Britannia Mews Read online

  “I have no choice.”

  He nodded understandingly.

  “One has, as you say, no choice. One takes a first step, and the rest follows. I’m the man you see, because I have no choice.”

  “You’re not drunk now,” said Adelaide baldly.

  “I have a remarkable faculty of sobering up. When I was on the stage I could start a scene stewed, and finish in full command of my faculties. However, the managers didn’t think it good enough. Before that, of course, I was reading for the Bar. At the moment I address envelopes, at two and six per thou’; my feet may betray me, but my hand remains faithful.” He paused, and looked at Adelaide shrewdly. “Now you, I take it, have a private income?”

  She nodded in turn.

  “I knew it. There’s nothing gives a woman so much dignity as the possession of a private income. And you don’t drink—much.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “That you drank a little, by your humane attitude when I was thrown out of the pub. The other’s obvious. You’re a most remarkable woman.”

  “I am what my life’s made me,” said Adelaide.

  It was almost a repetition of his own phrase. Mr. Lauderdale, who was now leaning comfortably on the railing, glanced over his shoulder with a smile.

  “Frankly—certain obvious disadvantages apart—isn’t this life more interesting than the one you led in Kensington?”

  “No,” said Adelaide.

  “Then that’s because you haven’t realized its opportunities. I wish I had a cigar,” added Mr. Lauderdale irrelevantly. “With a cigar I could imagine myself on the balcony overlooking Lake Como: it’s really a remarkably warm night.”

  “You must have a remarkable imagination,” observed Adelaide. But she too rested her arms on the rail, and leaned beside him. “What opportunities do you mean?”

  “In the sphere of human relationships. One’s so completely free from all but purely personal considerations. In this life a man and woman meet, and within half an hour may be on terms of completest intimacy. They may be attacking each other with bottles, or deciding to set up house together. And if they do decide to set up house together, no one minds; it’s entirely their own affair. On the other hand, if they feel no mutual interest, they needn’t pretend to it. They just ignore each other. My dear Mrs. Lambert, if you and I had met for the first time at your father’s table, how long would it have been before I could talk to you like this?”

  “You would never have talked to me like this.”

  “No, we should have conversed for years about the Savoy operas. Or rather, owing to my unconventional career, we should never have been allowed to converse at all. As it is—”

  “Hush!” said Adelaide sharply.

  His hand, which just then touched hers, drew back; but Adelaide had not noticed the contact. She was looking across the Mews, at the balcony opposite; upon which, framed in the open door, stood the monstrous, watchful figure of Mrs. Mounsey.

  3

  The Sow remained there only a few moments, turning her squat head this way and that, as though tasting the night air; then deliberately began to descend, lowering her great carcase painfully from step to step.

  “What a horrible creature,” said Mr. Lauderdale.

  “Hush! She may be coming here.”

  “Here? Why should she?”

  But the Sow did not pause—or only long enough, in passing, to give Adelaide a familiar nod; then she waddled on towards the Cock. That was all. Adelaide drew a long sigh of relief, and turned to find Mr. Lauderdale looking at her with astonishment.

  “She’s hateful,” explained Adelaide weakly. “Isn’t she hateful?”

  “Yes, but why are you afraid of her?”

  “Because … because she’s so hateful.”

  “She has certainly spoiled the picturesque illusion,” agreed Mr. Lauderdale. “May I come in a moment?”

  Without waiting for an answer he opened the door and stood aside to let her pass. Adelaide hesitated; the appearance of Mrs. Mounsey had jarred their curious and pleasant intimacy; on the other hand—by such minute considerations is a life swayed—it was the first time in four years that any one had opened a door for her. She passed through.

  4

  The room was as usual neat and well-ordered; Adelaide observed with pleasure her companion’s appreciative look. She observed also that his face and hands were extremely muddy, and with a hostesslike gesture—as her mother drew attention to the flower-stands—indicated the water-bucket by the sink.

  “If you would care to wash …?”

  Mr. Lauderdale gratefully removed his coat. His shirt was cleaner than might have been expected, his waistcoat much too large and pleated with safety-pins behind. Adelaide saw at once how it could be made to fit. When he had finished washing she offered him a clothes-brush, and within ten minutes Mr. Lauderdale’s appearance was greatly improved.

  “If you would like some tea, I can easily light the fire.”

  “Won’t that be a great trouble to you?”

  “Not in the least. But if this were Kensington”—Adelaide smiled—“I should simply ring for the maid.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” said Mr. Lauderdale. “You’d be afraid of scandalizing her.”

  They both laughed. Adelaide set a match to the fire—all her fires burned well—and filled the kettle; and as they sat and waited for it to boil it struck her that Mr. Lauderdale was the first guest she had ever entertained in Britannia Mews. No one before had ever come to sit sociably by her fire. The sensation was extraordinarily agreeable. They discussed the weather: to both the most trifling civilized chat was a novel pleasure. But Adelaide had, gradually forming in her mind, a matter of greater importance: she had glimpsed what might be a great opportunity; and when about half an hour had passed, and the teapot was empty, she came to a decision.

  “I think you said you’d been a barrister. Could you give me some legal advice?” And in the moment before he answered—for her change of tone surprised him—she added hastily, “I should tell you it’s not for myself, but for a friend …”

  Mr. Lauderdale smiled.

  “I’ll give you any advice I can. I don’t guarantee it will be sound. What is your friend’s difficulty?”

  “She is being what I suppose one would call … blackmailed.” Adelaide paused; it both relieved and disconcerted her that he took the word with complete calm. “That might happen to any one, mightn’t it?”

  “Especially to an inexperienced young woman—as I take your friend to be.”

  “She was young, and inexperienced, and a complete fool,” said Adelaide deliberately. “She married like a fool, through her own fault. Her husband drank; like a fool she thought she could alter him. Well, she couldn’t, of course. They became on bad terms. In the course of an argument she—she pushed him away from her. That was all. Only they were standing at the top of some steps. He fell, and was killed. And someone saw.”

  Still cool as a cucumber, Mr. Lauderdale reflected a moment.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Some time ago.”

  “There must have been an inquest. What was the verdict?”

  “Accidental death.”

  “Then your friend has nothing to worry about.”

  “I haven’t finished. The chief witness, at the inquest, was this person who saw. She perjured herself. She said he had simply slipped. Otherwise—I don’t know what the verdict would have been. Everyone knew they were on bad terms. Afterwards this person, this witness, asked for money, and my friend gave it her. She’s been giving it ever since. That’s all.”

  Adelaide was sitting with her elbows on the table, her chin resting in her palm; now she moved her hand slightly to cover her eyes. The memory of Henry Lambert’s end aroused in her no feelings of guilt, or even of remorse; she could tell the tale without emotion; what she felt was a weary despair, an immense fatigue in the face of her own future: a deepening and embittering of the mood which in her gi
rlhood she had called “the Hollows.” Even as she finished speaking she asked herself what good she had done, what help she could possibly expect from this reputationless stranger. She wished she had kept silence, and that he would go.

  Mr. Lauderdale, on the contrary, showed no misgivings whatever. His advice was prompt, brief, and to the point. He said:—

  “Tell the old bitch to go to hell.”

  Adelaide gasped. Her hand fell, she stared across the table with incredulous eyes.

  “I beg your pardon,” added Mr. Lauderdale. “But it’s really the only sensible thing to do. Why not?”

  “Because … because she would go to the police.”

  “Let her. They’d never take her word against yours.”

  Adelaide gasped again.

  “I told you it was a friend!”

  “Of course,” agreed Mr. Lauderdale. “When a woman asks advice for a friend who’s being blackmailed, she is invariably speaking for herself; I let you go on because I thought it made it easier for you. I presume the blackmailer is that peculiarly horrible old party we saw in the Mews?” Adelaide nodded dumbly. “What you don’t realize is that blackmail is a criminal offence. She’d never dare go to the police. She’s simply foxed you. And moreover, whatever she’d said at the inquest, I believe the verdict would have been the same, because it was the true one.”

  Adelaide leaned back in her chair, weak with relief. She believed him implicitly: not only his words, but his whole tone—the tone of a man laying down the law—commanded her trust. He knew what he was talking about. Because she had not quite recovered herself, she began to laugh.

  “To think that all these years—two years!—I’ve been paying her hush-money!”

  “How much?”

  “Ten shillings a week.”

  “All that!” (It surprised her, and she laughed again, to see that he took the same view of this sum as the Sow.) “You must never pay her another farthing. If she comes here, turn her out. Simply have nothing whatever to say to her.”

  Adelaide stopped laughing. At the realization that she was not yet free, but had still to free herself, her courage ebbed. However strong her legal position, it was not so strong as the habit of fear. She said weakly:—

  “I—I don’t know if I can …”

  “Nonsense. It shouldn’t take five minutes.”

  “You don’t know her. She’s evil. And it wasn’t only what she could tell: she said that if I went home she’d follow me. That was the real hold …” Adelaide shuddered. “She’s like a—a nightmare. Always there, even if you don’t see her. Every one in the Mews is afraid of her. I’ve never given way, I’ve even ordered her about; but I’m still afraid. I’m afraid of her, and that’s the truth.”

  Mr. Lauderdale glanced at Adelaide’s face, and glanced away again. A moment passed before he said abruptly:—

  “Would it help if I were here when you saw this woman?”

  “Yes,” said Adelaide at once. The offer did not even surprise her; from the beginning of their consultation—for that was what it was—she had been unconsciously demanding his masculine support. “You’re so very kind, I don’t know how to thank you. Could you come to-morrow?”

  “I’ll be round in the morning.”

  With an easy and businesslike air he rose to take his leave. It was now nearly midnight, and as they moved towards the door Adelaide was struck by a sudden thought.

  “Mr. Lauderdale, where are you going?”

  He had to think.

  “I’m a bit late for the doss-houses, but there’s a very sheltered seat by Blackfriars Bridge to which I have practically a squatter’s right.”

  “Do you mean you have nowhere … permanent … to sleep?”

  “Not at the moment. I find landladies so narrow-minded about money. Very few rate a Shakespearian soliloquy at a bob a night.”

  Adelaide reflected a moment, and then said calmly:—

  “If you like, you can sleep here.”

  5

  He slept in the living-room. Through the thin wall Adelaide heard him moving quietly about, using the sink again, shifting a chair. He wasn’t nearly so noisy as Henry, but the sounds had a certain naturalness, and Adelaide noted them with complete coolness. The enormity (by Kensington standards) of the situation did not trouble her in the least; her thoughts were all fixed on the prospect before her—the blessed prospect of release at last. Indeed, she had offered Mr. Lauderdale hospitality not so much out of gratitude or liking, as because she wanted to make sure of him. Once out of sight, what hazard might not befall the man? Hazard evidently ruled his life: a chance had brought him to her door, another chance—accident, drunkenness, or even jail—might well prevent his return; Adelaide heard with great satisfaction Mr. Lauderdale take off his boots.

  She liked him too, of course; and strangely enough, having regard to all the circumstances of their acquaintance, trusted him. She felt she could trust Gilbert Lauderdale to behave like a gentleman; and did not even wedge a chair against the door of her room.

  CHAPTER IV

  1

  The scene produced by the dismissal of Mrs. Mounsey was more horrible than Adelaide ever contemplated.

  It began quietly enough. The Sow panted up the steps, punctual as usual, on Monday morning; knocked as Adelaide had taught her to do, and confidently entered. At the sight of Mr. Lauderdale she paused, her small eyes moving quickly from him to Adelaide; if she were surprised she did not show it; but Adelaide, who by this time was able to follow the processes of the Sow’s mind with great accuracy, saw her examining the possibilities of this new development. She could have sworn that the idea of fresh blackmail for a moment entered Mrs. Mounsey’s mind; she saw the idea dismissed and give place to a neutral wariness.

  The Sow wasn’t looking for trouble.

  “’Mornin’, dearie,” she said affably. “If you got company, I won’t keep you.”

  “You’ll stay a moment, because I have something to say to you,” stated Adelaide. “You’ve come for ten shillings—”

  The Sow shot a warning glance in the direction of Mr. Lauderdale.

  “Want ’im to ’ear?” she murmured.

  “Certainly.”

  “Then I don’t. ’E’s a stranger to me, and I don’t do business afore strangers.” Mrs. Mounsey’s tone hardened; she had evidently decided to change her tactics. “What’s ’e doin’ ’ere, anyway? ’Oo is ’e?”

  “He’s a witness,” said Adelaide deliberately, “to the fact that I am no longer going to pay you ten shillings a week.”

  “I am also,” cut in Mr. Lauderdale, “a lawyer. I’ve just been telling Mrs. Lambert that if she likes she can prosecute you.”

  Under this combined attack the Sow blinked a moment—but only for a moment. Draping her shawl more closely about her, folding her huge arms over her huge bosom, she faced them both with amused contempt.

  “A lawyer!” she repeated sardonically—and indeed Mr. Lauderdale’s appearance gave ground for the irony. “’E looks like a lawyer, don’t ’e? I wonder you’ve bin so took in.”

  “Did you understand what I said?” asked Adelaide sharply.

  “A narsty little sponger, that’s what ’e is. Tryin’ to prey on yer innocence. I only ’ope you ’aven’t told ’im nothing you didn’t ought.”

  “I’ve told him everything,” said Adelaide.

  “Then it’s lucky you got me to look arter you,” said the Sow, with a return to blandness.

  There was an impudence, a speed of manoeuvre about this, for which Adelaide was unprepared. She saw that it was a mistake to admit any sort of discussion whatever, that she should simply have stated her position and ordered the creature out. And Mr. Lauderdale evidently agreed; for he now stood up and, interposing himself between the two women, said roughly:—

  “You hear what Mrs. Lambert says. She’ll pay you no more money. You don’t dare go to the police, and she knows it. There’s to be no more talk of following her about. You’re being let of
f lightly: now get out.”

  The Sow did not budge. She stood there, huge, ponderous, unshiftable, her eyes on Adelaide.

  “Very well,” said Lauderdale. “Then Mrs. Lambert will prosecute you for the theft of household goods.”

  Adelaide sometimes wondered why Mrs. Mounsey so objected to being called a thief. She was a thief, everyone knew it; in Britannia Mews stealing was hardly a misdemeanour; but now as always the word released a flood of angry denial.

  “Thievin’, indeed! When she give me the stuff ’erself! Everything there was she give me, out o’ gratitude for me kindness in ’er trouble! Not a stick I laid ’and to but what she give me ’erself! An’ two years gone at that! Two bloody years—”

  “If she says you took stuff last week, the police will believe her and not you.”

  “And if necessary, I shall say so,” said Adelaide.

  The remnants of Mrs. Mounsey’s self-control left her. Her voice rose in a husky shriek, she began to shout abuse, all the grudges of two years’ servitude found voice as she called Adelaide by every filthy name she could lay tongue to. It was like the bursting of a sewer: Adelaide instinctively put her hands to her ears, but the horrible voice rose louder, the language grew more and more obscene, hardly recognizable except as foulness. For perhaps a minute the evil flood rose inexhaustibly; then Mr. Lauderdale advanced and with his open hand, but with great force, struck the Sow across the mouth.

  She rocked back, spat blood, and launched herself clumsily upon him. Lauderdale stepped easily aside and let her impetus carry her past him. She blundered against the table and stood there panting, her face congested, as though she could not draw enough breath into her vast bosom. She turned and faced him; a curious, rudimentary weaving motion of the head showed that she had once been a practised fighter; now it was the only movement she was capable of. Her enormous weight was no longer a weapon, but a handicap, for that one blind rush had exhausted her. When Lauderdale approached again she did not even turn away.

  “Oh, don’t!” cried Adelaide instinctively.