QUEEN DEAD
G.J. emerged from the crowded and malodorous Coroner's Court with a
deep sense of the rigour and the thoroughness of British justice, and
especially of its stolidity.
There had been four inquests, all upon the bodies of air-raid victims:
a road-man, his wife, an orphan baby--all belonging to the thick
central mass of the proletariat, for a West End slum had received a
bomb full in the face--and Lady Queenie Paulle. The policemen were
stolid; the reporters were stolid; the proletariat was stolid;
the majority of the witnesses were stolid, and in particular the
representatives of various philanthropic agencies who gave the most
minute evidence about the habits and circumstances of the slum; and
the jurymen were very stolid, and never more so than when, with stubby
fingers holding ancient pens, they had to sign quantities of blue
forms under the strict guidance of a bareheaded policeman.
The world of Queenie's acquaintances made a strange, vivid contrast
to this grey, grim, blockish world; and the two worlds regarded each
other with the wonder and the suspicious resentment of foreigners.
Queen's world came expecting to behave as at a cause célèbre of, for
example, divorce. Its representatives were quite ready to tolerate
unpleasing contacts and long stretches of tedium in return for some
glimpse of the squalid and the privilege of being able to say that
they had been present at the inquest. But most of them had arrived
rather late, and they had reckoned without the Coroner, and
comparatively few obtained even admittance.
The Coroner had arrived on the stroke of the hour, in a silk hat and
frock coat, with a black bag, and had sat down at his desk and begun
to rule the proceedings with an absolutism that no High Court Judge
would have attempted. He was autocrat in a small, close, sordid room;
but he was autocrat. He had already shown his quality in some indirect
collisions with the Marquis of Lechford. The Marquis felt that he
could not stomach the exposure of his daughter's corpse in a common
mortuary with other corpses of he knew not whom. Long experience of
the marquisate had taught him to believe that everything could be
arranged. He found, however, that this matter could not be arranged.
There was no appeal from the ukase of the Coroner. Then he wished
to be excused from giving evidence, since his evidence could have no
direct bearing on the death. But he was informed by a mere clerk, who
had knowledge of the Coroner's ways, that if he did not attend the
inquest would probably be adjourned for his attendance. The fact was,
the Coroner had appreciated as well as anybody that heaven and the war
had sent him a cause célèbre of the first-class. He saw himself
the supreme being of a unique assize. He saw his remarks reproduced
verbatim in the papers, for, though localities might not be mentioned,
there was no censor's ban upon the _obiter dicta_ of coroners. His
idiosyncrasy was that he hid all his enjoyment in his own breast. Even
had he had the use of a bench, instead of a mere chair, he would never
have allowed titled ladies in mirific black hats to share it with him.
He was an icy radical, sincere, competent, conscientious and vain. He
would be no respecter of persons, but he was a disrespecter of persons
above a certain social rank. He said, "Open that window." And that
window was opened, regardless of the identity of the person who might
be sitting under it. He said: "This court is unhealthily full. Admit
no more." And no more could be admitted, though the entire peerage
waited without.
The Marquis had considered that the inquest on his daughter might be
taken first. The other three cases were taken first, and, even taken
concurrently, they occupied an immense period of time. All the bodies
were, of course, "viewed" together, and the absence of the jury seemed
to the Marquis interminable; he thought the despicable tradesmen were
gloating unduly over the damaged face of his daughter. The Coroner had
been marvellously courteous to the procession of humble witnesses. He
could not have been more courteous to the exalted; and he was not. In
the sight of the Coroner all men were equal.
G.J. encountered him first. "I did my best to persuade her ladyship to
come down," said G.J. very formally. "I am quite sure you did,"
said the Coroner with the dryest politeness. "And you failed." The
policeman had related events from the moment when G.J. had fetched
him in from the street. The policeman could remember everything, what
everybody had said, the positions of all objects, the characteristics
and extent of the wire-netting, the exact posture of the deceased
girl, the exact minute of his visit. He and the Coroner played to each
other like well-rehearsed actors. Mrs. Carlos Smith's ordeal was very
brief, and the Coroner dismissed her with an expression of sympathy
that seemed to issue from his mouth like carved granite. With the
doctor alone the Coroner had become human; the Coroner also was a
doctor. The doctor had talked about a relatively slight extravasation
of blood, and said that death had been instantaneous. Said the
Coroner: "The body was found on the wire-netting; it had fallen from
the chimney. In your opinion, was the fall a contributory cause of
death?" The doctor said, No. "In your opinion death was due to an
extremely small piece of shrapnel which struck the deceased's head
slightly above the left ear, entering the brain?" The doctor said,
Yes.
The Marquis of Lechford had to answer questions as to his parental
relations with his daughter. How long had he been away in the country?
How long had the deceased been living in Lechford House practically
alone? How old was his daughter? Had he given any order to the effect
that nobody was to be on the roof of his house during an air-raid?
Had he given any orders at all as to conduct during an air-raid? The
Coroner sympathised deeply with his lordship's position, and felt
sure that his lordship understood that; but his lordship would
also understand that the policy of heads of households in regard to
air-raids had more than a domestic interest--it had, one might say, a
national interest; and the force of prominent example was one of the
forces upon which the Government counted, and had the right to count,
for help in the regulation of public conduct in these great crises of
the most gigantic war that the world had ever seen. "Now, as to the
wire-netting," had said the Coroner, leaving the subject of the force
of example. He had a perfect plan of the wire-netting in his mind. He
understood that the chimney-stack rose higher than the wire-netting,
and that the wire-netting went round the chimney-stack at a distance
of a foot or more, leaving room so that a person might climb up
the perpendicular ladder. If a person fell from the top of the
chimney-stack it was a chance whether that person fell on the
wire-netting, or through the space between the wire-netting and the
chimney on to the roof itself. The jury doubtless understood. (The
jury, however, at that instant had been engaged in examining the
bit of shrapnel which had been extracted from the brain of the only
daughter of a Marquis.) The Coroner understood that the wire-netting
did not extend over the whole of the house. "It extends over all the
main part of the house," his lordship had replied. "But not over the
back part of the house?" His lordship agreed. "The servants'
quarters, probably?" His lordship nodded. The Coroner had said: "The
wire-netting does not extend over the servants' quarters," in a very
even voice. A faint hiss in court had been extinguished by the sharp
glare of the Coroner's eyes. His lordship, a thin, antique figure, in
a long cloak that none but himself would have ventured to wear, had
stepped down, helpless.
There had been much signing of depositions. The Coroner had spoken of
The Hague Convention, mentioning one article by its number. The jury
as to the first three cases--in which the victims had been killed by
bombs--had returned a verdict of wilful murder against the Kaiser.
The Coroner, suppressing the applause, had agreed heartily with the
verdict. He told the jury that the fourth case was different, and
the jury returned a verdict of death from shrapnel. They gave
their sympathy to all the relatives, and added a rider about the
inadvisability of running unnecessary risks, and the Coroner, once
more agreeing heartily, had thereon made an effective little speech to
a hushed, assenting audience.
There were several motor-cars outside. G.J. signalled across the
street to the taxi-man who telephoned every morning to him for orders.
He had never owned a motor-car, and, because he had no ambition to
drive himself, had never felt the desire to own one. The taxi-man
experienced some delay in starting his engine. G.J. lit a cigarette.
Concepcion came out, alone. He had expected her to be with the
Marquis, with whom she had arrived. She was dressed in mourning. Only
on that day, and once before--on the day of her husband's funeral--had
he seen her in mourning. She looked now like the widow she was.
Nevertheless, he had not quite accustomed himself to the sight of her
in mourning.
"I wonder whether I can get a taxi?" she asked.
"You can have mine," said he. "Where do you want to go?"
She named a disconcerting address near Shepherd's Market.
At that moment a Pressman with a camera came boldly up and snapped
her. The man had the brazen demeanour of a racecourse tout. But
Concepcion seemed not to mind at all, and G.J. remembered that she was
deeply inured to publicity. Her portrait had already appeared in the
picture papers along with that of Queen, but the papers had deemed it
necessary to remind a forgetful public that Mrs. Carlos Smith was
the same lady as the super-celebrated Concepcion Iquist. The taxi-man
hesitated for an instant on hearing the address, but only for an
instant. He had earned the esteem and regular patronage of G.J. by a
curious hazard. One night G.J. had hailed him, and the man had said in
a flash, without waiting for the fare to speak, "The Albany, isn't it,
sir? I drove you home about two months ago." Thenceforward he had been
for G.J. the perfect taxi-man.
In the taxi Concepcion said not a word, and G.J. did not disturb her.
Beneath his superficial melancholy he was sustained by the mere joy
of being alive. The common phenomena of the streets were beautiful
to him. Concepcion's calm and grieved vitality seemed mysteriously
exquisite. He had had similar sensations while walking along Coventry
Street after his escape from the explosion of the bomb. Fatigue and
annoyance and sorrow had extinguished them for a time, but now that
the episode of Queen's tragedy was closed they were born anew. Queen,
the pathetic victim of the indiscipline of her own impulses, was gone.
But he had escaped. He lived. And life was an affair miraculous and
lovely.
"I think I've been here before," said he, when they got out of the
taxi in a short, untidy, indeterminate street that was a cul-de-sac.
The prospect ended in a garage, near which two women chauffeurs were
discussing a topic that interested them. A hurdy-gurdy was playing
close by, and a few ragged children stared at the hurdy-gurdy, on the
end of which a baby was cradled. The fact that the street was midway
between Curzon Street and Piccadilly, and almost within sight of the
monumental new mansion of an American duchess, explained the existence
of the building in front of which the taxi had stopped. The entrance
to the flats was mean and soiled. It repelled, but Concepcion
unapologetically led G.J. up a flight of four stone steps and round
a curve into a little corridor. She halted at a door on the ground
floor.
"Yes," said G.J. with admirable calm, "I do believe you've got the
very flat I once looked at with a friend of mine. If I remember
it didn't fill the bill because the tenant wouldn't sub-let it
unfurnished. When did you get hold of this?"
"Yesterday afternoon," Concepcion answered. "Quick work. But these
feats can be accomplished. I've only taken it for a month. Hotels seem
to be all full. I couldn't open my own place at a moment's notice, and
I didn't mean to stay on at Lechford House, even if they'd asked me
to."
G.J.'s notion of the vastness and safety of London had received a
shock. He was now a very busy man, and would quite sincerely have told
anybody who questioned him on the point that he hadn't a moment to
call his own. Nevertheless, on the previous morning he had spent
a considerable time in searching for a nest in which to hide his
Christine and create romance; and he had come to this very flat.
More, there had been two flats to let in the block. He had declined
them--the better one because of the furniture, the worse because
it was impossibly small, and both because of the propinquity of the
garage. But supposing that he had taken one and Concepcion the other!
He recoiled at the thought....
Concepcion's new home, if not impossibly small, was small, and the
immensity and abundance of the furniture made it seem smaller than it
actually was. Each little room had the air of having been furnished
out of a huge and expensive second-hand emporium. No single style
prevailed. There were big carved and inlaid antique cabinets and
chests, big hanging crystal candelabra, and big pictures (some of
them apparently family portraits, the rest eighteenth-century
flower-pieces) in big gilt frames, with a multiplicity of occasional
tables and bric-à-brac. Gilt predominated. The ornate cornices were
gilded. Human beings had to move about like dwarfs on the tiny free
spaces of carpet between frowning cabinetry. The taste and the aim
of the author of this home defied deduction. In the first room a
charwoman was cleaning. Concepcion greeted her like a sister. In the
next room, whose window gave on to a blank wall, tea was laid for one
in front of a gas-fire. Concepcion reached down a cup and saucer from
a glazed cupboard and put a match to the spirit-lamp under the kettle.
"Let me see, the bedroom's up here, isn't it?" said G.J., pointing
along a passage that was like a tunnel.
Concepcion, yielding to his curiosity, turned on lights everywhere and
preceded him. The passage, hung with massive canvases, had scarcely
more than width enough for G.J.'s shoulders. The tiny bedroom
was muslined in every conceivable manner. It had a colossal bed,
surpassing even Christine's. A muslined maid was bending over some
drapery-shop boxes on the floor and removing garments therefrom.
Concepcion greeted her like a sister. "Don't let me disturb you,
Emily," she said, and to G.J., "Emily was poor Queenie's maid, and she
has come to me for a little while." G.J. amicably nodded. Tears came
suddenly into the maid's eyes. G.J. looked away and saw the bathroom,
which, also well muslined, was completely open to the bedroom.
"Whose _is_ this marvellous home?" he added when they had gone back to
the drawing-room.
"I think the original tenant is the wife of somebody who's interned."
"How simple the explanation is!" said G.J. "But I should never have
guessed it."
They started the tea in a strange silence. After a minute or two G.J.
said:
"I mustn't stay long."
"Neither must I." Concepcion smiled.
"Got to go out?"
"Yes."
There was another silence. Then Concepcion said:
"I'm going to Sarah Churcher's. And as I know she has her Pageant
Committee at five-thirty, I'd better not arrive later than five, had
I?"
"What is there between you and Lady Churcher?"
"Well, I'm going to offer to take Queen's place on the organising
Committee."
"Con!" he exclaimed impulsively, "you aren't?"
In an instant the atmosphere of the little airless, electric-lit,
gas-fumed apartment was charged with a fluid that no physical
chemistry could have traced. Concepcion said mildly:
"I am. I owe it to Queen's memory to take her place if I can. Of
course I'm no dancer, but in other things I expect I can make myself
useful."
G.J. replied with equal mildness:
"You aren't going to mix yourself up with that crowd again--after all
you've been through! The Pageant business isn't good enough for you,
Con, and you know it. You know it's odious."
She murmured:
"I feel it's my duty. I feel I owe it to Queen. It's a sort of
religion with me, I expect. Each person has his own religion, and I
doubt if one's more dogmatic than another."
He was grieved; he had a sense almost of outrage. He hated to picture
Concepcion subduing herself to the horrible environment of the Pageant
enterprise. But he said nothing more. The silence resumed. They might
have conversed, with care, about the inquest, or about the funeral,
which was to take place at the Castle, in Cheshire. Silence, however,
suited them best.
"Also I thought you needed repose," said G.J. when Concepcion broke
the melancholy enchantment by rising to look for cigarettes.
"I must be allowed to work," she answered after a pause, putting a
cigarette between her teeth. "I must have something to do--unless, of
course, you want me to go to the bad altogether."
It was a remarkable saying, but it seemed to admit that he was
legitimately entitled to his critical interest in her.
"If I'd known that," he said, suddenly inspired, "I should have asked
you to take on something for _me_." He waited; she made no response,
and he continued: "I'm secretary of my small affair since yesterday.
The paid secretary, a nice enough little thing, has just run off
to the Women's Auxiliary Corps in France and left me utterly in the
lurch. Just like domestic servants, these earnest girl-clerks are,
when it comes to the point! No imagination. Wanted to wear khaki, and
no doubt thought she was doing a splendid thing. Never occurred to her
the mess I should be in. I'd have asked you to step into the breach.
You'd have been frightfully useful."
"But I'm no girl-clerk," Concepcion gently and carelessly protested.
"Well, she wasn't either. I shouldn't have wanted you to be a typist.
We have a typist. As a matter of fact, her job needed a bit more
brains than she'd got. However--"
Another silence. G.J. rose to depart. Concepcion did not stir. She
said softly:
"I don't think anybody realises what Queen's death is to me. Not even
you." On her face was the look of sacrifice which G.J. had seen there
as they talked together in Queen's boudoir during the raid.
He thought, amazed:
"And they'd only had about twenty-four hours together, and part of
that must have been spent in making up their quarrel!"
Then aloud:
"I quite agree. People can't realise what they haven't had to go
through. I've understood that ever since I read in the paper the
day before yesterday that 'two bombs fell close together and one
immediately after the other' in a certain quarter of the West End.
That was all the paper said about those two bombs."
"Why! What do you mean?"
"And I understood it when poor old Queen gave me some similar
information on the roof."
"What _do_ you mean?"
"I was between those two bombs when they fell. One of 'em blew me
against a house. I've been to look at the place since. And I'm dashed
if I myself could realise then what I'd been through."
She gave a little cry. Her face pleased him.
"And you weren't hurt?"
"I had a pain in my side, but it's gone," he said laconically.
"And you never said anything to us! Why not?"
"Well--there were so many other things...."
"G.J., you're astounding!"
"No, I'm not. I'm just myself."
"And hasn't it upset your nerves?"
"Not as far as I can judge. Of course one never knows, but I think
not. What do you think?"
She offered no response. At length she spoke with queer emotion:
"You remember that night I said it was a message direct from Potsdam?
Well, naturally it wasn't. But do you know the thought that tortures
me? Supposing the shrapnel that killed Queen was out of a shell made
at my place in Glasgow!... It might have been.... Supposing it was!"
"Con," he said firmly, "I simply won't listen to that kind of talk.
There's no excuse for it. Shall I tell you what, more than anything
else, has made me respect you since Queen was killed? Ninety-nine
women out of a hundred would have managed to remind me, quite
illogically and quite inexcusably, that I was saying hard things about
poor old Queen at the very moment when she was lying dead on the roof.
You didn't. You knew I was very sorry about Queen, but you knew that
my feelings as to her death had nothing whatever to do with what I
happened to be saying when she was killed. You knew the difference
between sentiment and sentimentality. For God's sake, don't start
wondering where the shell was made."
She looked up at him, saying nothing, and he savoured the intelligence
of her weary, fine, alert, comprehending face. He did not pretend to
himself to be able to fathom the enigmas of that long glance. He had
again the feeling of the splendour of what it was to be alive, to have
survived. Just as he was leaving she said casually:
"Very well. I'll do what you want."
"What I want?"
"I won't go to Sarah Churcher's."
"You mean you'll come as assistant secretary?"
She nodded. "Only I don't need to be paid."
And he, too, fell into a casual tone:
"That's excellent."
Thus, by this nonchalance, they conspired to hide from themselves
the seriousness of that which had passed between them. The grotesque,
pretentious little apartment was mysteriously humanised; it was no
longer the reception-room of a furnished flat by chance hired for a
month; they had lived in it.
She finished, eagerly smiling:
"I can practise my religion just as much with you as with Sarah
Churcher, can't I? Queen was on your committee, too. Yes, I shan't be
deserting her."
The remark disquieted his triumph. That aspect of the matter had not
occurred to him.