It settled instead in the pit of her stomach, making her feel slightly sick.
It was not a dream. It was a real happening-a News of the World happening-and she and Edward and Lucy and Henry and Henrietta were all mixed up with it.
Unfair-surely unfair-since it was nothing to do with them if Gerda had shot her husband.
Midge stirred uneasily.
Quiet, stupid, slightly pathetic Gerda-you couldn't associate Gerda with melodrama-with violence.
Gerda, surely, couldn't shoot anybody.
Again that inward uneasiness rose. No, no, one mustn't think like that… Because who else could have shot John? And Gerda had been standing there by his body with the revolver in her hand. The revolver she had taken from Henry's study.
Gerda had said that she had found John dead and picked up the revolver… Well, what else could she say? She'd have to say something, poor thing…
All very well for Henrietta to defend her -to say that Gerda's story was perfectly possible.
Henrietta hadn't considered the impossible alternatives.
Henrietta had been very odd last night…
But that, of course, had been the shock of John Christow's death.
Poor Henrietta-who had cared so terribly for John!
But she would get over it in time-one got over everything. And then she would marry Edward and live at Ainswick-and Edward would be happy at last…
Henrietta had always loved Edward very dearly. It was only the aggressive, dominant personality of John Christow that had come in the way. He had made Edward look so-so pale by comparison.
It struck Midge, when she came down to breakfast that morning, that already Edward's personality, freed from John Christow's dominance, had begun to assert itself.
He seemed more sure of himself, less hesitant and retiring.
He was talking pleasantly to the glowering and unresponsive David.
'You must come more often to Ainswick, David. I'd like you to feel at home there and to get to know all about the place.'
Helping himself to marmalade, David said coldly:
'These big estates are completely farcical. They should be split up.'
'That won't happen in my time, I hope,' said Edward, smiling. 'My tenants are a contented lot.'
'They shouldn't be,' said David. 'Nobody should be contented.'
'If apes had been content with tails-' murmured Lady Angkatell from where she was standing by the sideboard, looking vaguely at a dish of kidneys. 'That's a poem I learnt in the nursery, but I simply can't remember how it goes on. I must have a talk with you, David, and learn all the new ideas.
As far as I can see, one must hate everybody but at the same time give them free medical attention and a lot of extra education, poor things! All those helpless little children herded into schoolhouses every day-and cod liver oil forced down babies' throats whether they like it or not-such nastysmelling stuff.'
Lucy, Midge thought, was behaving very much as usual.
And Gudgeon, when she passed him in the hall, also looked just as usual. Life at The Hollow seemed to have resumed its normal course. With the departure of Gerda, the whole business seemed like a dream.
Then there was a scrunch of wheels on the gravel outside and Sir Henry drew up in his car. He had stayed the night at his club and driven down early.
'Well, dear,' said Lucy, 'was everything all right?'
'Yes. The secretary was there-competent sort of girl-She took charge of things. There's a sister it seems. The secretary telegraphed to her.'
'I knew there would be,' said Lady Angkatell. 'At Tunbridge Wells?'
'Bexhill, I think,' said Sir Henry, looking puzzled.
'I daresay-' Lucy considered Bexhill. 'Yes-quite probably.'
Gudgeon approached.
'Inspector Grange telephoned, Sir Henry. The inquest will be at eleven o'clock on Wednesday.'
Sir Henry nodded. Lady Angkatell said:
'Midge, you'd better ring up your shop.'
Midge went slowly to the telephone.
Her life had always been so entirely normal and commonplace that she felt she lacked the phraseology to explain to her employer that after four days' holiday she was unable to return to work owing to the fact that she was mixed up in a murder case.
It did not sound credible. It did not even feel credible.
And Madame Alfrege was not a very easy person to explain things to at any time.
Midge set her chin resolutely and picked up the receiver.
It was all just as unpleasant as she had imagined it would be. The raucous voice of the vitriolic little Jewess came angrily over the wires.
'What ith that, Mith Hardcathtle? A death? A funeral? Do you not know very well I am short-handed. Do you think I am going to stand for these excutheth? Oh, yeth, you are having a good time, I darethayl'
Midge interrupted, speaking sharply and distinctly.
'The poleeth? The poleeth, you thay?' It was almost a scream. 'You are mixed up with the poleeth?'
Setting her teeth, Midge continued to explain. Strange how sordid that woman at the other end made the whole thing seem. A vulgar police case. What alchemy there was in human beings!
Edward opened the door and came in, then seeing that Midge was telephoning, he was about to go out. She stopped him.
'Do stay, Edward. Please. Oh, I want you to.'
The presence of Edward in the room gave her strength-counteracted the poison.
She took her hand from where she had laid it over the receiver.
'What? Yes. I am sorry. Madam… But, after all, it is hardly my fault-'
The ugly raucous voice was screaming angrily:
'Who are thethe friendth ofyourth? What thort of people are they to have the poleeth there and a man shot. I've a good mind not to have you back at all! I can't have the tone of my ethtablishment lowered.'
Midge made a few submissive noncommittal replies. She replaced the receiver at last, with a sigh of relief. She felt sick and shaken.
'It's the place I work,' she explained. 'I had to let them know that I wouldn't be back until Thursday because of the inquest and the-the police.'
'I hope they were decent about it? What is it like, this dress shop of yours? Is the woman who runs it pleasant and sympathetic to work for?'
'I should hardly describe her as that! She's a Whitechapel Jewess with dyed hair and a voice like a corncrake.'
'But, my dear Midge-'
Edward's face of consternation almost made Midge laugh. He was so concerned.
'But, my dear child-you can't put up with that sort of thing. If you must have a job, you must take one where the surroundings are harmonious and where you like the people you are working with.'
Midge looked at him for a moment without answering.
How explain, she thought, to a person like Edward? What did Edward know of the labour market, of jobs?
And suddenly a tide of bitterness rose in her. Lucy, Henry, Edward-yes, even Henrietta-they were all divided from her by an impassable gulf-the gulf that separates the leisured from the working.
They had no conception of the difficulties of getting a job, and, once you had got it, of keeping it! One might say, perhaps, that there was no need, actually, for her to earn her living. Lucy and Henry would gladly give her a home-they would with equal gladness have made her an allowance. Edward would also willingly have done the latter.
But something in Midge rebelled against the acceptance of ease offered her by her well-to-do relations. To come on rare occasions and sink into the well-ordered luxury of Lucy's life was delightful. She could revel in that. But some sturdy independence of spirit held her back from accepting that life as a gift. The same feeling had
