The Massingham Affair Part 16

"No, sir."

"It'll be about a codicil, perhaps. I thought last time he had a mind to add one."

One glance at his client, however, and this particular illusion took flight and was seen no more. A formidably belted and tweeded knickerbocker suit intruded itself into his view-the most rural thing in Smedwick according to the Duke, who was privileged to joke about such things. Justin felt no desire to emulate him, however. There were positions from which everything could appear absurd, and positions from which absurd things had frightening aspects, and he was now occupying just such a viewpoint, in the presence of an irascible magistrate who was also likely to be his father -in-law.

"What the devil do you mean by it?" the Colonel exploded the instant they were alone.

The field of guilt, when one looked at it, was wide. Could it be anything apropos of Sugden? Or of Miss Verney? Abandonment of Georgina? The affair of the carriage? a.s.sociation with Mr Lumley and the radical interest? None of these things seemed capable in themselves of causing such a turkey-c.o.c.k hue in the Colonel's cheeks or such a splutter in his voice, only apparent in the presence of the most heinous and depraved criminals.

"Suborning a police officer," the Colonel shouted with the virulence of a man who has kept something pent-up far too long.

The victim could hardly have been more astonished: it was the one crime of which he knew himself to be innocent. "Suborning? Excuse me, sir," he was beginning in an aggrieved voice when the Colonel swept ahead of him: "I will not excuse you. You are the very last person one can excuse. A man of the law with professional knowledge! What can have made you do it?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Suborn Pugh. Are you telling me you didn't? Do you deny you saw the man?"

"We met: that's true."

"So you admit it?"

143.

"Of course I admit it."

"And you pressed him to say-for what reason I can't imagine-that he took part in a conspiracy with other officers to pervert the course of Justice in the case of those poachin' fellers at Ma.s.singham who shot at Verney."

"Poor Pugh."

"What's that?" demanded the Colonel, whose hearing had begun to fail a little.

"I was thinking aloud, sir. May I see Pugh?"

"Naturally you cannot see him. A most improper suggestion."

"But if I'm accused . . ."

"You are not accused. No action will be taken. Do you want this bruited abroad? Superintendent Blair, though as mystified as I am about the whole business, agrees with me that this is not a matter that should be aired publicly and that the best course will be to transfer Pugh to another place, as has been done already, and forget the whole distressing incident. He has seen the Chief Constable about it."

"A very tidy and agreeable solution, I must say. Very typical of Blair."

"What I do not find agreeable," the Colonel said, "is your att.i.tude to this affair, which has come as a most profound shock to me. You will of course apologise."

"I do to you, sir. I am most deeply sorry to have distressed you."

"You will apologise to the Superintendent, which will be more to the point."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

Colonel Deverel listened in silence to what followed. This was because after the first few words his emotions began to choke him, and by the time they had got to Blair's part in the affair of Piggott's chisel he had become so painfully apoplectic that Justin began to fear for him. 'J usr like that old c.o.c.k,' he thought, remembering a salmon he had landed the previous summer. A too squeamish fisherman, he had felt sorry for the salmon then and he felt sorry for the Colonel now and would have liked to return him to his own element. The gaff was in, however, and the victim lashing out in convulsive movement: "I'll not believe a word of it. A Police conspiracy indeed! Those men were guilty, and who should know it better than me? I committed them."

"On the evidence before you, sir."

"Conclusive evidence. Do you imagine I've forgotten it? Conclusive of guilt. The footprints: they were enough in themselves. The paper in Kelly's pocket. There was a trouser b.u.t.ton too. Then the Verneys' evidence. Are you suggesting they conspired?"

"I think they were mistaken."

"My boy, it is you who have been mistaken; you have been misled," the Colonel said with deep earnestness, moved by the pit he saw opening before a young man whom he liked. "You have listened to gossip and been deceived by a worthless scoundrel, for that is what Sugden is. That you meant well I have no doubt, but you have been used by unscrupulous people whose only aim is to cause trouble and embarra.s.s the Police. There is no great harm done, however, apart from your approach to Pugh, and I put that down to a misguided enthusiasm which in the circ.u.mstances Blair must overlook. I ask for one thing only: your promise that you will forget this . . . this folly. Will you do that?"

"I can't. I'm sorry."

"I too am sorry," the Colonel said. "You are a young man and impulsive, and there is time to recognise it and mend your ways. But not much time. Do you understand me?"

"I think I do, sir."

"I think you do too, but let me make it quite plain. If you persist in a course which I regard as mischievous, then you do it with your eyes open. I can't help you any longer. Nor will you be allowed to see my daughter. The engagement will be at an end."

XVII.

'd.a.m.ned if I'll let him dictate to us!' thought Justin. It was a long time since he had felt so warmly and companionably of Georgina. The memories of the old rapturous days of country walks and b.a.l.l.s at the a.s.sembly Rooms had seemed very distant lately, and though he had not supposed that this was anything more than happened to other couples caught in a long engagement once the delirium of first love was over, he had been aware of a feeling of void and a vague longing and regret which had disturbed him greatly. Now it had gone. I'll see her,' he thought. They'll never stop me. But I must make it easy for her and not embarra.s.s her. I must catch her alone.'

M5.

THE Ma.s.sIXGHAM AFFAIR.

For the next two days, in every moment he could spare from his office, he haunted the Warbury Road. Showers of sleet raged across the plain from hills whose crests were white in fugitive gleams of sunshine, and the roads were ankle deep in slush which the traffic churned up into a mess of the consistency of glue. He remained buoyed up with a feeling of excitement. He had written her and hoped for some sign. It would surely be possible for even the most obedient daughter to go out unchaperoned in the pony chaise, say to Cousin Emily's, which more than once had been used as a pied a terre from which visits could be launched on his office. But nothing happened. He might have been a tramp out there in the bitter weather watching the social round go by-the phaetons in the drive, the lighted windows in the dusk.

On the third afternoon he returned home much earlier than usual, and as he came up the path between the laurels he had a vision which he had not had for years, of a small boy hurrying home from school with a satchel on his back, and Flo's pigtails as she stood under the mistletoe.

"Is that you, dearest?" he heard her call out.

In the drawing-room she had rung for tea. "You look quite exhausted, dearest," she remarked compa.s.sionately. "I know one must say nothing against Mr Harris, who is above criticism and can do no wrong, but in my opinion he is much to blame. You have a bad colour."

"Are you blaming the poor chap for that?"

"Someone is to blame. You're surely not still worrying about that man-what was his name? Sugden?-and that attempt on poor dear Mr Verney?"

"I've not seen Sugden for ages."

"You quite relieve me. Really I was distressed to think of you in such a company of desperadoes. How Mr Harris permitted it . . ."

"Harris is my clerk."

"True, but he has great influence on you, as anyone can see, and if he had wished to stop it . . ." She broke off and added breathlessly: "It's not some trouble with Georgina?"

Once Flo had got on to a problem there was really no point in trying to dislodge her, and resignedly he waited for the lamentations to begin-'Your poor father! . . . And such a perfect match! ... so well bred ... so ladylike ... a dear good girl.' To his astonishment she said nothing, but continued to stare at him, her eyes very round and bright with an anxiety which he found unnerving. "Now you're not to worry," he tried to rea.s.sure her. "Her father and I . . . have had a disagreement, that's all."

"My dear!"

"Nothing that can't be mended. However, it makes it a bit awkward for me to call on her just now."

"Can I help? Suppose I ask her here, dearest?"

He could have embraced her. "The very thing," he agreed happily. "It seems a bit steep on you, that's all, dragging you in. You see they may have told her things at home . . . about this Ma.s.singham business-that I'm stubborn and interfering . . . and a Radical and so on."

Flo let out the beginning of a wail at this last horrific notion, but stifled it and responded loyally, even pa.s.sionately: "I'm sure you're not."

"Well it doesn't matter if it's only what they think. But we must find out what Georgina thinks. I'm hoping that she'll see my side of it."

"I know she will."

"And if she sees it . . . well, they'll listen to her, Flo."

"Of course."

"Just as they did over that business of the engagement. Remember how to begin with they wouldn't hear of it? Yes, if you could only in some way manage to get her to come here. . . ."

The very next afternoon at three she was in the drawing-room at 'The Laurels', splendid in royal blue serge trimmed with fur, with fur hat and m.u.f.f, the most elegant and eligible young woman in Smedwick. He only wished he could have been at ease with her. All the way from the office, out of which he had been prised by an urgent note from home, he had been reminding himself of his past neglect and wondering about the future, yet somehow neither bad conscience nor the problem of Colonel Deverel seemed quite at the root of the anxiety with which he watched her seat herself in one of the tall rosewood chairs and saw Flo slip tactfully out 'to make tea'.

"It's your father," he plunged in directly they were alone. "Of course, you've heard what happened. I tried for two whole days to see you. I didn't like to call, couldn't make any kind of contact until I hit on the idea of Flo-or rather Flo hit on it herself. Thank goodness you've come. I was so afraid you wouldn't. I thought you'd still be furious with me over that bazaar affair."

147.

THE Ma.s.sIXGHAM AFFAIR.

"Oh, but I am. Quite furious."

He came up close to her and took her hand. "Dearest Georgina, you are so good to me and I haven't deserved it one bit. I've been so shamefully offhand."

"I know," she said, withdrawing it.

"And inattentive."

"So you have. And quite cruel and vexing to poor Papa. Aren't you ashamed of that?"

But he could see that far from being really angry with him and taking her own line in the old peremptory way, she was playing a game, uncertain how to treat him. He found it encouraging. "I'm ashamed of hurting you," he corrected her, getting possession of her hand again without much difficulty.

"And not Papa?"

"That's different."

"Why? Why did you have to quarrel with him? Surely you could have put things tactfully?"

"I tried."

"Or not have bothered him at all with it. You can't imagine the trouble you made for me. He even talked of ending our engagement. It's all nonsense, of course, and already he's beginning to come round. But you must give up these adventures of yours around the town."

There was a pause and then he repeated, "Adventures?" not really understanding.

"Isn't that the word? I'm sorry. This Ma.s.singham business. Anyway you must give it up."

He said slowly: "I'm afraid I can t do that."

"Why ever not?"

"I just can't, dearest, that's all."

He was looking at her unhappily, wondering how he could explain without using words like 'principle' and 'duty' which were smug and which she might be in no mood to understand. He had not, he reflected sadly, had much experience in refusing her things.

"But it's perverse," she berated him. "You must have some reason for preferring strangers, criminals to us. Papa says that those men you're worrying about aren't even clients."

"That's quite true."

"And that you're just stirring up the mud for notoriety's sake and to make trouble for everyone. I don't believe that." Her hand was still in his and he felt its warm pressure against his own. "I said I knew you better. That however mistaken you might be you'd never act spitefully or out of mischief or do anything to hurt me."

"You know I wouldn't."

"Then why so perverse? You must see what you're doing by being so stubborn-that Papa will never consent to our marriage as things are. He's quite determined."

"But if I'm determined, that's wrong? Haven't I a right to an opinion?"

"Not to a foolish opinion," she burst out impatiently. "You are making yourself ridiculous with these enquiries in every hole and corner."

"I can't help that."

"But you are making us ridiculous too, and I won't have it, it's not to be borne. Papa is right: if this goes on we shall become a laughing stock in Smedwick, and you surely can't want that?"

"Of course not. And it won't happen if you'll only believe in me."

"I used to believe in you," she said, and suddenly she was leaning forward, almost in his arms, and he could see the charming curve of her neck and the lips very slightly parted as he remembered from earlier and gentler days. "I believed you loved me. I never thought that you'd refuse me anything that I really wished for. How can you be so cruel to me?"

He gazed at her, unable to put into words what it was he held by and must continue to hold if there was to be any respect and love between them.

"Because, Justin, it's a straight choice, you see. Either you love me . . ." Her lips brushed against his cheek and he could feel the warmth of her body close against him. "We could be married. We could be married quite soon and I'll never ask another thing of you, never, you shall have it your own way always. Shall it be that?"

He didn't answer, and suddenly she had started back, thrusting him away, her voice rising in a wail of incredulity like a child deprived of some greatly prized possession. "Why, I believe you've As he trudged forlornly back to his office in the twilight under a sky heavy and ominous with snow he was still trying to take in what had happened. The break had come so bewilderingly at the very time when he had imagined that her natural impatience with him M9.

was giving way to kinder thoughts, but if he understood it at all he blamed himself for having failed her. He saw that he had expected too much and given too little. And he had explained nothing. His own deeply felt conviction that no one should accept dictation from another on a matter of principle had never been put to her at all, and it was with shame that he remembered how he had simply a.s.sumed she would be indifferent to such arguments and indeed to the idea that there was anything more at stake than the chance that people might find them ridiculous and laugh at them.

The impulse was strong to turn back, to find her again and say all the things he should have said-to say also that he loved her, which was the greatest omission of all. The stubbornness that had been one of the factors in driving them apart was acting now on the other side, to make him hold to the agreeably ordered world he had made for himself, in which Georgina had been the T>right particular star'. He did not come of a race that relinquished things easily.

But he did not turn back, and with every second the possibility of doing so receded. At first his reasoning was very practical. Enough had been said for one day. He must give her time for second thoughts. Only gradually, as he climbed the office stairs and sat himself down in the familiar chair, did the knowledge come to him that there was no point in going back because the positions they had taken up were utterly irreconcilable. And he was glad. He could hardly credit that this ending of all he had hoped for with Georgina should bring him nothing but relief, but that was what he began to feel with increasing certainty as the first flurries of snow beat against the panes. No feelings of guilt were proof against it. He went to the window and looked out across the market-place to the fights in the shops and offices across the way, small beacons in the dusk through which the snowflakes were whirling, and he felt an extraordinary sense of release, as though some intolerable weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he was a free man again.

It was about five when he heard voices in the outer office. He rose from his desk and went towards the door, only a step or two at first, for to go nearer was to eavesdrop on his clerk, a crime only committed by very young solicitors in great despair of clients. Mr Rees's training had been explicit on this point, but as a fiercer flurry of sleet lashed up against the panes he forgot it. "I'll not can see 'im then?" a voice demanded. He had not heard it above twice before, but he recognised it; had perhaps recognised it some moments back when he had first realised he had a client. Longford. There was no mistaking the vernacular, far broader than Sugden's quick and canny speech. And Miss Kelly presumably. The inseparables.

But when he opened the door he found only Longford, loutish in velveteens, standing by the clerk's desk like a big lad hauled up to the master for a thrashing. Not that it wouldn't be deserved, he thought, remembering the explosion of light and thunder in the darkness of the street, but he had too much curiosity to send him packing, no matter what Harris might think. "Come in if you wish," he said, leading the way into his room.

Seen at close quarters there was something different about the man: a kind of suppressed excitement that had not been there on those other occasions when Miss Kelly had been spokesman. It was like watching a wax model that had suddenly acquired a life of its own together with certain intentions and desires, though exactly what they might prove to be was not clear, and perhaps it was just as well.