pleasant evening, and mild. All fog had gone; the wind had dropped; London hummed like a great pink-flushed beehive newly awake after three days of coma.

  I knew now where the poison lay. But it could still be poison of my own imagining. How prove it one way or the other? Taxi. An address in the Old Brompton Road. Not far this time. Lights flickering everywhere. As light as day almost, but different. A sort of twilight that impinged on the mind. Green and red, safety and danger, love and hate. Jerk and stop, swing and turn, stop and jerk. Green and red, love and hate. Yellow like pain. An hour’s sleep last night. An hour today. But lack of sleep doesn’t always blur the perceptions; sometimes it refines them, gives them a cutting edge. Lack of food too. What eaten in the last twenty-four hours? Tea and brandy and tea and brandy and tea. Sweetened hemlock. Great ghosts and phantoms moved in the taxi.

  I got out, paid him, he drove off; I looked up at the shop. Closed of course. Eight o’clock. Never noticed the name before. Sefton Antiques. Even with the name of his own shop he was in the background. In the window were two Hepplewhite chairs, a Georgian silver teapot on a mahogany three-legged table, wineglasses on a tray, bound copies of Punch for 1891–5.

  Up the stairs to the glass door. A very faint light somewhere, but at first, after I had pressed the bell, nothing but the distant yapping of dogs. Wait. Footsteps after all. Doreen Foil. Hair loose. Flowered housecoat. Mules. Cigarette.

  ‘Deborah! Why I . . .’

  ‘I came round for a minute. D’you mind?’

  ‘No . . . er – no. Lovely . . .’ She drew back and I went into the greenhouse-foliaged hall, followed her into the long living room. She flapped vaguely across and made light here and there while we were talking.

  ‘Jack isn’t here. He’s away. Did you want to see him?’

  ‘No . . . Leigh’s out and I was feeling lonely, and a bit strung up.’

  She sat down opposite me, drawing her housecoat modestly over her knees in a way she wouldn’t have if she’d been wearing a frock. We talked about nothing much. The dogs were still yapping, and she confessed that when Jack was away she often kept them in the spare bedroom all day because they got on her nerves. ‘I take ’em out twice a day, but it’s such a drag. I don’t know why they can’t have boxes for their business, like cats.’ Spilling ash, she offered me a cigarette and then a drink, or coffee. I said no, thanks, but I was almost passing your door and – was she expecting Jack back tonight?

  ‘I’m not sure, dear. He said not to wait up. Not that I’m likely to, after last night!’

  I looked at her, startled. ‘Last night? What had you to do—’

  ‘Well . . . it was this Silver Cross Charity Ball at the Hilton! Jack had often said he’d take me but I never thought he would. He took a party – six of us – it must have cost him a bit as tickets were five guineas, without wines. We didn’t get home till after three. I’ve been yawning my head off all day!’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘You are lucky.’ Expensive, but cheap as an alibi. ‘I think I will have coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘No. Sure. It’ll only take a minute.’ She was different, easier tonight with Jack not here. I must get something out of her – but what was there to get? She pushed her loose hair behind her shoulders, her eyes a bit glazed with lack of sleep, flapped her way past the Umbrella Tree and the Scarlet Trails, dropped ash by the further door, went out. ‘Shan’t be a minute.’

  Room silent. Light, confined within black drum shades, was only permitted out on sufferance. Plants drooping, watching. Mother-in-Law’s Tongue, Catherine Wheel Plant; aquarium light. Shelved books, good crockery. Get up to look at that. An open desk. Papers, letters, cheque book, invoices. What chance? What to look for?

  Slap, slap, slap. ‘Forgot to ask, dear, d’you like it black or white?’

  ‘Black, please.’

  ‘OK.’ Slap, slap, slap.

  Room silent. An open desk. Four drawers. If she wore her mules you could hear her moving. She wouldn’t suddenly take them off. Three or four minutes to make the coffee. Pick up cheque book. Sotheby’s, £295. Cash, £50. H. S. Seaton, £25.10.– . Silver Cross Society, £31.10.– . Leigh Hartley, £20. Cash £50. Letters . . . ‘Acknowledge receipt of chair.’ ‘Dear Mr Foil, Please see if you have other Georgian spoons of the King pattern.’ Waste of time. Drawers . . . First locked. Second drawer, mass of papers. Square envelopes, out-of-date bank sheets, bills, travel folders, dinner menus, photograph (unrecognizable). Try another drawer. Bottle of gum, secateurs, ball of green twine, seed and plant catalogues, Gardener’s Diary. Last drawer . . .

  I stopped. The room was silent but there was some sound, some movement. I stared all round, and all the plants stared back. Supposing Jack Foil came up the stairs . . .

  But the dogs were silent. I opened the last drawer. Whittington’s catalogue, profusely scribbled over. A letter in Leigh’s handwriting . . .

  Slap, slap, slap. I jumped back a foot, pushing the drawer, not able to grab the letter. She came in.

  ‘This – is a lovely plate,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that . . . Yes, it’s Spode or something. But of course you’re an expert, aren’t you?’

  ‘Who told you?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Why, Jack said so. When we met the first time . . .’

  I took my coffee and we sipped and talked. I tried to lead the conversation round to Leigh, but she had nothing new to tell.

  I said: ‘I suppose Jack still pays Leigh a salary, does he?’

  ‘Oh, that I wouldn’t know. Jack’s got a lot of irons in the fire. One day he’s down at the docks, next day he’s up at Hurlingham. He has a meat business, did you know? And a building yard. Maybe Leigh still works for him, I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘But Leigh comes here often, doesn’t he?’

  Doreen sipped the drains of her coffee and left a little brown moustache. ‘You’re not jealous, dear, are you? I promise you, you haven’t need to be. There’s nothing like that about Jack.’

  ‘No. No, that’s not what I mean. But you see Leigh and I want to get married, and he’s awfully evasive about money. I wondered if you knew.’

  ‘’Fraid not. But I’ll ask Jack if you like. In a roundabout way. But he’s cagey, too.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, tell Leigh to keep in with Jack, that’s my advice, Deborah. It really is. If he keeps in with Jack he’ll be all right. It’d only be if he fell out with him that it might be all wrong.’

  I said: ‘I must go. Leigh will be back. Tell me one thing, Doreen. How long have you known my sister?’

  ‘Your – sister? I never have.’

  ‘Yes, you have. Dr Dainton.’

  ‘Oh . . . Dr Dainton. The tall girl . . . Oh . . . God knows; not very long.’

  ‘Longer than you’ve known me?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Do try.’

  ‘What does it matter? . . .’ Doreen screwed at her earring. ‘I suppose we may have. She came in the shop one day and Jack invited her up to meet me and to see the room plants. It’s his pet hobby.’

  ‘Did she talk about me?’

  ‘When? Then? I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘What I’m trying to get at is . . . Had you heard of me before – say before last April?’

  Doreen shook her head. ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t know. Why?’

  ‘When did she come in to see the plants? Would it be before last April?’

  ‘It could have been. God knows.’ Doreen bent and lit another cigarette with a silver lighter so massive she could hardly get her hand round it. She paused. ‘Wait? Is that Jack now?’

  The dogs were barking.

  After a minute she relaxed. ‘No, it’s somebody next door. Paula’s so damned edgy thes
e days that she barks at everything, and that sets Rufus off. D’you think dogs suffer with change of life? I mean bitches?’

  ‘I expect so,’ I said.

  The telephone box is at the corner of Old Brompton Road and Juniper Street. I hadn’t a threepenny piece but I’d plenty of sixpences.

  Purp, purp, purp, purp purp. Press the sixpence in. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘No, this is Virginia.’

  ‘Hello. It’s Deborah here. Is Sarah in?’

  ‘No, she’s at the hospital.’

  Oh, damn, blast, damn. ‘D’you know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest. You know what it’s like; they expect her to work all hours.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes. I see.’

  ‘What’s the matter? You sound agitated.’

  I took a grip of my voice. ‘No, not a bit. It was just something I wanted to ask her. I’ll try again in an hour or so.’

  ‘Can I get her to ring you?’

  ‘. . . No. We’re not on the phone.’

  ‘OK, dear – I say, what about this robbery at your place? That was pretty sensational, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, it was.’ Come to think of it, Doreen hadn’t mentioned it. Didn’t she know where I worked or wasn’t she as innocent as she pretended?

  ‘Any theories? D’you think it was an inside job?’

  ‘I doubt it. Just a gang of smart crooks.’

  I hung up. Out of the box I hailed a taxi, but when I gave him the Rotherhithe address he said he was off duty in twenty minutes and going north.

  So I went home by bus.

  Didn’t take too long really. The bend of the river somehow helped. The East End bustled this evening as noisily as the West. Past a cinema where Leigh and I had sometimes been: a fifty-times-life-size woman in a swim suit leered down among the coloured lights, bosomy, with long beautiful legs.

  I got off in Jamaica Road, turned up among the quieter places, the warehouses, the storage sheds. Smell of the river. No little red car outside. Nothing had changed, nothing had stirred while I had been away. I let myself in.

  I put on all the lights, stared round the room with its big sagging dusty velvet chairs, its tall windows, its stacked canvases, its empty easel. Outside, the river still moved, London glittered and glowed. I didn’t draw the curtains. Leigh’s desk. All the time I lived here it had stood open, papers and bills and receipts and oil paints scattered. But although I had used it to write letters, cheques, the occasional note, I had never pried into it. This was no great virtue – or if it was a virtue it was only practised by instinct. Only once, when he refused to tell me his debts, had I threatened to search it.

  But must not search it now.

  Sit and wait. Must not jump to conclusions. Must reserve judgement, as Philip’s father would say. Judge only on fact, not on suspicion.

  Sit and wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  At ten I went out again, to the telephone opposite the Brunel, the pub that Leigh would never let me go in because he said it was no place for ladies. (Curious what he would, and would not, let me do as a lady.)

  Virginia answered again. Sarah still not home. As I returned to the studio Leigh was just parking his car.

  ‘Hello, love. Been out somewhere?’

  ‘Yes . . . I was ringing Sarah.’

  He followed me in. ‘Lack of a telephone’s a damned nuisance. Anyway we shall have to afford it now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In our new place, I mean.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He took off his jacket and threw it toward the pegs behind the door. It hit them but fell. I picked it up and hung it with my own coat.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes, a sandwich. It’ll do.’

  ‘All right about the car?’

  ‘Yes, but it took some losing – more than I thought. What’s the matter? You still look pale.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes, frightfully.’ He came over and kissed me. ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Better. But I’m tired, I expect. After last night.’

  ‘That’s why I wouldn’t have been surprised to find you in bed and asleep. D’you know,’ he gripped my arms and smiled into my eyes, ‘I expected to be flaked out myself by this time; but although I’m ready for bed I don’t feel tired. I reckon it’s all the excitement. And the way things have gone with such a bang. Whoo-ee! Nobody’s been, I suppose?’

  ‘Nobody. Shall I make you coffee?’

  ‘I can make it if you’re fagged.’ He followed me into the kitchen.

  ‘Did Ted come back with you?’

  ‘I dropped him at his place. Perhaps I might have a bite of something if there is something . . .’

  ‘There’s cheese and some eggs. Shall I—’

  ‘Cheese’ll do.’ While he foraged I made the coffee and we drank it together and ate pieces of cheese on butter biscuits. This was one of his favourite snacks. I didn’t know what I was going to say to him – if anything. Perhaps there was nothing I could say, yet.

  ‘What was the trouble about the car?’

  ‘Oh, not trouble really. Ted drove it, and I followed in the Triumph. It was just picking a spot.’

  ‘Have you seen Jack?’

  ‘No.’ His eyes questioned. ‘He’s out of London making his contacts.’

  ‘What about the shop?’

  ‘The shop? . . . Oh, we ought to see it tomorrow, oughtn’t we.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got till Sunday. She said she’d keep it till then.’

  He chewed reflectively. ‘We could put down the deposit. It’ll be a few weeks before our share comes in.’

  ‘What is our share going to be?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait for Jack for that. I’d say ten thousand or near it. Everything’s gone like clockwork.’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong? Something is wrong. Deborah . . .’

  ‘Perhaps it’s only something wrong with me. The reaction.’

  ‘You should have gone to bed, love. You know how ill you were this morning. Phew! I began to sweat! If you hadn’t turned up at Whittington’s as usual . . .’

  ‘It’s the human element, always letting one down.’

  ‘But you didn’t. You made it fabulously. I don’t know what we should have done without you.’

  ‘You’d have done nothing,’ I said, pouring another cup of coffee. ‘There was nothing any of you could have done.’

  He watched me in silence. ‘That’s true. That’s certainly true.’ He added: ‘Jack realizes that.’

  ‘I know he does.’

  Leigh swallowed a last corner of biscuit. ‘What had Sarah got to say? Did she mention the robbery?’

  ‘She wasn’t in. Virginia answered.’ My blood was thumping painfully. If I attacked I should have all the advantage of attack but I knew I should really not be able to use it. Wait. Judge only on fact, not on suspicion. If I spoke now I should be desperately, emotionally upset at the first words.

  ‘Did Virginia mention it?’

  ‘Yes. She said did I think it was an inside job? I said I thought it was just some smart crooks.’

  ‘How right you were . . .’

  I finished my coffee.

  He said: ‘The light’s pretty terrible in here,’ and got up to switch on the other lamp.

  ‘No, leave it now.’

  He came across and stroked my forehead and hair. ‘Bed for you, love. You’re tired out. You’ll feel quite different in the morning.’

  When I got to Whittington’s the next day a couple of detectives were still there, but men were already repairing the blown wall of the strongroom, and the broken window and other damage had already been put right. It was surprising, though, how much disorganization the burglary had caused, and about eleven Mr Greeley called the staff together and said, much as he regretted stealing back from us the half-day’s holiday we’d had yesterday, he’d consider it a fa
vour if everyone would come Saturday morning to try to get the rooms completely back to normal by Monday.

  After this, instead of going downstairs again, I went to the coin box in the main entrance and dialled Sarah’s number. When she had been on duty late she often slept on, but I wouldn’t wait longer than this. But there was no reply. The ringing went on and there was no reply.

  I worked till 12.45 and then went out to lunch. Still slightly dazed, still bitterly thinking.

  Usual café. Busy today. A waitress I knew smiled and waved me towards a table where two people were just getting up. It was a table for four, and the two still occupying it were German girls, one very blonde, both pretty. They smiled at me as I sat down and I smiled back. Then they went on with their conversation.

  Not hungry. Stare dismally down the menu while the waitress licks her pencil; I choose a Dover sole, sit back as she leaves, loosen my scarf. Try Sarah again. The telephone here is coin box without the privacy of the box, but it will serve.

  The bell went endlessly on. Either she was already out again or had never come home. Back at the table the two German girls were just beginning their meal.

  Someone coming to the table. A shadow blocking the light, coming to the vacant seat. I shifted a bit.

  ‘Miss Dainton, how nice! Well met, as you might say. D’you mind?’

  A shadow indeed blocking the light. The one that lay across us all.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies. I’m sorry; I’m a big man. These small tables are very difficult. No, please don’t move.’

  Cuffs not very clean today, showing against the furry wrists. Diamond links, stain on waistcoat. He would have passed for many things other than what I knew him to be; a lecturer in Oriental Art at a minor university, a well-to-do publican, a middle-grade solicitor with a thriving divorce practice.

  He ordered sausage and mash. ‘My common tastes. You’ll excuse me, Deborah, there’s much to be said for simple fare, the food of ordinary people . . . In fact I often eat here when I’ve been to Sotheby’s.’

  ‘We’re a bit disordered at Whittington’s,’ I said, pulses beating suffocatingly, ‘owing to the burglary.’

  ‘Of course. I read about it. Very clever, wasn’t it. Very clever indeed.’