Chapter X: The Feminine Element

Jerry Mitchell sat up in bed and listened. She didn't know what had wakened her ... the big Hampstead house was as silent as the grave ... but the fact remained; she had been sleeping soundly, and of a sudden she was wide awake, listening, with every nerve taut.

For a full minute she sat rigid, and then relaxed, telling herself not to be a fool. There was no sound, and the whole thing had been a dream. But for some reason her thoughts kept returning to her father. It was absurd. He was perfectly all right. She called up a vivid picture of him as she had seen him a few hours previously. She had come in from a party, and had poked her head into the study to say good-night.

'Don't sit up too late and lose your beauty sleep, William!'

He had chuckled, thrusting his spectacles up on to his forehead.

'Impertinent hussy! Had a good time?'

'Very good. What are you up to, Daddy? Some frightfully complicated essay on economics?'

He had laughed, rather guiltily, like a small boy found out in some adventurous pretence.

'Not quite that. A particular ploy that I'll tell you about some day. Run along to bed, child, you're half asleep now.'

'More than half,' she had confessed. 'Good-night, William, darling.'

'Good-night, sweetheart, and happy dreams.'

All so everyday and serene. Why should she be haunted by the thought of him now? And yet, the thought persisted and refused to go. She glanced at her travelling clock, by her bedside. Ten to four. Well, it was no good sitting here and thinking. With a shrug of her shoulders she climbed out of bed and slipped on a dressing-gown. The only thing to do was to go downstairs and see for oneself. Of course he'd have gone to bed and the study would be deserted, and then perhaps one could go to sleep in peace. With a half smile for her own folly she thrust her feet into a pair of slippers and descended the stairs.

The hall was grey and chilly in the dawn light, and she wrapped her dressing-gown closer about her as she opened the study door. The light was still on, and the heavy curtains were drawn. For a moment she thought the room was empty, and then she caught her breath with a gasp. Her father was lying on the hearth, face downwards, in a curiously twisted position.

For one stricken moment she stood staring, and then, with an effort, fought down her fear. He had fainted, that was all. It had happened once or twice before. She knelt beside him. He lay terribly still, and as she lifted his head, she saw a wound in his temple. 'Must have fallen with his head on the fender,' she whispered. 'Dad!... Dad!...' and then her fear became a certainty.

Slowly she laid him back on the rug, and slowly rose to her feet.

He was dead. One ought to telephone to somebody and tell them. She had a curious feeling that she herself had become someone different. One must do something in moments like this, and the thing to do was to ring up on the telephone. But who was the right person to ring up? The Police? Or was it the coroner? Or perhaps the doctor. She didn't know any doctors at all well, because neither she nor William was ever ill, but there was a man who had come when Lucy sprained her ankle. Collins, his name was. Poor Lucy! This would be a shock to her when she arrived on the tick of seven, as she always did. Lucy was a paragon among charladies, and she adored 'the professor.' Yes, it would be a horrid business, breaking the news to Lucy.

Jerry pulled her mind back with a jerk to the business in hand. One rang up the doctor first. She sat down on the desk, looked up the number, and took off the receiver. 'Hullo. Hampstead 5776, please. Yes.' One asked for Dr. Collins, and when he came, one said: 'Miss Mitchell speaking. I wonder if you would mind coming round at once, Dr. Collins? I think my father is dead, and....'

Quite suddenly a queer chill descended on her, and her fingers tightened on the receiver. It was like a shadow of something worse to come ... something very like panic. What _was_ the matter with the telephone? She rattled the receiver bracket desperately.

'Hullo, Exchange. Can't you get me Hampstead 5776?' Her voice shook a little.

'Sorry. No reply.' Terribly impersonal, the operator sounded.

'But ... but there _must_ be!'

'Sorry. No reply.' Click! She heard him cut off.

Slowly Jerry replaced the receiver. One ought to ring up someone else ... one ought to ring up quickly, before this shuddering fear overwhelmed one. It was coming, for already she dared not look at that huddled figure on the rug. Suppose it moved. With a sudden reaction she pulled herself together, and found her last state worse than her first. She was not afraid, because that still thing was William, and he was dead. He was the only thing on God's earth that belonged to her, and she would never hear him speak again. Jerry slipped off the desk, and ran out of the room.

In the hall she paused, shutting the study door behind her. The grey light was brightening, and with a sudden longing for daylight she opened the front door. The dawn wind was cool and fresh, and she studied the houses opposite as if she had never seen them before. She still had that curious feeling that someone else was occupying her mind. After a moment she went out onto the steps and looked down the long grey street. A few yards away stood a big touring-car, much splashed with mud, and a man was changing a wheel. He worked quickly, like a man who is in a hurry, but he whistled light-heartedly enough, as he turned his spanner. Jerry observed that he had nearly finished the job, and with that came the realisation that when he went there would be nobody ... no one in the world except herself and that still body in the study. She descended the steps, silent as an owl in her soft slippers, and made her way to his side.

'Good-morning,' she said, noting with pride the steadiness and self-possession of her tone.

He jerked himself upright, and stared down at her blankly.

'Good-morning.' His voice was slow, and sounded a little surprised.

'You must have come a long way, to get your car so muddy. She's a Bentley, isn't she?' Jerry felt she was doing rather well. _Why_ couldn't he talk, too, and help her out?

'Yes.' He hesitated, his grave eyes on her face. 'What's up?' he asked, point-blank.

'I ... what d'you mean?' She didn't quite know what to say.

'What's happened? Can I help?'

'That's awfully nice of you, but I don't think there's anything one can do. You see, the telephone number was engaged.'

She wondered if that made sense. It was becoming more and more difficult to find words, and the man wouldn't help her. He was looking at his watch now; looking as if he were trying to make up his mind.

'I believe it's going to be a very jolly day.' (She couldn't bear him to go away, and leave her absolutely alone.)

'Yes; one gets the best of a spring morning up here. Have you lived in Hampstead long?'

She sighed with relief. He really was going to talk, at last.

'For eighteen years.'

'All your life, in fact.' He smiled at her.

'No,' she corrected him. 'We came here when I was nearly two. William bought the house when my mother died. I don't remember her at all, but William--that's my father--says she would have loved it.'

'Where is he?'

'He ...' Jerry checked abruptly, and took a deep breath. One must keep one's head and behave in a rational manner.

'Well, as a matter of fact, he's dead. I went into the study just now, and found him there, lying on the rug. I know I ought to ring up someone, but the number's engaged, and ... and there isn't anyone in the house but me.'

'I wonder if you could give me a glass of water,' said the man slowly. 'I've been driving all night, and I'm frightfully thirsty.'

'Of course,' said Jerry. 'Do come in. Let me make you some tea. It's quite easy. I do it on the electric stove in my sitting-room.'

'That sounds awfully good,' said the man, and followed her into the house. Jerry felt that a weight had been lifted off her. At last there was something definite to do. She led him into a little room at the back of the house.

'You see, I've got a kettle all ready,' she said. 'I always keep one there. Very often I make tea in the evenings for William, but last night I went to bed before....'

She checked abruptly, and stared at him, her eyes wide with horrified memory. The man said nothing, but laid a hand on her shoulder, and the gentleness of his touch made her feel that something had snapped in her mind. She covered her face with her hands, and felt as if her knees were giving under her.

'I think I'd better go and see what I can do,' he said quietly. 'Tell me where the telephone is.'

'In the study.' She pulled herself together. 'Shall I come with you?'

'I'd rather you waited here, if you don't mind.'

'All right. It's the first door on the left, across the hall.'

'Right. I won't be long.' He went out, shutting the door behind him.

Jerry slid into a chair, and shut her eyes. For some minutes she didn't think at all. All she knew was that she was very tired, and someone else was in charge. Then the sputtering kettle roused her, and she got up and made some tea. There was no sound in the house. She sat down by the glowing stove. He was a long time. She wondered if he were ringing up for a doctor. She wondered what he thought of the whole affair. It suddenly occurred to her that a man might well be surprised at being addressed by a girl in pyjamas and dressing-gown in a London street at four in the morning.

Then he reëntered, and she forgot to wonder. He looked very tired and worried, she thought, but he smiled at her, and pulled up a chair for himself.

'How good that looks,' he said, his eyes on the teapot.

She gave him a cup, and asked: 'Did you get hold of anyone?'

'Yes: a doctor chap I know. He's coming along as soon as he's dressed. Don't you think it would be a good plan if you went to bed and tried to sleep?'

She shook her head violently, and he added hastily: 'All right. Shall I stay here till he comes, or would you rather be alone?'

'I'd rather you stayed, please. Who did you tell him we were?'

He hesitated.

'I didn't. I told him the address. Who _are_ you?'

'Geraldine Mitchell.'

'It's a large name for a small person,' he smiled. 'Mine's the reverse. Nick.'

'Yes.' She smiled, too, surveying him. 'It's a ridiculously small name. Will you have some more tea?'

'May I? One doesn't realise how thirsty one is until one starts drinking.'

There was a silence. It frightened Jerry. The back of her mind seemed to be full of dark things that threatened to swoop down on her and become part of her conscious thoughts. She must talk--speech kept them at bay. It didn't matter what one talked about. She looked at the man and noticed for the first time that he was in evening dress.

'Have you been to a party?'

'Yes. Miles away in the country.'

'Was it a good show?'

'Marvellous! All the women were dreams of loveliness, and all the men Sir Galahads.' He smiled suddenly. 'Except one.'

'And what was he?'

'We-ell, I didn't see much of him, but I rather think he was a pretty stout fellow.'

Jerry nodded appreciatively. William would have liked this man. She began to talk about her father. Nick listened, and seemed to understand exactly what she meant. Once or twice she wondered if she were talking too much--she seemed to be telling him an awful lot--but the relief of speech was too great to resist. And, anyway, what did it matter? This man was all right. Then, before she had half finished, the bell rang, and she looked up in sudden alarm.

'That's my friend Thorpe, I expect,' said Nick, rising.

'Must I see him? Will he want to ask things?'

He shook his head.

'There's no earthly reason why you should. I'll go and talk to him, and he can come back and see you later on. Listen--wouldn't you be awfully wise to go to bed? I would, if I were you.'

'I'm all right....'

'I know you are, but there'll probably be a lot of fuss and bother presently, and people coming in and out, and you're much too tired to cope with it. Much better leave it to Thorpe. I know you'll like him.'

'Besides, there's Lucy.'

'Lucy?'

'Our charlady. She'll be here at seven. She's always punctual.'

'I'll either see her myself or warn Thorpe. Do be a wise little person and go to bed.'

'All right.' She turned to the door and she hesitated. 'Thank you most awfully. I--I wish you'd met William.'

He looked much older, suddenly.

'So do I. I know I should have loved him.'

'Everyone did. He hadn't an enemy in the world. I--I am saying "thank you" to you for both of us. Good-bye.'

His voice was very gentle as he answered:

'Good-bye, very brave child.'

He stood in the hall watching her climb wearily up the stairs. Ridiculously young she looked, Nick thought. At the corner, where the stairs turned, she waved to him. He lifted a hand in salute, and went to open the front door. A grey-haired, middle-aged man entered, and studied Nick with keen dark eyes as he took off his coat.

'Another emergency, Nick? This is a new district for you.'

'It's purely accidental. I was changing a wheel in the road, and a girl came out and told me she'd just found her father dead.'

'Where is she?'

'I've sent her off to bed.'

'Sensible chap! _Is_ the man dead?'

'Yes. Come along.'

Nick led the way to the study and sat down on the edge of the desk while the doctor was making an examination. He lit a cigarette and noticed, absently, that his hand was not quite steady. Unusual, for him. His whole life had made him accustomed to the unexpected happening, but this morning's occurrences had been a trifle beyond the ordinary, and the discovery that the dead man was none other than his friend of the Jameson Club had been more of a shock to him than he had realised. He had entered that study expecting to see a stranger, and his first feeling was of desperate regret. He had so much wanted to thank the man; had wanted to meet him; had wanted--after the show was over--to tell him the story. And now he was dead--and the show was not over. Nick's thoughts had flown to his precious envelope--safe, thank Heaven, in the dead man's bank. The girl's property now. His first thought on realising this had been to ask her about it, but on returning to her little sitting-room he had dismissed the idea. The child was in no fit state to be bothered with that sort of thing. After all, the paper was perfectly safe. He would give her time to get her balance, would come back and see her one day next week. Poor, plucky child! How she had adored her father!

Nick moved restlessly as he waited for the doctor to give his verdict. So well did he remember that April night. He could almost hear that happy chuckle. 'Twinkling William.' And now he lay there inert, with that dark stain on his forehead. Suddenly a cold suspicion gripped Nick, and wiped all other thoughts from his mind. Thorpe rose to his feet.

'Fractured skull,' he said curtly. 'He obviously fell on the fender. Heavy man, and would fall hard. Who is his M.O.?'

'Hasn't got one, so his daughter told me. Apparently the man who used to attend them died about three years ago, and they haven't called anyone in since then.'

'What's their name, did you say?'

'Mitchell.'

'H'm. You don't know, I suppose, if the old man had ever had any heart trouble?'

'I don't, but the girl told me that he sometimes had sudden fainting fits.'

'Ah! That would account for it.'

'Death by misadventure?' Nick's voice was steady as he put his question.

'Oh, yes. There'll have to be an inquest, of course, but I don't think there's any doubt about the verdict. He fell--probably in a faint--and hit his head on that brass fender. That was certainly the cause of death. Look at the wound.'

'I see. Well, I ought to be going, Thorpe.'

'All right. I'll make all arrangements. Anyone else in the house besides the girl?'

'No, but there's a charwoman arriving at seven. Name of Lucy. What do you make the time?'

Thorpe consulted his watch.

'Five past six.'

'H'm!' Nick frowned thoughtfully. 'All the same, I think I'd better be going. Keep me out of this affair, Thorpe, if you can.'

'Of course I can, if the girl doesn't object.'

'I don't think she will. So long, Thorpe, and thanks awfully.'

'Not a bit. By the way, Nick, that woman Bates that you asked me to see----'

'In Dock Street? Yes, what about it?'

'What she needs is three weeks at the seaside and some decent food. Her husband's a bit of a terror.'

'I know it. Well, be a good fellow and arrange it, will you? Send the bill in to me, and keep your mouth shut as usual.'

'Right.' The doctor smiled at him affectionately. 'You're a rum animal, Nick.'

'Rot! Good-bye, Thorpe.'

'Good-bye.'

Nick went back to his car and, climbing in, sat for a moment lost in thought. Five past six. He'd missed the bus. By the time he had put the car away, changed, and got to Leman Street his visitors would have gone. Well, one might as well find out what had happened, anyway. He started up the car and drove on slowly.

At the first telephone call-box he stopped, and rang up the little shop in Quay Street. Jacob's sniffling voice answered him.

'That you, Ikey?'

'Yes, my friend. You do not come to meet your guests, then?'

'No. Are they still there?'

'Tom Breck is there. I met him, as you said.'

'Good for you. Wot 'appened?'

'I stayed around, my friend, in case you came too. I do not like you doing these things by yourself. Two men came, and they talked long to Breck, but they talk quietly, and I did not like to go too close. Then they all go to Leman Street, and I followed.'

'That's the stuff! And then?'

'They went in, and I waited outside--a long time. It was cold, I tell you.'

'Poor old Sexton Blake! Go on.'

'Soon after six they come out, the two men. One is young. The other has a black beard. The young man says, "No good waiting any longer," and black-beard nods. That man is dangerous, Nick.'

'I know it!'

'Then they go away, and I slip into your rooms to see what Breck is doing. He was asleep on your bed.'

'Blind?'

'What's that you say?'

'I says was he blind? Boozed--sozzled--tanked?'

'Drunk? Yes, very drunk.'

'Ho! Well, let him sleep it orf. So long, Ikey, and thanks for the information. We know where we are now. See yer later.'

Nick rang off and drove home. It had just occurred to him that he could do with some sleep himself.