When she gets home, Jean darts into the sitting room, as if seeking refuge. She looks around, not knowing what to do, then sees the phone. Looking at it, she slowly removes her coat and hat, and drops them on a chair. Then she goes quickly to the phone, dials a number and waits anxiously for the reply.
Finally, the other end picks up. “Fiona?” says Jean, brightly. “It’s Jean. What are you and that handsome husband of yours doing tonight?” She pauses as Fiona replies. “Well, don’t,” says Jean. “Come and have coffee with us instead.” Fiona asks what the occasion is. “Oh, I don’t know,” replies Jean, airily. “I just feel like a bit of a party.” She doesn’t say it, but she’s desperate not to be left alone with her husband. “I’d ask you both to eat with us, too, but the cupboard is bare – quite, quite bare.” Fiona says something, and Jean laughs. “Yes, poor Harry, with his appetite! But do come afterwards. There’s gallons to drink and we could quite live it up for once.” The pitch of her voice is getting higher and higher. This does not go unnoticed by Fiona. “Hysterical?” says Jean. “Do I really? How awful! It’s probably being in London all day.” Unconsciously, she begins paraphrasing John Fordyce’s empty words from earlier. “Yes, I’ve had a whale of a time. You know how it is – shopping, missing buses, grabbing taxis…” She glances through the window and, to her horror, sees someone approaching the house. “Just a minute, Fiona. Hang on.”
Jean leaves the phone and dashes towards the hallway door, but as she reaches it, she hears the front door opening. She freezes, terrified. Sonia’s voice calls out her name. With her back to the door, Jean braces herself. “I’m in here,” she calls. She goes straight back to the phone as Sonia comes in.
“I thought I saw you get back,” says Sonia. Then she realises that Jean’s on the phone. “Oh, sorry!”
Jean speaks into the phone while smiling at Sonia. “It was just Sonia dropping in… Oh, she’s blooming, as usual. Anyway, what about tonight…? Yes, that’d be lovely. About eight, then…? See you both then.” She rings off.
“You seem very lively,” notes Sonia. “Had a good day?”
“Yes,” lies Jean. “I got done most of what I wanted, and I just got to the station before the rush hour. Even so, the train was crammed.”
“What did John have to tell you?”
Jean starts. “John?”
“That’s why you went up, wasn’t it? This detective was going to have something to report today.”
Jean tries to deflect her. “John will tell you all about it himself, darling.”
Sonia laughs. “John will? You’re joking!”
“Why not?” asks Jean, with a note of indignance. “I don’t imagine he has any secrets from his wife. Husbands shouldn’t have.”
“Unless they’re solicitors,” replies Sonia. “Believe me, darling, since you went to John professionally, he won’t even mention you or Harry.”
Jean’s response is a mixture of relief and surprise. “Is that true?”
“John will carry his secrets to the grave. He’d never discuss any client’s case with me – certainly not yours. That’s why I have to come to you.”
“So he’ll go on being nice, easy-going, comfortable John,” says Jean, thoughtfully, “and no one will ever know what he knows.”
“Jean, I know I’m the biggest gossip for miles around, so you’d certainly better not confide in me if you’d rather not, but up to now you’ve wanted to and –”
“I wonder what John thinks about you,” says Jean, suddenly.
“Me?” replies Sonia, surprised.
“You’re not what you seem, either,” accuses Jean. “Given half a chance, you’d really go for that he-man act of Harry’s, wouldn’t you? Right up your street.” Sonia is offended, but Jean goes on. “Beneath that conventional, sophisticated manner of yours… aren’t I right? The real you would shock John to the core.”
“Perhaps,” Sonia admits, quietly.
Jean becomes reflective again. “One catches glimpses of these things, but you turn away. You have to. Of course not, you say, absurd.” Then Jean turns to her friend, suddenly, urgently, and asks if she can come to dinner tonight. “About seven. That’s when Harry gets in. Come a bit before, if you can. There’s not much to eat, of course – that’s why I hadn’t the face to ask the Gilberts – but if you don’t mind taking pot luck, I –”
“It’s very sweet of you,” says Sonia, puzzled. “I don’t know if John feels like going out, but –”
This takes the wind out of Jean’s sails. “Yes, I… suppose he’d have to come, too.”
“Well, I can hardly –”
“But I don’t think I can face John yet.”
Sonia looks concerned. “Darling, what’s happened?”
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” says Jean, recalling Fordyce’s words. “Always right, isn’t he? Shrewd, penetrating John! Well, I wonder about his sleeping dogs. For all you know, even righteous John might have a few women tucked away in London.” Sonia laughs this off, but Jean continues. “He’ll carry his secrets to the grave. You said so. Everybody does.” She starts to babble again. “Glimpses now and then.” Her body shudders. “But there are some things one just can’t –”
Sonia goes to her. “For Heaven’s sake, take hold of yourself. You’re trembling.”
“Oh, Sonia,” cries Jean. “I… I’ve always been so… scared of the dark.”
* * *
The following morning, Marker returns to Fordyce’s office, wondering how Jean is taking the news. “The way she walked out of here yesterday without saying a word, I –”
“She’s a bit distrait, I gather,” says Fordyce. “My wife happened to see her as soon as she got home yesterday.”
“Did she tell her anything?” asks Marker.
“Only enough to make Sonia pump me all evening for the full inside story.”
“What do you want me to do? Get positive proof?”
“No,” replies Fordyce, sharply.
“If she wanted proof before, she’ll certainly want it now. So far she’s only been told that –”
“Let sleeping dogs lie, Marker. At least till we know how to handle them.”
“Or muzzle them?”
“It’s easy for you,” remarks Fordyce. “But last night I had to come back on the train with Harry as if nothing had happened. We shared the same compartment as usual and dropped in at the local for a drink as we always do. And he kept on asking about you.” The solicitor sighs. “Why did you have to say I put you on to him?”
“There had to be someone,” replies Marker. “And you’re the only man I could afford to let him check on.”
“You used your own name,” says Fordyce, disappointedly.
“A false name can be dangerous,” Marker explains.
“He’s suspicious.”
“Possibly. I think he may have seen me when I was casing that flat the other day.”
Fordyce is appalled by this. “Just to know I’d put a detective on to him is bad enough. But if he knows you’ve found out about that flat –”
“You’ll have to tell him anyway,” reasons Marker. “Or his wife will. As you said yourself, in real life the lights don’t go out.”
Fordyce shakes his head, regretfully. “I warned her. Before you got here yesterday, I –”
Marker loses his patience. “For the love of Mike! Lawford’s a worried sick, frightened, tortured man! He needs help. Why are you so scared of the naked truth? There’s nothing shameful or embarrassing about truth. It’s just fact. Plain, unvarnished fact.”
Fordyce’s phone rings. He answers it, and is surprised to learn that Jean Lawford has arrived. He goes to the door and lets her in. She’s pleased to find Marker here. “You see, I’ve been thinking this over,” she says, “and frankly… well, the more I think about it, the more absurd the whole thing seems. After all, I know Harry.”
“Does anyone really know anyone?” says Marker, philosophically.
“I’ve been married to him for five years,” replies Jean. “All right, so he goes and sees this… this Pat. It could be perfectly innocent.”
“I’ve met him,” Marker reveals, explaining that he struck up a conversation with Pat in a pub.
Jean isn’t interested. “He can’t possibly have told you anything there that’s –”
“I know what he is, Mrs Lawford,” says Marker, firmly.
“That doesn’t mean that that’s why Harry sees him.”
“No,” admits Marker. “I told you yesterday I had no proof. Perhaps there is a perfectly commonplace explanation. Do you want me to find out?”
Fordyce hastily interjects. “I don’t think it’s really necessary, Mr Marker.”
“You’re right,” agrees Marker. “All Mrs Lawford has to do is to ask her husband why he occasionally visits Patrick Barnard.”
Jean doesn’t like that idea. “But I can’t do that unless I’ve some evidence –”
“It’s a question, not an accusation,” says Marker. “And if you put it to him honestly, without hypocrisy, without shame or embarrassment or prejudice – if you put it to him as a wife who cares – he’ll answer it truthfully enough in the end. Because if I’m right, he’s been wanting to get this off his chest for a long time.”
“But what happens then?” asks Jean, fearfully.
“Haven’t you any courage?”
“No, Mr Marker,” Jean replies, bluntly. “If I had, I wouldn’t be so afraid of the dark.”
Marker frowns. “The dark?”
“When the only thing you can be sure of is yourself. Groping along on your own? The very thought of it frightens me. Always has. That’s why, when Harry proposed, it seemed so wonderful – to know I was going to be all right, cherished, looked after, till death us do part.” Jean’s voice becomes bitter. “Why, he promised!”
Marker points out that it’s Harry who needs to be cherished now. “He needs your help.”
Jean shakes her head, vehemently. “I can’t help him. He can’t expect me to. It’s he who has to change, anyway. A thing like this, it’s unnatural.”
“If you love him,” says Marker.
“You can’t expect me to go and face Harry with a thing like this – certainly not on the evidence you’ve given me.”
“Shall I get more, then?” asks Marker, annoyed.
There’s a slight pause, then Jean says, “Yes. Yes, you must.”
“Very well.” Marker marches to the door.
“But I bet you can’t,” adds Jean. “I’m sure you’ll find it’s all a mistake – certain of it.”
“I’ll be in touch,” says Marker, coldly. He goes.
Jean turns to Fordyce. “He’d do much better to find out about that secretary of his,” she remarks. “I bet it turns out to be her after all.”
* * *
Deirdre is on the phone, waiting for an answer. Harry is with her, watching anxiously. Receiving no reply, she puts the phone down. “And that’s the only Marker listed near that bank?” asks Harry.
Deirdre nods. “What makes you think he’s a detective, anyway?”
“He didn’t come that day to talk about investments,” says Harry. “He came to get a line on me.”
“But what for?” asks Deirdre. “Anyway, that doesn’t mean he’s a detective.”
“I saw him somewhere else,” reveals Harry, “the next day.” Deirdre asks where. “Following me,” is all Harry will say.
“Harry, I know it’s none of my business, but… you’ve nothing to hide, have you?”
“No, of course not,” replies Harry, sharply.
“Then why should a detective want to follow you?” Deirdre’s phone rings. She answers it.
“Whoever it is, I’ve gone home,” says Harry, bad-temperedly. He changes his tune when he hears that it’s Sir John on the line. He takes the receiver from Deirdre. “Lawford here,” he says, eagerly. “Yes, I’d heard they’ve a big agenda.” The excitement drains from his expression as he listens to what the chairman has to tell him. “Next month,” says Harry, dully. “Of course, no need to rush it. Thank you for letting me know, sir.” He rings off and turns to Deirdre, disappointed. “My partnership’s not coming up till next month now. They’ve too much on their plate to discuss it tomorrow.”
Deirdre tries to reassure him. “It’s not too long. After all, nothing’s going to happen to make them change their minds about you.”
Harry’s not so sure about that. He moves away, looking worried. “Try that Macaulay number again.”
Deirdre doesn’t do so straight away. “I wish you’d fill me in a bit, Harry,” she says. “I feel so helpless.” She comes round the desk and approaches him, looking up at him in a motherly kind of way – rather like Jean did before. “What is it?” she asks him.
Harry backs away from her, abruptly. “Oh, shut up, Deirdre,” he snaps. “It drives me round the bend the way you drool over me sometimes. Haven’t you a boyfriend you can fuss over? I don’t know what a girl like you’s doing in a stockbroker’s office, anyway. You could get a more lively job any time.”
Deeply hurt, Deirdre returns to her desk. “I’ll try Mr Marker again,” she sniffs. Harry goes into his office, as Deirdre, controlling her emotions as best she can, dials the number. This time, she gets a reply. “Oh, is that Mr Marker, Mr Frank Marker?” she says, into the phone. “Your name’s been given to me as a private investigator and I just wanted to find out if I was on to the right place. You are an inquiry agent?” Harry reappears, putting on his coat, bowler hat and briefcase in hand. He listens, tensely. Deirdre looks up as she says, “Yes, we thought you were.” Harry flinches and walks out of the office, grimly. Deirdre ends the call as quickly as she can. “No, I just wanted to check first that this was the right Mr Marker. We’ll be writing to you.” She hangs up and calls out to Harry – but he’s gone. Deirdre looks after him in despair.
* * *
Marker is with Jean in her sitting room. It’s early evening. He informs her that he still has no proof. “There you are, then,” says Jean, clutching a glass of whisky. “I told you it was all a lot of nonsense.”
“Just because I can’t prove it –”
Jean waves his objections aside. “You’d better be going now, anyway, Mr Marker. My husband will be in any minute. I’m grateful for all your help.”
Marker is amazed. “Are you really going to leave things as they are, Mrs Lawford?”
“It’s better that way,” states Jean. Marker shrugs and prepares to go. “Even if there did happen to be something in this… this story of yours,” adds Jean, “well, I couldn’t cope with a thing like that. I wouldn’t know how to. Besides, Harry’s meant to be the pillar of strength, not me. He’s the man, isn’t he? When I married him, I thought he was going to be at my side, always. He was going to stand by me, look after me –”
“Till death us do part,” says Marker, echoing her earlier words.
“He can’t fall down now and leave me to do the running. I feel so betrayed.”
“Mrs Lawford, did you never suspect what he was really like?”
“One had… glimpses now and then,” Jean admits.
“Even before you got married?”
“I’d hardly have married him if I’d suspected anything then,” replies Jean, sharply.
Marker isn’t so sure. “You might have done. That might have been the very reason you did marry him.”
Jean looks at him, startled.
* * *
Harry and Fordyce are drinking silently in the pub. Fordyce is nervous and uncomfortable. He finishes his drink and makes to leave. “Well, time I got off home. Sonia will be wondering.”
“Not yet,” protests Harry. “We’ve not even had the other half yet. Why are you so jumpy tonight?”
“Am I?” asks Fordyce. “Didn’t mean to be.” He starts chatting about an item in the evening paper.
Harry interrupts. “I may not get that partnership, John.”
“Oh, that,” says Fordyce, with some relief. “That’s what’s on your mind.”
“Well, I want it,” says Harry. “I’ve a right to it. You’d think we lived in the Dark Ages the way a man can be blackballed simply because… because…” He can’t say it.
“Has something… happened?” asks Fordyce, cautiously. “I mean, why aren’t you going to get it?”
“I may,” says Harry. “It depends. But it’s an old, established firm, solid reputation for sound investment, nothing unorthodox or cranky – you understand. Thousands of very respectable old ladies invest through us – relied on us for years. If it ever got out that… Oh, skip it.”
“Drink up your beer, Harry,” suggests Fordyce, “and I’ll get the other half.”
Harry looks at him, accusingly. “You don’t even want to know, do you?” He sighs. “Still, on a thing like this, nobody wants to know.”
“A thing like what?”
More to himself than to Fordyce, Harry explains. “Men are allowed their little adventures from time to time, sow a few wild oats. Not too much harm in that if all ends well. But some things would put a man quite beyond the pale – especially in this neighbourhood.” Bitterly, he adds, “After all, you have to draw the line somewhere, don’t you?
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you no idea?”
“No,” lies Fordyce.
“That’s just as well,” says Harry, “for both our sakes.” He turns and heads for the door. Fordyce watches him go, anxious and uneasy. Harry turns and notices his expression. “Don’t look so worried, John,” he smiles. “I’ll see you’re spared your blushes yet.” Grimly, he adds. “I have no choice.” He goes out, leaving Fordyce looking very shamefaced.
* * *
Marker’s still with Jean, who’s recalling how she and Harry got together. “He was 27 when I met him. A man of the world, doing very well for himself. But so kind and attentive, so anxious to please.”
“The devoted servant,” says Marker, cynically.
“But he liked it,” says Jean. “It was as if he’d suddenly discovered a shining new world for himself, and he gazed at all its wonders with astonishment. He was like a child, so touchingly unsure of himself – as inexperienced as I was.”
“At 27?” asks Marker. “Didn’t that alone raise a few questions? A man of 27 who’d never –”
“I didn’t want to question. Perhaps I did suspect something – but why pursue it? If women didn’t ring any bells with him, that was all right by me – very much all right. I knew what men could be like. You should see the way my father carries on. Any pretty face is enough for him. He made life hell for my mother. Well, I’d always sworn it wouldn’t happen to me, I’d see to that. I wanted a man I could be sure of.”
“And you knew you could be sure of Harry – as far as other women were concerned, anyway. But don’t you think you might both wind up a bit happier if you tried to help him for once?”
Jean shakes her head. “I can’t. I told you. I’m not cut out for –”
Marker interrupts. “Besides, you prefer it this way, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“For five years, your husband puts on a grotesque charade for your sake, playing right against his nature in a desperate effort to make himself the real man he naturally thought you wanted. When all the time… you don’t want a man at all. Just someone to wait on you, serve you, kneel to you.” Marker heads for the door. “Well, carry on, Mrs Lawford. If all you can do with a marriage is to make a man crawl, that’s your private hell.” He flings open the sitting room door and comes face to face with Harry.
Harry comes in. “Mr Marker?” He looks at Jean, but continues addressing Marker. “Come to report, have you? Assignment completed?”
“With overtime,” says Marker. He turns to go.
“Just a minute,” orders Harry. Marker waits as Harry goes to Jean. “So you put a detective on me, Jean, got him to root out my little secret. Well, what do you think of me now?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” lies Jean. She looks at Marker, coldly. “Mr Marker found out nothing.”
“Nothing?” scoffs Harry. “When I saw him with my own eyes keeping tabs on that flat?”
“Harry, let’s drop the subject. Mr Marker’s just leaving and –”
Harry interrupts. “Didn’t he even tell you that Deirdre and I were lovers?” Jean and Marker both react with amazement. During the pause, Harry approaches Jean, penitently. “Darling, I can’t expect you to forgive me, but it’s all over now – finished. It was just one of those things. Started in the office – you know, the way things do.” Unconvincingly, he adds, “She’s quite a… quite a dish.”
Jean plays along. “You still sound keen on her.”
“It’s finished,” Harry repeats. “Over and done with. I’ve known for weeks I had to finish with her, but it wasn’t easy.”
“You’re so weak,” declares Jean, with a hint of satisfaction.
“You needn’t rub it in. It wasn’t till I saw Mr Marker watching the flat –”
“That’s not her flat,” Marker points out.
“No,” agrees Harry. “It’s owned by a friend of hers. Young fellow – a bit kinky, if you ask me. Still, he let us use his place from time to time.”
Marker shakes his head. “Except that Miss Wallis never went near there.”
“Not much of a detective, are you?” accuses Harry.
Jean agrees, turning to the inquiry agent, dismissively. “No. Are you, Mr Marker?” Harry’s story is, of course, what she’s wanted to hear all along. “I told you it was Deirdre – I told you.”
Marker isn’t fooled. “You don’t believe this cock-and-bull story any more than he does.”
Jean continues. “Coming here with your filthy suggestions. I’m surprised that a lawyer like John should have hired a man who was so –”
Harry reacts with alarm. “John?”
“You needn’t worry,” Marker assures him. “I’m quite sure Mr Fordyce won’t give you away.”
“Give who away?” asks Sonia, who’s now standing in the open doorway. “Am I butting in again? I really did knock this time, Jean, but no one seemed to hear. I just brought that recipe back.”
“Harry’s just told me he’s been having a love affair with his secretary,” announces Jean, with relish.
Harry feigns indignation. “Jean, really!”
“Come off it, Lawford,” says Marker. “You want the gossip spread, too, just as much as your wife does. There’s quite a social cachet in adultery.” He goes out, angrily, slamming the front door behind him.
Putting on a show for Sonia, Harry swears to his wife that the affair’s over. In turn, Jean asks, “How could you? Treat me like something the tide’s washed up, but –”
“Jean, I love you,” swears Harry. “It’s over and done with. I’ll move to a new office when they make me a partner, and Deirdre ought to get another job anyway.” Sonia believes every word of it. She goes consolingly to Jean, who tells her she’ll be all right. “So please leave, Sonia,” says Harry, firmly. “If you must come barging into other people’s houses without even knocking –”
“I didn’t know I was going to find this, did I?” argues Sonia.
“Oh, no?” says Harry. “You knew that detective was here – saw him arrive, I dare say. And when you saw me walk in, too, you came along to pick up all the dirt you could get!” Sonia looks at him, not so much disgusted as fascinated. This only makes him even more attractive to her. “Well, make the most of it,” adds Harry. “I don’t mind what people say. Jean and I can ride that. Make the most of it.” Sonia continues to stare at him for a moment, then turns and goes. Harry closes the door behind her, then turns to Jean. “The whole neighbourhood will know in half an hour.”
Jean leans back in an armchair, dramatically. “Oh, Harry!” she cries. “I’ll never get over this, never!”
Harry goes to her. “Please, Jean, please!” She recovers slightly. He asks if he can get her anything.
“No,” replies Jean. “Just take my shoes off, would you? My feet always swell up when I get upset.”
“Of course, darling,” says Harry, her devoted servant. “Whatever you want.” He kneels at Jean’s feet to remove her shoes, just as she once did for him.
Finally, the other end picks up. “Fiona?” says Jean, brightly. “It’s Jean. What are you and that handsome husband of yours doing tonight?” She pauses as Fiona replies. “Well, don’t,” says Jean. “Come and have coffee with us instead.” Fiona asks what the occasion is. “Oh, I don’t know,” replies Jean, airily. “I just feel like a bit of a party.” She doesn’t say it, but she’s desperate not to be left alone with her husband. “I’d ask you both to eat with us, too, but the cupboard is bare – quite, quite bare.” Fiona says something, and Jean laughs. “Yes, poor Harry, with his appetite! But do come afterwards. There’s gallons to drink and we could quite live it up for once.” The pitch of her voice is getting higher and higher. This does not go unnoticed by Fiona. “Hysterical?” says Jean. “Do I really? How awful! It’s probably being in London all day.” Unconsciously, she begins paraphrasing John Fordyce’s empty words from earlier. “Yes, I’ve had a whale of a time. You know how it is – shopping, missing buses, grabbing taxis…” She glances through the window and, to her horror, sees someone approaching the house. “Just a minute, Fiona. Hang on.”
Jean leaves the phone and dashes towards the hallway door, but as she reaches it, she hears the front door opening. She freezes, terrified. Sonia’s voice calls out her name. With her back to the door, Jean braces herself. “I’m in here,” she calls. She goes straight back to the phone as Sonia comes in.
“I thought I saw you get back,” says Sonia. Then she realises that Jean’s on the phone. “Oh, sorry!”
Jean speaks into the phone while smiling at Sonia. “It was just Sonia dropping in… Oh, she’s blooming, as usual. Anyway, what about tonight…? Yes, that’d be lovely. About eight, then…? See you both then.” She rings off.
“You seem very lively,” notes Sonia. “Had a good day?”
“Yes,” lies Jean. “I got done most of what I wanted, and I just got to the station before the rush hour. Even so, the train was crammed.”
“What did John have to tell you?”
Jean starts. “John?”
“That’s why you went up, wasn’t it? This detective was going to have something to report today.”
Jean tries to deflect her. “John will tell you all about it himself, darling.”
Sonia laughs. “John will? You’re joking!”
“Why not?” asks Jean, with a note of indignance. “I don’t imagine he has any secrets from his wife. Husbands shouldn’t have.”
“Unless they’re solicitors,” replies Sonia. “Believe me, darling, since you went to John professionally, he won’t even mention you or Harry.”
Jean’s response is a mixture of relief and surprise. “Is that true?”
“John will carry his secrets to the grave. He’d never discuss any client’s case with me – certainly not yours. That’s why I have to come to you.”
“So he’ll go on being nice, easy-going, comfortable John,” says Jean, thoughtfully, “and no one will ever know what he knows.”
“Jean, I know I’m the biggest gossip for miles around, so you’d certainly better not confide in me if you’d rather not, but up to now you’ve wanted to and –”
“I wonder what John thinks about you,” says Jean, suddenly.
“Me?” replies Sonia, surprised.
“You’re not what you seem, either,” accuses Jean. “Given half a chance, you’d really go for that he-man act of Harry’s, wouldn’t you? Right up your street.” Sonia is offended, but Jean goes on. “Beneath that conventional, sophisticated manner of yours… aren’t I right? The real you would shock John to the core.”
“Perhaps,” Sonia admits, quietly.
Jean becomes reflective again. “One catches glimpses of these things, but you turn away. You have to. Of course not, you say, absurd.” Then Jean turns to her friend, suddenly, urgently, and asks if she can come to dinner tonight. “About seven. That’s when Harry gets in. Come a bit before, if you can. There’s not much to eat, of course – that’s why I hadn’t the face to ask the Gilberts – but if you don’t mind taking pot luck, I –”
“It’s very sweet of you,” says Sonia, puzzled. “I don’t know if John feels like going out, but –”
This takes the wind out of Jean’s sails. “Yes, I… suppose he’d have to come, too.”
“Well, I can hardly –”
“But I don’t think I can face John yet.”
Sonia looks concerned. “Darling, what’s happened?”
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” says Jean, recalling Fordyce’s words. “Always right, isn’t he? Shrewd, penetrating John! Well, I wonder about his sleeping dogs. For all you know, even righteous John might have a few women tucked away in London.” Sonia laughs this off, but Jean continues. “He’ll carry his secrets to the grave. You said so. Everybody does.” She starts to babble again. “Glimpses now and then.” Her body shudders. “But there are some things one just can’t –”
Sonia goes to her. “For Heaven’s sake, take hold of yourself. You’re trembling.”
“Oh, Sonia,” cries Jean. “I… I’ve always been so… scared of the dark.”
* * *
The following morning, Marker returns to Fordyce’s office, wondering how Jean is taking the news. “The way she walked out of here yesterday without saying a word, I –”
“She’s a bit distrait, I gather,” says Fordyce. “My wife happened to see her as soon as she got home yesterday.”
“Did she tell her anything?” asks Marker.
“Only enough to make Sonia pump me all evening for the full inside story.”
“What do you want me to do? Get positive proof?”
“No,” replies Fordyce, sharply.
“If she wanted proof before, she’ll certainly want it now. So far she’s only been told that –”
“Let sleeping dogs lie, Marker. At least till we know how to handle them.”
“Or muzzle them?”
“It’s easy for you,” remarks Fordyce. “But last night I had to come back on the train with Harry as if nothing had happened. We shared the same compartment as usual and dropped in at the local for a drink as we always do. And he kept on asking about you.” The solicitor sighs. “Why did you have to say I put you on to him?”
“There had to be someone,” replies Marker. “And you’re the only man I could afford to let him check on.”
“You used your own name,” says Fordyce, disappointedly.
“A false name can be dangerous,” Marker explains.
“He’s suspicious.”
“Possibly. I think he may have seen me when I was casing that flat the other day.”
Fordyce is appalled by this. “Just to know I’d put a detective on to him is bad enough. But if he knows you’ve found out about that flat –”
“You’ll have to tell him anyway,” reasons Marker. “Or his wife will. As you said yourself, in real life the lights don’t go out.”
Fordyce shakes his head, regretfully. “I warned her. Before you got here yesterday, I –”
Marker loses his patience. “For the love of Mike! Lawford’s a worried sick, frightened, tortured man! He needs help. Why are you so scared of the naked truth? There’s nothing shameful or embarrassing about truth. It’s just fact. Plain, unvarnished fact.”
Fordyce’s phone rings. He answers it, and is surprised to learn that Jean Lawford has arrived. He goes to the door and lets her in. She’s pleased to find Marker here. “You see, I’ve been thinking this over,” she says, “and frankly… well, the more I think about it, the more absurd the whole thing seems. After all, I know Harry.”
“Does anyone really know anyone?” says Marker, philosophically.
“I’ve been married to him for five years,” replies Jean. “All right, so he goes and sees this… this Pat. It could be perfectly innocent.”
“I’ve met him,” Marker reveals, explaining that he struck up a conversation with Pat in a pub.
Jean isn’t interested. “He can’t possibly have told you anything there that’s –”
“I know what he is, Mrs Lawford,” says Marker, firmly.
“That doesn’t mean that that’s why Harry sees him.”
“No,” admits Marker. “I told you yesterday I had no proof. Perhaps there is a perfectly commonplace explanation. Do you want me to find out?”
Fordyce hastily interjects. “I don’t think it’s really necessary, Mr Marker.”
“You’re right,” agrees Marker. “All Mrs Lawford has to do is to ask her husband why he occasionally visits Patrick Barnard.”
Jean doesn’t like that idea. “But I can’t do that unless I’ve some evidence –”
“It’s a question, not an accusation,” says Marker. “And if you put it to him honestly, without hypocrisy, without shame or embarrassment or prejudice – if you put it to him as a wife who cares – he’ll answer it truthfully enough in the end. Because if I’m right, he’s been wanting to get this off his chest for a long time.”
“But what happens then?” asks Jean, fearfully.
“Haven’t you any courage?”
“No, Mr Marker,” Jean replies, bluntly. “If I had, I wouldn’t be so afraid of the dark.”
Marker frowns. “The dark?”
“When the only thing you can be sure of is yourself. Groping along on your own? The very thought of it frightens me. Always has. That’s why, when Harry proposed, it seemed so wonderful – to know I was going to be all right, cherished, looked after, till death us do part.” Jean’s voice becomes bitter. “Why, he promised!”
Marker points out that it’s Harry who needs to be cherished now. “He needs your help.”
Jean shakes her head, vehemently. “I can’t help him. He can’t expect me to. It’s he who has to change, anyway. A thing like this, it’s unnatural.”
“If you love him,” says Marker.
“You can’t expect me to go and face Harry with a thing like this – certainly not on the evidence you’ve given me.”
“Shall I get more, then?” asks Marker, annoyed.
There’s a slight pause, then Jean says, “Yes. Yes, you must.”
“Very well.” Marker marches to the door.
“But I bet you can’t,” adds Jean. “I’m sure you’ll find it’s all a mistake – certain of it.”
“I’ll be in touch,” says Marker, coldly. He goes.
Jean turns to Fordyce. “He’d do much better to find out about that secretary of his,” she remarks. “I bet it turns out to be her after all.”
* * *
Deirdre is on the phone, waiting for an answer. Harry is with her, watching anxiously. Receiving no reply, she puts the phone down. “And that’s the only Marker listed near that bank?” asks Harry.
Deirdre nods. “What makes you think he’s a detective, anyway?”
“He didn’t come that day to talk about investments,” says Harry. “He came to get a line on me.”
“But what for?” asks Deirdre. “Anyway, that doesn’t mean he’s a detective.”
“I saw him somewhere else,” reveals Harry, “the next day.” Deirdre asks where. “Following me,” is all Harry will say.
“Harry, I know it’s none of my business, but… you’ve nothing to hide, have you?”
“No, of course not,” replies Harry, sharply.
“Then why should a detective want to follow you?” Deirdre’s phone rings. She answers it.
“Whoever it is, I’ve gone home,” says Harry, bad-temperedly. He changes his tune when he hears that it’s Sir John on the line. He takes the receiver from Deirdre. “Lawford here,” he says, eagerly. “Yes, I’d heard they’ve a big agenda.” The excitement drains from his expression as he listens to what the chairman has to tell him. “Next month,” says Harry, dully. “Of course, no need to rush it. Thank you for letting me know, sir.” He rings off and turns to Deirdre, disappointed. “My partnership’s not coming up till next month now. They’ve too much on their plate to discuss it tomorrow.”
Deirdre tries to reassure him. “It’s not too long. After all, nothing’s going to happen to make them change their minds about you.”
Harry’s not so sure about that. He moves away, looking worried. “Try that Macaulay number again.”
Deirdre doesn’t do so straight away. “I wish you’d fill me in a bit, Harry,” she says. “I feel so helpless.” She comes round the desk and approaches him, looking up at him in a motherly kind of way – rather like Jean did before. “What is it?” she asks him.
Harry backs away from her, abruptly. “Oh, shut up, Deirdre,” he snaps. “It drives me round the bend the way you drool over me sometimes. Haven’t you a boyfriend you can fuss over? I don’t know what a girl like you’s doing in a stockbroker’s office, anyway. You could get a more lively job any time.”
Deeply hurt, Deirdre returns to her desk. “I’ll try Mr Marker again,” she sniffs. Harry goes into his office, as Deirdre, controlling her emotions as best she can, dials the number. This time, she gets a reply. “Oh, is that Mr Marker, Mr Frank Marker?” she says, into the phone. “Your name’s been given to me as a private investigator and I just wanted to find out if I was on to the right place. You are an inquiry agent?” Harry reappears, putting on his coat, bowler hat and briefcase in hand. He listens, tensely. Deirdre looks up as she says, “Yes, we thought you were.” Harry flinches and walks out of the office, grimly. Deirdre ends the call as quickly as she can. “No, I just wanted to check first that this was the right Mr Marker. We’ll be writing to you.” She hangs up and calls out to Harry – but he’s gone. Deirdre looks after him in despair.
* * *
Marker is with Jean in her sitting room. It’s early evening. He informs her that he still has no proof. “There you are, then,” says Jean, clutching a glass of whisky. “I told you it was all a lot of nonsense.”
“Just because I can’t prove it –”
Jean waves his objections aside. “You’d better be going now, anyway, Mr Marker. My husband will be in any minute. I’m grateful for all your help.”
Marker is amazed. “Are you really going to leave things as they are, Mrs Lawford?”
“It’s better that way,” states Jean. Marker shrugs and prepares to go. “Even if there did happen to be something in this… this story of yours,” adds Jean, “well, I couldn’t cope with a thing like that. I wouldn’t know how to. Besides, Harry’s meant to be the pillar of strength, not me. He’s the man, isn’t he? When I married him, I thought he was going to be at my side, always. He was going to stand by me, look after me –”
“Till death us do part,” says Marker, echoing her earlier words.
“He can’t fall down now and leave me to do the running. I feel so betrayed.”
“Mrs Lawford, did you never suspect what he was really like?”
“One had… glimpses now and then,” Jean admits.
“Even before you got married?”
“I’d hardly have married him if I’d suspected anything then,” replies Jean, sharply.
Marker isn’t so sure. “You might have done. That might have been the very reason you did marry him.”
Jean looks at him, startled.
* * *
Harry and Fordyce are drinking silently in the pub. Fordyce is nervous and uncomfortable. He finishes his drink and makes to leave. “Well, time I got off home. Sonia will be wondering.”
“Not yet,” protests Harry. “We’ve not even had the other half yet. Why are you so jumpy tonight?”
“Am I?” asks Fordyce. “Didn’t mean to be.” He starts chatting about an item in the evening paper.
Harry interrupts. “I may not get that partnership, John.”
“Oh, that,” says Fordyce, with some relief. “That’s what’s on your mind.”
“Well, I want it,” says Harry. “I’ve a right to it. You’d think we lived in the Dark Ages the way a man can be blackballed simply because… because…” He can’t say it.
“Has something… happened?” asks Fordyce, cautiously. “I mean, why aren’t you going to get it?”
“I may,” says Harry. “It depends. But it’s an old, established firm, solid reputation for sound investment, nothing unorthodox or cranky – you understand. Thousands of very respectable old ladies invest through us – relied on us for years. If it ever got out that… Oh, skip it.”
“Drink up your beer, Harry,” suggests Fordyce, “and I’ll get the other half.”
Harry looks at him, accusingly. “You don’t even want to know, do you?” He sighs. “Still, on a thing like this, nobody wants to know.”
“A thing like what?”
More to himself than to Fordyce, Harry explains. “Men are allowed their little adventures from time to time, sow a few wild oats. Not too much harm in that if all ends well. But some things would put a man quite beyond the pale – especially in this neighbourhood.” Bitterly, he adds, “After all, you have to draw the line somewhere, don’t you?
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you no idea?”
“No,” lies Fordyce.
“That’s just as well,” says Harry, “for both our sakes.” He turns and heads for the door. Fordyce watches him go, anxious and uneasy. Harry turns and notices his expression. “Don’t look so worried, John,” he smiles. “I’ll see you’re spared your blushes yet.” Grimly, he adds. “I have no choice.” He goes out, leaving Fordyce looking very shamefaced.
* * *
Marker’s still with Jean, who’s recalling how she and Harry got together. “He was 27 when I met him. A man of the world, doing very well for himself. But so kind and attentive, so anxious to please.”
“The devoted servant,” says Marker, cynically.
“But he liked it,” says Jean. “It was as if he’d suddenly discovered a shining new world for himself, and he gazed at all its wonders with astonishment. He was like a child, so touchingly unsure of himself – as inexperienced as I was.”
“At 27?” asks Marker. “Didn’t that alone raise a few questions? A man of 27 who’d never –”
“I didn’t want to question. Perhaps I did suspect something – but why pursue it? If women didn’t ring any bells with him, that was all right by me – very much all right. I knew what men could be like. You should see the way my father carries on. Any pretty face is enough for him. He made life hell for my mother. Well, I’d always sworn it wouldn’t happen to me, I’d see to that. I wanted a man I could be sure of.”
“And you knew you could be sure of Harry – as far as other women were concerned, anyway. But don’t you think you might both wind up a bit happier if you tried to help him for once?”
Jean shakes her head. “I can’t. I told you. I’m not cut out for –”
Marker interrupts. “Besides, you prefer it this way, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“For five years, your husband puts on a grotesque charade for your sake, playing right against his nature in a desperate effort to make himself the real man he naturally thought you wanted. When all the time… you don’t want a man at all. Just someone to wait on you, serve you, kneel to you.” Marker heads for the door. “Well, carry on, Mrs Lawford. If all you can do with a marriage is to make a man crawl, that’s your private hell.” He flings open the sitting room door and comes face to face with Harry.
Harry comes in. “Mr Marker?” He looks at Jean, but continues addressing Marker. “Come to report, have you? Assignment completed?”
“With overtime,” says Marker. He turns to go.
“Just a minute,” orders Harry. Marker waits as Harry goes to Jean. “So you put a detective on me, Jean, got him to root out my little secret. Well, what do you think of me now?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” lies Jean. She looks at Marker, coldly. “Mr Marker found out nothing.”
“Nothing?” scoffs Harry. “When I saw him with my own eyes keeping tabs on that flat?”
“Harry, let’s drop the subject. Mr Marker’s just leaving and –”
Harry interrupts. “Didn’t he even tell you that Deirdre and I were lovers?” Jean and Marker both react with amazement. During the pause, Harry approaches Jean, penitently. “Darling, I can’t expect you to forgive me, but it’s all over now – finished. It was just one of those things. Started in the office – you know, the way things do.” Unconvincingly, he adds, “She’s quite a… quite a dish.”
Jean plays along. “You still sound keen on her.”
“It’s finished,” Harry repeats. “Over and done with. I’ve known for weeks I had to finish with her, but it wasn’t easy.”
“You’re so weak,” declares Jean, with a hint of satisfaction.
“You needn’t rub it in. It wasn’t till I saw Mr Marker watching the flat –”
“That’s not her flat,” Marker points out.
“No,” agrees Harry. “It’s owned by a friend of hers. Young fellow – a bit kinky, if you ask me. Still, he let us use his place from time to time.”
Marker shakes his head. “Except that Miss Wallis never went near there.”
“Not much of a detective, are you?” accuses Harry.
Jean agrees, turning to the inquiry agent, dismissively. “No. Are you, Mr Marker?” Harry’s story is, of course, what she’s wanted to hear all along. “I told you it was Deirdre – I told you.”
Marker isn’t fooled. “You don’t believe this cock-and-bull story any more than he does.”
Jean continues. “Coming here with your filthy suggestions. I’m surprised that a lawyer like John should have hired a man who was so –”
Harry reacts with alarm. “John?”
“You needn’t worry,” Marker assures him. “I’m quite sure Mr Fordyce won’t give you away.”
“Give who away?” asks Sonia, who’s now standing in the open doorway. “Am I butting in again? I really did knock this time, Jean, but no one seemed to hear. I just brought that recipe back.”
“Harry’s just told me he’s been having a love affair with his secretary,” announces Jean, with relish.
Harry feigns indignation. “Jean, really!”
“Come off it, Lawford,” says Marker. “You want the gossip spread, too, just as much as your wife does. There’s quite a social cachet in adultery.” He goes out, angrily, slamming the front door behind him.
Putting on a show for Sonia, Harry swears to his wife that the affair’s over. In turn, Jean asks, “How could you? Treat me like something the tide’s washed up, but –”
“Jean, I love you,” swears Harry. “It’s over and done with. I’ll move to a new office when they make me a partner, and Deirdre ought to get another job anyway.” Sonia believes every word of it. She goes consolingly to Jean, who tells her she’ll be all right. “So please leave, Sonia,” says Harry, firmly. “If you must come barging into other people’s houses without even knocking –”
“I didn’t know I was going to find this, did I?” argues Sonia.
“Oh, no?” says Harry. “You knew that detective was here – saw him arrive, I dare say. And when you saw me walk in, too, you came along to pick up all the dirt you could get!” Sonia looks at him, not so much disgusted as fascinated. This only makes him even more attractive to her. “Well, make the most of it,” adds Harry. “I don’t mind what people say. Jean and I can ride that. Make the most of it.” Sonia continues to stare at him for a moment, then turns and goes. Harry closes the door behind her, then turns to Jean. “The whole neighbourhood will know in half an hour.”
Jean leans back in an armchair, dramatically. “Oh, Harry!” she cries. “I’ll never get over this, never!”
Harry goes to her. “Please, Jean, please!” She recovers slightly. He asks if he can get her anything.
“No,” replies Jean. “Just take my shoes off, would you? My feet always swell up when I get upset.”
“Of course, darling,” says Harry, her devoted servant. “Whatever you want.” He kneels at Jean’s feet to remove her shoes, just as she once did for him.