JERRY STRIKES OUT ON HER OWN
Jerry Mitchell sat over her fire with her head in her hands. To a
casual observer she would have seemed a very young and pathetic
figure, but there was no pathos in her face. Her expression, for all
her youthfulness, was one of cold fury--the savage resentment that so
often accompanies acute and unuttered sorrow. Jerry hated everybody at
that moment, and Lucy, the charwoman, who entered the room a little
cautiously, knew it only too well. She could not understand it, for
to a woman of her type the pain of loss is invariably relieved by the
pleasure of funeral trappings, but she had looked after Jerry for
twelve years, and knew her to be 'a queer one to cross.'
'There's a gentleman at the door,' she said tentatively. ''E wondered
when 'e might call.'
'What does he mean by that?' said Jerry, with some irritation. 'And who
is he, anyway?'
Lucy held out a card, and Jerry read it, frowning:
'Mr. Robert Manvers. Who on earth...?'
Then her face cleared. Scotland ... last August. A very jolly
house-party, and a cheerful, round-faced man who made her laugh. She'd
met him in London, too, at dances. Bobby! She'd forgotten that his name
was Manvers. Of course it was Bobby; that priceless boy who stammered,
and made bad jokes, and was such a surprisingly good shot. Bobby had
been the jest of the party, but Jerry had always had a conviction that
he wasn't so much of a fool as he seemed.
'He may call now,' she said with decision. 'I'd like to see him.'
Lucy hesitated.
'Your auntie told me----' she began dubiously.
'I--would--like--to--see--him,' said Jerry slowly and clearly.
Lucy met her eye, quailed and faded away, to return a minute later with
a rather embarrassed-looking young man.
'Come in, Bobby,' said Jerry, rising. 'How nice to see you. Do sit
down. Have you had tea?'
'I--er--yes....'
He seemed surprised, and glanced involuntarily at the clock. Jerry's
eyes followed his.
'Ten to six--yes, I suppose it _is_ a bit late,' she said. 'Sorry. I've
rather lost count of time.'
'Have you had a frightfully busy day?' asked Bobby.
'Frightfully is the word. Funeral, and all that.' Her voice had the
abrupt harshness of overstrain.
Bobby looked startled.
'I s-say, Jerry, forgive me. I didn't know--I mean I thought it'd be
all over--that is, I----'
'It's all right, Bobby. I'm very glad to see you. It's a relief.'
'I know what it's like,' he said slowly, his eyes on the fire. 'I
remember when my mother died.... One feels like killing someone. You
can b-bash me on the head with the poker if you like.'
Jerry smiled faintly.
'Thanks awfully. That's exactly it, but it's no good, you know. I've
been restraining myself from murder all day, but the mere fact that
you've suggested yourself as a victim makes you safe.'
'Relations, and all that?' asked Bobby sympathetically.
'By the score.' She rose to her feet, and walked restlessly across to
the window. 'Horrible people!'
'Suppose you tell me what you think of 'em,' suggested Bobby. 'No good
bottling it up, y' know. Were they all pretty grim?'
'Grim? They were positively ghoulish! They started by pulling down all
the blinds--shutting out God's own sunshine. I pulled 'em all up again.
Then they told me I must wear black for at least three months, because
if I didn't people wouldn't _realise_, my dear. As if I wanted people
to realise, which means, I suppose, sympathise. The less people will
say about my troubles, the better I'll like it. But of course they
couldn't understand that. Bobby, they _loved_ it all! They revelled
in all the gruesome details. They were bitterly disappointed because
they weren't told in time to rush up to London and have a look at the
corpse. It was incredible, honestly it was. They seemed quite average,
if somewhat stupid old women, but underneath they were ghouls, dabbling
their horrible soft hands in fresh-spilt blood.'
Jerry put her arm across her eyes, in a sudden childish gesture. Bobby
held his peace, watching her.
'Why must everything be made harder?' she burst out. 'It's hard
enough to bear as it is. One's soul is raw, and then everyone has
the right to come and jab at it with their clumsy fingers. It wasn't
_their_ business, anyway. They didn't like William, and he didn't like
them. They never wrote without some acid criticism of him. And then,
directly he's dead, they come and slobber and weep, and say what a nice
little boy he used to be, and how devoted they were to him. Damned
hypocrites!' She turned away from the window, her young face dark with
savage pain. 'Bobby, if they'd _meant_ to be beastly to me, I could
forgive them. But they didn't. They've been putting me through all the
tortures of the Spanish Inquisition out of sheer blind stupidity. They
can't begin to understand. They think I'm callous and ungrateful, and
very rude. They also say that I can't have cared for William, since I
pay no respect to his memory.'
'That's simply comic,' said Bobby.
'I know it's comic, but I don't want comedy just now. I want to be
left alone. I could stand the inquest--that was a job of work in a
way, and everyone felt that the sooner it was over the better. But the
funeral--why should one be forced to provide an entertainment for these
drivelling women?'
'God knows,' said Bobby. 'It's the custom of this most un-Christian
country. And anyway, there's no reason why you should ever see any of
'em again, is there?'
Jerry smiled unpleasantly.
'My Aunt Cordelia has offered me a kind home.'
'But you're not going?'
'No, Bobby. I'd rather die in a ditch. It'd be an easier death.'
'Are you going to stay on here?'
'Not if I can help it. This place----' She hesitated--'I love it, but
it reminds me too much. Besides, Lucy would drive me to drink. I know
I'm a fool, but I just can't bear any more female sympathy. She talks
about William with a sort of gloomy relish, and ... do you understand?'
'Absolutely. Look here, Jerry, why don't you get right away and start
somewhere on your own?'
'That's what I want to do. I'm not broke, you see. William wasn't what
you'd call well-off, but I shall have enough to live on. I'd like to
get a job of some kind.'
'I wouldn't do that just at once,' advised Bobby. 'You don't realise
how tired you'll feel when you let go, so to speak. Shall I poke round
and see if I can find a flat for you? As a matter of fact, I believe I
know a place that'd suit you down to the ground.'
'Do you, Bobby? You brick! Will you find out and let me know?'
'Rather!' He hesitated, and then said: 'Jerry, I say, couldn't you dine
with me to-morrow?'
'I'd love to.' She laughed. 'What would my aunts say?'
'To blazes with them! What you want is a change of air. We'll dine at
the Berkeley and go to the play.'
'Perfect. Oh, Bobby, you're the first intelligent person I've spoken
to for three days--and they seem like three years. Bobby, when did you
hear about ... all this?'
'Yesterday. I was away last week-end--staying down in Suffolk--and
didn't get back to London till Monday evening. Then on Tuesday
morning--that _was_ yesterday, wasn't it?--someone told me. It was an
awful shock, Jerry. I had no idea that he was ill.'
'He wasn't.'
'Then how...?' Bobby stared.
'It was all very queer. I just woke up in the night, and felt worried
about him and came downstairs; and there he was, lying on the study
floor, dead. The doctor said he must have fallen and hit his head on
the fender.'
'Was there a wound in his head?'
'Yes. Quite small, but his skull was fractured.'
'It sounds to me ...' Bobby hesitated, and then substituted, 'It sounds
very odd.'
Jerry looked at him, puzzled. Then her face cleared and she smiled.
'Of course! Our Tame Detective! D'you remember how Jim ragged you over
that staged burglary in Scotland? No, no, Bobby, I can't believe it was
murder. Nothing was touched in the room, and William hadn't an enemy in
the world. Awfully sorry to disappoint you, old thing.'
Bobby grinned, rather sheepishly.
'But if you like to explore the study for finger-prints, you have my
full permission,' Jerry added graciously.
His round face brightened. 'May I really, Jerry? Thanks awfully. I
mean, it's all so odd, y' know, and dashed interestin', and....' He
halted abruptly, and grew very red. 'I s-say, Jerry, please forgive me.
I've no business to t-talk like that when----'
'Oh, Bobby, don't apologise!' Jerry was halfway between laughter and
tears. 'You're saving my sanity. After the stuff I've had to listen to
to-day, you can't think how refreshing it is to hear someone call it
"dashed interesting"!'
'What _you_ need,' said Bobby, 'is a jolly stiff drink and about twelve
hours' sleep.'
'Do I? All right, I'll take it. What form of alcohol would you
recommend?'
'Anything, so long as it's strong enough. Jerry, I must be off now. I
shall blow in and collect you soon after seven to-morrow night.'
'I'll be ready, and I'll wear my cheerfulest frock. Thanks awfully,
Bobby. You're a man and a brother.'
'Rot! I've been through the mill too. Don't get up; I can let myself
out. Good-night, old thing.'
'Good-night.'
The door slammed behind him, and Jerry, curled up in the big chair,
felt that some of the tenseness had gone from aching nerve and muscle.