Patricia Wentworth: Through The Wall

The tone of her voice changed for the first time. It had been grave and level. Now it was touched by a faint shade of something which might have been surprise. She said,

“Not quite so far as that.”

“Go on-I interrupted. You and Ina went to school. Were you happy?”

“Ina was. I should have been. But it was the same thing all over again-the money part of it, you know. Sometimes it came, and sometimes it didn’t. Just before I was eighteen my father came to England and died. There wasn’t any money. I learned to type, and Miss Fisher got me a job. Ina had one too, but-I told you-she married Cyril Felton. There was a lot of worry, and she can’t stand worry-it knocks her over. We’ve just managed to carry on.”

“And why were you a million miles away? Something happened. What?”

She said, “How did you know? Yes, something did happen.”

“Go on.”

She laughed.

“I don’t really believe in it, you know-not yet. I haven’t told anyone-there hasn’t been time. Perhaps if I tell you, it will make it feel real.”

“You can always try.”

Her hand moved in his, not withdrawing itself, just turning a little. When she spoke there were not quite so many of those pauses.

“It began about six months ago, only I didn’t know there was anything in it then. A Mr. Brook came into the office and asked about houses. He was oldish-rather sharp in his manner. He took a long time, going through the particulars of everything we had on our books. He asked a lot of questions-about the neighbourhood-about shops, social things-where did I shop myself-did I belong to a tennis club, a dramatic society. I thought he was asking on account of his own family. Actually, I can see now that he wanted to know how I lived, what I did. I had to tell him about Ina, to explain why I didn’t do any of the things he asked about. Of course he must have made other enquiries too-in fact I know he did. He went away without doing anything about a house, and I put him down as one of those people who just go round wasting time.”

“And what was he really?”

She said, “You’re quick.” And then, “He was my father’s brother-my uncle, Martin Brand.”

“And? What happened next?”

“Nothing for six months. Then yesterday I got a letter from a firm of solicitors-Ashton & Fenwick, Lawton Street. They’re big people, quite well known.”

“Yes.”

“They said to come up and see them-there was something to my advantage. You know, just a stiff lawyer’s letter. It didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t say anything to Ina and Cyril, but I showed it to Mr. Morton where I work, and he was very kind. He gave me the day off, and I went up-today.”

“And was there something to your advantage?”

“Yes, there was. Mr. Ashton told me about Mr. Brook being my uncle. He said he was dead and he hadn’t wished me to be told until after the funeral. Then he said that he had left me all his money. That’s the part that keeps on floating away. I just can’t get it to feel real. When I think of it-I don’t feel- quite real either.”

The hand that was holding hers closed firmly.

“You’ll get used to it. It’s surprising how soon you can get used to having money. It’s much easier than getting used to not having it.”

There was a long pause, after which she said rather faintly,

“It’s such a lot-”

He wondered what she would call a lot. What had she been managing on? Five pounds a week? With the delicate sister thrown in, to say nothing of Cyril who almost certainly didn’t earn his keep, let alone come anywhere near supporting his wife! He would have liked to know what Martin Brand’s pile amounted to, but even at this moment he did not feel quite equal to putting the question. Instead he laughed, found that it hurt him sharply, and wondered if he had a broken a rib, or ribs. Hideously inconvenient if he had.

The train of thought set up by this induced his next remark.

“I’m supposed to be flying to America in ten days’ time.”

She said in an abstracted voice,

“I liked being there. I’d like to go back. Are you going to stay?”

“Only a month. Business. My mother was an American, and I have a sister married over there-about the only relation I’ve got.”

Her hand moved. He thought the movement was involuntary.

“I’ve come in for a lot of relations as well as the money. It’s rather frightening. My uncle didn’t like them. He wrote me-an odd letter. I don’t know why he went on living with them if he felt like that.”

He began to be quite sure about the rib. It just didn’t do to laugh. He said,

“Perhaps they lived with him.”

“Oh, yes, they did. There’s a house-it sounds big-and they must have expected-they must have thought it would come to them-and the money too. I haven’t had time to think about it yet, but I shall have to.”

His hand was steady on hers.

“These things have a way of settling themselves. I shouldn’t worry about it now.”

After a very long silence she said,

“If I’d been killed, Ina would have got some of it, and the relations would have had the rest. It would have saved a lot of trouble. If we don’t get out-”

He said quite loudly and firmly,

“Oh, but we’re going to get out.”

Lying in hospital with a couple of broken ribs, Richard Cunningham was aware of a zest for life which recalled his early twenties. The morning papers had informed him of just how lucky his escape had been-his and Marian Brand’s. The smallest of the papers naturally had the largest headlines. TRAPPED UNDER TRAIN-WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE BURIED ALIVE-EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH RICHARD CUNNINGHAM. That made him laugh, and you really can’t afford to laugh with your ribs strapped up. He recalled a reporter buzzing round when first Marian, and then he, had been dragged out from under the partially shifted wreckage. To the best of his recollection, he had replied to a spate of questions as to what it felt like to be buried alive with the single word, “Damnable!” After which he had tried to get on to his own feet instead of being carried like a carcase, and had promptly covered himself with shame by passing out.

He perused the exclusive interview with enjoyment. It was packed with high-toned drama, and it would make a magnificent advertisement for his new book.

He looked across at the long window which framed a view of low cloud and sheeting rain, and found it exceedingly good to be alive and-practically-undamaged. Daylight, even of this suffused and teeming kind, was an uplifting sight. He might have been lying on a mortuary slab, instead of which here he was, in a clean bed, and quite comfortable so long as he didn’t move too suddenly. Everything was pretty good.

He began to think about Marian Brand. She hadn’t been taken to hospital-a stubborn line of enquiry had elicited that. She had said she was all right and would rather go home. She had been saying that quite perseveringly just before he went tumbling down into his swoon. An idiotic performance on both their parts. If he hadn’t been fool enough to faint he would have put it across her. Something on the lines of “Of course I know what it’s all about-you think Ina will be frightened. But if you want to terrify her into fits you have only got to loom up looking like death, with your hat stove in, your hair full of cinders and your face smothered in dust and blood.”

He frowned when he remembered the blood. Someone had turned a powerful electric torch on her, and she was a messy sight. Of course a little blood goes a long way on a face. He thought it came from a cut somewhere up on the edge of the scalp. He supposed the first-aid people would have cleaned her up before they let her go. Because she had gone. Quite definitely they hadn’t managed to get her to the hospital. She had just faded away. Rather an intriguing end to the whole curious experience. Too commonplace really, to meet in this cool antiseptic light of day and compare bandages. He had an idea that she would have one round her head-or perhaps only a bit of strapping. It came to him with a feeling of shock that he wouldn’t find her commonplace if they were to meet emptying garbage cans-that being the least romantic occupation he could think of offhand. He called his last view of her to mind. If a feeling of romance can survive a battered hat sliding from dishevelled hair, garments suggestive of the dustbin which his fancy had just called up, a face rendered ghastly by blood and sweat and dirt, its roots must run down deep to the hidden springs of life. The picture came and stayed. Her eyes looked at him out of the reddened grime with which her face was smeared. The feeling of romance survived. He began to wonder what was happening to him.