She leaned out into the gangway between the two rows of tables, and caught the passing waiter by the end of one his coat-tails. The little Italian looked round with an expression of surprise that deepened into terror on his face.
«Half a pint of Guinness,» ordered Miss Penny. «And, after this, bring me some jam roll.»
«No jam roll to-day, madam.»
«Damn!» said Miss Penny. «Bring me what you like, then.»
She let go of the waiter’s tail and resumed her narrative.
«Where was I? Yes, I remember. She came into my room, I was telling you, with a bucket of water and a brush, dressed like a charwoman. Naturally I was rather surprised. ‘What on earth are you doing, Sister Agatha?’ I asked. No answer. She just shook her head, and began to scrub the floor. When she’d finished, she left the room without so much as looking at me again. ‘What’s happened to Sister Agatha?’ I asked my nurse when she next came in. ‘Can’t say.’—’Won’t say,’ I said. No answer. It took nearly a week to find out what really had happened. Nobody dared tell me; it was strengst verboten, as they used to say in the good old days. But I wormed it out in the long run. My nurse, the doctor, the charwomen—I got something out of all of them. I always get what I want in the end.» Miss Penny laughed like a horse.
«I’m sure you do,» I said politely.
«Much obliged,» acknowledged Miss Penny. «But to proceed. My information came to me in fragmentary whispers. ‘Sister Agatha ran away with a man.’—Dear me.—’One of the patients.’—You don’t say so.—’A criminal out of the jail.’—The plot thickens.—’He ran away from her.’—It seems to grow thinner again.—’They brought her back here; she’s been disgraced. There’s been a funeral service for her in the chapel—coffin and all. She had to be present at it—her own funeral. She isn’t a nun any more. She has to do charwoman’s work now, the roughest in the hospital. She’s not allowed to speak to anybody, and nobody’s allowed to speak to her. She’s regarded as dead.'» Miss Penny paused to signal to the harassed little Italian. «My small ‘Guinness,'» she called out.
«Coming, coming,» and the foreign voice cried «Guinness» down the lift, and from below another voice echoed, «Guinness.»
«I filled in the details bit by bit. There was our hero, to begin with; I had to bring him into the picture, which was rather difficult, as I had never seen him. But I got a photograph of him. The police circulated one when he got away; I don’t suppose they ever caught him.» Miss Penny opened her bag. «Here it is,» she said. «I always carry it about with me; it’s become a superstition. For years, I remember, I used to carry a little bit of heather tied up with string. Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s a sort of Renaissance look about it, don’t you think? He was half-Italian, you know.»
Italian. Ah, that explained it. I had been wondering how Bavaria could have produced this thin-faced creature with the big dark eyes, the finely modelled nose and chin, and the fleshy lips so royally and sensually curved.
«He’s certainly very superb,» I said, handing back the picture.
Miss Penny put it carefully away in her bag. «Isn’t he?» she said. «Quite marvellous. But his character and his mind were even better. I see him as one of those innocent, childlike monsters of iniquity who are simply unaware of the existence of right and wrong. And he had genius—the real Italian genius for engineering, for dominating and exploiting nature. A true son of the Roman aqueduct builders he was, and a brother of the electrical engineers. Only Kuno—that was his name—didn’t work in water; he worked in women. He knew how to harness the natural energy of passion; he made devotion drive his mills.
The commercial exploitation of love-power, that was his specialty. I sometimes wonder,» Miss Penny added in a different tone, «whether I shall ever be exploited, when I get a little more middle-aged and celibate, by one of these young engineers of the passions. It would be humiliating, particularly as I’ve done so little exploiting from my side.»
She frowned and was silent for a moment. No, decidedly, Miss Penny was not beautiful; you could not even honestly say that she had charm or was attractive. That high Scotch colouring, those hare’s eyes, the voice, the terrifying laugh, and the size of her, the general formidableness of the woman. No, no, no.
«You said he had been in prison,» I said. The silence, with all its implications, was becoming embarrassing.
Miss Penny sighed, looked up, and nodded. «He was fool enough,» she said, «to leave the straight and certain road of female exploitation for the dangerous courses of burglary. We all have our occasional accesses of folly. They gave him a heavy sentence, but he succeeded in getting pneumonia, I think it was, a week after entering jail. He was transferred to the hospital. Sister Agatha, with her known talent for saving souls, was given him as his particular attendant. But it was he, I’m afraid, who did the converting.»
Miss Penny finished off the last mouthful of the ginger pudding which the waiter had brought in lieu of jam roll.
«I suppose you don’t smoke cheroots,» I said, as I opened my cigar-case.
«Well, as a matter of fact, I do,» Miss Penny replied. She looked sharply round the restaurant. «I must just see if there are any of those horrible little gossip paragraphers here to-day. One doesn’t want to figure in the social and personal column to-morrow morning: ‘A fact which is not so generally known as it ought to be is, that Miss Penny, the well-known woman journalist, always ends her luncheon with a six-inch Burma cheroot. I saw her yesterday in a restaurant—not a hundred miles from Carmelite Street—smoking like a house on fire.’ You know the touch. But the coast seems to be clear, thank goodness.»
She took a cheroot from the case, lit it at my proffered match, and went on talking.
«Yes, it was young Kuno who did the converting. Sister Agatha was converted back into the worldly Melpomene Fugger she had been before she became the bride of holiness.»
«Melpomene Fugger?»
«That was her name. I had her history from my old doctor. He had seen all Grauburg, living and dying and propagating for generations. Melpomene Fugger why, he had brought little Melpel into the world, little Melpchen. Her father was Professor Fugger, the great Professor Fugger, the berümter Geolog. Oh, yes, of course, I know the name. So well…. He was the man who wrote the standard work on Lemuria—you know, the hypothetical continent where the lemurs come from. I showed due respect. Liberal-minded he was, a disciple of Herder, a world-burgher, as they beautifully call it over there. Anglophile, too, and always ate porridge for breakfast—up till August 1914.
Then, the radiant morning of the fifth, he renounced it for ever, solemnly and with tears in his eyes. The national food of a people who had betrayed culture and civilisation—how could he go on eating it? It would stick in his throat. In future he would have a lightly boiled egg. He sounded, I thought, altogether charming. And his daughter, Melpomene—she sounded charming, too; and such thick, yellow pig-tails when she was young! Her mother was dead, and a sister of the great Professor’s ruled the house with an iron rod. Aunt Bertha was her name. Well, Melpomene grew up, very plump and appetising. When she was seventeen, something very odious and disagreeable happened to her. Even the doctor didn’t know exactly what it was; but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had had something to do with the then Professor of Latin, an old friend of the family’s, who combined, it seems, great erudition with a horrid fondness for very young ladies.»
Miss Penny knocked half an inch of cigar ash into her empty glass.
«If I wrote short stories,» she went on reflectively «(but it’s too much bother), I should make this anecdote into a sort of potted life history, beginning with a scene immediately after this disagreeable event in Melpomene’s life. I see the scene so clearly. Poor little Melpel is leaning over the bastions of Grauburg Castle, weeping into the June night and the mulberry trees in the garden thirty feet below. She is besieged by the memory of what happened this dreadful afternoon. Professor Engelmann, her father’s old friend, with the magnificent red Assyrian beard…. Too awful—too awful! But then, as I was saying, short stones are really too much bother; or perhaps I’m too stupid to write them. I bequeath it to you. You know how to tick these things off.»
«You’re generous.»
«Not at all,» said Miss Penny. «My terms are ten per cent commission on the American sale. Incidentally there won’t be an American sale. Poor Melpchen’s history is not for the chaste public of Those States. But let me hear what you propose to do with Melpomene now you’ve got her on the castle bastions.»
«That’s simple,» I said. «I know all about German university towns and castles on hills. I shall make her look into the June night, as you suggest; into the violet night with its points of golden flame. There will be the black silhouette of the castle, with its sharp roofs and hooded turrets, behind her. From the hanging beer-gardens in the town below the voices of the students, singing in perfect four-part harmony, will float up through the dark-blue spaces. ‘Röslein, Röslein,
