Tea, China and Young Love
“By the way, I ought to warn you. Miss Williamson isn’t exactly an
ordinary secretary: she’s rather an important person. She does any
secretarial work George wants, of course, which is very little, but
her chief job is to help him in the laboratory. She took a science
degree at Cambridge—and I must say,” Margaret added with a little
laugh, “she looks it.”
It was nearly half-past four, and the three of them were sitting in
Dr. Vane’s drawing-room, waiting for tea and for the other members of
the household. Margaret and Anthony showed distinct signs of
nervousness, though for what exact reason was not really apparent to
either of them; Roger was as collected as ever. The five-odd minutes
which had elapsed since they entered the room had been spent happily
by him in examining with no little interest the really fine collection
of china which filled two large glass-fronted cabinets and overflowed
on to two or three shelves and, in the case of a few plates, even the
walls themselves. Roger’s knowledge of china was not a large one, but
he had a sufficiently good smattering to enable him to talk
intelligently on the subject with a collector.
“Don’t be catty, Margaret,” he said now, examining a Dresden ornament
depicting four persons at a whist-table, the lace of the little
ladies’ gowns and of the miniature fans they fluttered being picked
out with almost incredible daintiness. “I say, surely your cousin
never amassed this collection, did she?”
“No. It’s George’s. The only hobby he’s got apart from his test-tubes
and things. Why?”
“I thought it didn’t seem to fit in very well with the synopsis you
gave me of the lady’s character. Anyhow, that’s all to the good; I’ll
congratulate George on his collection and he’ll love me like a
brother. I’ve met these china-maniacs before and I think I know how to
deal with them.”
“You’re perfectly right,” Margaret smiled. “It’s certainly the
shortest cut to George’s heart.”
“And before George is much older he’s going to hear a few things about
china,” Anthony was beginning with heavy sarcasm, when the opening of
the drawing-room door cut him short.
Of the two people who entered the room the next moment, it is hard to
say which presented the more striking figure. Miss Williamson, who
preceded her employer, would have drawn attention in any company. She
was a tall, angular woman, with high cheek-bones and close-cropped
fair hair, and the pince-nez she wore seemed to add emphasis to the
darting looks of her cold, slightly prominent blue eyes. Her clothes
were neat to the point of severity and there was that air of brisk
efficiency about her which is likely to reduce the ordinary man to a
condition of tongue-tied uneasiness when he encounters it in a strange
female, it clashes so persistently with all his ideas of what the word
“feminine” ought to convey. Yet with it all the secretary was not one
of those distressing creatures, a mannish woman; and though by no
means beautiful, she was not in a way unhandsome. “A distinct
personality here,” Roger told himself before his eyes had been resting
longer than two seconds upon her.
Dr. Vane, who followed close on her heels, bore out the picture
Margaret had already given—a great hulking man, six feet two inches
tall at least, with an enormous black beard and a stern eye, yet with
a gentleness and delicacy of movement which was in striking contrast
with the rugged strength of his appearance; as he closed the door
behind him, one could scarcely hear it meet the lintel, so restrained
was his action.
Margaret jumped to her feet as the two entered.
“Oh, George, these are two friends of mine, Mr. Sheringham and Mr.
Walton,” she said, not without confusion. “They called in to see me,
not knowing about—about——”
“I am very glad for you to welcome your friends here, Margaret,” the
doctor said with grave courteousness. “It is after all the very least
I can do now that you are so kindly looking after things here for me.”
Margaret thanked him with a quick smile, and introduced the two to
Miss Williamson. Bows were exchanged, and the latter rang the bell for
tea.
“We’ve only got ten minutes, Margaret,” she said briskly. “In the
middle of something rather important, and it was as much as I could do
to drag George in here at all.”
The two girls and Anthony formed a group by the window, and Roger
approached Dr. Vane.
“A magnificent collection of china you’ve got here, doctor,” he said
easily. “I’ve been admiring it ever since I came in. I’ve never seen
finer Spode in my life than those bits over there.”
Into the doctor’s stern eye leapt the light of the collector who hears
his collection praised, which is much the same as that of the mother
who is told that her infant possesses her own nose. “You are
interested in china, Mr. Sheringham?”
“I’m crazy about it,” returned Roger untruthfully.
The rest simply followed.
With the arrival of tea the conversation became more general, and
Roger was able to allow the novelist in him to rise to the surface and
survey this truly piquant situation. Here was a man whose wife only
three days ago had met with a violent death in circumstances which
were, to say the least of it, suspicious, receiving his tea-cup from
the hands of a young and pretty girl who, as he could hardly fail to
realise after Inspector Moresby’s visit, had come very closely under
the notice of the police in connection with the same violent death.
Yet the relations between the two, which might have been expected to
be almost intolerable, did not appear, on the surface at any rate, to
be even so much as strange. Margaret was perfectly natural; Dr. Vane
courteous, gentle and mildly affectionate. The more Roger watched, the
more he marvelled. Unconventional though he was in literature as in
life, he would hardly have dared to make use of such a situation for
one of his books; it would have been voted too wildly improbable.
The talk, which had shifted for a few minutes to trifles, showed a
tendency to revert, so far as Dr. Vane was concerned, to his former
topic. Somewhat to Roger’s surprise, Miss Williamson joined in as the
doctor warmed again to his theme, even going so far as to put him
right once or twice upon small points of detail.
“You’re an enthusiast too, then?” Roger could not help asking her.
“Now, yes,” she replied. “When I first came I knew nothing about it at
all, but George showed me the way and now I’m as much under the spell
even as he is.”
“And know a good deal more about it, Mary, don’t you?” commented the
doctor, with the first signs of a smile he had yet displayed. “Another
case of the pupil and the master, I’m afraid, Mr. Sheringham,” he
added to Roger, with an air of mock disgust.
“Oh, nonsense, George!” Miss Williamson laughed. “I only wish I did.
You’ve got a great deal to teach me yet, I fear.”
Fortunately it was clear that Dr. Vane had no idea of the identity of
his visitor, as also had not Miss Williamson (indeed, neither of them
looked the sort of person who might be expected to read the
_Courier_), so that no suspicion as to the reason of his call could
occur to either of them. Roger, content enough with the success of his
tactics, continued to play the safe card of china; while Margaret and
Anthony, to neither of whom china contained the least interest, were
reduced for the most part to sitting and looking at each other in
silence. They seemed perfectly content with this state of affairs.
When, half-an-hour later instead of ten minutes, Miss Williamson
issued her third ultimatum which had the effect of bringing the doctor
to his feet at last, Roger felt he had had enough of china to last him
for several years. Dr. Vane, however, could not have felt the same,
for he shook his visitor warmly by the hand and, having ascertained
that he and Anthony expected to be staying several days in Ludmouth,
invited both of them to supper on the following Sunday, brushing aside
Roger’s half-hearted attempts at a refusal with a firmness that was
almost genial.
Roger sank back into his chair as the door closed behind them and
fanned himself with a limp hand. “Did I happen to hear anyone mention
the word china just now?” he asked feebly.
“Well?” Margaret demanded. “What did you think of them?”
“What did I think?” Roger repeated, speaking for the moment from the
fullness of his heart. “I think that within a year or so the
wedding-bells will be heard once more in Ludmouth.”
“_What?_” cried Anthony and Margaret together.
Roger realised that he had spoken unguardedly, but it was too late to
withdraw his words. “I think,” he said more carefully, “that George
and that lady will make a match of it.”
“She’s head over heels in love with him,” Margaret nodded. “I’ve known
that for years. But I didn’t expect you to notice it.”
“That’s my business, fair lady,” Roger returned sweetly.
“You _saw_ she was keen on him?” Anthony asked in astonishment. “How
on earth did you do that?”
“For the answer to this question, refer to my last remark,” Roger
murmured. “Alternative answer—china!”
“Yes, that rather gave it away,” Margaret agreed. “Especially after
what I’d said before. Do you remember?”
“It was that I was thinking of,” Roger laughed.
Anthony looked from one to the other. “What _are_ you two talking
about?” he appealed.
“Nothing that you’d understand, little boy,” said Roger kindly. “Run
away and play with the blind-tassel. I like your doctor-man,
Margaret.”
“George? Yes, he’s a dear, isn’t he? Though it took me ever so much
longer to know him than it seems to have taken you. And he liked you
too. I’ve never known him to ask anyone to supper on such a short
acquaintance.”
“I _am_ rather likable,” Roger admitted.
The conversation then became purely frivolous.
Having achieved the object with which he had set out, Roger was
anxious to talk over its results with Anthony—a thing that could
hardly be done in this case in the presence of Margaret. It was not
long before he began to show signs of readiness to embark on the
process of leave-taking. He ostentatiously arranged a meeting with
Margaret the next morning “just in case,” he rose to his feet, hovered
near the door, sat down and rose again, and he said that they must be
going at least half-a-dozen times over, each time more as if he meant
it than before. At this point he realised that nothing short of heroic
measures would be likely to shift Anthony from that drawing-room.
Roger was not the person to shirk heroic measures when nothing short
of heroic measures was required. “Anthony,” he said with decision, “I
don’t think you realise that we’re out-staying our welcome. I’ve been
trying to hint gently for the last quarter-of-an-hour that it’s time
we were going. Margaret’s sure to have lots to do, you know.”
“But I haven’t, Roger,” Margaret objected. “Nothing.”
“Yes, you have,” Roger said firmly. “Lots. Come on, Anthony.”
“No, really I haven’t. Nothing at all.”
“Well, I have. Come _on_, Anthony!”
This time Anthony came.
Margaret said good-bye to them in the drawing-room, and from the hall
Anthony had to go back to tell her something he’d forgotten. Roger
waited five minutes; then he followed and dug Anthony out again.
Margaret came out into the hall with them and said good-bye there, and
from half-way down the drive Anthony had to go back for his stick.
Roger waited ten minutes, then he followed once more, running the
culprit to earth again in the drawing-room.
“Anthony, I think we ought to be going now,” he said. “Job speaking.
Anthony, I think we ought to be going now. Have you remembered to say
all you’d forgotten to remember to say? Have you your stick, your hat,
your shoes, your tie-pin, your spectacles and your lace cap? Anthony,
I think we ought to be going. Margaret, perhaps if you were to go and
immure yourself in your bedroom or the bathroom or the linen-cupboard
or any other suitable place of immurement, I think Anthony might be
induced in despair to——”
“Roger, I _hate_ you!” Margaret gasped in a stifled voice, hurrying
with burning cheeks out of the room.
“Portrait of a lady on her way to immurement,” murmured Roger
thoughtfully, gazing after her flying figure.
“Damn you, Roger!” spluttered the indignant Anthony, no less puce.
“What the deuce do you want to go and——”
“Anthony, I think it’s time we were going,” Roger pointed out gently.
This time Anthony really did go, not only out of the house but right
down the drive, over the road and on to the cliffs.
Roger gave him ten minutes to work off steam and simmer down again;
then he got on with the business in hand.
“Now, look here, Anthony, drop all that and tell me this—what
deductions did you draw at our little tea-party?”
“What deductions?” Anthony said a little reluctantly. “I don’t know
that I drew any. Did you?”
“One or two. That the lady we had the pleasure of meeting wouldn’t be
at all averse to becoming Mrs. Vane now that the post is vacant, for
one thing.”
“How on earth could you tell that, Roger?”
“It was sticking out in lumps all over her for anybody who had the
eyes to see. In fact it seemed to me that she wasn’t even troubling to
hide it. But was the doctor-man equally minded? Now that I’m not
nearly so sure about.”
“You think he isn’t?”
“No, I don’t say that for a minute. What I do say is that he’s very
much better at hiding his feelings. I couldn’t tell what he was
thinking at all, except that he’s fond of Margaret and anxious to show
it. The only really significant thing about him was the fact of his
asking us to supper like that.”
“You mean only four or five days after his wife’s death?”
“Exactly. Now what does that show?”
“That he’s not any too cut up about it.”
“Precisely. In other words, I should say, he knew his wife’s true
character. And not being sorry she’s dead, he’s not going to pretend
that he is; that’s how the man strikes me.”
“Yes,” Anthony said slowly. “I think I agree with you.”
“Nor is the woman. That was obvious enough. He may even be taking his
cue from her. She’s without doubt the stronger character of the two.”
“Is she?”
“Oh, yes. Then there’s another thing. Does the woman know Mrs. Vane’s
real character too? On the whole I should be inclined to say yes.
She’s pretty sharp.”
“That might even have started her being keen on him,” Anthony pointed
out; “if she really is. I mean, it must have been a pretty ghastly
sight to see a decent chap like that tied up to a little rotter of a
woman, mustn’t it?”
“That’s a very shrewd idea,” Roger agreed. “Yes, I shouldn’t be a bit
surprised if that isn’t how things did happen. Gradually, of course;
these things always do. I’m not hinting that there was an intrigue
between them or anything like that; I don’t for a moment think there
was. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if the doctor hasn’t got the
least idea about her feelings even now. But he’ll find himself
marrying her one day for all that. She’s a woman of unusually strong
mind and she’s made it up on that particular point all right, I
wouldn’t mind betting.”
“She had large feet,” said Anthony quite irrelevantly.
“So have a number of people. You, for instance. Did it strike you
whether she liked Margaret?”
“She’d be a fool if she didn’t,” said Anthony with complete
conviction.
“Do refrain from being maudlin, Anthony. Personally, I thought she
didn’t. She was inclined to be peremptory and not a little bossy, did
you notice? But jealousy would quite well account for that. After all,
Margaret is young and pretty and she’s neither. Did anything else
strike you about Dr. Vane? About his character, or anything like
that?”
Anthony considered. “I should think he’s probably got the very devil
of a temper,” he decided.
“You take the words out of my mouth. That’s precisely what struck me.
I don’t suppose it has any significance at all, but it’s a point that
we might well keep before us. Dr. Vane has the very devil of a temper.
Now, about that invitation, I don’t— Hullo! Isn’t that the inspector
on the road? Yes, it is; I’d know that bulky form anywhere. Let’s cut
across and see if he’s got any news. By the way, congratulations,
Anthony.”
“What on?”
“Not saying anything to Margaret about friend Colin’s letter. A most
admirable piece of self-restraint.”
A lusty hail from Roger brought the inspector to a standstill. He
halted and waited for them to catch up with him.
“It’s a hot day for running about, gentlemen,” he greeted them mopping
his large red face. “Uncommonly hot.”
“You’re right, Inspector. And has virtue brought its own reward, or
have you got any news?”
“I have got some news, sir, I’m glad to say. I’ve succeeded in
locating the gentleman who wrote that letter. Been a bit of a job, but
I’m pretty sure I’ve found him this time.”
“You have, have you? I say, that’s good! Who is he?”
“Gentleman by the name of Colin Woodthorpe; son of a Sir Henry
Woodthorpe who’s got a big place between here and Sandsea. I thought
of going round to call on him this evening.”
“Good,” said Roger promptly. “May I come?”
“It’s a bit irregular, sir.”
“I know it is. Frightfully irregular. But you do owe me something over
the letter, don’t you?”
“Very well, sir,” the inspector grinned. “I can see you’re determined
to come, so I suppose I shall have to take you with me. But it’ll have
to be as that personal friend of mine, mind, not as a newspaper-man.”
“On my oath!” said Roger piously. “In any case I wouldn’t— Oh,
Heavens, talk hard and don’t let me be buttonholed. This is the most
persistent talker in the south of England coming along the road toward
us.”
“When you’re in the north, Roger,” Anthony amended humorously.
“His name is the Rev. Samuel Meadows,” Roger went on to the inspector.
“He caught me on the cliffs this morning and held me for half-an-hour
by the clock. The Ancient Mariner couldn’t make a match of it with
him.”
In some curiosity the other two watched the little clerical figure
approach. He smiled benignly as he recognised Roger and touched the
wide brim of his hat in a somewhat expansive gesture, but made no
attempt to speak.
“Saved!” Roger murmured dramatically as they passed him. “Friends, I
thank you!”
But the inspector did not smile. His brow was corrugated and he was
tugging at his long-suffering moustache.
“Now, where the dickens,” he remarked very thoughtfully to his boots,
“have I seen _that_ face before?”