Have His Carcase

‘Then it can’t be Mr Alexis. Where is he? Can I see him?’ Harriet explained that the body had not been recovered. ‘Then it must be somebody else! How do they know it is Paul?’

Harriet reluctantly mentioned the photograph, knowing what the next request would be.

‘Show me the photograph.’

‘It isn’t very pleasant to look at’

‘Show me the photograph. I couldn’t be deceived about it.’

Better, perhaps, to set all doubt at rest. Harriet slowly produce the print. Mrs Weldon snatched it from her hand,

‘Oh, God! Oh God!…’

Harriet rang the bell and, stepping out into the corridor, caught the waiter and asked for a stiff whisky-and-soda. When it came, she took it in herself and made Mrs Weldon drink it. Then she fetched a clean handkerchief and waited for the storm to subside. She sat on the arm of the chair and patted Mrs Weldon rather helplessly on the shoulder. Mercifully, the crisis took the form of violent sobbing and not of hysterics. She felt an increased respect for Mrs Weldon. When the sobs had subsided a little, and the groping fingers began to fumble with the handbag, Harriet pushed the handkerchief into them.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Mrs Weldon, meekly. She began to wipe her eyes, daubing the linen with red and black streaks from her make-up. Then she blew her nose and sat up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she began, forlornly.

‘That’s all right,’ said Harriet, again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had rather a shock. Perhaps you’d like to bathe your eyes a bit. It’ll make you feel better, don’t you think?’

She supplied a sponge and towel. Mrs Weldon removed the grotesque traces of her grief and made her appearance from within the folds of the towel as a sallow-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, infinitely more dignified in her natural complexion. She made an instinctive movement towards her handbag, and then abandoned it.

‘I look awful,’ she said, with a dreary little laugh, but — what’s it matter, now?’

‘I shouldn’t mind about it,’ said Harriet. ‘You look quite nice. Really and truly. Come and sit down. Have a cigarette. And let me give you a phenacetin or something. I expect you’ve got a bit of a; headache.’

‘Thank you. You’re very kind. I won’t be stupid again. I’m giving you a lot of trouble:

‘Not a bit. I only wish I could help you.’

‘You can. If you only would. I’m sure you’re clever. You look clever. I’m not clever. I do wish I was. I think I should have been happier if I’d been clever. It must be nice to do things. I’ve so often thought that if I could have painted pictures or ridden a motor-cycle or something, I should have got more out of life.’

Harriet agreed, gravely, that it was perhaps a good thing; to have an occupation of some sort.,

‘But of course,’ said Mrs Weldon, ‘I was never brought up to that. I have lived for my emotions. I can’t help it. I suppose I am made that way. Of course, my married life was a tragedy. But that’s all over now. And my son — you might not think I was old enough to have a grown-up son,

my dear, but I was married scandalously young — my son has been a sad disappointment to me. He has no heart — and that does seem strange, seeing that I am really all heart myself. I am devoted to my son, dear Miss Vane, but young people are so unsympathetic. If only he had been kinder to me, I could have lived in and for him. Everybody always said what a wonderful mother I was, But it’s terribly lonely when one’s own child deserts one, and one can’t be blamed for snatching a little happiness, can one?’

‘I know that,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve tried snatching, It didn’t work, though.’

‘Didn’t it?’

‘No. We quarrelled, and then — well, he died and they thought I’d murdered him. I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Somebody else did; but it was all very disagreeable..’

‘You poor thing. But, of course, you are clever. You do things. That must make it easier. But what am I to do? I don’t even know how to set about clearing up all this terrible business about Paul. But you are clever and you will help me — won’t you?’

‘Suppose you tell me just exactly what you want done.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m so stupid I can’t even explain things properly. But you see, Miss Vane, I know, I know absolutely, that poor Paul couldn’t have — done anything rash. He couldn’t. He was so utterly happy with me, and looking forward to it all.’

‘To what?’ asked Harriet.

‘Why, to our marriage,’ said Mrs Weldon, as, though the matter was self-evident.

‘Oh, I see. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were going to be married. When?’

‘In a fortnight’s time. As soon as I could be ready for it. We were so happy — like children—’

Tears gathered again in Mrs Weldon’s eyes.