They then trooped out of the room, leaving the house a few minutes later—all three having crowded with their belongings into one taxi.
For nearly a minute Mrs. Munnings stood like a waxwork staring at Mrs. Marks, then collapsed into a chair as if she had been pole-axed.
Mrs. Marks glanced at her, realised it would be some time before she became articulate, and therefore decided to continue a complicated piece of knitting which she kept for emergencies. But, as she worked, she sniffed more and more frequently. Her opinion of Mrs. Munnings had fallen to zero. Fancy her believing that nonsense about the house being haunted! Haunted me foot! Those three lodgers had wanted to give notice for years, but hadn’t had the pluck. Wrayburn’s suicide had given them their chance—and they had taken it. And Mrs. M. had believed them! Fancy her being that soft! She—Mrs. Marks—would have shown ’em! Haunted, indeed! She’d have given ’em haunted.
Mrs. Munnings prostrate: Mrs. Marks knitting. This was the tableau presented when Rendell entered the room.
“No one turned up then,” he said briskly, seeing nothing but the magenta-coloured cake in the centre of the table.
Mrs. Munnings rose slowly—in a manner suggesting the birth of a mountain.
Mrs. Marks put down her knitting.
A menacing silence descended.
“Well, there it is, can’t be helped,” Rendell went on. “You’ve been to some expense, I see. Perhaps that will cover it.”
He put a pound note on the table.
“Cover it!” Mrs. Munnings gave a shrill laugh, then turned to Mrs. Marks. “Here am I—ruined!—and he gives me a pound note and says perhaps that’ll cover it.”
Mrs. Marks sniffed, then said she was sure that the gentleman meant no harm.
“Ruined!” Rendell exclaimed. “Who’s ruined?”
“Me three best lodgers gone! Gorn! There’s their week’s rent lying on that table! And all because of him—the little rat!”
“But why——”
“’Cos they say the house is haunted! That’s why! Didn’t I know it—didn’t I say to you, Mrs. Marks, didn’t I say he done it just to spite me? The little rat—the little rat!”
Her voice rose to a falsetto scream of rage.
“And me sitting here waiting for his relatives! The little bastard was likely to have relatives! He knew this would happen. He’s ruined me! He’s ruined me!”
She trembled so violently with anger and self-pity that Mrs. Marks was impelled to inform her that it didn’t do no good to carry on like that.
“Quarter day comin’, and me three best lodgers gone! And all the rest will go! Yes, they will—every one of ’em! I’ll be empty! Everyone will say: ‘Don’t you go to No. 4—it’s haunted.’ I’ll be begging on the streets! Me—Sarah Munnings! Yes, I shall, I tell you! And he knew it. The little rat knew it! It’s his revenge!”
Fury so possessed her that Rendell thought she was going to have a fit. The patches on her puffy face had turned purple; the little eyes were black points of hatred; the barrel-shaped body shook convulsively.
Rendell, feeling genuinely sorry for her, was about to suggest some monetary compensation, but Mrs. Munnings—noting the change in him—abandoned hysteria a little too abruptly and made a frontal attack.
“It’s no good your standing there staring! It’s gospel truth I’ve told you, as Mrs. Marks knows. The least that you can do, seeing as how you had a hand in all this, is to take rooms here yourself. And take ’em at once. And pay a good rent for ’em.”
“Quite out of the question,” Rendell replied curtly. “I’m going to Italy soon.”
Italy! Soon!
Mrs. Munnings’ last hope collapsed.
“And what’s to happen to me?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned and began to walk towards the door.
“You can’t leave me here—ruined! You can’t do it.”
She ran after the retiring Rendell and seized his arm.
“His furniture! The little rat’s furniture! That’s mine, anyhow. And I’m going to sell it. See?”
“Oh sell it—and be damned to you!” Rendell shouted, then went out, banging the door behind him.
X
The next evening Marsden went to Rendell’s room at about seven o’clock and, finding it empty, proceeded to make himself as comfortable as possible. Noticing that the cabinet in which Rendell kept his whisky was unlocked, he mixed a drink—took a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece—then lit the fire. After which he lowered himself carefully into an arm-chair, put his crutches on the floor, and surrendered himself to comfort.
He closed his eyes and drifted imperceptibly into a day-dream. Gradually the actual Marsden receded. The man he would like to be slowly emerged. This dream-Marsden became clearer and clearer till the man in the arm-chair identified himself wholly with him.
This dream-Marsden was rather an impressive person, being tall, slender, handsome—and a first-class athlete. He had played Rugby for England and was now a famous golfer. Fortune had been prodigal to him on every level. He was rich, well-born, a member of half a dozen good clubs, and a prominent figure in smart society. Women went mad about him.
This dream-Marsden had a house in town, a place in the country, and went abroad frequently to the right places with the right people. He had a Rolls-Royce and a Bentley. Also, Vera was his wife. He had married her because it was obvious that her life depended on him. He was her idol. He derived his subtlest pleasure from stretching her on the rack of jealousy. Naturally, he wasn’t faithful to her. That was scarcely likely when half the loveliest women in London were crazy about him. And, of course, he made no attempt to conceal his infidelities from Vera. On the contrary, he paraded them in order to torture her. When jealousy made her desperate, and she began to abuse him, he would threaten to leave her. Having thus brought her literally to her knees, he would forgive her. Then he would go away for another week-end in order to assert his freedom. She had forgotten that she had ever known Ivor Trent. She——
But at this point Marsden’s day-dream ended abruptly, for Rendell came into the room.
This sudden return to the actual irritated Marsden. The contrast between his imaginings and the facts was too wide to be bridged in a. second. A swift transition from the dream-Marsden to Marsden the cripple was very unpleasant. It martyred his vanity.
He looked up at Rendell with a smile resembling a scowl.
“Hullo! I wanted to see you last evening, but thought I’d better not, as you’d been to the funeral. Did it go off all right?”
“Yes, it—went off all right.”
“Good! No one else there, I suppose?”
“No one,”
“Any wreaths?”
“No.”
“I thought not. Well, that’s that! Now, look here, I’ve not come to chat. It’s pretty important really. I want your help.”
Rendell got a drink then sat down opposite Marsden. He felt tired and depressed, consequently the prospect of a conversation with Marsden was not inviting.
“What is it you want? I’m not feeling too good and——”