"Sleep, Pale Sister" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harris Joanne)

26

I didn’t see Effie the next day and, to tell the truth, I didn’t miss her: I had serious things on my mind. For a start, a volley of creditors had seen fit to descend upon me en masse demanding payment. If I had had the advantage of Fanny’s crystal ball, no doubt I would have arranged to be elsewhere when they called, but the melancholy fact was that I was obliged, after some small unpleasantness, to pay out a sum of almost a hundred pounds. This left me sadly depleted and I spent a dreary afternoon poring over my accounts, after which I was forced to admit that I was in debt to the tune of over four hundred pounds, a sum that even I found difficult to make light of. A pleading note from Effie did nothing to cheer my mood: her maid-Em, wasn’t it?-brought it at six in the evening, by which time I was pleasantly castaway over a bottle of wine and most unwilling for a repetition of our tryst of the previous night. I opened the note (heavily sealed) and by the light of my candle attempted to decipher Effie’s laboured scrawl.

Dearest Mose,

I must see you as soon as possible; I am in a Desperate Situation. Henry will not let me leave the House and threatens me with the Doctor if I do not obey. I must escape, but I have nowhere to go. Please call when Henry is working. You must help me. I love you.

E.

I read the artless missive with no great relish. I could tell from the handwriting and the heavy underscoring that Effie had been in a state of great agitation when she wrote it, but I thought nothing of that. I knew how easily Effie could be thrown into hysterics and, as there is none of the Sir Galahad about me, I dismissed the whole thing with the minimum of thought.

I make no apologies: I’ll not be at the beck and call of any woman, especially one in distress; I’ll leave the fairy stories for the likes of Henry Chester. Tales in which the handsome prince runs off with the princess always seem to end with a sentence of marriage for the handsome prince-and I sensed a desperate threat in Effie’s little note. So I ignored the letter. It was the kindest thing to do, I told myself, make a quick end to the whole affair, leave her to her daydreams, and soon enough she’d find another man to pin her hopes on. I was fond enough of her to be glad that no scandal would come to her through me.

Scandal. Now that was an idea.

I had been so absorbed in making my decision over Effie that for a few minutes I had actually forgotten my own financial problems. In my moment of philanthropy I had missed an opportunity which shone out at me sweet and clear as sunlight…and which might indeed solve my problems, and Effie’s, too. Through the mist of the wine my mind began to make rapid calculations.

Don’t call it blackmail: that’s such an inelegant word. Call it creative investment if you wish. I had no love for Henry Chester. If he was fool enough to prefer girls in brothels to his ravishing wife he might as well pay for the privilege. He had plenty of money; I, on the other hand, had none. He was steeped to the eyes in his scruples; again, I had none. God was on his side-what more could he want?

I picked Effie’s note out of the waste basket, smoothing the creased page reflectively. I hated to deceive her, but for the moment I would play her game.

I reached for a pen, sharpened it and wrote a quick note to Effie. Then I put on my coat and called a cab to take me to Crook Street. I had the feeling that Fanny could give me a great deal of help if I asked her.