Twenty-three
The streamlined secretary brought Harold Crackenthorpe his usual after-
noon cup of tea.
“Thanks, Miss Ellis, I shall be going home early today.”
“I’m sure you ought really not to have come at all, Mr. Crackenthorpe,”
said Miss Ellis. “You look quite pulled down still.”
“I’m all right,” said Harold Crackenthorpe, but he did feel pulled down.
No doubt about it, he’d had a very nasty turn. Ah, well, that was over.
Extraordinary, he thought broodingly, that Alfred should have suc-
cumbed and the old man should have come through. After all, what was
he—seventy-three—seventy-four? Been an
invalid1 for years. If there was
one person you’d have thought would have been taken off, it would have
been the old man. But no. It had to be Alfred. Alfred who, as far as Harold
knew, was a healthy wiry sort of chap. Nothing much the matter with him.
He leaned back in his chair sighing. That girl was right. He didn’t feel up
to things yet, but he had wanted to come down to the office. Wanted to get
the hang of how affairs were going. Touch and go. All this—he looked
round him—the richly appointed office, the pale gleaming wood, the ex-
pensive2 modern chairs, it all looked prosperous enough, and a good thing
too! That’s where Alfred had always gone wrong. If you looked prosper-
ous, people thought you were prosperous. There were no
rumours3 going
around as yet about his financial stability. All the same, the crash couldn’t
be delayed very long. Now, if only his father had passed out instead of Al-
fred, as surely, surely he ought to have done. Practically seemed to thrive
on
arsenic4! Yes, if his father had succumbed—well, there wouldn’t have
been anything to worry about.
Still, the great thing was not to seem worried. A prosperous appearance.
Not like poor old Alfred who always looked seedy and shiftless, who
looked in fact exactly what he was. One of those small-time speculators,
never going all out boldly for the big money. In with a shady crowd here,
doing a doubtful deal there, never quite
rendering5 himself liable to pro-
secution but going very near the edge. And where had it got him? Short
periods of
affluence6 and then back to seediness and shabbiness, once
more. No broad outlook about Alfred. Taken all in all, you couldn’t say Al-
fred was much loss. He’d never been particularly fond of Alfred and with
Alfred out of the way the money that was coming to him from that old cur-
mudgeon, his grandfather, would be sensibly increased, divided not into
five shares but into four shares. Very much better.
Harold’s face brightened a little. He rose, took his hat and coat and left
the office. Better take it easy for a day or two. He wasn’t feeling too strong
yet. His car was waiting below and very soon he was weaving through
London traffic to his house.
Darwin, his manservant, opened the door.
“Her ladyship has just arrived, sir,” he said.
For a moment Harold stared at him. Alice! Good heavens, was it today
that Alice was coming home? He’d forgotten all about it. Good thing Dar-
win had warned him. It wouldn’t have looked so good if he’d gone upstairs
and looked too astonished at seeing her. Not that it really mattered, he
supposed. Neither Alice nor he had any illusions about the feeling they
had for each other. Perhaps Alice was fond of him—he didn’t know.
All in all, Alice was a great disappointment to him. He hadn’t been in
love with her, of course, but though a plain woman she was quite a pleas-
ant one. And her family and connections had
undoubtedly7 been useful.
Not perhaps as useful as they might have been, because in marrying Alice
he had been considering the position of hypothetical children. Nice rela-
tions for his boys to have. But there hadn’t been any boys, or girls either,
and all that had remained had been he and Alice growing older together
without much to say to each other and with no particular pleasure in each
other’s company.
She stayed away a good deal with relations and usually went to the Rivi-
era in the winter. It suited her and it didn’t worry him.
He went upstairs now into the drawing room and greeted her punctili-
ously.
“So you’re back, my dear. Sorry I couldn’t meet you, but I was held up in
the City. I got back as early as I could. How was San Raphael?”
Alice told him how San Raphael was. She was a thin woman with sandy-
coloured hair, a well-arched nose and vague, hazel eyes. She talked in a
well-bred,
monotonous8 and rather depressing voice. It had been a good
journey back, the Channel a little rough. The Customs, as usual, very try-
ing at Dover.
“You should come by air,” said Harold, as he always did. “So much sim-
pler.”
“I dare say, but I don’t really like air travel. I never have. Makes me
nervous.”
“Saves a lot of time,” said Harold.
Lady Alice Crackenthorpe did not answer. It was possible that her prob-
lem in life was not to save time but to occupy it. She inquired politely after
her husband’s health.
“Emma’s telegram quite alarmed me,” she said. “You were all taken ill, I
understand.”
“Yes, yes,” said Harold.
“I read in the paper the other day,” said Alice, “of forty people in a hotel
going down with food poisoning at the same time. All this refrigeration is
dangerous, I think. People keep things too long in them.”
“Possibly,” said Harold. Should he, or should he not mention arsenic?
Somehow, looking at Alice, he felt himself quite unable to do so. In Alice’s
world, he felt, there was no place for poisoning by arsenic. It was a thing
you read about in the papers. It didn’t happen to you or your own family.
But it had happened in the Crackenthorpe family….
He went up to his room and lay down for an hour or two before dress-
ing for dinner. At dinner, tête-à-tête with his wife, the conversation ran on
much the same lines.
Desultory9, polite. The mention of acquaintances and
friends at San Raphael.
“There’s a parcel for you on the hall table, a small one,” Alice said.
“Is there? I didn’t notice it.”
“It’s an extraordinary thing but somebody was telling me about a
murdered woman having been found in a barn, or something like that.
She said it was at Rutherford Hall. I suppose it must be some other Ruther-
“No,” said Harold, “no, it isn’t. It was in our barn, as a matter of fact.”
“Really, Harold! A murdered woman in the barn at Rutherford Hall—
and you never told me anything about it.”
“Well, there hasn’t been much time, really,” said Harold, “and it was all
rather unpleasant. Nothing to do with us, of course. The Press milled
around a good deal. Of course we had to deal with the police and all that
sort of thing.”
“Very unpleasant,” said Alice. “Did they find out who did it?” she added,
with rather perfunctory interest.
“Not yet,” said Harold.
“What sort of woman was she?”
“Oh, French,” said Alice, and allowing for the difference in class, her
tone was not unlike that of
Inspector12 Bacon. “Very annoying for you all,”
she agreed.
They went out from the dining room and crossed into the small study
where they usually sat when they were alone. Harold was feeling quite ex-
hausted by now. “I’ll go up to bed early,” he thought.
He picked up the small parcel from the hall table, about which his wife
had spoken to him. It was a small
neatly13 waxed parcel, done up with me-
ticulous exactness. Harold ripped it open as he came to sit down in his
usual chair by the fire.
Inside was a small tablet box bearing the label, “Two to be taken
nightly.” With it was a small piece of paper with the chemist’s heading in
Brackhampton. “Sent by request of Doctor Quimper” was written on it.
Harold Crackenthorpe frowned. He opened the box and looked at the
tablets. Yes, they seemed to be the same tablets he had been having. But
surely, surely Quimper had said that he needn’t take anymore? “You won’t
want them, now.” That’s what Quimper had said.
“What is it, dear?” said Alice. “You look worried.”
“Oh, it’s just—some tablets. I’ve been taking them at night. But I rather
thought the doctor said don’t take anymore.”
His wife said
placidly14: “He probably said don’t forget to take them.”
“He may have done, I suppose,” said Harold doubtfully.
He looked across at her. She was watching him. Just for a moment or
two he wondered—he didn’t often wonder about Alice—exactly what she
was thinking. That mild gaze of hers told him nothing. Her eyes were like
windows in an empty house. What did Alice think about him, feel about
him? Had she been in love with him once? He supposed she had. Or did
she marry him because she thought he was doing well in the City, and she
was tired of her own
impecunious15 existence? Well, on the whole, she’d
done quite well out of it. She’d got a car and a house in London, she could
travel abroad when she felt like it and get herself expensive clothes,
though goodness knows they never looked like anything on Alice. Yes, on
the whole she’d done pretty well. He wondered if she thought so. She
wasn’t really fond of him, of course, but then he wasn’t really fond of her.
They had nothing in common, nothing to talk about, no memories to
share. If there had been children—but there hadn’t been any children—
odd that there were no children in the family except young Edie’s boy.
Young Edie. She’d been a silly girl, making that foolish, hasty war-time
marriage. Well, he’d given her good advice.
He’d said: “It’s all very well, these dashing young pilots,
glamour16, cour-
age, all that, but he’ll be no good in peace time, you know. Probably be
barely able to support you.”
And Edie had said, what did it matter? She loved Bryan and Bryan loved
her, and he’d probably be killed quite soon. Why shouldn’t they have
some happiness? What was the good of looking to the future when they
might well be bombed any minute. And after all, Edie had said, the future
doesn’t really matter because some day there’ll be all grandfather’s
money.
Harold squirmed uneasily in his chair. Really, that will of his grand-
will hadn’t pleased anybody. It didn’t please the grandchildren and it
made their father quite livid. The old boy was absolutely
determined19 not
to die. That’s what made him take so much care of himself. But he’d have
to die soon. Surely, surely he’d have to die soon. Otherwise—all Harold’s
worries swept over him once more making him feel sick and tired and
giddy.
Alice was still watching him, he noticed. Those pale, thoughtful eyes,
they made him uneasy somehow.
“I think I shall go to bed,” he said. “It’s been my first day out in the City.”
“Yes,” said Alice, “I think that’s a good idea. I’m sure the doctor told you
to take things easily at first.”
“Doctors always tell you that,” said Harold.
“And don’t forget to take your tablets, dear,” said Alice. She picked up
the box and handed it to him.
He said good night and went upstairs. Yes, he needed the tablets. It
would have been a mistake to leave them off too soon. He took two of
them and swallowed them with a glass of water.
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