Marie Adelaide Belloc Lowndes - What Timmy Did

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"I'll go upstairs and take off my things," she said wearily. "Bring me a
cup of tea in my bedroom--I don't want anything to eat--and then I'll
come down and see this person." She forced herself to add, "I suppose
it's a Mrs. Piper?"

The girl answered at once, "She didn't give her name, ma'am. She just
said that she wanted to see you, and that it was urgent. She's not got
very long; she wants to catch the six o'clock train from Telford. She
wouldn't believe at first that you wasn't in."

Enid found some comfort in those words, and she made up her mind that she
would linger upstairs as long as she possibly could, so as to cut short
her coming interview with the tiresome young woman. After all there was
very little to say. She had behaved in a kind and generous manner to her
late husband's servant, and she had already said she would do her best to
help him again.

When she got upstairs she lit the two high brass candlesticks on the
dressing-table, and then, after she had taken off her hat and long black
woollen coat, she sat down in her easy-chair by the wood fire. Soon there
came a familiar rap and a welcome cup of tea.

She was sipping it, luxuriously, when there suddenly came a very
different kind of rap on the door. It was a sharp, insistent knock,
and before she could call out "Come in," the door opened, and a
singular-looking figure advanced into the luxurious-looking,
low-ceilinged bedroom.

"Excuse me coming up like this, Modam. But I'm afraid of losing my
train."

The speaker was small and stout, with a sallow face which might once have
held a certain gipsy-like charm, for, in the candlelight, the luminous
dark eyes were by far its most arresting feature. She wore a small,
old-fashioned-looking, red velvet bonnet perched on her elaborately
dressed hair.

Enid Crofton looked at her odd-looking visitor with astonishment. Who on
earth could this be? Certainly not Piper's wife. A feeling of intense
relief came over her when the strange-looking woman came towards her
with a soft, gliding step, and handed her a card on which was written:

Madame Flora

Ladies' wardrobes, gold teeth, and old jewellery purchased at the
highest prices known in the trade

"I do 'ope you will excuse me coming up like this," she said again, and
her queer Cockney voice sounded quite pleasantly in Enid Crofton's ears.
"I've not got very long, and I've been 'ere since four o'clock."

As she spoke she did not look at the pretty young lady sitting by the
fire. Her dark eyes were glancing furtively round the attractively
furnished bedroom, as if appraising everything that was there, from the
uncommon-looking high brass candlesticks on the dressing-table to the
pink silk covered eiderdown and drawn linen coverlid on the bed.

Perhaps because she was so extraordinarily relieved, Enid Crofton spoke
to this somewhat impudent old-clothes woman very graciously.

"I'm sorry," she began, "but I've nothing in the least suitable for you,
Madame Flora. It's a pity you wasted your time waiting for me. There are
several other people in Beechfield with whom I expect you might have done
business." She smiled as she spoke.

"I wish I'd thought of that, Modam." The woman spoke with a touch of
regret. "But your maids expected you might be back any minute, and I did
want to meet you, for Piper's that down on 'is luck, I sometimes don't
know what to do with 'im! Instead of wanting to employ ex-soldiers, as in
course they ought ter, people seem just to avoid them--"

"Piper?" repeated Enid Crofton in a low, hesitating voice. "Then are you
Mrs. Piper?"

Was it conceivable that this strange-looking old thing was Piper's wife?

"I've been Mrs. Piper eighteen years," replied Madame Flora composedly,
"but I've always kep' on my business, Modam. It's not much of a business
now, worse luck! Ladies won't part with their clothes, not when they're
dropping off them. In old days, if Piper was down, I was up, so we was
all right. But we've both struck a streak of bad luck."

For a few moments neither of them spoke. Mrs. Crofton was staring,
astonished, at her visitor, and through her shallow mind there ran the
new thought of how very, very little any of us know of other people's
lives. After her first shock of dismayed surprise to find that Piper was
married at all, she had imagined Piper's wife as something young and, of
course, in a way, attractive and easily managed.

"Did you ever come down to my house in Essex?" she asked, still trying to
speak pleasantly.

"No, Modam, I never was there. Piper and I 'as always kep' clear of each
other's jobs, and I wouldn't be interfering _now_, but that the matter's
becoming serious. Piper's worse than no good when 'e's idle." She
hesitated, then went on, "If 'e's to keep off 'is failing, 'e must be
working."

There was a pause, and then Enid Crofton spoke, in a low, uncertain tone.
"Believe me, Mrs. Piper, when I say that I really will do all I can for
him. But it's not easy now to hear of good jobs, and Piper doesn't seem
easy to suit."

"You wouldn't care to take my 'usband on again yourself, Modam?"

Again there followed that curious pause which somehow filled Enid with a
vague fear.

"I wish I could," she said at last, "but I can't afford it, Mrs. Piper.
As a matter of fact, I've done a foolish thing in coming here, to
Beechfield, at all. Only the other day one of my husband's relations
advised me to let the house."

"Piper thinks, Modam, as how you might 'elp 'im to a job with Major
Radmore." The name tripped quickly off the speaker's tongue, as if she
was quite used to the sound.

Enid felt a throb of dismay. Did the Pipers know Godfrey Radmore was
back?

"We was wondering," said the woman, "if you would give us the major's
address?"

Then they didn't know he was back--or did they?

"I don't know it."

Enid Crofton was one of those women--there are more than a truthful world
suspects--who actually find it easier to lie than to tell the truth. But
she saw the look of incredulity which flashed over the sallow face of her
unwelcome visitor.

"Mr. Radmore," she went on hastily, "is taking a motor tour. But he'll be
back in London soon, and I'll let you know the moment I know he's settled
down."

"I should 'ave thought," said the woman, "that the Major would 'ave 'ad a
club where Piper could 'ave written."

"If he has, I don't know it."

And then, all at once, Enid Crofton pulled herself together. After all
the interview was going quite smoothly. Nothing--well, disagreeable--had
been said.

She got up from her chair. "I hope you'll forgive me, Mrs. Piper, for
saying that Piper will never keep any job if he behaves as he did with
these last people--I had a very disagreeable letter from the lady."

Mrs. Piper, alias Madame Flora, grew darkly red.

"Piper 'ad a shock this last July," she said, moving a little farther
into the room, and so nearer to Enid Crofton. "The thing's been
a-weighing on 'is mind for a long time. It's something 'e won't exactly
explain. But it's on 'is conscience. Only yesterday 'e says to me, 'e
says, 'If I'm drinking, my dear, it's to drown care; I ought to have
spoken up very differently to what I done at the poor Colonel's inquest."

The terrible little woman again took a step or two forward, and then she
waited, as if she expected the lady to say something. But Enid, though
she opened her lips, found that she could not speak. Hardly knowing what
she was doing, she sat down again. And, after what seemed to the owner of
the attractive, candle-lit room an awful silence, Mrs. Piper went on,
speaking now in quite a different tone--easy, confidential, and with a
touch of wheedling good nature in it.

"Thanks to your late gentleman, Piper knows all about dogs, and all
'e requires, Modam, to set 'im up as a dogfancier, so to speak, is a
moderate bit o' money. As 'e says 'imself, five hundred pound would do it
easy. If I may make so bold, that's what reely brought me 'ere, Mrs.
Crofton. It do seem to us both, that, under the circumstances, you might
feel disposed to find the money?"

Enid looked down as she answered, falteringly: "I told Piper some time
ago that it was quite impossible for me to do anything of the kind."

In her fear and distress she uttered the words more loudly than she was
aware, and the woman looked round at the closed door with an apprehensive
look: "Don't speak so loud. We don't want to tell everyone our business,"
she said sharply.

Now she came quite close up to her victim, for by now Enid Crofton knew
that she was in very truth this woman's victim.

"You think it over," whispered Madame Flora. "We're not in a 'urry to a
day or two. And look here, Modam, I'll be open with you! If you'll do
that for Piper, it'll be in full discharge of anything you owe 'im--d'you
take my meaning?"

Enid Crofton got up slowly from her chair almost as an automaton might
have done. She wanted to say that she did not in the least know what Mrs.
Piper _did_ mean. But somehow her lips refused to form the words. She was
afraid even to shake her head.

"I told you a fib just now"--Mrs. Piper's voice again dropped to a
whisper. "Piper's made a clean breast o' the matter to me, and I do think
as what it's common justice to admit that my 'usband's evidence at that
inquest was worth more than twenty-five pound to you. It wasn't what
Piper said; _it was what 'e didn't say that mattered_, Mrs. Crofton. It's
been on 'is mind awful--I'll take my Bible oath on that. But 'live and
let live,' that's my motter. We don't want to do anything unkind, but
we're in a fix ourselves--"

"I haven't got five hundred pounds," said Enid Crofton desperately;
"that's God's truth, Mrs. Piper."

To that assertion Madame Flora made no direct answer; she only observed,
in a quiet conversational tone, and speaking no longer in a whisper. "The
insurance gent told Piper as what 'e was not entirely satisfied, and 'e
said as 'e'd be pleased to see Piper any time if anything 'appened as
could throw further light on the Colonel's death. 'An extraordinary
occurrence'--that's what the insurance people's gentleman called it, Mrs.
Crofton--'an extraordinary occurrence.'"

And then Enid was stung into saying a very unwise thing. "The Coroner did
not think it an extraordinary occurrence," she said quietly.

"'E says sometimes as what 'e ought to give 'imself up and say what 'e
saw," went on Mrs. Piper with seeming irrelevance.

There was another brief pause: "If you 'aven't got five hundred pounds,
Modam, I take it the insurance money has not yet been paid, for it was a
matter of two thousand pounds--or so Piper understood from that party
what came down to make enquiries."

Enid Crofton looked at her torturer dumbly. She did not know what to
say--what to admit, and what to deny.

"Think it over," said the terrible little woman. "We're not in a 'urry to
a day or two. We'll give you a fortnight to find the money."

She put her hand, fat, yet claw-like, on Mrs. Crofton's shoulder.
"There's nothing to look so frightened about," she said a little gruffly.
"Piper and me aren't blackmailers. But we've got to look out for
ourselves, same as everybody else does. It's Piper's idea--that five
hundred pounds is. 'E says 'twould ease 'is conscience to carry on the
pore old Colonel's dog-breeding. As for me, I'd just as lief 'ave 'im in
a good job--what gentlefolk call 'a cushy job'--with a gentleman like
this Major Radmore seems to be. But there! Piper's just set on them nasty
dogs, and 'e's planned it all out."

"Five hundred pounds is a great deal of money." Enid Crofton spoke in a
dull, preoccupied tone.

"Not so much as it used to be, not by any manner of means," said
Mrs. Piper shrewdly. "Think it over, Mrs. Crofton--and let us know
what you _can_ do. Perhaps it needn't be paid all in one; but best to
write to Piper next time. 'E says 'e'd like to feel you and 'im were
partners-like. I'll tell 'im I arranged for you to 'ave ten days to a
fortnight to think it over."

"Thinking won't make money," said Enid in a low voice.

"Such a beautiful young lady as yourself, Modam, can't find it difficult
to put 'er 'and on five hundred pounds," murmured Mrs. Piper, and as she
said the words there came a leering smile over her small, pursed-up
mouth.

And then, turning, she glided across the candle-lit room, and noiselessly
opening the door, she slid through it.

Enid Crofton sank farther back into her chintz-covered easy-chair. She
was trembling all over, and her hands were shaking. She had not felt so
frightened as she felt now, even during the terrible moments which had
preceded her being put in the witness-box at the inquest held on her
husband's body; and with a feeling of acute, unreasoning terror, she
asked herself how she could cope with this new, dreadful situation.

What, for instance, did that allusion to the insurance company mean? She
had had the two thousand pounds, and she had spent about a quarter of it
paying bills of which her husband had known nothing. Then the settling
in at The Trellis House had cost a great deal more than she had expected.
Of course she had some left, but five hundred pounds would make a hideous
hole in her little store.

What could the Pipers do to her? Could they do anything? The sinister
woman's repetition of Piper's curious remark, "'E says sometimes as what
'e ought to give 'imself up, and say what 'e saw," came back to her with
sickening vividness.

She looked round her, timorously. The candles on her dressing-table gave
such a poor light. How stupid of a village like Beechfield not to have
electric light! She stood up and rang for a hot-water bottle. At any rate
she might as well try to get a little beauty sleep before dressing to go
to the Tosswills.

CHAPTER XVII

Although no definite suggestion or order had been issued by Janet
Tosswill, it was understood by everyone in Old Place that special honour
was to be paid to Mrs. Crofton this evening.

Janet, when giving Betty a slight but vigorous sketch of the scene which
had taken place between herself and Jack, observed, "If she's _that_ sort
of woman I think we ought to give her a proper dinner, don't you?" And
Betty heartily agreed.

This was the reason why Betty herself, Tom, who acted as butler, and
Timmy, who was supposed to help generally both in the kitchen and in the
dining-room, did not sit down to table with the others.

Mrs. Tosswill's sarcastic observation was so far justified in that Enid
Crofton did feel vaguely gratified to find herself treated to-night far
more as a guest of honour than she had been on the first occasion when
she had come to the house. The guest herself had done honour to the feast
by putting on the most becoming of her diaphanous black evening dresses,
and, as she sat to the right of her host, each of her three feminine
critics admitted to their secret selves that she was that rather rare
thing, a genuinely pretty woman. Features, colouring, hair, were all as
near perfection as they well could be, while her slight, rounded figure
was singularly graceful.

How fortunate it is that we poor mortals cannot see into each other's
hearts and minds! Who, looking at Jack Tosswill's composed, secretive,
self-satisfied face, could have divined, even obscurely, his state of
mingled pride, ecstasy, and humble astonishment at his own good fortune?
To him the lovely young woman sitting next his father was as much his own
as though they had already been through the marriage ceremony, and he
felt awed and uplifted as well as triumphantly glad.

As for Godfrey Radmore, he also was affected rather more than he would
have cared to admit even to himself by the presence of Enid Crofton this
evening.

She had become to him something of a mystery, and there is always
something alluring in a mystery, especially if the mystery be young, and
endowed with that touch of pathos which makes feminine beauty always a
touch more attractive to the masculine heart. He was aware that she
preferred to see him alone, and this flattered him. While he was able
to assure himself confidently that he was in no sense in love with her,
his heart certainly beat a little quicker on the comparatively few
occasions when he went over into her garden, or, better still, into her
little sitting-room, and found her by herself. He also thought it very
good-natured, if a little tiresome, of her, to put up with so much of
the company of a prig like Jack, and of a selfish girl like Rosamund.

To-night Radmore wondered, not for the first time, why Janet Tosswill did
not like Enid Crofton, for he felt, somehow, that there was no love lost
between them. He told himself that he must ask Betty to try to become
friends with her. Instinctively he relied on Betty's judgment, and that
though he saw very little of her, considering what very old friends he
and she were. And then, when he was thinking these secret, idle thoughts,
he became suddenly conscious that Betty was not among those sitting at
the full dining-table.

When Tom came in, bearing a huge soup tureen, and looking, it must be
confessed, very red and embarrassed, Janet observed composedly that the
person on whom they had relied to help them to-night had failed them at
the last moment, and they had decided that it would be simpler for them
to wait on themselves.

Radmore muttered to his neighbour, Rosamund, "Where's Betty?"

"In the kitchen. She's the only one of us who knows how to cook. She
_loves_ cooking. She'll come into the drawing-room later if she's not too
tired."

Radmore felt indignant. It was too bad that Betty, whom he vividly
remembered as the petted darling of the house, should now have become--to
put it in a poetical way--the family Cinderella! But as the dinner went
on, and as the soup was succeeded by some excellent fish, as well as by
roast chicken, a particularly delicious blackberry fool, and a subtly
composed savoury, he began to wonder whether some good professional cook
had not been got in after all. He could hardly believe that Betty had
cooked and dished up this really excellent dinner.

All through the meal Timmy flitted in and out, bringing round and
removing the plates, but it was Tom who did most of the waiting.

At last Janet, catching Enid Crofton's eye, got up and delivered
as parting injunction, "Please don't stay too long behind us,
gentlemen--we're going to have coffee in the drawing-room."

Jack Tosswill sprang to the door, and tried to catch Mrs. Crofton's eye
as she passed out first, but of course he failed, and as he came back to
the table, he observed: "I do hope Betty won't be too tired to come into
the drawing-room. Mrs. Crofton was saying the other day that she wished
she knew her better." He was in a softened mood, the kind of mood which
makes a man not only say, but think, pleasant things.

And then Mr. Tosswill made one of his rare practical remarks. "I have
always thought that every woman ought to be taught cooking," he said
musingly. "We have certainly just had a very good dinner; I must remember
to tell Betty how much I enjoyed that savoury."

"Did Betty cook it all?" asked Radmore.

It was Jack who answered, "Yes, of course she did. Early in the War there
was a great shortage of cooks in some of the country hospitals, and so
Betty asked a friend of ours to allow her to spend a few weeks in her
kitchen. So now we have the benefit of all she learnt there."

Five minutes later the three men stood at the open door of the
drawing-room, and at once Radmore saw that Betty was not there. That was
really too bad! What selfish girls her sisters were!

Acting on an impulse he could not have analysed, he stepped back into the
corridor and walked quickly towards the green baize door which led to the
kitchen quarters. Just as he reached it, the door burst open, and Tom,
rushing through, almost knocked him over.

"Hullo! Steady there! Where are you going?"

"I'm so sorry, Godfrey, but I'm in the devil of a hurry, for I've got to
clear the dining-room. Once that's done, my work's over, and I can go
into the drawing-room." Tom was grinning good-humouredly. "I say, Mrs.
Crofton does look a peach to-night, doesn't she?"

Even as he spoke, he was hooking the door back. Then he hurried into the
dining-room without waiting for an answer.

Godfrey went on with rather hesitating steps down the broad,
stone-flagged passage. According to tradition, this part of Old Place was
mediaeval, and it was certainly quite different from the rest of the
house. He felt a little awkward for he knew he had no business there,
and when he got to the big, vaulted kitchen, he stopped and looked round
him dubiously. The fire in the old-fashioned, wasteful range had been
allowed to die down, and on the round wooden table in the middle of the
room were heaped up the dinner plates and dishes.

Suddenly he noticed that the door which led into the scullery was ajar,
and he heard Betty's clear, even voice saying: "When you've tidied
yourself up a bit, run down and let me see how you look. I'm afraid
they're not likely to play any games this evening. It's a real, proper
dinner-party, you know, Timmy."

Then he heard his godson's eager voice. "Oh, Betty, do come too! Mrs.
Jones can do the washing-up to-morrow morning. If you want to dress I'll
hook you up."

"I'm too tired to go up and dress," and Betty's voice did sound very
weary. There was a despondent note in it, too, which surprised the man
standing in the kitchen. Excepting during the few moments, to him
intensely moving and solemn moments, when they had spoken of George
within a day or two of his return to Beechfield, he had always seen Betty
extraordinarily cheerful.

"You can go just as you are," he heard Timmy say eagerly. "You could
pretend you'd just been to a fancy ball as a cook!" He added,
patronizingly, "If you put on a clean apron, you'll look quite nice."

Radmore did not catch the answer, but he gathered that it was again in
the negative, and a moment later Timmy's little feet scampered up the
uncarpeted flight of stairs which led into the upper part of the house.

Walking forward, he quietly pushed open the scullery door, and for some
seconds he stood unseen, taking in the far from unattractive scene before
him.

The scullery of Old Place was a glorified kind of scullery, for, just
before the War, Janet had spent a little of her own money on "doing it
up." Since then she had often congratulated herself on the fact that in
the days when the process was comparatively cheap, she had had the
scullery walls lined five feet up with black and white tiles matching the
linoleum which covered the stone floor.

Against this background Betty Tosswill was now standing, a trim, neat
figure, in her pink cotton gown and big white apron. She was engaged in
washing, drying, and polishing the fine old table glass which had been
used that evening.

It was such a relief to her to be alone at last! For one thing, though
Timmy and Tom both loved her dearly, their love never suggested to them
that it must be disagreeable to her to hear them constantly bickering
the one with the other, and they would have been surprised indeed had
they known how their teasing squabbles had added to the strain and
fatigue of serving the elaborate dinner she had just cooked.

She felt spent, in body and in mind, and in the mood when a woman craves,
above all things, for solitude.

"Look here, Betty, can't I do anything to help?"

She started violently, and gave a little cry, while the stem of the
wine-glass she held in her hand snapped in two. But Radmore, to her
relief, did not notice the little accident.

"There isn't anything to do, thank you." She tried to speak composedly
and pleasantly. "I'm going to leave most of the washing-up to the woman
who comes in every morning to help us."

"Then why don't you come into the drawing-room now? I heard what Timmy
said--and it's quite true!"

"What Timmy said just now?" She turned and looked at him, puzzled.

Godfrey Radmore, in his well-cut dress clothes and the small, but
perfect, pearl studs in the shirt of which she had heard Jack openly envy
the make and cut, seemed an incongruous figure in the Old Place scullery.

He blundered on. "Timmy said that you look as if you had been at a fancy
dress ball as a cook. He ought to have said 'cordon bleu,' for I've never
eaten a better dinner!"

And then to his aghast surprise, Betty sat down on one of the wooden
chairs near the table where she had been standing and burst into tears.
"I don't want to be a 'cordon bleu,'" she sobbed. "I _hate_ cooking--and
everything connected with cooking." Then, feeling ashamed of herself, she
pulled a clean handkerchief out of her apron pocket, and dabbed her eyes.
"I'm just tired out, that's what it is!" she exclaimed, trying to smile.
"We had a worrying half-hour, thinking the fish was not going to arrive.
You see, Janet dislikes poor Mrs. Crofton so much that she suddenly made
up her mind that it was her duty to kill the fatted calf, and in such a
case I have to do the killing!"

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