He knocked once more, again without result, and then plodded back to the house. As he stepped into the kitchen he saw that the white leather of his new white-and-tan shoes had turned a muddy brown. Furious, he dried them with a kitchen towel. He returned to the front room.
'Grail's not in the shed, Mrs Troy. I doubt he'll come in this storm. Where does he live, anyway?'
She didn't know. Grail had never said. In short order Harold discovered there was almost nothing she did know about the man. He'd appeared mysteriously, several months back, in early spring. He came often on a Saturday but not every week. He usually brought food for her, groceries of some kind, though not always what she asked for.
'Just any stuff,' the old woman said, with sudden, fierce resentment.
So that was it! Grail hadn't lived up to his end of their bargain. Calmer in his mind now, Biggs reflected coolly. As far as he could see, the garden appeared to have been cared for. If it was just a question of the food Grail was bringing, then a word in his ear might do the trick.
Seating himself beside her again he began to put it to her, suggesting that if someone took Grail aside and- 'No! No! No! That's not what I want.' Twin pink roses like fever spots blossomed in the pallor of her cheeks. The hysteria in her voice shook him. 'I don't want to have to deal with that man. Please.' Listen to me!'
Flushing, Biggs sat back. There was no reasoning with her, he told himself bitterly. She was old and stubborn, and probably feeble-minded. She ought to be in a home. He couldn't see what this fellow Grail had done that was so terribly wrong. Anyone would think he was Satan incarnate! For a moment he wondered if there was something here he hadn't understood. Something she'd left unsaid. But he pushed the thought from his mind. All he wanted was to get the damned business settled and be on his way.
'Well, I can't tell him anything if he's not here,' he said sharply. 'And I can't wait for ever.'
She sat still in her chair, her face turned away from his. The cat's purring had ceased. 'I want Mr Wolverton to come,' she said in a low voice. 'I'll speak to him.'
The implied threat in her words brought the blood rushing to his cheeks again. 'There is something I can do,' he said quickly. 'I could write him a letter. Mr Grail. I'll leave it in the shed, so if he comes tomorrow he'll find it. I'll tell him he has to go, to quit the premises. There — will that help?'
She said nothing. But her shoulders under the knitted shawl made a faint shrugging gesture.
He stood up, temples throbbing. Old and helpless as she was she'd managed to humiliate him. He felt as though she had slipped a chain around his neck and given it a sharp jerk. He moved away to a small writing desk that stood against the wall behind her chair and sat down. His hand shook as he unscrewed his fountain pen and took a sheet of paper from one of the pigeon-holes.
Dear Mr Grail Mrs Troy informs me that for some time now she has allowed you the use of her garden shed in return for certain services…
The room grew suddenly brighter as he wrote.
Glancing up he saw that a beam of sunlight had broken through the lace-net curtains. He was aware that the rain had stopped a few minutes before. The sunshine brought a flash of silver from the glass fronted cabinet, and Harold's eye was drawn that way.
He noticed a pair of tankards standing on a silver salver that occupied the top shelf of the cabinet. The sight of them awoke a recent memory in him. He had gone to an auction in Folkestone with Mr Wolverton to oversee the sale of a deceased client's effects. He recalled the auctioneer holding up a brace of silver mugs, very like the ones in the cabinet.
'Georgian,' the auctioneer had said. They had fetched 120, pounds the pair of them.
She now finds it necessary to put an end to this arrangement and I am writing to inform you of this. Since no contract exists between you and Mrs Troy I assume that a period of notice of one week from today will be sufficient…
A hundred and twenty pounds the pair of them. He could buy a wireless set for 120 pounds for a lot less, as a matter of fact, but the balance could go towards a motor-car.
Harold Biggs sat like a statue, his pen poised above the paper, while the thought of larceny slithered into his mind like an adder and lay there, quietly coiled.
He glanced at the figure in the chair. The old woman seemed to be dozing.
He got up quietly and went out of the room and into the kitchen. His heart was leaping in his chest.
He needed time to think. He drew a glass of water from the sink tap and stood at the window staring out. Scattered raindrops fell through sunshine. Blue skies showed on the heels of the clouds, which were moving eastwards. He wouldn't get wet after all.
Dry-lipped he told himself he was entitled to claim payment, to be compensated for his trouble. But it wasn't that. He knew. It was the excitement he felt racing through his veins. The realization that he might be about to do something he had never dreamed of doing. Had never dared to dream of doing. It was like stepping into a new skin. A new person.
He went back to the front room. Mrs Troy hadn't stirred. Her chin lay on her breast. Her eyes were shut.
Biggs held his breath. The cat watched from her lap as he crossed the room silently to the cabinet.
Could he do it? Yes? No?
He opened the glass doors and took out the tankards, one in each hand, hefting them, testing their weight. His eyes, behind his glasses, began to water.
'Mr Biggs? Are you there?'
Harold froze. His back was to her.
Are you there?
He turned his head slowly — and then relaxed with a slow expulsion of breath. Her face was pointing towards the door. She couldn't see across the room. He had banked all on that.
'Mr Biggs…?'
Taking care not to make any sound, he replaced the mugs in the cabinet and shut the glass doors. Black spots danced before his eyes.
'Here I am, Mrs Troy.' He crossed the room unhurriedly to the desk. 'I'll just finish this letter now.'
Kindly remove all your belongings and leave the door unlocked…
Biggs's pen squeaked faintly on the paper.
I shall return next Saturday, a week from today, to ensure that the shed has been vacated as Mrs Troy requests.
Yours faithfully,
Harold Biggs (Solicitor's Clerk) 'I've been thinking this over, Mrs Troy.' He spoke to her from the desk as he addressed an envelope in clear capitals: mr grail, by hand. 'A letter's not enough, I feel. I ought to handle this in person. I'll be coming back next Saturday to make sure this fellow has got the message. Don't worry, I'll have him out of here, bag and baggage, I promise you.'
Because he didn't want to take the tankards now. Not today. He had thought it all out in the kitchen.
First, Grail had to be sent packing. Then, anything found missing from the cottage could be laid at his door. He'd be the obvious culprit, a man with a grievance. It was an added bonus, as far as Harold was concerned, that he did not need to trouble his conscience, either. Even if the police got around to questioning Grail they would find no evidence of the theft, no stolen goods, and the matter would be dropped.
Always supposing it came to that. Always supposing Winifred Troy even noticed the mugs had gone missing.
He sealed the envelope, got up and went over to where she was sitting.
'Do you understand, Mrs Troy?' He sat down beside her again. 'This letter's his notice to quit. I'll be back in a week to make sure he's gone. You don't have to deal with him. If he makes any objection refer him to us, to the firm. Tell him we're handling the matter.'
He didn't like it when she turned her face to him.
An exchange of glances was part of any conversation.
You looked into the other person's eyes and tried to judge their reactions. Mrs Troy's clouded gaze gave no hint of her feelings. Then he felt her fingers close on his.
'Thank you, Mr Biggs.' It was no more than a murmur. 'I'm sorry to have put you to all this trouble.'
Too late, he thought angrily, pulling his hand from hers. He didn't want to think about her, or her life.
Or how little of it was left.
