The Wilmington morning star. [volume], August 07, 1947, Page 8, Image 8

About The Wilmington morning star. [volume] (Wilmington, N.C.) 1909-1990

Image provided by: University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill Library, Chapel Hill, NC

                
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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The car climbed a long hill.
Midge said:
“Henrietta, can you understand
the meaning of this second Sun
business?” ,
"No It lets Gerda out. But be
yond that it just doesn’t seem to
add up to anything.”
“But, if it was one of Henry s
^“We don't know that it was. It
hasn’t been found yet, remem
tocr **
“No, that’s true. It could be
someone outside altogether. ^ Do
vou know who I’d like to think
killed John, Henrietta? That
woman.”
■Veronica Cray?”
“Yes.”
Henrietta said nothing. She
drove on with her eyes fixed stern
ly on the road ahead of her.
“Don’t you think it’s possible?”
persisted Midge. .
“Possible, yes,” said Henrietta
•lowly. , ,.
"Then you don’t think—
“It's no good thinking a thing
because you want to think it. It s
the perfect solution—letting all of
us out!”
“Us? But—”
“We’re in it — all of us. Even
you. Midge darling—though they’d
be hard put to it to find a motive
for your shooting John! Of course,
I’d like it to be Veronica. Nothing
would please me better than to
aee her giving a lovely perform
ance, as Lucy would put it, in the
dock!”
Midge shot a quick look at her.
“Tell me. Henrietta, does it all
make you feel vindictive?”
“You mean”— Henrietta paused
a moment — “because I loved
John?”
“Yes.”
As she spoke, Midge realized
with a slight sense of shock that
this was the first time the bald
fact had been put into words. It
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had been accepted by them all, by
Lucy and Henry, by Midge, by
Edward even, that Henrietta loved
John Cnristow, but nobody had
ever so much as hinted at the fact
in words before.
There was a pause while Hen
rietta 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 my
self.”
They were driving now over Al
bert Bridge.
Henrietta said:
‘‘You’d better come to the stu
dio, Midge. We’ll have tea and
I’ll drive you to your digs after
ward.”
Here in London the short after
noon light was already fading.
They drew up at the studio door
and Henrietta put her key into the
lock, 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 around, looking at Hen
rietta’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 Hen
rietta’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
Watch
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“I thought maybe she’d find a nice boy to dance with—
instead she’s found the sandwiches 1”
that. Why do you find it fright
ening?”
“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 expres
sion 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 repeded.
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 thoi^i she
could have Edward herslfl? To
Edward she would be always “lit
tle 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 Ains
wick. . . that was the proper end
ing to the story. Edward and
Henrietta living happy ever after
ward.
She could see it all very clear
ly. . .
“Cheer up, Midge,” said Henri
etta. “You mustn’t let murder get
you down. Shall we go out later
and have a spot of dinner to
gether?”
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 eve
ning air. As they drove past the
end of the Mews, Henrietta point
ed out a car drawn in to the side.
“A Ventnor 10. Our shadow.
Youll 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 Me'.vs
and put her car away in the ga
rage.
Then she let herself into the stu
dio once more.
For some minutes she stood ab
stractedly drumming with her fin
gers on the mantelpiece. Then she
sighed and murmured to her
self: _ .
• •^Yell to work. . .Better not
waste time." ... ,
She threw oft 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 disheveled, 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 cav
alry regiment apoplexy, *o unlike
was it to any flesh and blood horse
that had ever been foaled. It
would also have distressed Hen
rietta’s Irish hunting forebears.
Nevertheless, it was a horse A
horse conceived in the abstract.
Henrietta wondered what In
spector Grange would think of it
if he ever saw it, and her mouth
widened a little in amusement as
she pictured his face.
Edward Angkatell stood hesi
tantly in the swirl of foot traffic
in Shaftesbury Avenue. He was
nerving himself to enter the estab
lishment which bore the gold-let
tered sign “Madame Alfrege.”
Some obscure instinct had pre
vented him from merely ringing
up and asking Midge to come out
and lunch. That fragment of tele
phone conversation at The Hollow
had disturbed him — more, had
shocked him. There had been m
Midge’s voice a submission, a sub
servience that had outraged all nis
feelings.
For Midge, the free, the cheer
ful, the outspoken, to have to
adopt that attitude. To have to
submit, as she clearly was subrmt
ting, 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 pointplank with the unpal
atable 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 unpleasant
nesses 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 indepen
dence 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 and relaxations of a
leisured class had simply not oc
curred to Edward. That Midge,
unless she sacrificed her lunch
hour, could not drop .into a picture
gallery, that she could not go to
an afternoon concert, drive out of
town on a fine summer’s day,
lunch in a leisurely way at a dis
tant restaurant, but had instead to
relegate her excursions into the
country to Saturday afternoons
and Sundays and to snatch her
lunch in a crowded Lyons or a
snack bar was a new and uwel
come discovery. He was very fond
of Midge. Little Midge—that was
how he thought of her. Arriving
shy and wide-eyed at Ainswick for
the holidays, tongue-tied at first,
then opening up into enthusiasm
and affection.
(To Be Continued)
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