Josephine Tey - Загадочные события во Франчесе / The Franchise Affair

The quiet of the old house soothed him. Christina had been closeted in her room for two days, in prayer and meditation, and Aunt Lin was in the kitchen preparing dinner. There was a gay letter from Lettice, his only sister, who had driven a truck for several years of a bloody war, fallen in love with a tall silent Canadian, and was now raising five blond brats in Saskatchewan. “Come out soon, Robin dear,” she finished, “before the brats grow up and before the moss grows right round you. You know how bad Aunt Lin is for you!” He could hear her saying it. She and Aunt Lin had never seen eye to eye.

He was smiling, relaxed and reminiscent, when both his quiet and his peace were shattered by the irruption of Nevil.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was like that!” Nevil demanded.

“Who?”

“The Sharpe woman! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t expect you would meet her,” Robert said. “All you had to do was drop the letter through the door.”

“There was nothing in the door to drop it through, so I rang, and they had just come back from wherever they were. Anyhow, she answered it.”

“I thought she slept in the afternoons.”

“I don’t believe she ever sleeps. She doesn’t belong to the human family at all. She is all compact of fire and metal.”

“I know she’s a very rude old woman but you have to make allowances. She has had a very hard—”

“ Old? Who are you talking about?”

“Old Mrs. Sharpe, of course.”

“I didn’t even see old Mrs. Sharpe. I’m talking about Marion.”

“Marion Sharpe? And how did you know her name was Marion?”

“She told me. It does suit her, doesn’t it? She couldn’t be anything but Marion.”

“You seem to have become remarkably intimate for a doorstep acquaintance.”

“Oh, she gave me tea.”

“Tea! I thought you were in a desperate hurry to see a French film.”

“I’m never in a desperate hurry to do anything when a woman like Marion Sharpe invites me to tea. Have you noticed her eyes? But of course you have. You’re her lawyer. That wonderful shading of grey into hazel. And the way her eyebrows lie above them, like the brush-mark of a painter genius. Winged eyebrows, they are. I made a poem about them on the way home. Do you want to hear it?”

“No,” Robert said firmly. “Did you enjoy your film?”

“Oh, I didn’t go.”

“You didn’t go !”

“I told you I had tea with Marion instead.”

“You mean you have been at The Franchise the whole afternoon !”

“I suppose I have,” Nevil said dreamily, “but, by God, it didn’t seem more than seven minutes.”

“And what happened to your thirst for French cinema?”

“But Marion is French film. Even you must see that!” Robert winced at the “even you.” “Why bother with the shadow, when you can be with the reality? Reality. That is her great quality, isn’t it? I’ve never met anyone as real as Marion is.”

“Not even Rosemary?” Robert was in the state known to Aunt Lin as “put out.”

“Oh, Rosemary is a darling, and I’m going to marry her, but that is quite a different thing.”

“Is it?” said Robert, with deceptive meekness.

“Of course. People don’t marry women like Marion Sharpe, any more than they marry winds and clouds. Any more than they marry Joan of Arc. It’s positively blasphemous to consider marriage in relation to a woman like that. She spoke very nicely of you, by the way.”

“That was kind of her.”

The tone was so dry that even Nevil caught the flavour of it.

“Don’t you like her?” he asked, pausing to look at his cousin in surprised disbelief.

Robert had ceased for the moment to be kind, lazy, tolerant Robert Blair; he was just a tired man who hadn’t yet had his dinner and was suffering from the memory of a frustration and a snubbing.

“As far as I am concerned,” he said, “Marion Sharpe is just a skinny woman of forty who lives with a rude old mother in an ugly old house, and needs legal advice on occasion like anyone else.”

But even as the words came out he wanted to stop them, as if they were a betrayal of a friend.

“No, probably she isn’t your cup of tea,” Nevil said tolerantly. “You have always preferred them a little stupid, and blond, haven’t you.” This was said without malice, as one stating a dullish fact.

“I can’t imagine why you should think that.”

“All the women you nearly married were that type.”

“I have never ‘nearly married’ anyone,” Robert said stiffly.

“That’s what you think. You’ll never know how nearly Molly Manders landed you.”

“Molly Manders?” Aunt Lin said, coming in flushed from her cooking and bearing the tray with the sherry. “Such a silly girl. Imagined that you used a baking-board for pancakes. And was always looking at herself in that little pocket mirror of hers.”

“Aunt Lin saved you that time, didn’t you, Aunt Lin?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Nevil dear. Do stop prancing about the hearthrug, and put a log on the fire. Did you like your French film, dear?”

“I didn’t go. I had tea at The Franchise instead.” He shot a glance at Robert, having learned by now that there was more in Robert’s reaction than met the eye.

“With those strange people? What did you talk about?”

“Mountains – Maupassant – hens—”

“ Hens , dear?”

“Yes; the concentrated evil of a hen’s face in a close-up.”

Aunt Lin looked vague. She turned to Robert, as to terra firma.

“Had I better call, dear, if you are going to know them? Or ask the vicar’s wife to call?”

“I don’t think I would commit the vicar’s wife to anything so irrevocable,” Robert said, dryly.

She looked doubtful for a moment, but household cares obliterated the question in her mind. “Don’t dawdle too long over your sherry or what I have in the oven will be spoiled. Thank goodness, Christina will be down again tomorrow. At least I hope so; I have never known her salvation take more than two days. And I don’t really think that I will call on those Franchise people, dear, if it is all the same to you. Apart from being strangers and very odd, they quite frankly terrify me.”

Yes; that was a sample of the reaction he might expect where the Sharpes were concerned. Ben Carley had gone out of his way today to let him know that, if there was police trouble at The Franchise, he wouldn’t be able to count on an unprejudiced jury. He must take measures for the protection of the Sharpes. When he saw them on Friday he would suggest a private investigation by a paid agent. The police were overworked – had been overworked for a decade and more – and there was just a chance that one man working at his leisure on one trail might be more successful than the orthodox and official investigation had been.

But by Friday morning it was too late to take measures for the safety of The Franchise.

Robert had reckoned with the diligence of the police; he had reckoned with the slow spread of whispers; but he had reckoned without the Ack-Emma .

The Ack-Emma was the latest representative of the tabloid newspaper to enter British journalism from the West. It was run on the principle that two thousand pounds for damages is a cheap price to pay for sales worth half a million. It had blacker headlines, more sensational pictures, and more indiscreet letterpress than any paper printed so far by British presses. Fleet Street had its own name for it – monosyllabic and unprintable – but no protection against it. The press had always been its own censor, deciding what was and what was not permissible by the principles of its own good sense and good taste. If a “rogue” publication decided not to conform to those principles then there was no power that could make it conform. In ten years the Ack-Emma had passed by half a million the daily net sales of the best selling newspaper in the country to date. In any suburban railway carriage seven out of ten people bound for work in the morning were reading an Ack-Emma .