“But didn’t destroy the paper he had come to fetch?”
“That’s easily explained. If you suddenly kill a man and realise you are likely to swing for it, you’re likely enough to overlook something.”
“On the other hand, one might think such a man would be more likely than usual to be careful, since so much depended on it.”
“The history of criminal law tends to support my argument,” snapped Eustace.
“Did you make that suggestion to the police?”
“I didn’t say that I thought Brand was guilty. I told them I thought probably your father had drawn the cheque intending to give it me this morning.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked sarcastically if I thought it was intended as a Christmas present. Of course, the fact that this is Christmas Day is pure chance. The fact is, these people have much too much licence, and are only too apt to abuse it. It’s a scandal, the amount of rope given to coroners and policemen these days.”
7
In the privacy of their room, Richard said uneasily to his wife, “Frobisher’s coming down first thing in the morning. It’s unfortunate, this affair occurring at Christmas-time. It would have been much better if we could have got him in the house to-day, before we were cross-examined by the police.”
Laura looked astonished. “But you’re perfectly safe, Richard. Half a dozen lawyers couldn’t have altered your replies, any more than they could have altered mine.”
He said testily, stripping off his collar and wrenching the links out of his shirt, “My dear Laura, you seem quite unable to differentiate between truth and discretion. Of course, one doesn’t wish to conceal essential facts, but the truth remains that we are in the hands of the law, as represented by this sergeant and any assistants he may have—the coroner, for instance—men chosen quite haphazard to deal with this particular case, and quite liable to over-estimate the importance of certain admissions or to lay undue weight on what other members of the family see fit to tell them. Frobisher, with all the facts before him, might have been of considerable value to us. We have, after all, our position to consider.”
“I thought we were agreed that we hadn’t one any longer. I assure you, I find it a relief to feel myself a free agent.”
She was, indeed, conscious of a certain sense of excitement. She had at one time employed a lady’s-maid, a girl very apt with her needle, quick, tactful, and charming. At the end of a year the girl gave notice.
“But why, Lessing?” Laura wanted to know. “Aren’t you comfortable here? Is it anything to do with the other servants? Have you been offered better wages or an easier situation?”
No, said Lessing, it was none of those things. It was (though she did not phrase it precisely in this fashion) a fear of developing roots, becoming so much a part of her environment that her personality became blurred, insensible to the shock of change, until at length it ceased to desire change, became afraid of it. All her interest, she explained, quickened at the thought of new contacts and new experiences. She was not alarmed by hard work, even by what her contemporaries would think derogatory work. She felt, she said, a great sense of excitement and anticipation while she waited for news of a fresh post; she enjoyed answering advertisements, picturing to herself the type of people with whom she would find her new life, the countryside, the conditions, all the novel and unknown circumstances into which life might be about to lead her. Talking that day, Laura realised for the first time the source of that peculiar charm whose radiance had touched her during the first weeks of the girl’s service. It lay in the sense of surprise and of hope in the atmosphere wherein she lived. She was not, like the majority of human creatures, moulded by her circumstances. She adapted them to her own needs, grew rich, and absorbed. Nothing, thought Laura, could wholly defeat or dismay her. She remembered her to-night, as she looked into the pinched and woeful face of her husband. How quickly, she thought, he has crumbled under this blow, realising that the primary wound he endured was to his own esteem. If you peered into his mind you might find in the second chamber the body of his father, for whom he had cherished a certain affection; but in the first room of all would be the image of a ruined man, hurriedly scanning the newspapers to see how much could be salved from the wreckage, and it was that ruined man whom she loathed.
“A free agent?” he retorted bitterly. “Sometimes, Laura, I think you’re out of your mind, don’t realise what you’re saying. My work is my life; you may be capable of building up another out of the things that matter to you. I’ve never been able to discover precisely what these are, but if they are things that won’t be touched by this débâcle I must congratulate you.”
Laura, smiling in that strange, aloof fashion that had always angered him, said, “No, I don’t think they’ll be touched.” She felt completely apart from this man with whom her life had been shared for thirteen years; endeavouring
