“None of us are infallible.”
“Quite so. But still. And it was odd that it should have happened just at the very time you were away.”
“It was very unfortunate, certainly.” He kept his eyes on the bacon, while he prodded it about with a fork. “Damnably unfortunate.”
“So odd and so unfortunate that I cannot help thinking there may have been a reason for it!”
Lathom took two eggs and cracked them carefully. “How so?”
“You are aware, perhaps, that my father was—not altogether happy in his married life.”
He gave an exclamation under his breath.
“Did you speak?”
“No—I have broken the yolk, that’s all. I beg your pardon. You are asking me rather a delicate question.”
“You may speak frankly to me, Mr. Lathom. If you saw much of my father’s family life, you must have noticed that there were—misfits.”
“Well, of course—one sees and hears little things occasionally. But many happily-married people spar at times, don’t they? And—well—there was a difference of age and all that.”
“That is the point, Mr. Lathom. Without necessarily saying anything harsh about my father’s wife, it is a fact that a young woman, married to an older man, may, not unnaturally, tend to turn to someone more of her own age.”
He muttered something.
“In such a case my father, who was the most unself-regarding man who ever breathed, might have thought it his duty to give her back her liberty.”
He turned round swiftly.
“Oh, no!” he said, “surely not! That’s a dreadful idea, Mr. Harrison. It never occurred to me. I am sure you can put it out of your mind.” He hesitated. “I think—” he went on, with a troubled look, “oh, yes, I am sure you need not think that.”
“Are you quite sure? Did he never say anything?”
“He never spoke of his wife except in terms of the deepest affection. He thought very highly of her.”
“I know. More highly than she—more highly than any woman perhaps could deserve.”
“Perhaps.”
“But,” I said, “that very affection would have been all the more reason for him to—to take himself out of her life in the most complete and unanswerable way.”
“I suppose so—from that point of view.”
“And, if it was so, I should like to know it. Will you tell me, Mr. Lathom, on your honour and without concealment, whether there was anything between my father’s wife and your friend Mr. Munting?”
“Good Lord, no!” he said, taking the pan off the fire and shovelling the eggs and bacon out into a plate. “Nothing of the sort.”
“Just a minute,” said I. “Mr. Munting is your friend, and you want to be loyal to him. That’s obvious. And I’m aware I’m asking you to do one of those things which people with public-school educations don’t do. I am not a public-school man myself, and you must excuse me if I suggest that just for once you should come down to brass tacks and cut out the Eton-and-Harrow business. My father has died, and I want your personal assurance that he did not kill himself on your friend Munting’s account. Can you give it to me?”
“On my word of honour, there was not the very slightest attachment or understanding of any kind between Mrs. Harrison and Jack Munting. They rather disliked each other, if anything. Jack was married last Easter to a very charming woman, with whom he is much in love. He never gave a thought to Mrs. Harrison, or she to him.”
I felt sure he believed what he said.
“Wasn’t there a disturbance of some kind?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” A cloud passed over his face. “There was. That wretched potty woman, Miss Milsom, invented some sort of story. But it was the most absolute rubbish. And Mr. Harrison came to see what utter nonsense it all was. My dear man, the woman’s in an asylum.”
“There was no foundation for it, then?”
“None whatever.”
“Then why did your friend Munting take it lying down, and let himself be kicked out of the house?”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him ‘my friend Munting,’ as if you took us for a pair of undesirables,” he retorted, irritably. He picked at his eggs and bacon, and pushed the plate away again.
“What else could he do but go? Your father was perfectly unreasonable—wouldn’t have listened to the Archangel Gabriel. Anyway, the more you protest about these matters, the less you’re believed. Munting did the right thing—cleared out and married somebody else. Couldn’t have a row with a man twice his age, you know.”
I got up.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Lathom. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I am very glad to have your assurance. Mr. Munting is in town, I suppose?”
“You’re not going to rake it all up with him?”
“I should feel more satisfied if I had had a word with him,” I answered.
“I wouldn’t. You can take my word for it. I mean to say, there’s Mrs. Munting to be considered.”
“I shouldn’t say anything to her. After all, it’s surely natural enough that I should wish to have Mr. Munting’s account of the business.”
“Yes—oh yes, I suppose it is.” He still looked worried and dissatisfied. “Well, goodbye. If you really must see Munting, here’s his address.”
As I opened the door of the studio, I nearly tripped over Mrs. Cutts, who was washing the linoleum. She came and let me out at the house-door.
“Puttin’ yer money on the wrong horse, young man, ain’t you?” she whispered.
“Look here,” I said, “you know something about this.”
“That’s as may be,” said she, slyly. “Mrs. Cutts knows ’ow to govern ’er tongue. An unruly member, ain’t it, sir? That’s wot the Bible says.”
“I’ve no time to waste,” I answered; “if you have anything to say to me, you will find me at my hotel.” I mentioned the name, and then, with a certain disgust at the business, slipped half a crown into her hand.
She curtseyed, and I left her bobbing and dipping on the doorstep.
I cursed myself
