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Vera reclined on the sofa that afternoon, and the sofa was drawn
round in front of the drawing-room fire. And she wore her
fluffiest and languidest peignoir. And there was a perfume of eau
de Cologne in the apartment. Vera was having a headache; she was
having it in her grand, her official manner. Stephen had had to
lunch alone. He had been told that in all probability his
suffering wife would not be well enough to go to the ball.
Whereupon he had grunted. As a fact, Vera's headache was extremely
real, and she was very upset indeed.
The death of Li Hung Chang was heavy on her soul. Occultism was
justified of itself. The affair lay beyond coincidence. She had
always KNOWN that there was something in occultism,
supernaturalism, so-called superstitions, what not. But she had
never expected to prove the faith that was in her by such a
homicidal act on her own part. It was detestable of Charlie to
have mentioned the thing at all. He had no right to play with
fire. And as for her husband, words could give but the merest
rough outline of her resentment against Stephen. A pretty state of
things that a woman with a position such as she had to keep up
should be reduced to six and sevenpence! Stephen, no doubt,
expected her to visit the pawnshop. It would serve him right if
she did so--and he met her coming out under the three brass balls!
Did she not dress solely and wholly to please him? Not in the
least to please herself! Personally she had a mind set on higher
things, impossible aspirations. But he liked fine clothes. And it
was her duty to satisfy him. She strove to satisfy him in all
matters. She lived for him. She sacrificed herself to him
completely. And what did she get in return? Nothing! Nothing!
Nothing! All men were selfish. And women were their victims....
Stephen, with his silly bullying rules against credit and so
forth.... The worst of men was that they had no sense.
She put a new dose of eau de Cologne on her forehead, and leaned
on one elbow. On the mantelpiece lay the tissue parcel containing
the slim silver belt, the price of Li's death. She wanted to stick
it in the fire. And only the fact that it would not burn prevented
her savagely doing so. There was something wrong, too, with the
occultism. To receive a paltry sovereign for murdering the
greatest statesman of the Eastern hemisphere was simply grotesque.
Moreover, she had most distinctly not wanted to deprive China of a
distinguished man. She had expressly stipulated for an inferior
and insignificant mandarin, one that could be spared and that was
unknown to Reuter. She supposed she ought to have looked up China
at the Wedgwood Institution and selected a definite mandarin with
a definite place of residence. But could she be expected to go
about a murder deliberately like that?
With regard to the gross inadequacy of the fiscal return for her
deed, perhaps that was her own fault. She had not wished for more.
Her brain had been so occupied by the belt that she had wished
only for the belt. But, perhaps, on the other hand, vast wealth
was to come. Perhaps something might occur that very night. That
would be better. Yet would it be better? However rich she might
become, Stephen would coolly take charge of her riches, and dole
them out to her, and make rules for her concerning them. And
besides, Charlie would suspect her guilt. Charlie understood her,
and perused her thoughts far better than Stephen did. She would
never be able to conceal the truth from Charlie. The conversation,
the death of Li within two hours, and then a sudden fortune
accruing to her--Charlie would inevitably put two and two together
and divine her shameful secret.
The outlook was thoroughly black anyway.
She then fell asleep.
When she awoke, some considerable time afterwards, Stephen was
calling to her. It was his voice, indeed, that had aroused her.
The room was dark.
'I say, Vera,' he demanded, in a low, slightly inimical tone,
'have you taken a sovereign out of the empty drawer in your
toilet-table?'
'No,' she said quickly, without thinking.
'Ah!' he observed reflectively, 'I knew I was right.' He paused,
and added, coldly, 'If you aren't better you ought to go to bed.'
Then he left her, shutting the door with a noise that showed a
certain lack of sympathy with her headache.
She sprang up. Her first feeling was one of thankfulness that that
brief interview had occurred in darkness. So Stephen was aware of
the existence of the sovereign! The sovereign was not occult.
Possibly he had put it there. And what did he know he was 'right'
about?
She lighted the gas, and gazed at herself in the glass, realizing
that she no longer had a headache, and endeavouring to arrange her
ideas.
'What's this?' said another voice at the door. She glanced round
hastily, guiltily. It was Charlie.
'Steve telephoned me you were too ill to go to the dance,'
explained Charlie, 'so I thought I'd come and make inquiries. I
quite expected to find you in bed with a nurse and a doctor or two
at least. What is it?' He smiled.
'Nothing,' she replied. 'Only a headache. It's gone now.'
She stood against the mantelpiece, so that he should not see the
white parcel.
'That's good,' said Charlie.
There was a pause.
'Strange, Li Hung Chang dying last night, just after we had been
talking about killing mandarins,' she said. She could not keep off
the subject. It attracted her like a snake, and she approached it
in spite of the fact that she fervently wished not to approach it.
'Yes,' said Charlie. 'But Li wasn't a mandarin, you know. And he
didn't die after we had been talking about mandarins. He died
before.'
'Oh! I thought it said in the paper he died at two o'clock this
morning.'
'Two a.m. in Pekin,' Charlie answered. 'You must remember that
Pekin time is many hours earlier than our time. It lies so far
eastward.'
'Oh!' she said again.
Stephen hurried in, with a worried air.
'Ah! It's you, Charlie!'
'She isn't absolutely dying, I find,' said Charlie, turning to
Vera: 'You are going to the dance after all--aren't you?'
'I say, Vera,' Stephen interrupted, 'either you or I must have a
scene with Martha. I've always suspected that confounded
housemaid. So I put a marked sovereign in a drawer this morning,
and it was gone at lunch-time. She'd better hook it instantly. Of
course I shan't prosecute.'
'Martha!' cried Vera. 'Stephen, what on earth are you thinking of?
I wish you would leave the servants to me. If you think you can
manage this house in your spare time from the works, you are
welcome to try. But don't blame me for the consequences.' Glances
of triumph flashed in her eyes.
'But I tell you--'
'Nonsense,' said Vera. 'I took the sovereign. I saw it there and I
took it, and just to punish you, I've spent it. It's not at all
nice to lay traps for servants like that.'
'Then why did you tell me just now you hadn't taken it?' Stephen
demanded crossly.
'I didn't feel well enough to argue with you then,' Vera replied.
'You've recovered precious quick,' retorted Stephen with grimness.
'Of course, if you want to make a scene before strangers,' Vera
whimpered (poor Charlie a stranger!), 'I'll go to bed.'
Stephen knew when he was beaten.
She went to the Hockey dance, though. She and Stephen and Charlie
and his young sister, aged seventeen, all descended together to
the Town Hall in a brougham. The young girl admired Vera's belt
excessively, and looked forward to the moment when she too should
be a bewitching and captivating wife like Vera, in short, a woman
of the world, worshipped by grave, bearded men. And both the men
were under the spell of Vera's incurable charm, capricious,
surprising, exasperating, indefinable, indispensable to their
lives.
'Stupid superstitions!' reflected Vera. 'But of course I never
believed it really.'
And she cast down her eyes to gloat over the belt.
Read next: PART VII - CHAPTER VERA'S SECOND CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE: CHAPTER I
Read previous: PART VI - THE MURDER OF THE MANDARIN: CHAPTER II
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