The young man was back in charge, and formidably competent.
‘Thank you, sir. Then that’s all.’ For me it is, said the straight eyes, challenging and pitying; how about you?’
‘Right, then, off you go. And I shouldn’t worry.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ said the flicker of a smile again, less haughtily. Either Tom was beginning to see all sorts of shades of meaning that weren’t there, or that last, long, thoughtful, level stare before the door closed had said, as plainly as in words: ‘Come off it! You know as well as I do there was another fellow in the case – nothing for you, nothing for me. Now tell me that doesn’t hurt!’
He knew, as well as he knew his own name, that if he questioned Dominic Felse on the subject of the weekend in Wales, Dominic would go straight to Miles and report the entire conversation word for word; and yet it seemed to him that he had very little choice in the matter. Since he’d begun this probably useless enquiry, he couldn’t very well leave an important witness out of it. He might be primed already, he might lie for his friend; but that was a hazard that applied to all witnesses, surely. And for some reason Tom felt sure that Miles would not yet have unburdened himself about that morning interview, he took time, when it was available, to think things out, and he had himself been considerably disturbed. He might not keep it quiet, but he wouldn’t run to confide it until he knew what he wanted to say.
So Tom sent for Dominic Felse, half against his conscience and a little against his will, but already launched and incapable of stopping. Dominic confirmed that he and Miles had spent all the week-end together. Yes, they’d packed up together and left about half past five, maybe a little earlier. No, they hadn’t been separated at all during the whole trip, except for half-hour periods while Miles took the scooter and went shopping, and Dominic cooked. Miles was no good as a cook. Yes, they’d come straight back to the Mallindines’ for supper.
Why?
Dominic was nearly a year younger than Miles, and less impeded by his dignity and sophistication from asking the obvious questions. Moreover, he was the son of a detective-inspector, and had a consequent grasp of the rights of the interrogated which made him an awkward customer to interrogate. With sunny politeness he answered questions, and with reciprocal interest asked them. Tom got rid of him in short order, for fear of giving away more than he got.
He met the two of them in the corridor as he left when afternoon school ended. They gave him twin civilised smiles, very slight and correct, and said: ‘Good-night, sir!’ in restrained and decorous unison.
The sight of the two of them thus, shoulder to shoulder, with similarly closed faces and impenetrable eyes, settled one thing. They had pooled everything they knew, and were preparing to stand off the world from each other’s back whenever the assault threatened.
He had seen it coming, and he didn’t make the mistake of thinking that either of them would as lightly confide in a third party. All the same, he began to regret what he had set in motion. Would it really do any good to find out what had happened, and who had made it happen? Wasn’t it better to creep through the next few days and weeks with fingers crossed and breath held, walking on tiptoe and praying to know nothing – not to have to know anything – like Beck and Mrs Beck? Thankful for every night that closed in with no trap sprung and no revelation exploding into knowledge; frightened of every contact in the street and every alarm note of the telephone, but every day a little less frightened.
Annet came and went with fewer words than ever, but with a tranquil face. Something of wonder still lingered, and something of sadness and deprivation, too, and sometimes her eyes, looking through the walls of the house and the slope of the Hallowmount into whatever underworld she had left behind there, burned into a secret, motionless excitement that never seemed quite to be able to achieve joy. She went to Cwm Hall in the morning, and Regina Blacklock’s chauffeur drove her home in the evening, and nobody there seemed to notice anything wrong with her or her work. Thank God that was all right, anyhow! There were bushels of Regina’s notes from the conference to decipher and type out, and a long report to her committee, which Annet brought home to copy on Thursday evening. On the incidence and basic causes of delinquency in deprived children!
She was working on it when Tom came through the hall after supper to go out and stable the Mini for the night. He heard the typewriter clicking away in the dingy little book-lined room Beck still called his study, though all he ever did in it was accumulate endless random text-notes of doubtful value on various obscure authors, with a view to publishing his own commentaries some day. No one believed it would ever be done, not even Beck himself; no one believed the world stood to gain or lose anything, either way.
Tom opened the door gingerly and looked in, and she was alone at the desk. It was the first time he had been alone with her, even for a moment, since her return. He went in quickly, and closed the door softly at his back.
‘Annet—’
She had heard him come. She finished her sentence composedly before she looked up. He could see no hardening in her face, no wariness, no change at all. She looked at him thoughtfully, and said nothing.
‘Annet, I want you to know that if there’s anything I can do to help you, I will, gladly. I’d like to think you’d ask me.’
She sat and looked at him for a long moment, looked down at her own hands still poised over the keys, and back slowly to his face. He thought he caught the bleak, small shadow of a smile, at least a shade of warmth in her eyes.
‘You’d much better just go on thinking me a liar,’ she said without reproach or bitterness. ‘It’s nice of you, but I really don’t need any help.’
‘I hope you won’t, Annet. Only I’m afraid you may. I know, I feel, it isn’t over. And I don’t want you to be hurt.’
‘Oh,
She smiled at him, the first real, unguarded smile he had ever had from her. If she had asked him to believe in fairyland then, he would have done it; any prodigy he would have managed for her. But the moment was over before it was well begun; for it was at that instant that the knocker thudded at the front door.
He shivered and froze at the sound. Annet’s smile had grown suddenly, mockingly bright. ‘It’ll be Myra, coming for me,’ she said, quite gently. ‘What are you afraid of?’
But it wasn’t Myra. They heard Mrs Beck cross the hall, quick, nervous steps, running to ward off disaster. They heard the low exchange of words; a man’s voice, quiet and deep-pitched, and Mrs Beck’s fluttering tones between. He was in the hall now; only a few steps, then he was still, waiting.
