Portrait of a Murderer Page 4

  II

  Up and down their room, in slippered feet, turning, hesitating, pacing, halting, turning again, went Eustace hour after hour through the interminable evening, until Olivia, her tact, patience, and sweetness of temper exhausted by this intolerable prowling, cried, “Oh, Eustace, for heaven’s sake stop it. I shall have hysterics.”

  Eustace paid no attention; for the moment, she did not exist. Olivia, realising the depths of his absorption, compelled her nerves to remain calm for a little longer while she enviously watched her husband’s supple figure moving like a great cat in and out of the shadows. Her own was thickening disquietingly. They said Jews were stout, gross even, particularly if they were financiers, but nothing less like the novelist’s conception of a Jew than Eustace could be conceived. Only in the shrewd expression of the dark face, and the smooth black hair brushed straight off an olive-coloured forehead, did he betray his origin.

  “And he doesn’t have to wear corsets or endure massage. And he certainly eats and drinks far more than I do,” thought Olivia resentfully.

  At length, however, she was aware that, come what might, some sort of a scene was inevitable, and, sitting bolt upright in the bed and speaking very loudly, she asked, “Have you any aspirin, Eustace? My head is driving me crazy. It’s watching you like this, hour after hour…”

  He came to an abrupt standstill at the foot of the bed. “Olivia, you should know your father better than I do. Is there any way of compelling him to help us? I thought the threat of dishonour would be sufficient, expecially if I mentioned Richard, but apparently I miscalculated. He’s our only chance now.”

  “He has got the money?”

  “He’s got fifteen thousand pounds’ worth of bonds in the safe in his room. I saw them myself not two months ago, when I came down to talk over further investments in the —— Co. Ten thousand would pull us through and set us on our feet. Moneylenders can’t help us; the City of London is honeycombed with spies; they’d realise at once that everything was up, even if anyone would lend us anything on our security. Well?”

  Olivia said, “It isn’t only us. It’s Richard, too. I’m sure he’s in a tight hole, and has been trying to touch father. Perhaps he’s been luckier than we.”

  “We know Richard’s in a tight hole, but not so tight as ours. He can’t afford publicity any more than we can, but at least it won’t mean broad arrows for him. I daresay”—he shrugged elaborately—“it won’t be very pleasant to be sold up. They say his extravagances these last six months have been fantastic. But there it is. I don’t for a moment believe, though, that Richard has been any luckier in getting anything out of your father than I have. I had first innings for one thing, and for another I saw Richard coming out of the library looking like murder. He’ll hardly speak to anyone. Oh, he’s in a mess all right. If he weren’t, he might have done something. It won’t be pleasant for him having all his relations in the criminal court. Besides, there’s some story about a woman I’ve been hearing lately.”

  Olivia forgot her headache. “Richard—and a woman!”

  Eustace laughed unguardedly. “Well, why not? He’s human, isn’t he? And that wife of his is a bit of a stick, or I’m mistaken.”

  “I was thinking it’s so unlike Richard to spend money that he can save. Is she—this woman—making trouble?”

  “They say so. They generally do, of course. The fellow must be a fool to let this come on him at such a critical time, but between you and me I never have considered Richard quite the brilliant chap he thinks himself.”

  Olivia was following up a train of thought of her own. “Then, if she’s making trouble too, and he hasn’t any money, he must get something out of father if he isn’t to be ruined, Eustace!” She shot the words at him. “If what you say is true, that father’s pretty well ruined himself, he certainly wouldn’t have much to give, and anything he had would go to Richard. I’m convinced of that.”

  She dropped into silence. Eustace, who saw no point in wasting anything, not even words, recommenced his perambulations.

  “And there’s Brand,” said Olivia gloomily, determined to get some kind of Russian satisfaction out of the general depression.

  “Yes. I gathered he was cropping up again. Oh, I wouldn’t care to be in your father’s shoes. All his relations by blood or marriage, with the exception of the unambitious Miles, at his throat for cash. Is it anything new so far as Brand’s concerned? Is he threatened with a writ or the police, too?”

  “Oh, nothing fresh, I expect. He’s been a nuisance to us ever since he was fifteen. You know, he was expelled from —— for what his headmaster called obscene caricatures of those in authority.”

  “Oh, I know that sort of thing,” said Eustace impatiently. “Anything that detracts from the dignity of these bearded old men is obscene. I daresay he was extremely clever—there’s no doubt about it, he’s an artist to his finger-tips and a different type of man from your father might be rather proud to help him. It’s fortunate for us that he isn’t, or our final hope would be sunk.”

  “A charming family débâcle,” Olivia agreed. “Well, you must acknowledge this, Eustace. We do do things thoroughly; no skulking in odd corners for the Grays, once they get started.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you to wonder what corners are for, except to be skulked in? And that waste of any opportunity is a crime?” For an instant he had allowed his composure to be shaken, but now he regained control of himself. “I must say I see your father’s point of view. It must be extremely annoying for a man who believes in no kind of possession but the material to learn that more than half his shares are worth no more than a load of stones. That’s a man who’d hold up the Last Trump to get his halfpenny change.”

  Olivia laughed unwillingly. “What a good subject for Brand’s malicious brush. Oh, Eustace, come to bed, if you don’t want me to go mad. I’ve had enough for one night, And do you realise it’s already Christmas Day?”

  Eustace said in interested tones, paying no heed to her exhausted query, “The trouble with your father is he’s not a racing man. A fellow who’s going to speculate as we do ought to know what it is to drop three figures on a horse. That’s the only right type for speculation. The other kind are fools—blind fools, if you like, but beyond redemption. All right, Olivia. I’m going. Good night.”

  He drew the dark-blue brocaded dressing-gown more closely round him, and opened his dressing-room door.

  “What are you going to do?” his wife asked.

  “Think out some other way of pulling us out of this mess,” he returned coolly, and closed the door.

  After a minute, she hid her face in the pillow with a furious groan. The house claimed to be well built, but even through the heavy door she could hear those neat pointed feet going up and down, up and down the dressing-room as for the past two hours they had gone up and down before her bed.

  5. Ruth

  While Richard was venting his wrath—which, if it could not vie with the mercy of the Lord and endure for ever, at least lasted for a considerable period—upon an indifferent Laura, while Eustace was driving his wife crazy by walking up and down in front of her, and Amy, sitting up by candlelight, calculated the cost per plate per person of the Christmas meals, Miles Amery sat on the foot of his wife’s bed and murmured affectionately, “Darling, you’re getting as plump as a partridge. How I adore fat women!”

  “I’m not a bit fat,” said Ruth placidly, “and if I am, it’s only because I like to please you. I’m sure it gives me no satisfaction to go about looking like something out of a pudding-cloth.”

  “You know my opinion about things that come out of pudding-cloths. Ruth darling, not even for you will I spend another Christmas under this inhospitable roof. I’d as soon be in gaol.”

  “Well, they are my family,” offered Ruth weakly.

  “For the hundred-and-first time, I’m convinced that you w
ere a come-by-chance. No offence and all that, of course, but you simply can’t be a blood relation of this preposterous family.”

  “It isn’t that I wanted to come. You know I hate having Christmas away from the children. But this year you did seem quite as keen as me.”

  “Which isn’t saying very much, if you come to analyse it. And I won’t bring the brats here, even if your fond sister, Amy, would have them.”

  “She mightn’t mind,” suggested Ruth, in the same indecisive voice.

  “I daresay she’d be quite pleased. I’m sure she’d find excellent excuses to beat them within an hour of their arrival. Very badly brought up, our children are. It’s a pity she didn’t live in the days of Solomon. She might have been his thousand-and-first lady friend. She’d have carried out his precepts regarding the upbringing of children so well. No, I wouldn’t have them here for any bribe. Let them at all events preserve the illusion that Christmas is the children’s feast, when one’s efforts are primarily directed towards their entertainment, when they do come first and can, practically speaking, demand what they like and no one will refuse them. They’d develop into infant cynics if we had them down here for twenty-four hours.”

  Ruth thought of her babies, aged seven and four. They would be asleep long ago, and she was jealous of Emily, Miles’s sister, who would have them for the three days of the holiday. They’d be lying in their blue-and-white striped pyjamas, excited and longing for the morning, Moira a little sophisticated and less ready than formerly to believe in visions and the sudden appearances of angels, but Pat still prepared at any moment to greet them, in classic robes of pink and blue, with haloes like gold soup-plates; or even the entire Holy Family peering out of the dark. It would neither have surprised nor alarmed her; just another instance of the fun and splendour that was her present conception of life.

  Both had heart-shaped faces and short bright hair and were busy throughout the day with a grave intentness that charmed their parents. The beautiful solemnity and eagerness of their bearing as they mapped out a route for a picnic or arranged a dolls’ tea-party or baptism touched Miles as being extraordinarily lovely, so that he resented the more being separated from them at such an important time.

  He came at length out of his brown study to observe in troubled tones, “As a fact, I only agreed to come down this year because of Brand.”

  “Brand?” She made no attempt to conceal her surprise. “I didn’t know you were specially friendly with him.”

  “I’m not. But I happened to be visiting in his part of the world the other day, and I met a man who knows him in a spasmodic sort of fashion. Brand has so few friends because that wife of his makes his home life so impossible. This fellow, Day, told me that there are people round there who would like to know Brand better, but the circumstances and the character of that appalling woman he’s married put anything like intimacy out of the question. I shouldn’t shout it from the housetops, but I believe the average decent chap is afraid of going into Brand’s house uninvited, because he isn’t sure whether he may not find himself alone with Sophy, and she’s up to any game. Well, there seems to be a rumour that he’s declared he won’t stay there any longer; he’s going to clear out and the others can fend for themselves. I don’t suppose he would actually do that—it would be a bit difficult, because legally they’re all his children, though rumour has some very odd stories to tell about them—but I shouldn’t be at all surprised to know that he came down here in the hopes of getting his father to help him to get away.”

  “I don’t for a moment suppose father would do anything of the kind.”

  “And yet it might be the best thing for everyone. It would certainly be the best thing for Brand. As for that woman, she’d soon find someone else to keep her, and she’ll train those children to look after themselves. The eldest, Margot, can’t be more than ten years old, but she’s no little innocent. She’ll know her way about almost as well as her mother by the time she’s fifteen. And it would unquestionably remove a very dubious acquisition from our midst. After all, I suppose all those children are your nieces.”

  “And if Richard gets his title and doesn’t achieve a family, Ferdinand—did you ever hear such a name for a Fulham baby?—will be Lord Tomnoddy in due course. I wonder if Richard’s thought of that?”

  “If he hasn’t, some member of your amiable family is quite certain to point it out to him. I shouldn’t trouble, if I were you.”

  “But you, Miles, why did you say you’d come down? What can you do?”

  “I daresay I can’t do anything, but I don’t think Brand detests me quite so much as the rest of the family, and I’m really holding a watching brief for him, to prevent, if I can, anything too frightful happening. I feel that nothing would be too fantastic, considering the atmosphere of this place, and the people gathered under its roof. Between ourselves, I shan’t be at all surprised if something tragic takes place before we get away. We’ve all the ingredients for a first-class explosion, and if it blows the place clean out of the ground, so much the better.”

  Ruth said uncertainly, with the haphazard impulsiveness that marked her younger child, “I suppose, if we got up now, there wouldn’t be a train we could catch? I don’t know why it is, but suddenly I feel as if I couldn’t stay here. I don’t always believe you, but there’s something prophetic in your speech to-night. I believe there will be something horrible…”

  “It won’t be any less horrible because we’ve run away from it. No, we shall have to stay here. Besides, there’s Brand. There are the others, too, but I don’t give a flip of the fingers for them. Their trouble is money in its most sordid aspect. Brand’s different. He’s paying in compound interest for a stupid mistake he made a dozen years ago. And he’s got something rare which I don’t believe any of you have recognised. It’s burning still, through all his disillusion and despair. He’s in the wrong place, and of course he’s making hay of his life. If he could be got out, it might be the saving of him. There’s something in Brand that’s valuable, that mustn’t be allowed to go to waste. If something isn’t done soon, there’ll be a worse tragedy than anything that happens here to-night.”

  “I didn’t know you felt like that about him,” marvelled Ruth, her dark eyes grave, her face, like her elder daughter’s, perplexed and enquiring.

  “It isn’t Brand himself—not the individual he represents, I mean; it’s something he is, something intangible—not the man but the vehicle of power that he represents. Do I make myself at all clear?”

  He felt that he probably didn’t, and went to stand by the window, whence he could see little groups of people bent against the black wind, making their way back from the Midnight Mass. Like pilgrims of the new age he saw them, returning from Bethlehem, walking gravely and without speech. Their dark figures against the snow were like a Lovat Fraser frieze. His heart smote him anew for his little girls.

  The house was uneasy with the noises of old houses at night. Doors creaked and shadows seemed full of anonymous life; phantom steps sounded in empty corridors and on the black stairs. Once Miles thought he actually heard ghostly feet hesitate in the passage outside his door, but brusquely he drove the thought away as an absurd imagination. But that, had he known it, was Brand groping past the lighted door to his own room, his shoes in his hand.

  6. Brand

  Brand had been from the first a thorn in the side of his family. Destined for the Church, in place of the dead Philip, to fill the handsome family living whose incumbent was invariably a Gray, he rebelled at the age of sixteen, demanding instead his opportunity to become an artist. He was singularly unfortunate in his parentage in this connection. Since a certain deplorable incident in his own career some years earlier, Adrian had become each year more intolerant, stupid, and suspicious of the motives of other men, and was convinced that men only wanted to study art because that kind of life allowed a greater licence of morals and behaviour. Artists
, he knew, did not marry the women with whom they lived, failed to provide for their children, left their quarters without settling their rent account, borrowed money they never intended to repay—were, tout court, a drunken, licentious, bawdy crowd, who paid nothing into the community sack in return for the board and lodging they exacted as their due.

  Brand’s school career had been a chequered one, and this further proof of his instability enraged his father. He treated the boy without tact, and with a complete absence of the deference due to youth by its elders. Brand retaliated by leaving home without a word; nor did anyone ever discover whence he obtained the means for flight. Some months later he was heard of in Paris. Richard travelled over to bring him back, but returned unaccompanied. Brand, he reported, had obtained work of a kind that, he declared, provided his daily bread, his candle, and his rent. His lodging, said Richard fastidiously, was highly unsatisfactory, and his mode of employment unbecoming to his birth and parentage. As to his leisure time, this he spent in the most thriftless and even perilous way. He had seen a number of sketches, of the type that young would-be artists appeared to prefer, decorating Brand’s single room, and he personally considered them shocking. He spoke gravely to his father of the danger of contamination to young innocent sisters. Brand, moreover, had formed a number of quite undesirable friendships, having, it seemed, no sense of what was due to his tradition. Altogether, the whole affair was humiliating and apparently incurable. Three years later Richard made a second journey, on this occasion because Gray was seriously ill and it was thought he was unlikely to recover. By this time he discovered that he and his father and Amy had been perfectly justified in their prognostications. Brand had given up his earlier employment and now made a precarious living as an artist. He was something of an experimentalist, and whenever he felt himself master of a certain technique, would abandon that particular type of work and embark on another—the height of folly, as Richard pointed out to him, as editors and patrons appreciate stability as much as other men and prefer to know what they are buying. But all Brand’s pictures were pigs in pokes, and he appeared not even to consider his brother’s suggestion that he should confine himself to one definite type of work. Jack-of-all-Trades, Richard dubbed him.