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“No, probably she isn’t your cup of tea,” Nevil said tolerantly. “You have always preferred them a little stupid, and blond, haven’t you.” This was said without malice, as one stating a dullish fact.
“I can’t imagine why you should think that.”
“All the women you nearly married were that type.”
“I have never ‘nearly married’ anyone,” Robert said stiffly.
“That’s what you think. You’ll never know how nearly Molly Manders landed you.”
“Molly Manders?” Aunt Lin said, coming in flushed from her cooking and bearing the tray with the sherry. “Such a silly girl. Imagined that you used a baking-board for pancakes. And was always looking at herself in that little pocket mirror of hers.”
“Aunt Lin saved you that time, didn’t you, Aunt Lin?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Nevil dear. Do stop prancing about the hearthrug, and put a log on the fire. Did you like your French film, dear?”
“I didn’t go. I had tea at The Franchise instead.” He shot a glance at Robert, having learned by now that there was more in Robert’s reaction than met the eye.
“With those strange people? What did you talk about?”
“Mountains – Maupassant – hens—”
“Hens, dear?”
“Yes; the concentrated evil of a hen’s face in a close-up.”
Aunt Lin looked vague. She turned to Robert, as to terra firma.
“Had I better call, dear, if you are going to know them? Or ask the vicar’s wife to call?”
“I don’t think I would commit the vicar’s wife to anything so irrevocable,” Robert said, dryly.
She looked doubtful for a moment, but household cares obliterated the question in her mind. “Don’t dawdle too long over your sherry or what I have in the oven will be spoiled. Thank goodness, Christina will be down again tomorrow. At least I hope so; I have never known her salvation take more than two days. And I don’t really think that I will call on those Franchise people, dear, if it is all the same to you. Apart from being strangers and very odd, they quite frankly terrify me.”
Yes; that was a sample of the reaction he might expect where the Sharpes were concerned. Ben Carley had gone out of his way today to let him know that, if there was police trouble at The Franchise, he wouldn’t be able to count on an unprejudiced jury. He must take measures for the protection of the Sharpes. When he saw them on Friday he would suggest a private investigation by a paid agent. The police were overworked – had been overworked for a decade and more – and there was just a chance that one man working at his leisure on one trail might be more successful than the orthodox and official investigation had been.
Chapter 6
But by Friday morning it was too late to take measures for the safety of The Franchise.
Robert had reckoned with the diligence of the police; he had reckoned with the slow spread of whispers; but he had reckoned without the Ack-Emma.
The Ack-Emma was the latest representative of the tabloid newspaper to enter British journalism from the West. It was run on the principle that two thousand pounds for damages is a cheap price to pay for sales worth half a million. It had blacker headlines, more sensational pictures, and more indiscreet letterpress than any paper printed so far by British presses. Fleet Street had its own name for it – monosyllabic and unprintable – but no protection against it. The press had always been its own censor, deciding what was and what was not permissible by the principles of its own good sense and good taste. If a “rogue” publication decided not to conform to those principles then there was no power that could make it conform. In ten years the Ack-Emma had passed by half a million the daily net sales of the best selling newspaper in the country to date. In any suburban railway carriage seven out of ten people bound for work in the morning were reading an Ack-Emma.
And it was the Ack-Emma that blew the Franchise affair wide open.
Robert had been out early into the country on that Friday morning to see an old woman who was dying and wanted to alter her will. This was a performance she repeated on an average once every three months and her doctor made no secret of the fact that in his opinion she “would blow out a hundred candles one day without a second puff.” But of course a lawyer cannot tell a client who summons him urgently at eight-thirty in the morning not to be silly. So Robert had taken some new will forms, fetched his car from the garage, and driven into the country. In spite of his usual tussle with the old tyrant among the pillows – who could never be brought to understand the elementary fact that you cannot give away four shares amounting to one third each – he enjoyed the spring countryside. And he hummed to himself on the way home, looking forward to seeing Marion Sharpe in less than an hour.
He had decided to forgive her for liking Nevil. After all, Nevil had never tried to palm her off on Carley. One must be fair.
He ran the car into the garage, under the noses of the morning lot going out from the livery stable, parked it, and then, remembering that it was past the first of the month, strolled over to the office to pay his bill to Brough, who ran the office side. But it was Stanley who was in the office; thumbing over dockets and invoices with the strong hands that so surprisingly finished off his thin forearms.
“When I was in the Signals,” Stanley said, casting him an absent-minded glance, “I used to believe that the Quarter-bloke was a crook, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Something missing?” said Robert. “I just looked in to pay my bill. Bill usually has it ready.”
“I expect it’s somewhere around,” Stanley said, still thumbing. “Have a look.”
Robert, used to the ways of the office, picked up the loose papers discarded by Stanley, so as to come on the normal tidy strata of Bill’s arrangement below. As he lifted the untidy pile he uncovered a girl’s face; a newspaper picture of a girl’s face. He did not recognise it at once but it reminded him of someone and he paused to look at it.
“Got it!” said Stanley in triumph, extracting a sheet of paper from a clip. He swept the remaining loose papers on the desk into a pile and so laid bare to Robert’s gaze the whole front page of that morning’s Ack-Emma.
Cold with shock, Robert stared at it.
Stanley, turning to take the papers he was holding from his grasp, noticed his absorption and approved it.
“Nice little number, that,” he said. “Reminds me of a bint I had in Egypt. Same far-apart eyes. Nice kid she was. Told the most original lies.”
He went back to his paper-arranging, and Robert went on staring.
THIS IS THE GIRL
said the paper in enormous black letters across the top of the page; and below it, occupying two-thirds of the page, was the girl’s photograph. And then, in smaller but still obtrusive type, below:
IS THIS THE HOUSE?
and below it a photograph of The Franchise.
Across the bottom of the page was the legend:
THE GIRL SAYS YES: WHAT DO THE POLICE SAY?
See inside for the story.
He put out his hand and turned over the page.
Yes; it was all there, except for the Sharpes’ name.
He dropped the page, and looked again at that shocking frontispiece. Yesterday The Franchise was a house protected by four high walls; so unobtrusive, so sufficient unto itself, that even Milford did not know what it looked like. Now it was there to be stared at on every bookstall; on every newsagent’s counter from Penzance to Pentland. Its flat, forbidding front a foil for the innocence of the face above it.
The girl’s photograph was a head-and-shoulders affair, and appeared to be a studio portrait. Her hair had an arranged-for-an-occasion look, and she was wearing what looked like a party frock. Without her school coat she looked – not less innocent, nor older; no. He sought for the word that would express it. She looked less – tabu, was it? The school coat had stopped one thinking of her as a woman, just as a nun’s habit would. A whole treatise could probably be written, now he came to think of it, on the protective quality of school coats. Protective in both senses: armour and camouflage. Now that the coat was no longer there, she was feminine instead of merely female.
But it was still a pathetically young face, immature and appealing. The candid brow, the wide-set eyes, the bee-stung lip that gave her mouth the expression of a disappointed child – it made a formidable whole. It would not be only the Bishop of Larborough who would believe a story told by that face.
“May I borrow this paper?” he asked Stanley.
“Take it,” Stanley said. “We had it for our elevenses. There’s nothing in it.”
Robert was surprised. “Didn’t you find this interesting?” he asked, indicating the front page.
Stanley cast a glance at the pictured face. “Not except that she reminded me of that bint in Egypt, lies and all.”
“So you didn’t believe that story she told?”
“What do you think!” Stanley said, contemptuous.
“Where do you think the girl was, then, all that time?”
“If I remember what I think I remember about the Red Sea sadie, I’d say very definitely – oh, but definitely – on the tiles,” Stanley said, and went out to attend to a customer.
Robert picked up the paper and went soberly away. At least one man-in-the-street had not believed the story; but that seemed to be due as much to an old memory as to present cynicism.
And although Stanley had quite obviously read the story without reading the names of the characters concerned, or even the place-names, only ten per cent of readers did that (according to the best Mass Observation); the other ninety per cent would have read every word, and would now be discussing the affair with varying degrees of relish.
At his own office he found that Hallam had been trying to reach him by telephone.
“Shut the door and come in, will you,” he said to old Mr. Heseltine, who had caught him with the news on his arrival and was now standing in the door of his room. “And have a look at that.”
He reached for the receiver with one hand, and laid the paper under Mr. Heseltine’s nose with the other.
The old man touched it with his small-boned fastidious hand, as one seeing a strange exhibit for the first time. “This is the publication one hears so much about,” he said. And gave his attention to it, as he would to any strange document.
“We are both in a spot, aren’t we!” Hallam said, when they were connected. And raked his vocabulary for some epithets suitable to the Ack-Emma. “As if the police hadn’t enough to do without having that rag on their tails!” he finished, being naturally absorbed in the police point of view.
“Have you heard from the Yard?”
“Grant was burning the wires at nine this morning. But there’s nothing they can do. Just grin and bear it. The police are always fair game. Nothing you can do, either, if it comes to that.”
“Not a thing,” Robert said. “We have a fine free press.”
Hallam said a few more things about the press. “Do your people know?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t think so. I’m quite sure they would never normally see the Ack-Emma, and there hasn’t been time for some kind soul to send it to them. But they are due here in about ten minutes, and I’ll show it to them then.”
“If it was ever possible for me to be sorry for that old battle-axe,” Hallam said, “it would be at this minute.”
“How did the Ack-Emma get the story? I thought the parents – the girl’s guardians, I mean – were very strongly against that kind of publicity.”
“Grant says the girl’s brother went off the deep end about the police taking no action and went to the Ack-Emma off his own bat. They are strong on the champion act. ‘The Ack-Emma will see right done!’ I once knew one of their crusades run into a third day.”
When he hung up Robert thought that if it was a bad break for both sides, it was at least an even break. The police would without doubt redouble their efforts to find corroborative evidence; on the other hand the publication of the girl’s photograph meant for the Sharpes a faint hope that somebody, somewhere, would recognise it and say: “This girl could not have been in The Franchise on the date in question because she was at such-and-such a place.”
“A shocking story, Mr. Robert,” Mr. Heseltine said. “And if I may say so a quite shocking publication. Most offensive.”
“That house,” Robert said, “is The Franchise, where old Mrs. Sharpe and her daughter live; and where I went the other day, if you remember, to give them some legal advice.”
“You mean that these people are our clients?”
“Yes.”
“But, Mr. Robert, that is not at all in our line.” Robert winced at the dismay in his voice. “That is quite outside our usual – indeed quite beyond our normal – we are not competent—”
“We are competent, I hope, to defend any client against a publication like the Ack-Emma,” Robert said, coldly.
Mr. Heseltine eyed the screaming rag on the table. He was obviously facing the difficult choice between a criminal clientèle and a disgraceful journal.
“Did you believe the girl’s story when you read it?” Robert asked.
“I don’t see how she could have made it up,” Mr. Heseltine said simply. “It is such a very circumstantial story, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed. But I saw the girl when she was brought to The Franchise to identify it last week – that was the day I went out so hurriedly just after tea – and I don’t believe a word she says. Not a word,” he added, glad to be able to say it loudly and distinctly to himself and to be sure at last that he believed it.
“But how could she have thought of The Franchise at all, or known all those things, if she wasn’t there?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t the least idea.”
“It is a most unlikely place to pick on, surely; a remote, invisible house like that, on a lonely road, in country that people don’t visit very much.”
“I know. I don’t know how the job was worked, but that it is a job I am certain. It is a choice not between stories, but between human beings. I am quite certain that the two Sharpes are incapable of insane conduct like that. Whereas I don’t believe the girl incapable of telling a story like that. That is what it amounts to.” He paused a moment. “And you’ll just have to trust my judgment about it, Timmy,” he added, using his childhood’s name for the old clerk.
Whether it was the “Timmy” or the argument, it was apparent that Mr. Heseltine had no further protest to make.
“You’ll be able to see the criminals for yourself,” Robert said, “because I hear their voices in the hall now. You might bring them in, will you.”
Mr. Heseltine went dumbly out on his mission, and Robert turned the newspaper over so that the comparatively innocuous GIRL SMUGGLED ABOARD was all that would meet the visitors’ eye.
Mrs. Sharpe, moved by some belated instinct for convention, had donned a hat in honour of the occasion. It was a flattish affair of black satin, and the general effect was that of a doctor of learning. That the effect had not been wasted was obvious by the relieved look on Mr. Heseltine’s face. This was quite obviously not the kind of client he had expected; it was, on the other hand, the kind of client he was used to.
“Don’t go away,” Robert said to him, as he greeted the visitors; and to the others: “I want you to meet the oldest member of the firm, Mr. Heseltine.”
It suited Mrs. Sharpe to be gracious; and exceedingly Victoria Regina was old Mrs. Sharpe when she was being gracious. Mr. Heseltine was more than relieved; he capitulated. Robert’s first battle was over.
When they were alone Robert noticed that Marion had been waiting to say something.
“An odd thing happened this morning,” she said. “We went to the Ann Boleyn place to have coffee – we quite often do – and there were two vacant tables, but when Miss Truelove saw us coming she very hastily tilted the chairs against the tables and said they were reserved. I might have believed her if she hadn’t looked so embarrassed. You don’t think that rumour has begun to get busy already, do you? That she did that because she has heard some gossip?”
“No,” Robert said, sadly, “because she has read this morning’s Ack-Emma.” He turned the newspaper front side up. “I am sorry to have such bad news for you. You’ll just have to shut your teeth and take it, as small boys say. I don’t suppose you have ever seen this poisonous rag at close quarters. It’s a pity that the acquaintance should begin on so personal a basis.”
“Oh, no!” Marion said, in passionate protest as her eye fell on the picture of The Franchise.
And then there was unbroken silence while the two women absorbed the contents of the inner page.
“I take it,” Mrs. Sharpe said at last, “that we have no redress against this sort of thing?”
“None,” Robert said. “All the statements are perfectly true. And it is all statement and not comment. Even if it were comment – and I’ve no doubt the comment will come – there has been no charge so the case is not sub judice. They are free to comment if they please.”
“The whole thing is one huge implied comment,” Marion said. “That the police failed to do their duty. What do they think we did? Bribed them?”
“I think the suggestion is that the humble victim has less pull with the police than the wicked rich.”
