Chapter XI: 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.