“No, she didn’t, I’m sure. That was in the dirty clothes.”
“But you had to wash it to - day. Well, well. Now we want to have a look at Mrs. Wiven’s room.”
“If you like. Of course, nothing’s been done. It’s all untidy.” She led the way upstairs, lamenting that the house was all anyhow, she’d been so put about. But Mrs. Wiven’s room was primly neat and as clean as the shining passage and stairs. The paint had been worn thin by much washing, the paper was so faded that its rosebud pattern merged into a uniform pinkish grey. An old fur rug by the bedside, a square of threadbare carpet under the rickety round table in the middle of the room, were the only coverings of the scoured floor. The table had one cane chair beside it, and there was a small basket chair by the empty grate - nothing else in the room but the iron bedstead and a combination of chest of drawers, dressing - table, and washstand, with its mirror all brown spots.
Mrs. Brightman passed round the room, pulling this and pushing that. “I haven’t even dusted,” she lamented.
“Is this her own furniture?” Reggie asked.
“No, sir, she hadn’t anything. We had to furnish it for her.”
“Quite poor, was she?”
“I don’t really know how she managed. And, of course, we didn’t ever press her; you couldn’t. She had her savings, I suppose. She’d been in good service, by what she used to say.”
“No relations?”
“No, sir. She was left quite alone. That was really why she came to us, she was that lonely. She’d say to me she did so want a home, till we took her. When she was feeling down, she used to cry and tell me she didn’t know what would become of her. Of course, we wouldn’t ever have let her want, poor dear. But it’s my belief her bit of money was running out.”
Reggie gazed about the room. On the walls were many cards with texts. “Mr. Brightman put up the good words for her,” Mrs. Brightman explained, and gazed at one of the texts and cried.
“‘In My Father’s house are many mansions.’” Reggie read it out slowly, and again looked round the bare little room.
Mrs. Brightman sobbed. “Ah, she’s gone there now. She’s happy.”
Bell was moving from one to other of the cupboards beside the grate. Nothing was in them but clothes. He went on to the dressing - table.” She don’t seem to have any papers. Only this.” He lifted a cash - box, and money rattled in it.
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” Mrs. Brightman whimpered.
Reggie stood by the table. “Did she have her meals up here?” he asked.
Mrs. Brightman thought about that. “Mostly she didn’t. She liked to sit down with us. She used to say it was more homely.”
Reggie fingered the table - cloth, pulled it off, and looked at the cracked veneer beneath. He stooped, felt the strip of old carpet under the table, drew it back. On the boards beneath was a patch of damp.
Mrs. Brightman came nearer. “Well there!” she said. “That comes of my not doing out the room. She must have had a accident with her slops and never told me. She always would do things for herself.” Reggie did not answer. He wandered round the room, stopped by the window a moment, and turned to the door.
“I’m taking this cash - box, ma’am,” said Bell.
“If you think right - ” Mrs. Brightman drew back. “It’s not for me to say - I don’t mind, myself.” She looked from one to the other. “Will that be all, then?”
“Nothing more here.” Reggie opened the door. As they went downstairs, the shop bell rang again, and she hurried on to answer it. The two men returned to the room behind the shop.
“Poor old woman,” Bell grunted. “You can see what sort of a life she was having - that mingy room and her money running out - I wouldn’t wonder if she committed suicide.”
“Wouldn’t be wonderful. No,” Reggie murmured. “Shut up.”
From the shop came a man’s voice, lazy and genial. “Good afternoon, mum. I want a bit o’ salts o’ lemon. About two penn’orth would do me. ‘Ow do you sell it?”
There was a mutter from Mrs. Brightman. “We don’t keep it.”
“What? They told me I’d be sure to get it ‘ere. Run out of it, ‘ave you? Ain’t that too bad!”
“We never did keep it,” Mrs. Brightman said. “Whoever told you we did?”
“All right, all right. Keep your hair on, missus. Where can I get it?”
“How should I know? I don’t rightly know what it is.”
