Roger, the frozen grin of civilised intercourse on his face, again tried to edge a word in; without result.
"I was horrified when I heard of it. Simply horrified." Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer registered horror. "You see, Joan and I were such very close friends. Quite intimate. In fact we were at school together. - Did you say anything, Mr. Sheringham?" Roger, who had allowed a faintly incredulous groan to escape him, hastily shook his head. "And the awful thing, the truly terrible thing is that Joan brought the whole thing on herself. Isn't that appalling, Mr. Sheringham?"
Roger no longer wanted to escape. "What did you say?" he managed to insert, again incredulously.
"I suppose it's what they call tragic irony." Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer chattered happily. "Certainly it was tragic enough and I've never heard of anything so terribly ironical. You know about that bet she made with her husband, of course, so that he had to get her a box of chocolates and if he hadn't Sir Eustace would never have given him the poisoned ones but would have eaten them and died himself, and from all I hear about him good riddance? Well, Mr. Sheringham - - " Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer lowered her voice to a conspirator - like whisper and glanced about her in the approved manner. "I've never told any one else this, but I'm telling you because I know you'll appreciate it. You are interested in irony aren't you?"
"I adore it," Roger said mechanically. "Yes?"
"Well - Joan wasn't playing fair!"
"How do you mean?" Roger asked, bewildered.
Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer was artlessly pleased with her sensation. "Why, she ought not to have made that bet at all. It was a judgment on her. A terrible judgment of course, but the appalling thing is that she did bring it on herself, in a way. I'm so terribly distressed about it. Really, Mr. Sheringham, I can hardly bear to turn the light out when I go to bed. I see Joan's face simply looking at me in the dark. It's awful." And for a fleeting instant Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer's face did for once really mirror the emotion she professed: it looked quite haggard.
"Why oughtn't Mrs. Bendix to have made the bet?" Roger asked patiently.
"Oh! Why, because she'd seen the play before. We went together, the very first week it was on. She knew who the villain was all the time."
"By Jove!" Roger was as impressed as Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer could have wished. "The Avenging Chance again, eh? We're none of us immune from it."
"Poetic justice, you mean?" twittered Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer, to whom these remarks had been a trifle obscure. "Yes it was, in a way, wasn't it? Though really, the punishment was out of all proportion to the crime. Good gracious, if every woman who cheats over a bet is to be killed for it, where would any of us be?" demanded Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer with unconscious frankness.
"Umph!" said Roger tactfully.
Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer glanced rapidly up and down the pavement, and moistened her lips. Roger had an odd impression that she was talking not as usual just for the sake of talking, but in some recondite way to escape from not talking. It was as if she was more distressed over her friend's death than she cared to show and found some relief in babbling. It interested Roger also to notice that fond though she had probably been of the dead woman, she now found herself driven as if against her will to hint at blame even while praising her. It was as though she was able thus to extract some subtle consolation for the actual death.
"But Joan Bendix of all people! That's what I can't get over, Mr. Sheringham. I should never have thought Joan would do a thing like that. Joan was such a nice girl. A little close with money perhaps, considering how well - off she was, but that isn't anything. Of course I know it was only fun, and pulling her husband's leg, but I always used to think Joan was such a serious girl, if you know what I mean."
"Quite," said Roger, who could understand plain English as well as most people.
"I mean, ordinary people don't talk about honour, and truth, and playing the game, and all those things one takes for granted. But Joan did. She was always saying that this wasn't honourable, or that wouldn't be playing the game. Well, she paid herself for not playing the game, poor girl, didn't she? Still, I suppose it all goes to prove the truth of the old saying."
"What old saying?" asked Roger, almost hypnotised by this flow.
"Why, that still waters run deep. Joan must have been deep after all, I'm afraid." Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer sighed. It was evidently a grave social error to be deep. "Not that I want to say anything against her now she's dead, poor darling, but - well, what I mean is, I do think psychology is so very interesting, don't you, Mr. Sheringham?"
Quite fascinating," Roger agreed gravely. Well, I'm afraid I must be - - "
"And what does that man. Sir Eustace Pennefather, think about it all? " demanded Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer, with an expression of positive vindictiveness. "After all, he's as responsible for Joan's death as anybody."
"Oh, really." Roger had not conceived any particular love for Sir Eustace, but he felt constrained to defend him against this charge. " Really, I don't think you can say that, Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer."
"I can, and I do," affirmed that lady. "Have you ever met him, Mr. Sheringham? I hear he's a horrible creature. Always running after some woman or other, and when he's tired of her just drops her - biff! - like that. Is it true?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you," Roger said coldly. "I don't know him at all."
"Well, it's common talk who he's taken up with now," retorted Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer, perhaps a trifle more pink than the delicate aids to nature on her cheeks would have warranted. " Half - a - dozen people have told me. That Bryce woman, of all people. You know, the wife of the oil man, or petrol, or whatever he made his money in."
"I've never heard of her," Roger said, quite untruthfully.
"It began about a week ago, they say," rattled on this red - hot gossiper. "To console himself for not getting Dora Wildman, I suppose. Well, thank goodness Sir Charles had the sense to put his foot down there. He did, didn't he? I heard so the other day. Horrible man! You'd have thought that such a dreadful thing as being practically responsible for poor Joan's death would have sobered him up a little, wouldn't you? But not a bit of it. As a matter of fact I believe he - - "
"Have you seen any shows lately?" Roger asked in a loud voice.
Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer stared at him, for a moment nonplussed. "Shows? Yes, I've seen almost everything, I think. Why, Mr. Sheringham? "
"I just wondered. The new revue at the Pavilion's quite good, isn't it? Well, I'm afraid I must - - "
"Oh, don't!" Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer shuddered delicately. "I was there the night before Joan's death." (Can no subject take us away from that for a moment? thought Roger.) "Lady Cavelstoke had a box and asked me to join her party."
"Yes?" Roger was wondering if it would be considered rude if he simply handed the lady off, as at rugger, and dived for the nearest opening in the traffic. "Quite a good show," he said at random, edging restlessly towards the curb. I liked that sketch, The Sempiternal Triangle, particularly."
"The Sempiternal Triangle?" repeated Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer vaguely.
'Yes, quite near the beginning."
Oh! Then I may not have seen it. I got there few minutes late, I'm afraid. But then," said Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer with pathos, "I always do seem to be late for everything." Roger noted mentally that the few minutes was by way of a euphemism, as were most of Mrs. Verreker - le - Mesurer's statements regarding herself. The Sempiternal Triangle had certainly not been in the first half - hour of the performance.