This in a shriek to Sally, who, confused, hovered between the table and the door. Ellen, solicitous, stood aside smartly; and Mrs Rees tottered up the stairs. At the door of Sally's room she stopped, waiting for it to be opened, and again it was Ellen who was there to do it, Ellen who took her arm as she entered, Ellen who cast - for the first time - a look of sly triumph at Sally, who had followed.
Mrs Rees looked around. The bedclothes were piled untidily; Sally's nightgown trailed half across the floor, and half over the end of the bed; and two of her drawers were open, with clothes jammed hastily into them. The pathetic little heap of things beside Sally's bag on the floor - a purse, a coin or two, a handkerchief, a pocket diary - were scarcely noticeable. Sally saw that the case was hopeless before Mrs Rees said a word.
"Well?" was that word. "Well, miss?"
"I must have been mistaken," said Sally. "I beg your pardon, Aunt Caroline."
She spoke almost demurely, because an idea had just come into her head: something quite new. She stooped to pick up the things from the floor, and found herself smiling.
"What are you grinning at, miss? Why are you smiling in that insolent fashion? I will not be smiled at."
Sally said nothing, but began to fold her clothes and put them neatly on the bed.
"What are you doing? Answer me! Answer me at once, you impertinent hussy!"
"I'm going to leave," said Sally.
"What? What did you say?"
"I'm going to leave, Mrs Rees. I can't stay here any more - I can't and I won't."
A gasp from the lady, another from the maid - and they stood aside as Sally made purposefully for the door.
"I shall send for my things," she said. "You will have the goodness to send them on when I let you know my new address. Good day."
And she left.
And found herself, once on the pavement outside, quite at a loss what to do next.
She had burnt her boats - she was sure of that. She could never go back to Mrs Rees; but where else could she go? She walked on steadily, out of Peveril Square, and passed a newsagent's; which gave her an idea. With almost the last of her money - three pennies - she bought a copy of The Times, and sat down to read it in a nearby churchyard. There was only one page which interested her, and it was not that which bore advertisements for governesses.
Having pencilled some notes in the margin of the paper, she walked briskly to Mr Temple's chambers in Lincoln's Inn. It was a fine morning, after the incessant drizzle of the night before, and the sun lifted her spirits.
Mr Temple's clerk admitted her. The lawyer was very busy, very busy indeed, but he might be prevailed upon to see her for five minutes. She was shown in to the office; Mr Temple, bald and lean and brisk, got up to shake her hand.
"How much money have I got, Mr Temple?" she said, after they had exchanged greetings.
He reached for a large book and wrote down some figures.
"Four hundred and fifty pounds in two and a half per cent Treasury Stock; one hundred and eighty Ordinary shares in the London and South Eastern Railway Company; two hundred Preference shares in the Royal Mail Steam Navigation Company... Are you sure that you want to know all this?"
"Everything, please." She was following it in the newspaper as he read.
He continued. It was not a long list.
"And the income," he concluded, "is in round terms--"
"About forty pounds a year," she said.
"How did you know that?"
"I worked it out as you were reading the list."
"Good Lord."
"And I believe I have a measure of control over my money?"
"A great deal. Far too much, in my view. I tried to dissuade your father, but nothing would make him change his mind - so I drew up the will as he told me."
"Then it's a good thing you failed. Mr Temple, I'd like you to arrange to sell three hundred pounds of the Treasury Stock and buy equally among the following companies: The Great Western Railway Company, The Gas, Light and Coke Company, and C. H. Parsons, Ltd."
His jaw fell, but he wrote down her instructions.
"Furthermore," she said, "those Preference shares in the Royal Mail Steam Navigation Company, sell those, please, and buy Ordinary shares in the P & O. That should bring the income up to a little over fifty. I shall look at it again in a month or so, when ... when I have time. I take it that there is some money paid on my account now to Mrs Rees?"
"Mrs Rees was paid..." He turned a page. "One hundred pounds on your father's death. That was a legacy, of course, not a payment for any service that might be rendered. The Trustees - of whom I am one - came to an agreement by which the income from the Trust should be paid on your behalf to Mrs Rees while you remained under her roof."
"I see," said Sally. That woman had been receiving all Sally's income, while accusing her of living on charity! "Well," she went on, "I have been discussing things with Mrs Rees, and it will be best if the income is paid directly to me from now on. Could you arrange for it to be paid into my account at the Strand branch of the London and Midland Bank?"
Mr Temple looked decidedly troubled. He sighed, and wrote it down, but said nothing.
"And finally, Mr Temple, may I have some money now? You didn't mention a current account, but there must be one."
He turned a page in her ledger.
"It contains twenty-one pounds, six shillings and ninepence," he said. "How much would you like to withdraw?"
"Twenty pounds, please."
He opened a cash box, and counted out the money in gold.
"Miss Lockhart, I ask you simply - is this wise?"
"It is what I want to do. And I have the right to do it, so it will be done. One day, Mr Temple, I promise I'll tell you why. Oh - there is another thing..."
He pushed the cash box away and faced her. "Yes?"
"Did my father ever mention a Major Marchbanks?"
"I have heard the name. I don't think your father had seen him for many years. A friend from his Army days, I believe."
"Or a Mrs Holland?"
He shook his head.
"Or anything at all called The Seven Blessings?"
"What an extraordinary name. No, Miss Lockhart, he didn't."
"And I won't take up any more of your time, Mr Temple; but what about my father's share of his own firm? I had expected that to be worth something."
He stroked his jaw, and looked ill-at-ease.
"Miss Lockhart, you and I will have to have a talk. Not now - I'm busy; but it'll keep for a week or so. Your father was a very unusual man, and you're a very unusual young lady, if I may say so. You're conducting yourself in a most businesslike way. I'm impressed. So I'll tell you something now that was going to keep till you were a little older: I'm worried about that firm, and I'm worried about what your father did before he left for the East. You're quite right: there should be more money. But the fact is that he sold his share outright, for ten thousand pounds, to his partner Mr Selby."
"And where is that money now?"
"That's what I'm worried about. It's vanished."
Chapter Eight
THE PASSIONS OF ART
There were few places, in the England of 1872, where a young lady could go on her own to sit, and think, and possibly drink some tea. The tea was not so important yet, but sooner or later she would have to eat; and there was only one class of well-dressed young women who moved freely in and out of hotels and restaurants; and Sally had no desire to be mistaken for one of those.
But she was, as Mr Temple had said, a very unusual young lady. Her upbringing had given her an independence of mind that made her more like a girl of today than one of her own time - which was why she had walked out, and why she was not daunted by the prospect of being alone.
She left Lincoln's Inn and walked slowly along beside the river until she found a bench under the statue of some bewigged king, and then she sat down to watch the traffic.
The biggest blow was the loss of her pistol. She had copied
the three lost papers - the message from the East, Major Marchbanks's letter and the single page from the book - into her diary; so they were preserved. But the pistol had been a gift from her father, and besides, it might one day save her life.
But what she wanted most was to talk. Jim Taylor would have been the ideal person to talk to, but it was Tuesday, and he would be working. Then there was Major Marchbanks - but Mrs Holland might be watching the house, as she had before.
Then she remembered the card tucked into her diary. Thank Heaven the thief had not removed that!
FREDERICK GARLAND
PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST
45, BURTON STREET
LONDON
She had some money now. She hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address.
Burton Street was a shabby little place in the neighbourhood of the British Museum. The door of number 45 was open; a painted sign proclaimed that W. and F. Garland, Photographers, conducted their business there. Sally went in, and found a dusty, narrow little shop, crowded with various photographic bits and pieces - magic lanterns, bottles of chemicals, cameras and the like - standing on the counter and packed untidily on the shelves. There was no one there, but the inner door was open, and Sally could hear voices raised in a violent quarrel. One of them was the photographer's.
"I will not!" he shouted. "I detest all lawyers on principle, and that goes for their spotty clerks as well--"
"I'm not talking about lawyers, you lazy oaf!" came the equally passionate voice of a young woman. "It's an accountant you need, not a bloody lawyer - and if you don't get something sorted out soon there won't be any business left at all!"
"Balderdash! Stick to your mumming, you shrieking virago - here, Trembler, there's a customer in the shop."
A little wizened man ran anxiously out, with the air of one ducking away from flying bullets. He shut the door behind him, but the shouting continued.
"Yes, miss?" came a nervous voice from behind his huge, soup-strainer moustache.
"I came to see Mr Garland. But if he's busy..."
She looked at the door, and he cowered away from it, as if expecting some missile to come hurtling through.
"You don't want me to go and fetch him, do you, miss?" he pleaded. "I daren't, honest."
"Well ... no. I suppose not at the moment."
"Was it about a sitting, miss? We can fit you in any time..."
He was looking at an appointment book.
"No. No, it was -"
The door opened, and the little man ducked under the counter.
"Be damned to the whole tribe of -" came in a roar from the photographer, and then he stopped at once. He stood in the doorway, and grinned, and Sally realized that she'd forgotten how full of life and movement his face was. "Hello!" he said, in the friendliest possible manner. "Miss Lockhart, isn't it?"
He was suddenly propelled into the shop, and there in his place stood a young woman two or three years older than Sally. Her red hair flared over her shoulders, her eyes blazed, and she held a sheaf of papers in her clenched fist. Sally thought, but she's beautiful! And so she was - astonishingly lovely.
"You're slovenly, Frederick Garland!" she stormed. "Those bills have been waiting since Easter, and what have you done about it? What have you spent the money on? What do you ever do but--"
"What do I do?" He turned back to her, his voice rising powerfully. "What do I do? I work harder than any band of painted mummers who loaf about in the back of a theatre! What about the polarizing lens - d'you think I got that by whistling for it? And the gelatin process--"
"The devil take your bloody gelatin process. What do you mean, loaf? I will not have my work insulted by a second-rate ... daguerreotypist whose only idea of art is--"
"Daguerreotypist? Second-rate? How dare you, you ranting puppet--"
"Skulking bankrupt!"
"Howling termagant!"
And the next moment he turned to Sally, as calm as a bishop, and said politely, "Miss Lockhart, may I introduce my sister Rosa?"
Sally blinked, and found herself smiling. The young woman held out her hand and smiled in return. Of course they were brother and sister - he was nowhere near as good-looking as she was, but the sheer life and energy of expression was the same in each of them.
"Have I called at a bad time?" she said.
He laughed, and the little man came out from the counter like a tortoise out of its shell.
"No," said Miss Garland, "not at all. If you want to be photographed, you've just come in time - there might not be a business at all tomorrow."
She cast an angry glance at her brother, who waved it aside airily.
"No, I don't want to be photographed," said Sally. "In fact I only came because... Well, I met Mr Garland last Friday, and..."
"Oh! You're the girl from Swaleness! He told me all about it."
"Can I go back to me plates now?" said the little man.
"Yes, go on, Trembler," said the photographer, seating himself calmly on the counter as the little man touched his brow nervously and scuttled out. "He's preparing some plates, you see, Miss Lockhart, and he got a little worried. My sister tried to assassinate me."
"Someone ought to," she said darkly.
"She's very excitable. She's an actress; can't help it."
"I'm sorry to interrupt," said Sally. "I shouldn't have come."
"Are you in trouble?" said Rosa.
Sally nodded. "But I don't want to -"
"Is it the witch again?" said the photographer.
"Yes. But..." She stopped. I wonder if I dare? she thought. "Did you say - I'm sorry, but I couldn't help hearing - did you say you needed an accountant?"
"So my sister tells me."
"Of course we do," she said hotly. "This photographic clown has got us into the most appalling muddle, and if we don't sort it out soon--"
"Exaggeration," he said. "It won't take long to sort out."
"Well, do it then!" she flared at him.
"I can't. I haven't got the time, I haven't got the talent, and I certainly haven't got the inclination."
"I was going to say," Sally went on diffidently, "that I'm good with figures - I used to help my father draw up his company balance-sheets, and he taught me all about bookkeeping and accounts - I'd be glad to help! I mean, I came here to ask for help. But if I can do something in exchange, that would be better, perhaps. I don't know."
She finished lamely, blushing. That speech had been difficult to make, but she was determined to get through it. She looked down.
"D'you mean it?" said the girl.
"Honestly. I know I'm good with figures, or else I shouldn't have said anything."
"Then we'd be delighted," said Frederick Garland. "You see?" he said to his sister. "I told you there was nothing to worry about. Miss Lockhart, you'll join us for lunch?"
Lunch, in their Bohemian household, consisted of a jug of ale, the remains of a large joint of roast beef, a fruit cake and a bag of apples, which Rosa said she had been given the night before by one of her admirers, a porter in Covent Garden market. They ate it, with the help of one large pocket knife and their fingers (and empty chemical jars for the beer), at the crowded laboratory bench behind the shop. Sally was enchanted.
"You'll have to forgive 'em, miss, begging yer pardon," said the little man, whose only name seemed to be Trembler. "It ain't want of breedin', it's want of money."
"But think what the rich are missing, Trembler," said Rosa. "Who'd ever discover how delicious beef and plum-cake was unless they had nothing else to eat?"
"Oh, come on, Rosa," said Frederick, "we don't starve. We've never gone without a meal. We go without washing dishes, though," he said to Sally. "A matter of principle. No dishes, no washing."
Sally wondered how they managed with soup, but didn't have time to ask; for every gap in the conversation was filled by their questions, and by the time the meal was over they knew as much as she did about the mystery. Or mysteries.
"Right," said Frederick (
and somehow, during the consumption of the plum-cake, they had progressed to first-name terms without noticing it), "tell me this: why don't you go to the police?"
"I don't really know. Or - yes, I do know. It's just that it seems to concern my birth - or my father's life in India - my background, anyway - and I want to keep that to myself, till I know more about it."
"Of course you do," said Rosa. "The police are so stupid, Fred - it's the last thing she should do."
"You have been robbed," Frederick pointed out. "Twice."
"I'd still rather not. There are so many reasons... I haven't even told the lawyer about being robbed."
"And now you've left home," said Rosa. "Where are you going to live?"
"I don't know. I must find a room."
"Well, that's easy. We've got acres of space. You can have Uncle Webster's room for the time being. Trembler will show you where it is. I've got to go and rehearse now. I'll be back later!"
And before Sally could thank her, she had swept out.
"Are you sure?" said Sally to Frederick.
"Well, of course! And if we're going to be businesslike, you can pay rent for it."
She thought of the tent, and found herself confused, but he was looking away and writing something on a scrap of paper.
"Trembler," he said, "could you run across to Mr Eeles's, and ask to borrow these books?"
"Righto, Mr Fred. But there's them plates to be got up, and the magnesium."
"Do them when you come back."
The little man left, and Sally said, "Is his name really Trembler?"
"His name is Theophilus Molloy. But honestly, could you call anyone Theophilus? I couldn't. And his previous associates used to call him Trembler; I suppose the name stuck. He's an unsuccessful pickpocket. I met him when he tried to pick mine. He was so relieved when I stopped him that he practically wept with gratitude, and he's been with us ever since. But look - I think you ought to read your newspaper. I see you have a copy of The Times. Have a look at page six."
Sally, surprised, did as he said. Near the foot of the page she found a small paragraph which related the same news that Mr Hopkins's rather brisker paper had told him the day before.
"Major Marchbanks dead?" she said. "I can't believe it. And this man - the one in the check suit - he was the one who stole the book! The one in the train! Do you think he'd just come from..."