put into words. It had been accepted by them all, by Lucy and Henry, by Midge, by Edward even, that Henrietta loved John Christow, but nobody had ever so much as hinted at the fact in words before.
There was a pause whilst Henrietta seemed to be thinking. Then she said in a thoughtful voice:
'I can't explain to you what I feel. Perhaps I don't know myself.'
They were driving now over Albert Bridge.
Henrietta said:
'You'd better come to the studio, Midge. We'll have tea and I'll drive you to your digs afterwards.'
Here in London the short afternoon light was already fading. They drew up at the studio door and Henrietta put her key into the door. She went in and switched on the light.
'It's chilly,' she said. 'We'd better light the gas fire. Oh, bother-I meant to get some matches on the way.'
'Won't a lighter do?'
'Mine's no good and anyway it's difficult to light a gas fire with one. Make yourself at home. There's an old blind man stands on the corner. I usually get my matches off him. I shan't be a minute or two.'
Left alone in the studio. Midge wandered round, looking at Henrietta's work. It gave her an eerie feeling to be sharing the empty studio with these creations of wood and bronze.
There was a bronze head with high cheekbones and a tin hat, possibly a Red Army soldier, and there was an airy structure of twisted, ribbon-like aluminum which intrigued her a good deal. There was a vast static frog in pinkish granite, and at the end of the studio she came to an almost life-sized wooden figure.
She was staring at it when Henrietta's key turned in the lock and Henrietta herself came in slightly breathless.
Midge turned.
'What's this, Henrietta? It's rather frightening.'
'That? That's The Worshipper. It's going to the International Group.'
Midge repeated, staring at it: 'It's frightening…'
Kneeling to light the gas fire, Henrietta said over her shoulder:
'It's interesting your saying that. Why do you find it frightening?'
'I think-because it hasn't any face…
'How right you are, Midge…'
'It's very good, Henrietta.'
Henrietta said lightly: 'It's a nice bit of pear wood…'
She rose from her knees. She tossed her big satchel bag and her furs on to the divan, and threw down a couple of boxes of matches on the table.
Midge was struck by the expression on her face-it had a sudden quite inexplicable exultation.
'Now for tea,' said Henrietta, and in her voice was the same warm jubilation that Midge had already glimpsed in her face.
It struck an almost jarring note-but Midge forgot it in a train of thought aroused by the sight of the two boxes of matches.
'You remember those matches Veronica Cray took away with her?'
'When Lucy insisted on foisting a whole half dozen on her? Yes.'
'Did anyone ever find out whether she had matches in her cottage all the time?'
'I expect the police did. They're very thorough.'
A faintly triumphant smile was curving Henrietta's lips. Midge felt puzzled and almost repelled.
She thought. Can Henrietta really have cared for John? Can she? Surely not.
And a faint desolate chill struck through her as she reflected:
Edward will not have to wait very long…
Ungenerous of her not to let that thought bring warmth. She wanted Edward to be happy, didn't she? It wasn't as though she could have Edward herself. To Edward she would be always 'little Midge.' Never more than that. Never a woman to be loved.
Edward, unfortunately, was the faithful kind. Well, the faithful kind usually got what they wanted in the end.
Edward and Henrietta at Ainswick… that was the proper ending to the story. Edward and Henrietta living happy ever afterwards …
She could see it all very clearly…
'Cheer up, Midge,' said Henrietta. 'You mustn't let murder get you down. Shall we go out later and have a spot of dinner together?'
But Midge said quickly that she must get back to her rooms. She had things to do-letters to write. In fact, she'd better go as soon as she'd finished her cup of tea.
'All right. I'll drive you there.'
'I could get a taxi.'
'Nonsense. Let's use the car as it's here.'
They went out into damp evening air. As they drove past the end of the Mews, Henrietta pointed out a car drawn in to the side.
'A Ventnor 10. Our shadow. You'll see. He'll follow us.'
'How beastly it all is!'
'Do you think so? I don't really mind.'
Henrietta dropped Midge at her rooms and came back to the Mews and put her car away in the garage.
Then she let herself into the studio once more.
For some minutes she stood abstractedly drumming with her fingers on the mantelpiece.
Then she sighed and murmured to herself:
'Well-to work… Better not waste time.'
She threw off her tweeds and got into her overall.
An hour and a half later she drew back and studied what she had done. There were dabs of clay on her cheek and her hair was dishevelled, but she nodded approval at the model on the stand.
It was the rough similitude of a horse. The clay had been slapped on in great irregular lumps. It was the kind of horse that would have given the Colonel of a Cavalry Regiment apoplexy, so unlike was it to any flesh and blood horse that had ever been foaled.
It would also have distressed Henrietta's Irish hunting forebears. Nevertheless, it was a horse-a horse conceived in the abstract.
Henrietta wondered what Inspector Grange would think of it if he ever saw it, and her mouth widened a little in amusement as she pictured his face.
Chapter XXIV
Edward Angkatell stood hesitantly in the swirl of foot traffic in Shaftesbury Avenue.
He was nerving himself to enter the establishment which bore the gold-lettered sign 'Madame Alfrege.'
Some obscure instinct had prevented him from merely ringing up and asking Midge to come out and lunch. That fragment of telephone conversation at The Hollow had disturbed him-more, had shocked him.
There had been in Midge's voice a submission, a subservience that had outraged all his feelings.
For Midge, the free, the cheerful, the outspoken, to have to adopt that attitude. To have to submit, as she clearly was submitting, to rudeness and insolence on the other end of the wire. It was all wrong-the whole thing was wrong! And then, when he had shown his concern, she had met him point blank with the unpalatable truth that one had to keep one's job, that jobs weren't easy to get, and that the holding down of a job entailed more unpleasantnesses than the mere performing of a stipulated task.
Up till then Edward had vaguely accepted the fact that a great many young women had 'jobs' nowadays. If he had thought about it at all, he had thought that, on the whole, they had jobs because they liked jobs-that it flattered their sense of independence and gave them an interest of their own in life.
The fact that a working day of nine to six, with an hour off for lunch, cut a girl off from most of the pleasures
