The Party at No.5, page 16
“She’s engaged. I’m her daughter. Can I do anything for you?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s a personal matter. We’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll go and tell her you’re here.”
When she had gone the two men looked at one another; without speaking they carefully scanned the room, noting all that was to be seen, while they waited. They had quite a time to wait because Mrs. Rampage fought against going down to see them; she wanted Jonquil to tell them she was ill. This Jonquil refused to do, seeing no reason for it.
They appeared to Mrs. Rampage as bucolic as trees, standing bareheaded in her drawing room, as if they were planted there. As always, fear made her angry.
She said, in a high scolding voice: “What is it? What do you want? This is a very inconvenient time for you to come. Here is my daughter just arrived from Malaya; I haven’t seen her for nearly five years; and she’s not been in the house half an hour when you come and pester me. It’s very inconsiderate. Can’t you come back some other time?”
“We shall try not to keep you long, madam. Just a few questions.”
“Some other time,” she said, straightening tables and chairs fussily, as if it was of the utmost importance to get them into some imperceptibly “right” position.
“Ask them to sit down, Mother,” Jonquil said.
“What, dear? Oh, Jonquil darling, why don’t you take your things upstairs and unpack them.”
“Would you rather I wasn’t here?”
“No, of course not. But — I'm afraid you’ll find it very boring.”
“All right, Mother. I understand,” the young woman said tolerantly.
“Now, Mrs. Rampage,” said the inspector, as Jonquil shut the door. “We’re making inquiries about a Mrs. Norah Roach and we think you may be able to assist us.”
“Why?”
“Because we understand she resided with you for approximately six months."
"I meant, why are you making inquiries about her? What's she done?”
“Disappeared,” said the inspector laconically.
“Really? Well, I don’t think I’ll be able to tell you much. She left here a long time ago.”
“When, exactly?”
“I'm afraid I don’t remember the date.”
“April, was it?”
“Yes, I believe it was.”
“Well, never mind just now. Did she tell you where she was going?”
Mrs. Rampage put her hand to her head.
“Some address in the Cromwell Road. I've got it written down somewhere, I know. I dare say I could find it for you.”
“I see,” said the inspector, taken aback. “And that was where you forwarded her letters?”
“Any that came,” conceded Mrs. Rampage.
“You are sure of that?... Because it seems there are several checks that were sent to her that have never been cashed.”
“I wouldn't know about that,” Mrs. Rampage shrugged.
“From your niece in South Africa, I understand, by whom Mrs. Roach was employed to work here as your companion.”
“That’s what she said,” Mrs. Rampage said scornfully, alternately tugging her woolen sleeves down over her wrists and pushing them up her arms. “All I know is that out of the goodness of my heart and to oblige Cissie I took her in when she was in trouble.”
“And it didn’t work,” said the inspector sympathetically.
“She was an impossible person, that's all.”
The inspector nodded.
“You had a bit of trouble with her. There were words, eh?”
Jonquil quietly opened the door and saw her mother looking sulky.
“Not finished yet?”
“Nearly, miss.”
Mrs. Rampage said: “I finally did lose my temper and I told her to get out.”
“And she went.”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?” said the inspector. “Without her luggage?”
“Of course not. I don’t know what you mean,” said Mrs. Rampage.
“It appears that no one saw her leave,” said the inspector, with a very straight look at her. Mrs. Rampage tried to look bold and innocent as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. “If she had taken her luggage she would have needed a cab; and a cab would have been noticed by someone,” he went on. “Therefore we must presume that she left here without her things — taking only a suitcase perhaps.”
“Yes. That’s what she did. She asked me to mind her things till she got settled... And her cat,” added Mrs. Rampage. “She asked me to keep her cat too.”
“What is all this?” asked Jonquil, frowning.
“Just a few inquiries, miss, anent a missing person; one Mrs. Roach, who was residing latterly at this address.”
“I don't understand —”
“It's all right, darling.”
“Just a minute, Mother. I don’t see why these gentlemen are here. If the woman is missing since she left here, what is the use of questioning Mother about it?”
“Quite, miss. We fully recognize the point. It’s just a matter of a routine check,” the inspector said soothingly.
“Well, have you finished? Because we want to go out.”
“We’d just like to glance round, with your permission."
“What for?” Jonquil asked haughtily. (“There’s my brave girl!” thought Mrs. Rampage.)
“Just part of the routine, miss.”
“I don’t see that it’s necessary.”
“No, miss,” sighed the inspector. “But it’s orders.” He gave a fatuous laugh. “Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.”
“Oh, well, let’s get it over with,” Jonquil said ungraciously. “Mother, you’d better take them.”
Mrs. Rampage tried to moisten her dry lips, tried to smile. But courage came back to her as she took them over the house; they gave but the most cursory glances everywhere, bored, like estate agents looking round new premises. The tour was conducted in silence and afterward they politely left; and Mrs. Rampage and her daughter thereupon went out to luncheon. Mrs. Rampage no longer protested against leaving the house; there was no point in it now.
“Well?” said the inspector, as they walked away.
“Yes, sir.”
“All very pat and circumspect, eh?”
“There’s no knowing, is there?”
“It doesn’t seem very likely, on the face of it. And yet I’ve got a sort of itch...”
“Like a hunch, sir?”
“Nothing as positive as a hunch. It’s just an itch to go back and have another look. Did you notice anything in the kitchen?”
“Where the dresser had been moved, sir, and left a lighter patch on the wall?”
“Yes. That might be interesting, don't you think? Why was the dresser moved? Unless it was to hide the door to the cellar that the Electric chap told us about — the cellar the old girl was so anxious to keep him out of. It’s just an idea,” said the inspector modestly, “but I think it’ll bear looking into.”
*
There was still a great deal that Jonquil wished to know; there were still a great many things she did not understand. It was terrible for Mrs. Rampage to have to face all these questions: and Jonquil was so persistent, so difficult to lie to. What reasonable reason could she give, for instance, that there was no electricity? To say the lights were fused would only make matters worse, for then Jonquil would certainly want to mend them, and the fuse box, of course, was in the cellar. To take her mind off these tiresome questions Mrs. Rampage began to chatter of other things. Jonquil listened with impatient patience.
“But, Mother,” she interrupted restlessly, “if you had become so nervous of being alone that you had to mew yourself up, why have the phone disconnected so that you really were cut off from the world outside?”
“It seemed a needless expense,” said Mrs. Rampage, hurriedly.
“And then when Etta came, why didn't you — ?”
“Oh, darling! Talking of Etta reminds me. I almost forgot. I’ve got something wonderful for you; you’ll go mad when you see it. I couldn’t send it out to you, it’s too fragile to pack and far too precious. It’s really a museum piece. I’ll go and get her now — I call her the White Lady.” Making Jonquil a present of her treasure was a sudden inspiration which she hoped would distract the child from these awkward topics.
“Wait, Mother! Not just now!”
“Yes, I shan’t be a moment, darling,” she said, scurrying out of the room. She ran up to her room, and then, to give herself a breather, took off her outdoor clothes and kicked off her painful shoes. She slipped into the dirty old mules again, patted her hair thoughtfully, and then picked up the White Lady under its glass bell and carried it carefully from the room.
She was slowly descending the stairs with it (slowly, because the White Lady was not affixed to its ebony base and it slithered gently against the glass bell with every movement), when she heard sounds below. She paused to listen to Wagnerian footsteps mounting the stairs.
“Who's that?” she called in a panic. And then, “Jonquil!”
Jonquil came out into the hall at the same moment that the inspector appeared at the top of the basement stairs.
Mrs. Rampage heard Jonquil say sharply, “What are you doing here?”
From where she stood on the turn of the stairs the old woman saw the policeman hold up his hand with a yellow scarf in it — the yellow scarf! She uttered a choked cry.
They heard her and glanced up. Indeed, the last picture her mind registered was of Jonquil looking silly with her mouth agape.
Whether her foot slipped, whether her broken mule betrayed her, whether she tried to turn back on that awkward corner of the stairs in an attempt at flight, no one now can possibly tell. All one can say is that she might have saved herself, that anyone else would have caught at the balustrade. But not Mrs. Rampage. Her only concern was to save the precious White Lady, the “museum” piece that she fancied was worth hundreds of pounds. She would have died rather than it should be damaged. And in fact, she did.
But it was all for nothing. (Though they could hardly loosen her grip on the stand) the glass bell was shattered, and the White Lady lay at the foot of the stairs with a broken neck — like Mrs. Rampage.
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Smith, Shelley, The Party at No.5
