Adam had paused with his fingers on the door latch. “Can’t it wait?” he had asked tersely.
“No,” Nancy had been unaccustomedly firm. “Do as I tell you, Lucy.” The small girl had left the room.
“Well, what is it?” Adam had demanded, and he was holding his watch in his hand to underline his impatience.
“I met Lily Rickett this afternoon,” Nancy had said quietly, “and she told me.”
“Told you what?” Adam had asked brusquely.
“About you and that Judith Cromer.”
“What about me and Judith Cromer? What did she say? Are you daft? You ought to know better than to gossip with an old faggot like Lily Rickett.” Even to Millie’s ears, let alone Nancy’s, it was obvious that he was put out and was stalling.
“She told me that every time I took Lucy over to Watton to see Mother, Judith Cromer creeps in here to whore with you. That’s what she told me. She says it’s common talk.” Adam swung arrogantly round towards her. He slipped the watch back in his pocket and stood with his thumbs tucked behind the long links of its silver chain, rocking slowly on his heels. “And did you believe her?” he had asked expressionlessly. “And if you did, what do you think you can do about it?”
“If she comes here again,” Nancy had said, “I’m going straight to her parents. That’s what I’m going to do about it. She’s a dirty lustful little tart, that’s all she is, coming into my house as soon as my back is turned, and carrying on like a bitch in heat.”
There had been a silence before Adam had said in a voice thick with anger: “I shouldn’t act foolish, Nancy, if I were you. I really shouldn’t.” He had turned abruptly on his heel and the door had banged behind him, and Nancy had stood staring after him until the picture had faded.
Ida had gone to the station. There had been no flurry, no last minute checking of what she might have forgotten. She was too well organized and experienced to indulge in such behavior. Millie had received a peck on the cheek and had been told that Ida would be back in good time for supper on Monday, and would Millie please plant out the zinnias and dahlias, and she was not to forget to cut down on the milkman’s delivery for, as Millie well knew, she abhorred waste.
Millie had arranged to have luncheon with Miss Findhorn, but otherwise she had made no social engagements for the week-end. The afternoon was hot, with a hint of thunder, and the flower beds were dry, which had necessitated a lot of watering in case the storm did not break, which was questionable as the clouds were slowly drifting in the direction of the coast and would most likely spill themselves into the sea.
It was when she had finished the task of bedding out, and had washed her hands and taken the tea tray into the neat drawing-room with its chintzes and lime green walls studded with gilt framed water colors that she heard Nancy Loft’s voice. She had stationed herself not more than three feet away from where Millie was sitting with the tray on her lap, and she was as clear and as real as if she had been there in the flesh. Millie had the odd feeling that it was she herself, and not Nancy Loft, who was in fact the ghost. She glanced quickly from the stiff figure of the woman to the doorway which framed Judith Cromer.
“Won’t you come in, Miss Cromer?” Nancy said. “Adam’s not home yet. Perhaps you would like to wait?” she suggested with heavy sarcasm. “I expect you’re taken aback to find me here. When you have called before I’ve never been in, have I?” She spoke with venom.
Judith did not seem at all put out by this reception. “It was you I came to see today, Mrs. Loft,” she said with composure. “Adam told me that he would be working late.”
Nancy was by the side of the table which had been laid with half a loaf of bread and a slab of margarine, together with an opened tin of sardines and three slices of cold pork that had been arranged on a chipped willow pattern plate. She waited for the girl to continue. “He did?” she said at last.
“Yes. I wanted to tell you that I am going to have a baby, and that it is Adam’s.”
“Does he know?”
“Yes.” Judith stepped forward into the room. “He is going to ask you to give him a divorce.”
Nancy laughed. “There’s no harm in asking, is there?” The hatred between the two women was palpable. “Does he admit responsibility? A bun in the oven might be the work of more than one baker!”
“If you don’t divorce him,” said Judith evenly, “he will come away with me just the same. He hates you. You are repulsive to him. He’s told me so frequently.”
“So you’ve decided not to face the music,” said Nancy. “You’re going elsewhere to have your bastard. I can’t say that I blame you. It’s your parents that I’m sorry for.” Her face was pinched and white. “But I may as well tell you, Judith Cromer, that I will never divorce Adam, not for you or any other slant-eyed slut from the village whom he may have seen fit to pleasure. He’s no better than a randy bull. And now get out of my house,” she said, her voice rising. “Get out before I do you and your disgusting brat an injury.” She snatched up the bread knife from the table and stepped forward.
The two women grappled desperately with each other for possession of the weapon. Their struggle seemed to Millie to last for an interminable time. Their feet scarcely moved, but their breathing grew loud and stertorous. Then Judith Cromer took a sudden pace backward holding the knife which had become steeped in blood up to its bone handle.
Nancy Loft sank to her knees, her mouth open as if in astonishment. As she fell she clutched at the tablecloth, bringing the cups and plates crashing around her to the floor. Judith stood over her, gazing down in horror.
There was a step on the oilcloth in the narrow hall and Adam came in. He stood stock still, taking in the tableau. “Good God, Judith!” he said. “Good God!” The girl let the knife fall as she turned to him.
Millie’s hands were clenched. Over Judith’s head the young man was looking straight at her, and when he spoke his words were slow and distinct and his dark eyes held hers. “So now you know, Miss Ackland,” he said. “You have been watching us, and now you know the truth of what happened although I took the blame. You’re on to us, Miss Ackland, aren’t you? And you will be the next, if you talk. And talk you will! We’ll get you one of these days, just you see if we don’t.”
Millie closed her eyes to shut out his livid mocking face, and she was tense with terror, and when at last she dared to open them again the room was empty and exactly as it had been, and she was once more alone.
Upon her return from London Ida was most distressed to find Millie in what she could only describe as a state of near collapse. After considerable pressure as to the cause Millie was at length persuaded to talk, and Ida listened patiently and anxiously as her friend poured out the whole story.
It was pure imagination of course, but poor Millie appeared to believe every word of what she said. She must take her away for a holiday and then she would realize what nonsense it had all been. Otherwise, unless she was able to put her groundless fears into proper perspective, in all probability she would want to sell Rosemary Cottage, which would be sheer foolishness.
It was decided finally that they should book on a two weeks cruise to the northern capitals at the end of the month. Millie had proposed that they should go to Greece, with all its beauty and ancient culture, but Ida had objected that it would be intolerably hot at this time of year, and besides which they would not be able to afford to stay away for so long. Millie quite understood and was pleased with, and grateful for, the Scandinavian compromise. When they had been quite young women they had gone together on a vacation to Rome and Venice, and Ida had proved herself a most entertaining and well informed travelling companion.
The next morning, however, brought an unexpected complication, for Ida received a letter from her brother, Francis. She was in the habit of saying that she was more like his aunt than his sister, sinc
e he was twenty years her junior. He ran an art gallery in Manchester, and somewhat to Ida’s surprise, a few years after his wife’s death he had married en deuxième-noce a girl not long out of her teens, a competent sensible and nice looking girl whose father had been his friend. Now it transpired she had met with an accident and was laid up with a slipped disc, leaving him to cope not only with the running of his business but with the management of the house and also of their two-year-old son. Could Ida conceivably come and stay for ten days to help him out? They were expecting an au pair girl from Madrid, but she could not be arriving for at least another week.
Ida read through this cri de coeur twice. She was very fond of Francis and knew how utterly helpless he would be in such a dilemma. She could not go for the whole of the ten days, but she would have to put in an appearance and try to find someone to tide him over. Men were so unenterprising, they accepted defeat so readily in any domestic crisis. She wondered how she herself would make out with a male two-year-old. It would be so different from her girls!
But what was to be done about Millie? If she were to leave her by herself she wouldn’t know a moment’s peace. She could consult Monica Findhorn, who was a tower of strength. Perhaps she might know of some woman locally who might be bribed or persuaded to come in and oblige. It was both extraordinary and inconvenient that Francis’s request should have arrived so soon after her London trip. It had been months since she had stirred from Rosemary Cottage. And now twice within a week!
When Ida broached the matter to Miss Findhorn that lady looked dubious. There was really no one in Swaffam, no one at all. Any available daily help was so quickly snapped up. She realized the urgency and would certainly make inquiries and she would telephone Ida at lunchtime. She was sorry to hear that Millie had been unwell. It had been rather naughty of her not to have let her know. She would pop round and see her as often as she could, but that was by no means the same thing as having somebody living in, was it? She would have been delighted to ask her to stay, but at the moment the spare room was being redecorated. Wasn’t life difficult?
Ida walked back to Rosemary Cottage torn by conflicting loyalties. She would say nothing to Millie until the afternoon, but if she was to be of help to Francis she could not long delay the answer to his S.O.S.
At five minutes to one Monica Findhorn telephoned saying that she had heard of someone who might be willing to move in for a short while. She was not acquainted with her personally. She was a Mrs. Tarriman, and she was by no means young. As it happened, she was here on a visit from Tasmania and was a great aunt of Mabel Smith’s, who lived in one of the new Council houses in Ramsden Road, and Mabel had told her that the old lady was becoming rather bored with nothing to do. She was nearing the end of a month’s visit, for which she had practically invited herself. Mabel had not previously known her, but she had loyally decided that blood was thicker than water, and Mrs. Tarriman had written that she had saved up for a long time to pay a visit to the Old Country.
Ida went for an interview as soon as Millie had been settled down for her siesta, as she liked to call it. Mrs. Tarriman was not young, but she was not as ancient as Miss Findhorn had implied. She must, thought Ida, be roughly her own contemporary, maybe a little younger, a woman in her middle sixties. Still, she seemed pleasant and was prepared to be of assistance. She could start tomorrow if Miss Rankin wished that she should do so, and could remain until Saturday or even Sunday. She must be in Southampton by Tuesday to catch her boat. As to remuneration she would leave that to Miss Rankin. It was agreed that she should come to Rosemary Cottage on the following morning.
Ida telephoned Francis to announce that she would be in Manchester the next evening. Millie accepted this arrangement cheerfully. She was aware that Ida did not want to let Francis down and declared that as she would have a companion her friend must not give the matter a second thought. There was no problem. She would look forward to Ida coming back as soon as she had made the necessary arrangements for her brother. Mrs. Tarriman sounded excellent, and it would only be for a few days.
“She has good bone structure,” Ida had added. “When she was young she must have been quite beautiful. You’ll get on together like a house on fire. Don’t worry, Millie.” But when the taxi had come and had driven Ida to the station Millie felt some of her old fear return. She hated Ida going away and wished that the time would come for the beginning of their cruise.
Doctor Cripps had been insistent that she take things quietly, so Millie stayed in bed until noon and retired again directly after the news at a quarter past nine. She hoped that she was not giving too much trouble—but Ida had been adamant that she should carry out the doctor’s orders. Millie comforted herself that by Sunday or Monday, when her friend would be back, such self indulgence would be no longer necessary.
At half past seven on the evening of Mrs. Tarriman’s second day at the cottage Millie could hear her preparing supper. The doors which gave from the drawing-room and kitchen on to the passage were both ajar. Millie was lying on the sofa, an unopened copy of the Spectator beside her. She was scrutinizing the Queen, which she pretended to despise. It was Ida who was the subscriber, as she liked to be au fait with the activities of her “old girls”, although Millie maintained that the publication was a frivolous extravagance.
She put the magazine to one side and began a polite, if rather loud, conversation with Mrs. Tarriman. Nowadays you had to treat domestic help as human beings, try to make them feel a part of the family. It was no use being aloof. The supper would be simple; a cup of hot consommé, some cold beef and pickles left over from luncheon, and perhaps an apple. The beef had been far too rare for Millie’s taste, almost blue, but she had not liked to comment adversely on it.
Had Mrs. Tarriman, she inquired, ever regretted having emigrated? Life in Tasmania must be very different from that in England. It had a marvellous climate, or so she had heard. Had she many relatives living there?
Mrs. Tarriman replied that on the whole she liked it very much. She had one son and two grand-daughters in Hobart. When their mother had died the girls had been nearly grown up, and they had married early, so after she had lost her own husband she had moved in to housekeep for their father. It was a fine country for the young, what with the sunshine and the space and all and, if Miss Ackland would pardon her for saying so, there were no class barriers, which was nice. Her visit “home” had been enjoyable, but she was getting to be an old woman these days and it would be unlikely that she would be making another one. Of course, Tasmania had its snags, like all places, but there was plenty of scope out there and people could get on in the world.
Millie continued to talk. She had realized, ever since Ida’s departure, that tonight would be Midsummer Eve, and she had no desire to participate again as an eye-witness of the long ago murder. If she went on chatting to Mrs. Tarriman there would be less likelihood that she would be swept in, and when she went up to bed she would take a sleeping pill.
“And did you know this part of the country when you were a girl?” asked Millie. “Or did you come to Norfolk just to visit your great niece?”
“I was Norfolk born,” said Mrs. Tarriman, “’tho they’ve all gone from hereabouts, that is . . . all of my immediate relations. I lost touch with them these many years back. Mabel is the only one that’s left. The two wars took a heavy toll of the menfolk, and Mabel’s brothers went off in their turn, same as I did, one to New Zealand and the other to South Africa. She tells me they’ve done very well for themselves.” She hesitated and then added: “You might say I used to know this village well.”
“All the same it must be sad,” said Millie, “to see all the old places passing into new ownership.” She paused, and asked: “What was your maiden name?”
Mrs. Tarriman came to the doorway and Millie saw that the big carving knife in her hand was red with blood. “My name?” she asked. “Why do you ask me that, Mis
s Ackland? It would mean nothing to you. As a matter of fact it was Cromer . . . Judy Cromer.”
A chill breeze seemed to play over Millie and she shivered. Judith Cromer had come back. She was here in this room beside her, and on Midsummer Eve. Millie studied her nails. She must not allow herself to look up. Was that the sound of the front door opening? Who was it that was coming in? She knew with a sudden ghastly certainty who it would be that she would see. Against her will she raised her head. “Is there anybody there?” she called.
Framed in the door behind Mrs. Tarriman stood the burly figure of Adam Loft and his expression as he watched Millie was one of triumph, and she heard once more his whispered words: “You’re on to us, Miss Ackland, aren’t you? And you will be the next. We’ll get you one of these days.” And she had talked. She had told Ida.
Millie was gripped by a searing pain, as if a mailed hand was squeezing relentlessly at her heart. She found it impossible to get her breath. This was death that had come to claim her—and she recognized it as such. She gave a strangled cry and her head fell forward on to her chest.
Mrs. Tarriman had moved away, her thoughts in the past. Judy Cromer had been her maiden name. It had been curious how drawn her mother had been to the letter “Jay.” James . . . John . . . her elder sister Judith, who had drowned herself on the day of Adam Loft’s execution . . . poor tragic Judith . . . it had been in this very cottage that the young man had lived . . . and Julia. Why, instead of Judith, had it been herself, Julia, who had been the one who had always been known as “Judy”? It had been a family quirk which had had no explanation.
The Smell of Evil Page 14