"You understood that, I suppose, all along," said Philip.
"I warned Rachel about it," said Leo, "but of course she didn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. She wanted them to be her own children."
"Tina's always the dark horse, to my mind," said Philip. "Perhaps it's the half of her that isn't white. Who was the father, do you know?"
"He was a seaman of some kind, I believe. Possibly a Lascar. The mother," added Leo dryly, "was unable to say."
"One doesn't know how she reacts to things, or what she thinks about. She says so little." Philip paused, and then shot out a question: "What does she know about this business that she isn't telling?"
He saw Leo Argyle's hand, that had been turning over papers, stop. There was a moment's pause, and then Leo said: "Why should you think she isn't telling everything she knows?"
"Come now, sir, it's pretty obvious, isn't it?"
"It's not obvious to me," said Leo.
She knows something," said Philip. "Something damaging, do you think, about some particular person?"
"I think, Philip, if you'll forgive me for saying so, that it is rather unwise to speculate about these things. One can easily imagine so much."
"Are you warning me off, sir?" "Is it really your business, Philip?" "Meaning I'm not a policeman?"
"Yes, that's what I meant. Police have to do their duty. They have to enquire into things."
"And you don't want to enquire into them?" "Perhaps," said Leo, "I'm afraid of what I should find."
Philip's hand tightened excitedly in his chair. He said softly: "Perhaps you know who did it. Do you, sir?"
"No."
The abruptness and vigour of Leo's reply startled Philip.
"No," said Leo, bringing his hand down on the desk. He was suddenly no longer the frail, attenuated, withdrawn personality that Philip knew so well. "I don't know who did it! D'you hear? I don't know. I haven't the least idea. I don't -1 don't want to know."
Chapter 17
"And what are you doing, Hester, my love?" asked Philip.
In his wheeled-chair he was propelling himself along the passage. Hester was leaning out of the window half-way along it. She started and drew her head in.
"Oh, it's you," she said.
"Are you observing the universe, or considering suicide?" asked Philip.
She looked at him defiantly.
"What makes you say a thing like that?"
"Obviously it was in your mind," said Philip. "But, frankly, Hester, if you are contemplating such a step, that window is no good. The drop's not deep enough. Think how unpleasant it would be for you with a broken arm and a broken leg, say, instead of the merciful oblivion you are craving?"
"Micky used to climb down the magnolia tree from this window. It was his secret way in and out. Mother never knew."
"The things parents never know! One could write a book about it. But if it's suicide you are contemplating, Hester, just by the summer-house would be a better place to jump from."
"Where it juts out over the river? Yes, one would be dashed on the rocks below?
"The trouble with you, Hester, is that you're so melodramatic in your imaginings. Most people are quite satisfied with arranging themselves tidily in the gas oven or measuring themselves out an enormous number of sleeping pills."
"I'm glad you're here," said Hester unexpectedly. "You don't mind talking about things, do you?"
"Well, actually, I haven't much else to do nowadays, said Philip. "Come into my room and we'll do some more talking." As she hesitated, he went on: "Mary's downstairs, gone to prepare me some delicious little morning mess with her own fair hands."
"Mary wouldn't understand," said Hester.
"No," Philip agreed, "Mary wouldn't understand in the least."
Philip propelled himself along and Hester walked beside him. She opened the door of the sitting-room and he wheeled himself in. Hester followed.
"But you understand," said Hester. "Why?"
"Well, there's a time, you know, when one thinks about such things... When this business first happened to me, for instance, and I knew that I might be a cripple for life..."
"Yes," said Hester, "that must have been terrible. Terrible. And you were a pilot, too, weren't you? You flew."
"Up above the world so high, like a tea-tray in the sky," agreed Philip.
"I'm terribly sorry," said Hester. "I am really. I ought to have thought about it more, and been more sympathetic!"
"Thank God you weren't," said Philip. "But anyway, that phase is over now. One gets used to anything, you know. That's something, Hester, that you don't appreciate at the moment. But you'll come to it. Unless you do something very rash and very silly first. Now come on, tell me all about it. What's the trouble? I suppose you've had a row with your boy friend, the solemn young doctor. Is that it?"
"It wasn't a row," said Hester. "It was much worse than a row."
"It will come right," said Philip.
"No, it won't," said Hester. "It can't - ever."
"You're so extravagant in your terms. Everything's black and white to you, isn't it, Hester? No half-tones."
"I can't help being like that," said Hester. "I've always been like it. Everything I thought I could do or wanted to do has always gone wrong. I wanted to have a life of my own, to be someone, to do something. It was all no good. I was no good at anything. I've often thought of killing myself. Ever since I was fourteen."
Philip watched her with interest. He said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice: "Of course people do kill themselves a good deal, between fourteen and nineteen. It's an age in life when things are very much out of proportion. Schoolboys kill themselves because they don't think they can pass examinations and girls kill themselves because their mothers won't let them go to the pictures with unsuitable boy friends. It's a kind of period where everything appears to be in glorious Technicolor. Joy or despair. Gloom or unparalleled happiness. One snaps out of it. The trouble with you is, Hester, it's taken you longer to snap out of it than most people."
"Mother was always right," said Hester. "All the things she wouldn't let me do and I wanted to do. She was right about them and I was wrong. I couldn't bear it, I simply couldn't bear it! So I thought I'd got to be brave. I'd got to go off on my own. I'd got to test myself. And it all went wrong. I wasn't any good at acting."
"Of course you weren't," said Philip. "You've got no discipline. You can't, as they say in theatrical circles, take production. You're too busy dramatising yourself, my girl. You're doing it now."
"And then I thought I'd have a proper love affair," said Hester. "Not a silly, girlish thing. An older man. He was married, and he'd had a very unhappy life."
"Stock situation," said Philip, "and he exploited it, no doubt."
"I thought it would be a - oh, a grand passion. You're not laughing at me?" She stopped, looking at Philip suspiciously.
"No, I'm not laughing at you, Hester," said Philip gently. "I can see quite well that it must have been hell for you."
"It wasn't a grand passion," said Hester bitterly. "It was just a silly, cheap little affair. None of the things he told me about his life, or his wife, were true. I - I'd just thrown myself at his head. I'd been a fool, a silly, cheap little fool."
"You've got to learn a thing, sometimes, by experience," said Philip. "None of that's done you any harm, you know, Hester. It's probably helped you to grow up. Or it would help you if you let it."
"Mother was so - so competent about it all," said Hester, in a tone of resentment. "She came along and settled everything and told me that if I really wanted to act I'd better go to the dramatic school and do it properly. But I didn't really want to act, and I knew by that time I was no good. So I came home. What else could I do?"
"Probably heaps of things," said Philip. "But that was the easiest."
"Oh, yes," said Hester with fervour. "How well you understand. I'm terribly weak, you see. I always do want to do the easy thing. And if I rebel against it, it's a
lways in some silly way that doesn't really work."
"You're terribly unsure of yourself, aren't you?" said Philip gently.
"Perhaps that's because I'm only adopted," said Hester. "I didn't find out about that, you know, not till I was nearly sixteen. I knew the others were and then I asked one day, and -1 found that I was adopted too. It made me feel so awful, as though I didn't belong anywhere."
"What a terrible girl you are for dramatising yourself," said Philip.
"She wasn't my mother," said Hester. "She never really understood a single thing I felt. Just looked at me indulgently and kindly and made plans for me. Oh! I hated her. It's awful of me, I know it's awful of me, but I hated her!"
"Actually, you know," said Philip, "most girls go through a short period of hating their own mothers. There wasn't really anything very unusual about that."
"I hated her because she was right," said Hester. "It's so awful when people are always right. It makes you feel more and more inadequate. Oh, Philip, everything's so terrible. What am I going to do? What can I do?"
"Marry that nice young man of yours," said Philip, "and settle down. Be a good little G.P.'s wife. Or isn't that magnificent enough for you?"
"He doesn't want to marry me now," said Hester mournfully.
"Are you sure? Did he tell you so? Or are you only imagining it?"
"He thinks I killed Mother."
"Oh," said Philip, and paused a minute. "Did you?" he asked.
She wheeled round at him.
"Why do you ask me that? Why?"
"I thought it would be interesting to know," said Philip. "All in the family, so to speak. Not for passing on to the authorities."
"If I did kill her, do you think I'd tell you?" said Hester.
"It would be much wiser not to," agreed Philip.
"He told me he knew I'd killed her," said Hester. "He told me that if I'd only admit it, if I'd confess it to him, that it would be all right, that we'd be married, that he'd look after me. That - that he wouldn't let it matter between us."
Philip whistled.
"Well, well, well," he said.
"What's the good?" asked Hester. "What's the good of telling him I didn't kill her? He wouldn't believe it, would he?"
"He ought to," said Philip, "if you tell him so."
"I didn't kill her," said Hester. "You understand? I didn't kill her. I didn't, I didn't, I didn't." She broke off. "That sounds unconvincing," she said.
"The truth often does sound unconvincing," Philip encouraged her.
"We don't know," said Hester. "Nobody knows. We all look at each other. Mary looks at me. And Kirsten. She's so kind to me, so protective. She thinks it's me, too. What chance have I? That's it, don't you see? What chance have I? It would be better, much better, to go down to the Point, throw myself over..."
"For God's sake, don't be a fool, Hester. There are other things to do."
"What other things? How can there be? I've lost everything. How can I go on living day after day?" She looked at Philip. "You think I'm wild, unbalanced. Well, perhaps I did kill her. Perhaps it's remorse gnawing at me. Perhaps I can't forget - here." She put her hand dramatically to her heart.
"Don't be a little idiot," said Philip. He shot out an arm and pulled her to him. Hester half fell across his chair. He kissed her.
"What you need is a husband, my girl," he said. "Not that solemn young ass, Donald Craig, with his head full of psychiatry and jargon. You're silly and idiotic and - completely lovely, Hester."
The door opened. Mary Durrant stood abruptly still in the doorway. Hester struggled to an upright position and Philip gave his wife a sheepish grin.
"I'm just cheering up Hester, Polly," he said. "Oh," said Mary.
She came in carefully, placing the tray on a small table. Then she wheeled the table up beside him. She did not look at Hester. Hester looked uncertainly from husband to wife.
"Oh well," she said, "perhaps I'd better go and - go and -" She didn't finish. She went out of the room, shutting the door behind her.
"Hester's in a bad way," said Philip. "Contemplating suicide. I was trying to dissuade her," he added.
Mary did not answer.
He stretched out a hand towards her. She moved away from him.
"Polly, have I made you angry? Very angry?"
She did not reply.
"Because I kissed her, I suppose? Come, Polly, don't grudge me one silly little kiss. She was so lovely and so silly - and I suddenly felt - well, I felt it would be fun to be a gay dog again and have a flirtation now and then. Come, Polly, kiss me. Kiss and make friends."
Mary Durrant said: "Your soup will get cold if you don't drink it." She went through the door to the bedroom and shut it behind her.
Chapter 18
"There's a young lady down below wanting to see you, sir."
"A young lady?" Calgary looked surprised. He could not think who was likely to visit him. He looked at the work which littered his desk, and frowned. The voice of the hall porter spoke again, discreetly lowered.
"A real young lady, sir, a very nice young lady." "Oh, well. Show her up then."
Calgary could not help smiling to himself slightly. The discreet undertones and the assurance tickled his sense of humour. He wondered who it could be who wanted to see him. He was completely astonished when his door bell buzzed and on going to open it he was confronted by Hester Argyle.
"You!" The exclamation came out with full surprise.
Then, "Come in, come in," he said. He drew her inside and shut the door.
Strangely enough, his impression of her was almost the same as the first time he had seen her. She was dressed with no regard to the conventions of London. She was hatless, her dark hair hanging round her face in a kind of elf-lock disarray. The heavy tweed coat showed a dark green skirt and sweater underneath. She looked as though she had just come in breathless from a walk on the moor.
"Please," said Hester, "please, you've got to help me."
"To help you?" He was startled. "In what way? Of course I'll help you if I can."
"I didn't know what to do," said Hester. "I didn't know who to come to. But someone's got to help me. I can't go on, and you're the person. You started it all."
"You're in trouble of some kind? Bad trouble?"
"We're all in trouble," said Hester. "But one's so selfish, isn't one? I mean, I only think of myself."
"Sit down, my dear," he said gently.
He cleared papers off an arm-chair and settled her there. Then he went over to his corner cupboard.
"You must have a glass of wine," he said. "A glass of dry sherry. Will that suit you?"
"If you like. It doesn't matter."
"It's very wet and cold out. You need something."
He turned, decanter and glass in hand. Hester was slumped down in the chair with a queer kind of angular grace that touched him by its complete abandonment.
"Don't worry," he said gently, as he put the glass by her side and filled it. "Things are never quite so bad as they seem, you know."
"People say that, but it's not true," said Hester. "Sometimes they're worse than they seem." She sipped the wine, then she said accusingly, "We were all right till you came. Quite all right. Then - then it all started."
"I won't pretend," said Arthur Calgary, "that I don't know what you mean. It took me completely aback when you first said that to me, but now I understand better what my - my information must have brought to you."
"So long as we thought it was Jacko -" Hester said and broke off.
"I know, Hester, I know. But you've got to go behind that, you know. What you were living in was a false security. It wasn't a real thing, it was only a thing of make-believe, of cardboard - a kind of stage scenery. Something that represented security but which was not really, and could never be, security."
"You're saying, aren't you," said Hester, "that one must have courage, that it's no good snatching at a thing because it's false and easy?" She paused a minute and then said
: "You had courage! I realise that. To come and tell us yourself. Not knowing how we'd feel, how we'd react. It was brave of you. I admire bravery because, you see, I'm not really very brave myself."
"Tell me," said Calgary gently, "tell me just what the trouble is now. It's something special, isn't it?"
"I had a dream," said Hester. "There's someone - a young man - a doctor -"
"I see," said Calgary. "You are friends, or, perhaps, more than friends?"