winter bushes. Mark entered the old-fashioned foyer and moved to the cramped self-service elevator. The atmosphere of the house depressed him. To him money was something you took intelligent advantage of once you’d got it. Why did the immensely rich Rosses choose to play at the simple life? Just because Mrs Ross had been a Van-Something that didn’t mean they had to live in the Mayflower.
The elevator stopped at the third floor. The Rosses owned the whole building. Mrs Ross’s father had built it. But they kept only one floor for themselves. A dowdy ‘family’ maid opened the door. She looked uneasy.
‘Oh! Mr Liddon. One moment, please.’
She made as if to close the door, but he pushed past her into the foyer.
‘Where are they?’
‘In the library, but . .’
He ignored her twitterings and strode through the foyer. The maid scurried ahead of him, and, opening a door, announced breathlessly:
‘Mr Liddon.’
Mark walked past her into a room of sad brown leather and musty blue. Everything remained the way it had been left by Mrs Ross’s father. A bust of Dante stared from its niche above the bookshelves. A portrait of Mrs Ross’s father, painted by Sargent, stared with equal stoniness from above the marble mantelpiece, beneath which a meagre fire was burning.
Mrs Ross sat by the fire, with a coffee-cup in her hand and a low table set with a breakfast tray at her side. She was a large woman with deliberately untidy grey hair and a handsome profile. Mr Ross, thin and dignified as an elder statesman, stood by the window. It had started to snow again. White flakes twirled and sank behind him. They both looked at Mark unsmilingly.
She said: ‘Why, Mr Liddon, we thought you were in Brazil or somewhere.’
She used his name as if it were slightly foreign and difficult for her quiet precise voice.
‘I got back earlier than I expected,’ Mark said. ‘Ellie’s not home. I’ve come to find out if you know where she is.’
Mrs Ross sipped her coffee. ‘She’s not here, I’m afraid.’
‘No,’ said Mr Ross, ‘she’s not here.’
A small clock chimed softly from the mantel. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, carefully trimmed with tinsel snow and shining balls, blue, yellow and green. Mark wondered irrelevantly what two old people wanted with a Christmas tree. Probably it was because there’d always been one. Another of Mrs Ross’s memorials of her dead father.
He said: ‘Know where she is ?’
Neither of them spoke. They were not being rude or hostile; they were too polite for that. They were just passively uncooperative.
Finally Mr. Ross said: ‘I’m afraid Ellie doesn’t keep us informed of her comings and goings.’
‘But you’ve seen her recently ?’
Mr and Mrs Ross exchanged a swift look which seemed to serve them as an adequate means of communication. The snow falling past the window gave the weird illusion that Mr Ross was moving very slowly upward.
He said: ‘As a matter of fact Ellie came to visit us last week.’
‘And she didn’t say anything about going away for Christmas?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ said Mr Ross. Mrs Ross’s untidy head was bent over her coffee. ‘Yes,’ continued Mr Ross. ‘Ellie came to visit us because she wanted to borrow — money.’ He pronounced the word as if it were almost indelicate.
‘Borrow money?’ Mark said.
‘It appears she had been gambling. She owed a large sum. She was not able to meet it.’
‘It’s happened again and again,’ put in Mrs Ross suddenly, and the soft bitterness in her voice managed to reveal a whole life of maternal disillusionment.
So Ellie had been gambling. She’d got a little high at Victor’s, had one of her ‘majestic hunches’ and lost her shirt. Now the whole picture was changed again — and for the worse.
He asked: ‘And you let her have the money?’
‘No,’ broke in Mrs Ross again. ‘No, we did not.’
Mr Ross smiled his sad, distinguished smile. ‘Perhaps this is as
The elevator stopped at the third floor. The Rosses owned the whole building. Mrs Ross’s father had built it. But they kept only one floor for themselves. A dowdy ‘family’ maid opened the door. She looked uneasy.
‘Oh! Mr Liddon. One moment, please.’
She made as if to close the door, but he pushed past her into the foyer.
‘Where are they?’
‘In the library, but . .’
He ignored her twitterings and strode through the foyer. The maid scurried ahead of him, and, opening a door, announced breathlessly:
‘Mr Liddon.’
Mark walked past her into a room of sad brown leather and musty blue. Everything remained the way it had been left by Mrs Ross’s father. A bust of Dante stared from its niche above the bookshelves. A portrait of Mrs Ross’s father, painted by Sargent, stared with equal stoniness from above the marble mantelpiece, beneath which a meagre fire was burning.
Mrs Ross sat by the fire, with a coffee-cup in her hand and a low table set with a breakfast tray at her side. She was a large woman with deliberately untidy grey hair and a handsome profile. Mr Ross, thin and dignified as an elder statesman, stood by the window. It had started to snow again. White flakes twirled and sank behind him. They both looked at Mark unsmilingly.
She said: ‘Why, Mr Liddon, we thought you were in Brazil or somewhere.’
She used his name as if it were slightly foreign and difficult for her quiet precise voice.
‘I got back earlier than I expected,’ Mark said. ‘Ellie’s not home. I’ve come to find out if you know where she is.’
Mrs Ross sipped her coffee. ‘She’s not here, I’m afraid.’
‘No,’ said Mr Ross, ‘she’s not here.’
A small clock chimed softly from the mantel. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, carefully trimmed with tinsel snow and shining balls, blue, yellow and green. Mark wondered irrelevantly what two old people wanted with a Christmas tree. Probably it was because there’d always been one. Another of Mrs Ross’s memorials of her dead father.
He said: ‘Know where she is ?’
Neither of them spoke. They were not being rude or hostile; they were too polite for that. They were just passively uncooperative.
Finally Mr. Ross said: ‘I’m afraid Ellie doesn’t keep us informed of her comings and goings.’
‘But you’ve seen her recently ?’
Mr and Mrs Ross exchanged a swift look which seemed to serve them as an adequate means of communication. The snow falling past the window gave the weird illusion that Mr Ross was moving very slowly upward.
He said: ‘As a matter of fact Ellie came to visit us last week.’
‘And she didn’t say anything about going away for Christmas?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ said Mr Ross. Mrs Ross’s untidy head was bent over her coffee. ‘Yes,’ continued Mr Ross. ‘Ellie came to visit us because she wanted to borrow — money.’ He pronounced the word as if it were almost indelicate.
‘Borrow money?’ Mark said.
‘It appears she had been gambling. She owed a large sum. She was not able to meet it.’
‘It’s happened again and again,’ put in Mrs Ross suddenly, and the soft bitterness in her voice managed to reveal a whole life of maternal disillusionment.
So Ellie had been gambling. She’d got a little high at Victor’s, had one of her ‘majestic hunches’ and lost her shirt. Now the whole picture was changed again — and for the worse.
He asked: ‘And you let her have the money?’
‘No,’ broke in Mrs Ross again. ‘No, we did not.’
Mr Ross smiled his sad, distinguished smile. ‘Perhaps this is as
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