“Oh, but Lavvy, will you be joining us or not? Must you go to the drafting room again today?”
“No, but I was planning to shampoo my hair. Do you think you might find time, if you go shopping, to pick me up a card of hairpins? I seem to shed them like the snows of yesteryear.”
This was exactly what her guardian wanted to hear. After minute inquiry into the precise size, shape, and color desired, the ladies added hairpins to their list and hastened off to change their morning gowns for tailormades. Lavinia got a paring knife from the kitchen and went to whittle shavings off a bar of castile soap for shampoo.
Washing a waist-long mane like hers was no task to be tossed off in minutes. She could safely hide in the bathroom until the Packard had careened off over the rise. Zilpha and Tetsy couldn’t possibly be back until late afternoon. None of the workmen would be coming today. Lavinia had the place to herself.
After she’d finished her lengthy task, Lavinia wrapped a towel around her shoulders, took a novel and a hairbrush, and went out to sit in the sun and dry her hair. She was just in time to observe Mrs. Smith and Peter wobbling down the road in a rickety wagon behind a piebald horse whose bones could have been used for hatracks. They must be going to market in the village. Certainly they couldn’t get much farther than that in such a broken-down rig.
What a drab life Mrs. Smith must lead! It was impossible to picture her as the pretty Nellie Jenks whom Jim Thurgood had tried to spark. Were her first two babies actually born dead, Lavinia wondered, or had they lived just long enough to twist their mother’s heart in helpless anguish when those tiny hands let go of life? Had Nellie loved that brutal, philandering, drunken thief of a Ted Smith? Was it better to gamble on a man and lose as she had done, or let a schoolgirl crush drag on into middle age, like Zilpha?
It was odd to think of those two women together. What could they possibly have in common? Quite a lot, actually. Both ruled their own roosts, each had someone who depended on her absolutely. Peter’s needs were the more obvious, but Tetsy’s were just as great. It was only through her patroness that Miss Mull was able to think and feel, only through catering to Zilpha’s every whim that she found contentment.
Mrs. Smith had fought to keep Peter. She must need his dependency. And Zilpha needed Tetsy’s devotion.
Lavinia had never tried to analyze her guardian before. Zilpha had been a personage to her, like Joan of Arc or Queen Victoria, to be accepted as represented and given due homage. Now, watching what had happened to Roland Athelney in so short a time, Lavinia could see how Zilpha deliberately went about instilling a worshipful attitude in people around her.
Miss Tabard didn’t want friends, she wanted subjects. That was why she doled out her bounty to poor relations like Jack Tabard and his offspring, who must repay her with gratitude and obedience or risk cutting the line of supply. That was why she was always moving house, like an Alexander in petticoats looking for new worlds to conquer, new neighbors to impress, new crews of workmen to order about. That was why Zilpha put up with Tetsy Mull’s graceless presence year after year. Tetsy never wearied of playing lady-in-waiting to the queen.
Yet Zilpha was really more like the present Queen Alexandra, beautiful and deaf, able to exert pressure only on those who came within her immediate circle. Zilpha’s deafness wasn’t physical, though, only a matter of refusing to hear anything that was distasteful to her. What if she wouldn’t listen when Lavinia tried to explain why they must part company?
What if she didn’t? Lavinia would just have to go anyway. She had her own needs. She was finding her own strengths, and Heaven knew that poor, neglected drafting room cried out for a woman’s loving care. Out here in the sunshine, it seemed silly to brood about who might or might not be her hidden enemy. Lavinia picked up her hairbrush and went to work on the tangles.
Unsnarling that great mass of hair was always a battle, but today it seemed even worse, perhaps because her ribs hurt from the bruises she’d gotten last night. They gave her a fresh twinge every time she lifted her arms. She struggled for a while, then slammed down the brush in disgust and went to fetch the scissors out of her workbox. Men cut their hair, why couldn’t women? She’d never known one to do so, but somebody had to be first. By the time she’d cooled down enough to be aghast at what she was doing, foot-long tresses covered the grass at her feet, and what was left on her head barely reached below her shoulders.
“I can always claim it shrank when I washed it.” She giggled hysterically, gathering up handfuls of fallen hair. She ought to save the wads to stuff out her chignon so that nobody would know the awful deed she’d committed.
No, she’d have no more rats on her dressing table. It was her hair and she’d do as she pleased. People could think what they liked. Strewing tag-ends as she went, she carried her slippery armload across the footbridge to the woods behind the mill and tossed them among the bushes. Some lucky squirrel could hibernate on a luxurious hair mattress next winter.
In this new mood of lawlessness, Lavinia stepped boldly up to the mill she’d been so eager to explore when she first arrived in Dalby. There was a shiny new padlock on the door, but the hasp that held it was sagging loose from a couple of rusty nails. Lavinia hung her soggy towel on a projecting knot to free her hands, then, using her scissors to their everlasting ruin, she managed to pry out the nails and get the door open.
“What a mess!”
The mill must have been used as a dump for ages, and Zilpha had added to the confusion by having all that stuff from the house lugged over here and dumped on top of the previous layers of trash. Some of the furniture didn’t look too bad. If Lavinia had fallen in with the plan to marry Roland and settle here in Dalby, Miss Tabard would probably have let her take what she pleased.
She began to play a fascinating game with herself, searching out pieces that could be used to make a rented room cozy. Though ostensibly brought up in the spacious luxury of the various Tabard domiciles, Lavinia had in fact spent most of her years in a dormitory cubicle. The idea of living in a small space didn’t bother her a bit. Rapt in a dream of independence, she tugged at piles of rubbish, stirred up dust that settled on her freshly washed head, gradually worked her way over to the staircase.
Mrs. Smith was right, the treads were in abominable shape. Lavinia went up anyway, holding her breath and keeping close to the wall, where the boards looked to be a degree less rotten.
The loft was stifling hot, heavy with the smell of dead sawdust. Broken glass and dead wasps crunched underfoot at every step. But here was a dear little Martha Washington worktable, almost intact except for what ought to be a silk brocade lining. She could make a new one with a piece from her spoiled party frock, if only Zilpha would let her have it.
Stumbling, clawing cobwebs away from her face, scrambling over trash, Lavinia managed to reach the far end of the loft. The result wasn’t worth the effort. All she found were rolls of rusty chicken wire, two broken chamber pots, and a huge bag made of discolored bedticking, hanging from one of the rafters.
It was probably the remains of a featherbed, and the home of a great many field mice. Lavinia tried to back away, stumbled over the chicken wire, caromed into the bag and set it swinging. Whatever was in it didn’t feel like feathers. Now that she was here, she might as well take a look. She picked up one of the slivers of broken glass that littered the floor and made a tiny slit in the ticking.
The rotten cloth gave way, the slit widened to a great rent. Quantities of black horsehair spilled out. Appalled, Lavinia tried to thrust back the mass. Her hand met another’s.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Don’t let me be sick. Oh, dear God, don’t let me be sick!”
Lavinia gritted her teeth against surging nausea. She must not disgrace herself in the face of death.
She had seen dead people before, waxen images laid out in satin-lined caskets with bunches of lilies and tuberoses on their breasts. They were nothing to be afraid of. This little bundle of yellow sticks that
had once been human fingers was something else.
“I’ll have to make sure,” she whispered aloud. “I must not say it’s Mr. Jenks until I know for sure.”
Every separate muscle in her hand had to be forced to reach in and pull away the concealing horsehair. Deprived of its prop, the hand thrust forward. A wrist appeared, then a sleeve. Lavinia wheeled and fled.
She must get the police. Surely there was someone in Dalby: a sheriff, a constable, anybody to take this dreadful responsibility from her. Central would know. She must use the telephone. What must she say?
“Mr. Jenks has been murdered.”
What else could she say? Respectable elderly gentlemen didn’t turn up dead in sacks unless somebody put them there. Terror led to headlong panic. Heedless of the rotted treads, Lavinia rushed pell-mell down the narrow staircase. She almost made it. Only four steps from the bottom, a board splintered and both her legs went straight down through. Writhing frantically to escape, she struck her head a mighty whack against the wall.
“What will Zilpha say?”
That was her own voice she heard, coming from somewhere far away. She must be alive, though incomplete. Her entire lower half appeared to be missing. Only a terrific pressure about the waist and a throbbing down where her limbs should be suggested that she might still be all in one piece.
Perhaps the blood matting her hair had something to do with the fact that her head wasn’t working right. It took her some time to figure out that she was pinned inside the staircase. After giving way, the boards had sprung back to form a savagely effective trap.
Still dazed, she groped for handholds to pull herself out, but the rough walls offered no purchase; only broke her nails to the quick and filled the tips of her fingers with painful splinters. She tried to pull the broken boards away from her body, drove jagged edges of wood into her hands, and had to stop because the blood was coming so fast. She squeezed her hands into her armpits to hide the bleeding. After a while, everything became endurably fuzzy again.
It was the flies that roused her, coming after the smell of blood.
“Flies,” she mumbled.
“Thirty-two. There are thirty-two flies on your blouse.”
The voice seemed familiar, but Lavinia couldn’t place it. She knew she ought to make a proper reply, but the words wouldn’t come right. All she could manage was, “Get them away.”
A hand came toward her. She screamed. It was no timid, ladylike squeal but a good, rich, bloodcurdling yell, and she was proud of it. She hadn’t known she could scream like that. She thought of trying again, but screaming took so much effort and she was so tired. Besides, someone else was coming, and she must behave herself. She could hear another voice she probably ought to recognize but did not.
“Peter! Peter, what’s wrong? What are you screeching about? How did you get this lock off? I’ve told you never—oh, my God! Now what have you done?”
“She said to get the flies off.”
“You didn’t have to beat her to death!”
“I never.”
“Peter, don’t you lie to me! She’s covered with—good Lord, where’s the rest of her?”
“Something wrong, Mrs. Smith?” That was yet a different voice.
More company. She must be holding an at-home. How odd, at a time like this. Lavinia tried to open her eyes and be gracious.
“How do you do?”
“Lavinia!”
Now she was all right. This was the right voice, though she couldn’t recall the name. She stretched out both filthy, blood-caked hands.
“I’m so glad you could come.”
“Jesus H. Christ! Get out of the way, Peter.” That was the right voice.
“He never touched her!” That was the shrill voice again. “Look at her. The blood’s all dried on, and we haven’t been home ten minutes. You know that. You passed us on the road.”
“Yes, I know. Just get out of the way. Can’t you see she’s—” The right voice didn’t seem to be working very well, either. “Find me a crowbar or something to pry with. Never mind, this will do.”
She could hear wood splintering, feel an even tighter pressure around her waist. Lavinia screamed again, though not so satisfyingly as before, since the squeezing made her short of breath.
“I know I’m hurting you, but I can’t help it. How the flaming Hell did you get stuck here, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Please, what was it you called me?”
“Lavinia. For God’s sake, don’t you know your own name?”
“Lavinia,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I must try to remember.”
The shrill voice broke in again. “Do you know who I am?”
“I’m afraid I—”
“Don’t bother her now,” said the right voice. “Can’t you see she’s done something to her head? You’d better go fix her bed and telephone down to the doctor.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do. Come along, Peter.”
Then the voices stopped and the pressure stopped, and Lavinia fainted again. For a long time after that, she had mere snatches of awareness: of being carried by somebody who swore a lot and held her so close it hurt but she didn’t seem to mind that kind of hurting; of being undressed, which hurt even more and had nothing pleasant about it; of being washed but not given a drink of water even though she wanted one very much; of having something really dreadful done to her head and screaming again, and at last getting something to drink. It tasted strange and made her feel numb again. She said so.
Somebody replied, “Lie still. Don’t try to talk.”
Then she woke and knew this was her own room, although for some reason it ought not to be. Two ladies were sitting beside her. One said, “Zilpha, I think she’s opening her eyes.”
“Zilpha?” Lavinia repeated. Her voice came out in a hollow croak.
“Tetsy, do you hear? She’s calling for me. How touching.”
A finger was laid lightly against the invalid’s cheek. “Yes, Lavvy, I’m here.”
“Lavinia. He said Lavinia.”
“Who said?” barked the woman called Tetsy.
“He did. My—” Lavinia pondered. “I believe it was the cat.”
“She’s mental,” said Tetsy with what sounded like satisfaction. “Been coming on quite a while, if you ask me. Cutting her hair—”
“The doctor would have had to cut it anyway,” said Zilpha. “Mrs. Smith told me they shaved half her head to get at the dreadful gash on her scalp.”
“Twelve stitches, she said. Lav will probably have a bald spot for the rest of her life.”
“Sh-h. We mustn’t overexcite her. Lie still, Lavvy dear. You’ve hurt yourself. We’re going to make you all better, but you must be very quiet. Would you like some nice, warm broth?”
How was one supposed to answer questions and be quiet at the same time? She tried nodding, but that didn’t work. Her head seemed fastened to the pillow. Perhaps the doctor had sewn it down. She lifted a hand to find out, but found she could feel nothing. The hand was swathed in a huge white mitten.
“Why am I tied up like this?”
“You’re bandaged, dearest. You have bad cuts on your head and hands because you fell downstairs in the mill. The doctor says you must be very quiet. Would you like some broth?”
“Why don’t we simply give it to her?” growled Tetsy.
Lavinia sighed and shut her eyes again. She didn’t want broth. She wanted a glass of water and she had to go to the bathroom, but she was going to have broth and she got broth, a spoonful at a time, fed to her by Zilpha, while Tetsy held the cup.
Fortunately, Zilpha soon grew tired of spooning.
“That’s enough for now, don’t you think, Tetsy?”
“Plenty. Too much liquid might be over-stimulating.”
“Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that. Lavvy, do you—require attention? Tetsy, do you think we ought to send Mrs. Smith in to her?”
Tetsy thought that would be a good idea. Lavinia d
idn’t. She tried to explain that she was perfectly capable of attending to herself, but they said, “Hush, don’t try to talk,” and went away.
Mrs. Smith came in. Lavinia recognized her at once. She was the shrill-voiced woman who had been so cross to the boy in the mill because he tried to chase away the flies. Why did that memory frighten her so? It wasn’t the boy. It wasn’t the flies. It was something else. Although she couldn’t remember, she began to tremble.
Mrs. Smith took no notice. She was a strong woman. She put a chamber pot on the bed, lifted Lavinia up, and held her on it until what must be done was done. She set the pot on the floor and completed her embarrassing ministrations. When Lavinia said, “Thank you,” she snapped, “Don’t try to talk,” and left the room carrying the receptacle at arm’s length.
It was exhausting to have so many people telling one to keep quiet. Lavinia shut her eyes. She knew Zilpha and Tetsy had tiptoed back to her bedside and were asking each other in whispers, “Do you think she’s gone back to sleep?” But she was not about to go to the bother of raising her eyelids again in order to let them know. If she simply didn’t answer, perhaps they would go away.
The strategy worked. She lay undisturbed in a rather agreeable half-stupor for some time. Gradually her mind began to clear and her body to hurt. She took inventory, starting by wiggling her toes, then gradually working upward. Her feet were all right. One ankle gave pain, but she could move it. Her legs felt scraped raw, but her knees flexed on command.
Squirming around inside her nightgown she could feel no bandages on her body. Those sore spots must be nothing worse than bruises. Apparently it was only her hands and her head that had been badly damaged. There was, she supposed, no point in asking how badly. People would only say, “Don’t try to talk.”
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