‘You said you report. Tell me, how do you get back to your master with your assorted tittle-tattle.’
‘I telephone.’
‘Where?’
‘The first of those numbers till a couple of days ago. Then I was instructed to phone the other.’
Now she did pause for a long time, sudden interest and something like apprehension filling her mind as she stared down at the numbers. The London one she could understand. But the local one … If Sterne should be near …
‘When did you last phone in?’
‘This morning,’ he said. ‘From the cottage when I went back for my lighter.’
Emily’s mind was racing. Burgess phones Sterne. Someone phones Nurse Simpson, who takes up sentry duty outside Amanda’s door. Connection?
She stood up and faced him.
‘Open the door,’ she said.
‘Emily, listen,’ he said, some emotion breaking the monotone of his voice for the first time.
‘The door,’ she said.
‘Listen, please. I was warned off seeing too much of you, but it didn’t make any difference. I was coming to your cottage last night when I found you in the lane. Please believe me. I shouldn’t be having dinner with you tonight. He won’t like it!’
His voice rose to a near-shout. He reached out a hand towards her. She stared at him with contempt.
‘You poor miserable creature! You’d better report what I’ve been doing for the past half-hour. Perhaps he’ll be in a forgiving mood and wipe away your tears. Now open the door or I scream till someone opens it for me.’
Silently he turned and unlocked the door. She didn’t look at him as she left. Downstairs she ignored with equal indifference old Joe’s cheery ‘Good evening’ and Miss Pettle’s inquisitive smile.
There was a phone booth opposite the cocktail-bar door. She stepped inside, and firmly, calmly, dialled the local number she had read In Burgess’s book. The book itself she had let fall on the bedroom floor, but the number was printed deep in her mind.
Distantly she heard the usual clickings which precede connection. Then the ringing tone began. It sounded twice before the phone was answered.
‘Who is that speaking?’ Emily drew in a sharp breath as she heard the cold, impersonal tones of the man at the other end of the line. She had been prepared to hear Sterne. But this was not Sterne.
‘Who is that speaking?’ the voice repeated. Emily replaced the receiver.
It was a voice she had heard before. Once. But what on earth could the connection be between Sterne Follett and the college?
Puzzled, no, more than puzzled, deeply worried she stepped out of the booth and stood uncertain what to do next. Someone came out of the cocktail bar, releasing a brief gust of chatter, glass-clinking and music. It was only a couple of yards away but suddenly it seemed like an infinitely desirable world she could never re-enter.
So deeply plunged in her own concern was she that it was only the second hoarsely called ‘Mrs. Follett!’ that penetrated her mind. Later it would have been nice to say that all personal worries fled from her mind at the sight of Amanda Castell, haggard, hair falling at will over her face, wearing a blue gingham night-dress, leaning on the banister rail of the stairway as though nothing else in the world was holding her up. But the cry that rose in Emily’s mind was a resentful ‘I’ve got troubles of my own!’
She couldn’t speak the words, however, any more than she could have taken another step towards the door.
‘Please, Mrs. Follett,’ said Amanda, her big face aquiver with urgency. She did try another step and nearly stumbled headlong down the stairs.
Miss Pettle craned her neck over the reception desk and was watching the old woman—for now she looked a good sixty—with deep concern. Behind her on the stairs appeared Burgess and with him round, little Plowman.
‘Mrs. Castell!’ said the latter in a voice of deep concern, and they both hurried forward to support her. The American woman looked round at the words and then turned back to Emily, an expression of such panic on her face that Emily’s state of near-trance was at last broken and she could rush forward.
Weeping, the older woman collapsed into her arms and Emily found she needed the help of the two men to support her considerable weight.
‘Come along, come along now, Mrs. Castell. There, there. It’ll all be all right. You’ll see.’
Clucking and cooing, Plowman supervised the return of Amanda to her room. All strength seemed to have left her limbs now and her head rolled grotesquely from side to side as if she lacked the power to hold it still. Tears stained her face, but she was no longer sobbing, and Emily gently wiped away those that remained when they finally managed to get her back into bed.
She lay still, exactly as they had arranged her, her head fallen sideways on the pillow, her mouth funnelled wide open, her eyes closed. As she looked at her, Emily recalled vividly being taken to see an aged aunt of her father’s who had just suffered a stroke and her own horror at seeing the once lively and kindly face so helpless and hollow on the pillow.
Plowman stared down at the woman for a moment.
‘She looks far gone,’ he said. ‘We must get the doctor back. And where on earth has that nurse got to? This is really outrageous.’
Indignation stamped all over his chubby face, he bustled out of the room.
‘What do you think?’ said Emily to Burgess, their quarrel forgotten in the face of this tragedy.
Burgess shrugged. ‘She’s been through a lot. If her heart was bad … and it’s had a lot of work to do with that weight. I’ll see what Plowman’s up to.’
Abruptly he broke off and turned and left the room. Emily watched him go, surprised at the concern he seemed to be feeling.
A rough diamond with a heart of gold, she thought ironically. But all humour fled as she turned back to the sick woman and bent over her to listen, suddenly fearful that she had stopped breathing.
‘Bloody nerve,’ said Amanda. ‘What’s he mean, that weight? I’ve got big bones. No, don’t look surprised, hon, and just stay there between me and the door.’
‘Amanda!’ said Emily. ‘But what … why …I thought you were dead.’
‘Yeah? Well, I don’t know, I guess I might as well be. Listen, hon, and listen good. I don’t know how deep you’re in this, but in it you are. With a name like yours you must be.’
She laughed shortly.
‘I’m breaking all the rules, aren’t I? For all I know you’re laughing like a drain up your sleeve. Hey, listen to me! Fen would have fallen over himself laughing at that.’
A shadow crossed her face.
‘I’m not laughing,’ said Emily quietly. ‘Not up my sleeve or anywhere.’
‘No,’ said the old woman, looking at her shrewdly. ‘I reckon you’re not. Listen, hon, I just want to know one thing, just a straight yes or no. O.K.?’
‘If I can,’ said Emily. ‘Of course.’
‘Right. Is my Fen still alive? That’s it. You must have guessed. Well?’
Emily looked helplessly down at the anxious face beneath her, the lines of worry deep along the brow, the muscles tautened against the feared reply. The thought flashed across her mind that had she been as certain now that Amanda was dying as she was only a few moments earlier she would have told the comforting lie. But there were reserves of strength here which seemed good for another quarter century.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Please believe me, I honestly don’t know.’
Amanda’s hand tightened over her wrist as though she meant to squeeze the truth out by main force, but the pressure relaxed almost instantly.
‘Yeah. O.K. I believe you,’ she said hopelessly.
‘What’s this all about, Mandy?’ asked Emily, using the American’s pet name for the first time.
‘You don’t know, huh? Can you find out? Please, hon. I’m too old … Listen, they’re coming back. Don’t let him know you’ve been talking to me for your own sake, huh?’
Her mouth gaped wide,
her head fell slackly across the pillow and she began breathing hoarsely.
‘Which “him”?’ whispered Emily anxiously, but she did not know if Amanda even heard her question as the door opened behind her.
It was Rogers, the doctor who had attended her own injuries after the attack. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of her and her stomach muscles ached in response.
But he went straight over to Amanda without a word and began to take her pulse.
Emily moved to the door.
‘Mrs. Follett,’ said the doctor. ‘Perhaps you could spare a moment. There is another room, I believe.’
He glanced at a second door in the wall behind him.
‘Certainly, Doctor,’ said Emily, and went through into a pleasantly furnished sitting room. It was on a corner of the building and while the bedroom window just overlooked the road which wound eastwards over the marsh, this room had two windows one of which gave a long long view out over the Grune to the sea. The threatened rain had still not got much further than the occasional violent flurry, but visibility was very bad and the long, light evenings that had stretched deep into the past few nights seemed distant memories. It might have been November.
There was no sign of life between the garden below and the ridge of grass and gorse which rose up to hide the shore. Only the square bulk of the college rose at a distance of about half a mile and as usual, neither light nor movement indicated the presence of human occupation there.
‘How are you feeling now, Mrs. Follett?’ asked the doctor, who had come in unheard behind her. Again her stomach ached at the reminder.
‘Well enough,’ she said.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he went on. ‘What happened to Mrs. Castell?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Emily. ‘Why? Is she all right?’ ‘Yes, I think so. She looks worse than she is, I think,’ he replied, looking at her with just a hint of enquiry in his eyes. ‘I’ve given her an injection to put her to sleep.’ So the poor old girl didn’t admit she was conscious, thought Emily.
‘Good. Perhaps she just woke up and was a bit dazed, so set off to look for the nurse, or something,’ suggested Emily. ‘Where is the nurse, anyway?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the doctor grimly, ‘but I’ll have words to say to her when I find out.’
‘It’s a strange way to behave,’ agreed Emily. ‘Do you know her well?’
‘Why, no. I’ve never used her before. I shall be reluctant to again, even though it was a favour.’
‘A favour?’
‘That’s right,’ said Rogers. ‘I borrowed her from the college. The old lady needed someone, there was no one locally available that I knew, then someone suggested the college. Presumably they have a medical room and presumably the middle of the summer is a quiet time for them. Hence Nurse Simpson.’
He hesitated, then seemed to make up his mind.
‘Mrs. Follett,’ he said. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘What do you mean, Doctor?’
He shrugged.
‘You tell me. Everyone’s acting just a bit oddly. And Mrs. Castell …’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s said one or two things under sedation. Odd things. She doesn’t seem to think her husband’s dead. Or at least not drowned. And this seems to be connected with something she ought to do.’
‘She’s had a nasty shock,’ Emily said.
‘Yes. She has,’ he said slowly. ‘But I’m not absolutely sure what it was.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘Good Lord. Must be off or my dinner will be cold,’ he said with professional callousness. He ushered Emily into the corridor and himself took a last peep at Amanda before joining her.
‘Sleeping like a baby,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I’ll get Roberts to tell one of the maids to keep an eye on her, but she shouldn’t move till morning. Meanwhile I’ll try to track down the absent Nurse Simpson.’
Ahead of them in the corridor an old maid (in every sense of the phrase, Emily suspected) had been moving from room to room. Emily had watched her as she waited for the doctor, thinking she was doubtless turning down the beds while the guests were at dinner. This had reminded her of her own former commitment to dine with Burgess and she suddenly felt hungry.
As they passed the maid standing outside another door, Emily paused. ‘Don’t bother with number 22,’ she said. ‘Mrs. Castell is sleeping.’
‘Right, ma’am,’ said the woman, gave a perfunctory knock at the door in front of her, and entered.
‘Oh,’ she said, stopping dead. ‘Sorry, sir.’
Emily glanced casually through the door as she moved away, and found herself looking at the weedy frame of Inwit, stripped to his vest and pants. The maid stepped back, closed the door, and made a wry face at Emily as though inviting her to join in her contempt for the whole male sex. But Emily was quite unable to respond to the invitation. Her mind was buzzing with the swarm of thoughts sent up by the sight of a large dark bruise on Inwit’s right shoulder and a thin double scratch down his right cheek.
7
The picture remained with her all the way back to the cottage, like an after-image on the retina caused by staring at the sun. But this was more like an after-image of darkness. And overlaid on it as she leaned into the wind blowing off the sea up the lane was the memory of Inwit, a thin line of perspiration on his brow, scraping earth from a large, loosely piled mound back into the trench he and Plowman had dug with such obvious care and effort.
It’s absurd, she told herself as she lit the old newspaper which she had hastily bundled up in the fireplace. It had suddenly seemed an absolutely urgent requirement that she should have a fire. Warmth, light. She felt she knew now how the savages who were her ancestors must have looked forward to seeing that yellow flame leaping in the darkening forest glades.
The sticks she had used were slightly damp and sputtered and sparked before they caught, but once they did the handful of coals she had strewn on top quickly took flame and a little comforted she drew her knees up to her chin and stared into the moving glow.
Faces began to form there as they had done when she was a young girl. Her father, dead now for seven years. A school friend not seen for much longer. Burgess, anxious, penitent. Plowman smiling. Inwit pensive. An animal face, unrecognised for a moment, then setting into Miranda, Michael Scott’s cat.
Beside her, Cal sniffed and growled as though somehow scenting her thoughts. Emily smiled.
Now Inwit reappeared and the smile died away. Not pensive now, but sneering. Then he too faded with the shifting glow and Sterne looked at her thoughtfully, patiently out of the flames. A coal shifted and the fire caved in in the middle leaving nothing but ash and burning coals.
Quickly she stood up before the spell could be reestablished, picked up her telephone directory and looked for the police number.
Let Parfrey sort it out, she thought as she listened to the ringing tone. Parfrey is paid to investigate suspicions. No matter how stupid or vague. It’s his job.
Dring-dring. Dring-dring. After the first half-dozen rings she had known with absolute certainty that no one was going to answer. But she let the noise go on, almost hypnotised by its rhythmicality, for another two or three minutes before replacing the receiver.
There was an alternative number in the book, a Carlisle number, to be used if no reply was obtainable locally. She considered it for a moment, then closed the book. To start at the beginning seemed worse than remaining as she was. And in some unacknowledged control centre of her mind she knew that she had no intention of doing that either.
It took her about thirty minutes to admit this openly. These she spent exercising Cal up and down the beach immediately in front of the cottage. A wind blew gustily and its breath was damp. In fine weather there would have been another hour of good daylight ahead, but tonight everything had already taken on the greyness of four o’clock on a December evening. Lights shone palely in windows, leaning on the glass like
vinegar for the night was not yet dark enough for the full contrast to show.
Soon it will be too dark, the control centre reminded. It’s nearly time.
But first there was something else to do.
It’ll keep till later, she told herself. But superstitiously she knew it wouldn’t. Despite everything, she couldn’t just go the next day. There had been an agreement.
It was rather like making out a will before battle, she decided, as she took out her pen and sat at the rickety little card table with a writing pad laid out before her.
This could be the last letter I ever send to you, she thought as she began to write, at first with meticulous care, ‘Dear Sterne.’
Damn him! she suddenly thought. If he wants perfect tidiness let him get his secretary to copy it out! Her writing accelerated.
‘I have decided to leave Skinburness tomorrow. I feel that the presence of Arthur Burgess more than compensates for the fact that I haven’t been able to perform my part of our bargain.’
She studied what she had written. Did it sound too abrupt? Or too apologetic? Bargain. That was the word, though Sterne wouldn’t like it.
Bargain.
It had seemed suspiciously, incredibly, simple at the time. She should have known. Nothing Sterne was mixed up in was simple.
It had been just over a week before. Yet it seemed very distant. Months, years.
She had left him. Finally. Irrevocably. The effort had left her weak and trembling like a Victorian maid in a decline.
That night Sterne had telephoned the hotel. How he found out where she was he did not say. She had nearly slammed the phone down on its rest, but didn’t, fearing this might bring him round in person. At least while he was speaking on the phone she need not fear the knock on the door.
Fear. A strange word to use of your husband. She had remembered then the words he had used when she had told him she wanted a divorce. ‘I will never divorce you, though that is not to say that I might not be constrained some day to dispose of you.’
But it had been better than, she thought. No threats. No mockery.
He had sounded as calm and reasonable as ever, much less dangerous and angry than she feared. He had listened in complete silence to the little set-piece she had prepared for just such an occasion. The silence continued when she came to a halt and stretched beyond her speech, around it, wrapping it up and making it seem small, mean, insignificant.
The Castle of the Demon Page 11