The Woman in the Wardrobe Read online

  “I shan’t,” said Rambler solemnly. “And now, if you will excuse me, I am going for a bathe. It may help…”

  He went out quickly through the French window, snatching Verity’s costume from the apple-tree as he did so. (“A shame,” thought Verity. “In other circumstances he would have been more appreciative.”) Aloud, he too excused himself, but with more ceremony.

  “You are a gentleman, sir,” said Richard Tudor, tossing back his locks from his pallid face. “You have been trained in the proper tradition.”

  Mr Verity, who was not sensible of having been trained at all, bowed slightly.

  “Who were your parents?” pursued Tudor.

  “I never knew my father,” said Verity, moving to the door. “It is said he died of laughing on his sixth reading of the ‘Bab Ballads’.”

  “I meant—what family were your parents?”

  “Oh, I see. Well, my father was nothing. His family were all Stock Exchange. My mother was different. When I was ten she fell violently in love with a carpenter.”

  “A carpenter?”

  “Yes. The neighbours put it down to religious mania. He was one of the men working on the annexe to our house. I recall that the extension acquired eleven windows more than it needed before she let him go. Seven bay and four dormer.”

  Mr Tudor stared in bewilderment.

  “Come,” said Verity kindly, “be so good as to accompany me to the Post Office. I have some business to conduct with a friend abroad.”

  “Political business?” asked Tudor in a hushed voice.

  “No, lapidary. I am in process of buying a statue.”

  Tudor looked crestfallen, but consented to accompany the old man into the open air.

  The High Street of Amnestie was about three hundred yards of narrow, cobbled road, descending in a steep slope from ‘The Charter’ to the square. It was flanked on either side by tumble-down shops, above which showed the close-netted windows of the rooms where their owners lived. The post office was at the very bottom in the square itself, and the two men strode swiftly down the hill towards it.

  “This afternoon you can examine my documents,” said Tudor magnanimously.

  “That is very good of you. Unfortunately, this afternoon I shall be rather busy.”

  “With the investigation of this man’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “A triviality not worth the enquiry. He was an evil little person. You should not waste your talents on such an affair.”

  “As I remember it,” said Verity with a smile, “we are all of us ‘sub lege’—even the King.”

  “I have never subscribed to that,” Tudor replied grandly. “This notion of everybody’s being under the same law is fine enough in theory; but in practice it is merely an obstacle to efficiency. An important country can only be ruled by a strong central government having unlimited power.”

  “So your ancestors believed,” said Verity.

  “Yes, and the fewer wielding the power the better.”

  “They believed that, too. I suppose the Tudor sovereigns were the most powerful England ever had.”

  “And the most efficient.”

  “Yes. Of course, they never made the mistake of saying they were above the Law. They just made the Law and said they were under it.”

  He plunged into the post office, followed by Tudor.

  Amnestie post office was a very small general store: it smelt of groceries and, because it was so dark, an electric lamp burned always over the counter. Mr Verity squeezed himself with difficulty among the open baskets of lentils and split peas, and approached the end of the counter that had a brass grille before it.

  “Good morning!” he boomed into the darkness. “Is anyone here?”

  There was a faint noise on the other side of the counter, and he made out two round eyes, gleaming at him through a pair of steel-framed spectacles. Mr Verity took out his eye-glass.

  “I wish to send a telegram.”

  “Aye!” The voice was shrill, but male.

  “Yes. To Smyrna.”

  A form was thrust through the grille: it was for Home use, and had to be returned. This flustered the little man behind the counter, who had “thought it was in Yorkshire.”

  Finally Mr Verity did his best, in the gloom, to write out his message to Professor Mantys. (“Besides being virtually the only man on Syrian stuff actually resident there,” he explained in an aside to Tudor, “his methods of collecting it are entirely unscrupulous. So much so that his friends call him ‘Preying Mantys’.”)

  In the meanwhile there was much rummaging through lists and comparison of prices behind the grille, and endless quotation of rates per twenty-five words. Mr Verity received the impression that it was all done in a desperate effort to get him out of the shop. If this was the intention, it finally succeeded. The little man began reading the message through, but there came a gasp at the second line, and feeble noises of protest. He had stuck at the word “Hierapolis”.

  “Begging your pardon,” he said, peering out of the darkness, “but is this English?”

  “In spelling,” Verity assured him.

  “Aye, well, you’d better write it plainer. I’ve got to spell it out, y’know, and the girl at Carrington’s rather deaf!”

  Mr Verity was now convinced that the message would never get there at all: so he asked for it back again, very politely, and bought a tin of fruit salts instead.

  “That’s easier, isn’t it?” said the little man affably.

  “Certainly,” Mr Verity agreed. “Have you ever heard of a man called Winnidge hereabouts?”

  The man scratched his head: “Winnidge?… No, can’t say I have. Oh, but wait a bit… Yes, I’ve heard the name once or twice. Can’t say where… Does he live here?”

  “I believe so,” said Verity.

  “Well, I don’t go out much, y’know. I could ask my son.”

  “Thank you, but don’t give yourself the trouble.” Mr Verity delved into his pocket. “I owe you half a crown, I believe.”

  All this time Tudor had been waiting in the doorway, forming a silhouette of proud isolation against the noonday sky.

  “There you are!” he said contemptuously when Verity rejoined him in the street. “The reign of democracy! What could be sillier than giving common people public positions involving tasks which are obviously too difficult for them?”

  “That man is fully adequate for his normal duties,” Verity replied, as they began their slow toil up the hill. “It was I, not the Government, who gave him the task which was too much for him.”

  “Locals!” Tudor snorted indignantly.

  “In your admiration for a centralised government, do not forget that Elizabethan England was virtually run by J.P.s.”

  “Under close supervision.”

  “I wonder exactly how close any supervision could have been with roads like theirs.”

  Tudor shrugged and said nothing. He was clearly not used to being crossed. Verity warmed to his subject.

  “In any case, you don’t seem to appreciate that a shift of authority has occurred over the centuries. Granting that you are of royal absolutist stock, and even that you are rightful king of this country, I can imagine no worse ruler for the twentieth century—if you don’t mind my saying so—than a Tudor. As for a combination of Tudor and Spaniard—that is quite unthinkable! The union of Mary with Philip was bad enough!”

  “Mary was a much-misunderstood woman,” Tudor said shortly.

  “That is irrelevant. If she was misunderstood then, she would be misunderstood today. So would you.”

  “I fail to understand.”

  “Because I am the real ruler of this country—I and the hundreds like me who exercise sway in the name of the people. It is this authority—from which we derive our just powers—that makes our individual weaknesses irrelevant. You are a Catholic: you know that the character of an ordained priest doesn’t matter. Well, nor does that of an enrolled policeman.”

  “
I think that is more than a little blasphemous!” Tudor said stiffly.

  Verity ignored the remark.

  “I myself am not an enrolled policeman: by my celebrated alliances with the Force I have, however, participated in its merit. The result is that, temporarily at any rate, my power is unlimited. Think of it! At this moment I could issue an order and have all the women in ‘The Charter’ Hotel standing on one leg in the garden, simply by declaring it necessary. They would do it like a shot—because they have really commended themselves to me for protection just as the barons did to you in days gone by. Standing like that at my order would be their form of boon-work. They do it because they know the alternative. If they don’t obey me I shall leave them to the mercy of each other here in Amnestie, or anywhere else it happens to be—and that might mean their being shot as Maxwell was shot.”

  “I think you are utterly heartless. I have no desire to listen to any more of this talk!”

  “I am sorry you find it offensive. It is nevertheless true—almost drearily obvious. There would be absolutely no point in acclaiming a Tudor now: the type of protection he could offer is no longer needed. Scotland Yard has supplanted the Star Chamber—the old reservation still remaining.”

  “And that is?”

  “Well, I can command the women of Amnestie to behave like storks for an unrevealed reason because they trust the wisdom of my intentions. But if I were to suggest that they did the same thing in the garden stark naked, they would understand my intentions only too well and promptly refuse. Such things do not appertain to the mystery of Kingship.”

  They were now at the Hotel. Mr Verity handed over his tin of fruit salts and, with a courteous “Good day”, passed inside.

  Mr Tudor stood dumbfounded at the threshold, choking with rage to which he was evidently incapable of giving vent. When finally he did bring something out, it was neither opposing argument nor imprecation.

  “Very well!” he said quietly, to himself. “Very well! I know something that can help you—help you very much. Just you see if I tell it!”

  But Mr Verity was out of earshot.

  As the old man passed through into the hall, Miss Burton came down the stairs, still flushed from her recent interview. He approached her smiling.

  “If you could spare me a few minutes, I should be very grateful, Miss Burton.”

  “Well, sir…” She looked startled. “It’s getting on for lunch-time and the tables aren’t laid yet.”

  “I’m sure Miss Framer will excuse you for a moment. This is really very important.”

  He took her arm and led her back through the lounge and into the garden. Inspector Jackson was still at his table: he stared with surprised, but preoccupied eyes, as they passed through.

  It was warm and bright in the garden, and the strong smell of wild-mint filled the air. At the bottom, near the gate which led to the beach, was a pool: standing by its edge they watched the reflection of thin clouds move slowly across it, like javelins of cotton-wool.

  “Beautiful,” said Alice. Drooping silver fish were swimming sleepily around in circles. “It’s as if they were swimming in the sky through the branches of the trees.”

  “How much are you going to tell me?” asked Verity.

  She faced him coldly.

  “Tell you? But I’ve told you all I know.”

  “You’ve told me nothing,” he said gently. “Nothing that’s important. That’s why I brought you down here, away from the atmosphere of policemen and cross-examinations. You see, I must know some more.”

  She gave him a quick glance.

  “The police don’t believe me, then?”

  “They don’t disbelieve you,” said Verity.

  “But it’s a pretty tall story to swallow, all the same?”

  “I’m afraid it is. Almost as tall as your being a waitress.”

  “Does that show through so much?” She looked suddenly tired and dispirited. Then she tossed her head with a touch of anger. “It’s no use! Even if you are on my side, I have only your word for it!”

  “Look, my dear, it isn’t a question of sides. I need the truth. If you persist in acting like a Woman of Mystery—and not a very successful one, either—then you have only yourself to blame for what happens. You obviously have a great deal to do with this business: Inspector Rambler thinks so, and he is rarely wrong.”

  She looked at him in silence. Her eyes were the softest feature in a rather hard face. Assuredly Miss Burton could be ruthless, if she desired to be.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “There’s little to tell.”

  “About Maxwell.”

  Verity waited. All the crickets seemed to stop scraping too. He realised that there was very little time left before Rambler came back from his bathe—when whatever confidence he had managed to inspire would be instantly lost.

  “I thought once I could do it,” she said. “I thought once I could escape from the past, and begin a new life.”

  “What was the old? I only press for details which I must have.”

  “For instance?”

  There was a note of challenge in her voice.

  “You are right to be suspicious,” he said gravely. “I should be, too, were I in your position.”

  “You speak as if my arrest were a foregone conclusion!”

  Verity looked at her regretfully. “It almost is,” he said.

  If he had expected some sort of expostulation, he was quite mistaken. She looked away from him up the garden, her lips moving slightly and her hands clenched. After a moment he hazarded a question.

  “Where were you working when he found you?”

  “In the office. I—I had been very foolish.”

  “Of course, or he wouldn’t have been interested in you.”

  “I know that now.” She turned to him again. “But not then. Then he said he only wanted to help me—and I believed him. I did it…”

  “Yes?”

  “For my father. You see, I was the only support. His wife had died long ago, and he was quite incapable…”

  “You stole?”

  She nodded, startled at his bluntness.

  “Quite a deal of money. When he helped me find a job with a friend of his I was more grateful than I could ever hope to explain. It was a good job—a salary of almost eight pounds a week. I didn’t know that his—this ‘friend’ had been forced to take me by Mr Maxwell. You see, Mr Maxwell knew something about him too, and—”

  “There’s no need to explain that. I know a great deal about Mr Maxwell.”

  “Did you know him yourself?” she asked quickly.

  “I never met him in life. I never wish to see his picture.”

  “He was a terrible man. He had—well, no motive for what he did. I used to feel sometimes he was revenging himself on all of us for something that happened long ago.”

  “Did you know him—very well?”

  His emphasis made her pause once more. A dragon-fly shot quivering across the surface of the pool. Then she nodded again.

  “I see. For how long?”

  “Months. Until I met Ted.”

  “Ted?”

  “Ted Winnidge. He was the most wonderful person I had ever met. The kindest, oh! the kindest——”

  “Did he know about Maxwell?”

  “No. I didn’t dare to tell him.”

  “That was foolish.”

  “I know it now. But then—then he was always there, just waiting. He could do anything he wanted. At any time he could have told the police, don’t you see? He threatened to—any time I left him!”

  “And wasn’t that worth risking?”

  “With Ted? Perhaps. But I was frightened—I didn’t dare. Not for months I didn’t. Of course he couldn’t understand it at all—why I kept putting things off… It was terrible…”

  Mr Verity squeezed her arm sympathetically.

  “But you did tell him in the end?”

  “Yes. In the end.”

  “When was this
?”

  “When I couldn’t stand it any longer. I didn’t care what happened to me then. I came down here—”

  “Down to Amnestie?”

  “Yes. This is where he lives now. I came down here determined to make a clean breast of things—to start again. I went to see Ted. I told him everything. It was horrible, but I did it. I told him everything.”

  Once again Verity saw that look of triumph and relief on her small, clear face. Once again it made him afraid. “She could commit murder as easily as I throw pebbles into this pond,” he reflected. And why not? What woman worth her salt would not, when all this was at stake?

  “What did he say?” he asked out loud.

  “Of course he was very angry.”

  “You told him about your own theft?”

  “I had to. I wasn’t afraid. I’d paid in full.”

  “And then?”

  “He wanted to go to London right away to see Maxwell. If he had, I think he’d have killed him on the spot. In the end I think he only wrote a letter.”

  “And instead, Maxwell came down to see you?”

  “Yes. I promised Ted that I would never see him again. I took a job here, and then I wrote a letter to him saying I was never coming back. I told him he could do what he liked. That’s what I told him!”

  “And you put the address here on your letter?”

  “Yes. On purpose. I wanted him to know where I was. I wanted him to know I was living here, engaged to Ted. I wanted him to know I was free of him.”

  “Free of him?” Verity’s blue eyes looked at her piercingly. “Is that why you brought him his meals every day when he appeared here?”

  She flushed.

  “I wanted time to think. One word and he would have ruined my name here—and don’t you see, this is Ted’s home now. This is where he wants to settle—where I want to live.”

  “So you spent your time ‘reasoning with him’?”

  Alice looked puzzled at the sarcasm in his tone.

  “I mean you talked to him? Cunningham heard you talking with him the night before the murder. It sounded like quite a row,” he said.

  “That man—he’s just a liar!”

  “Nevertheless, you did go there?”