Patricia Wentworth - She Came Back

“Anne hadn’t!”

“Hadn’t she? She wanted to marry Philip, and she married him.”

“Why shouldn’t she?”

“No reason at all except that her mother would rather have died than let her do it. I don’t blame Anne about that-I don’t blame either of them. There wasn’t any reason why they shouldn’t marry, but if there had been it wouldn’t have made a ha’porth of difference. Jocelyns are like that. Look at Theresa Jocelyn, going off and living in a Breton château. And why? Because she took up with old Ambrose’s illegitimate granddaughter and had a furious row with the family on her account. Joyce-that was the name-Annie Joyce. Ambrose called the woman Mrs. Joyce-as near to Jocelyn as he dared go-and the son, Roger, carried it on. Annie was his daughter, and there wasn’t a bean, because Ambrose never signed his will. So when Theresa, who was only an umpteenth cousin, came blinding in and wanted the family to take Annie to their bosom and give her an income, there weren’t any takers, and she quarreled with everyone and rushed off to France and rented a château. She had quite a lot of money, and of course everyone thought she would leave it to Annie.

But she didn’t, she left it to Anne, who’d got plenty already. Sent for her to come over and told her she was going to have the lot, and she must always be kind to Annie because the poor girl was an orphan and had been done out of her rights. Philip said it was indecent, and of course it was. After all the fuss she’d made about the girl!”

Lyndall’s eyes were stormy. She hated injustice. She loved Anne. The two things struggled in her. She said like an abrupt child,

“Why did she do it?”

“Theresa? Because she was a Jocelyn-because she wanted to-because her crazy fancy for Annie Joyce was over and she’d taken a new one for Anne. She came over to the wedding and fell on their necks. A dreadfully tiresome woman, all gush and feathers. To be quite honest, I’m surprised that she had managed to keep out of having a finger in the family pie for as long as she did. The wedding was a perfectly splendid excuse, and it’s my belief she jumped at it. She was probably sick to death of her precious Annie Joyce and all set for a new craze. I believe she would have come back to England for good, but she got ill. By the time she’d sent for Anne it was too late to move her, and things were hotting up in France. That’s when the rows began. Philip put his foot down, and Anne put hers down too. He said she wasn’t to go, and she went. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so angry.”

“He’d no right to be angry!”

“My angel child, when married people begin to talk about their rights, it means something has gone pretty far wrong between them.”

Lyndall said,

“Did they make it up?”

“I don’t know.”

“It would be dreadful if they didn’t.”

Milly Armitage had her own ideas about that. Philip had certainly not been in any mood for reconciliation when he left England. She had never seen an angrier man in her life.

It would have been better if she had kept her thoughts to herself, but she was really incapable of doing so. She said,

“He was in a most frightful rage-and for the lord’s sake, why are we talking about it? It was a horrid tragic business, and it’s over. Why don’t we leave it alone instead of screwing our heads round over our shoulders and looking back like Lot ’s wife? Uncomfortable, useless things, pillars of salt. And I’ve dropped about fifty stitches with you glaring at me like a vulture.”

“Vultures don’t glare-they have horrid little hoods on their eyes.”

Milly Armitage burst out laughing.

“Come and pick up my stitches, and we’ll have a nice calming talk about natural history!”

Philip Jocelyn rang up at eight o’clock. “Who’s that?… Lyn?… All right, tell Aunt Milly I’ll be down to lunch tomorrow-or perhaps not till after lunch. Will that disorganize the rations?”

Lyn gurgled.

“I expect so.”

“Well, I shan’t know until the last minute. Anyhow I can’t make it tonight.”

“All right. Just wait a second-someone rang you up this morning.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t give any name-only asked if you were here, and when I said you were up in London she wanted to know when you would be back. I said perhaps tonight but most probably not till tomorrow, and she rang off. It was a long distance call and the line was awfully faint.”

She heard him laugh.

“The Voice on the Telephone-our great serial mystery- to be continued in our next! Don’t be apologetic-I expect she’ll keep. Give Aunt Milly my love. I kiss your hands and your feet.”

“You don’t do anything of the sort!”

“Perhaps not-it’s a sadly unpicturesque age. Goodbye, my child. Be good.” He hung up.

Lyndall put down the receiver and came back to the fire. She had changed into a warm green housecoat, and Mrs. Armitage into a shapeless garment of brown velveteen with a fur collar which was rather the worse for wear.

Lyndall said, “That was Philip.”

“So I gathered.”

“He doesn’t know whether he’ll be down for lunch tomorrow.”

Things like that never worried Mrs. Armitage. She nodded, and said with what appeared to be complete irrelevance,

“What a good thing you and Philip are not really cousins.”

Lyndall bent forward to put a log on the fire, her long, full skirt flaring out from a childish waist. The glow from the embers stung her cheeks. She murmured,

“Why?”

“Well, I just thought it was a good thing. Jocelyns are all very well, and poor Louie was very happy with Philip’s father-he was a most charming man. But that’s what it is with the Jocelyns-they’re charming. But you can have too much of them-they want diluting.”

It was at this moment that the front door bell rang.

Anne Jocelyn stood on the dark step and waited for someone to come. The taxi which had brought her from Clayford turned noisily behind her on the gravel sweep. Then it drove away. The sound receded and was gone. She stood in the dark and waited for someone to come. Presently she rang again, but almost at once the key turned in the lock. The door opened a little way and a young girl looked round it. When she saw that it was a woman standing there she stepped back, opening the door wide open.

Anne Jocelyn walked in.

“Is Sir Philip back?”

Ivy Fossett was a little bit flustered. Visitors didn’t just walk in like that after dark, not these days they didn’t. But it was a lady all right, and a lovely fur coat. She stared her eyes out at it and said,

“No, ma’am, he isn’t.”

The lady took her up sharp.

“Who is here then? Who answered the telephone this morning?”

“Mrs. Armitage, and Miss Lyndall-Miss Lyndall Armitage. It would be her answered the phone.”

“Where are they?… In the parlour? You needn’t announce me-I’ll go through.”

Ivy gaped, and watched her go. “Walked right past me as if I wasn’t there,” she told them in the kitchen, and was reproved by Mrs. Ramage, the rather more than elderly cook.

“You should have asked her name.”

Ivy tossed her head.

“She never give me a chanst!”

Anne crossed the hall. The parlour looked out to a terrace at the back. The name came down, with the white panelling, from the reign of good Queen Anne. The first Anne Jocelyn had been her god-daughter.

She put her hand on the door-knob and stood for a moment, loosening her coat, pushing it back to show the blue of the dress beneath. Her heart beat hard against her side. It isn’t every day that one comes back from the dead. Perhaps she was glad that Philip wasn’t there. She opened the door and stood on the threshold looking in.