by Bruce, Leo
Since I came here I have had very little to do with Sonia Reid. Except for the occasion on which I accidentally overheard her conversation with Steve Lawson we have scarcely exchanged a word beyond the daily civilities. What, indeed, should we have in common? She is one of those passionate people who seem to throw a tremendous amount into the mere business of living and I must appear to be a rather quiet old party. Yet this evening, after dinner, she got me alone for a moment. “Mrs Gort,” she whispered quickly. “Could I possibly ask a favour of you? It’s only that I would like to talk with you.”
She seemed so intense that I deliberately treated this lightly. “Of course,” I said.
“I mean a private talk. Could I come to your room?”
“Yes, certainly, if you like,” I said, “though I don’t see why we shouldn’t sit in the garden.”
“No, please. I don’t want anyone to see us talking. You’ll understand why when I tell you.”
“But if you were seen coming to my room …”
“I shan’t be. I have the room in the tower, as they call it, and use the bathroom on your floor. So no one would be surprised to meet me in the corridor.”
All this was said hurriedly and she seemed to be looking about her as though afraid someone would observe even this brief exchange.
“What time may I come? “Her voice was pleading.
“I usually go up about eleven and read or write for a time before going to bed. Come as soon as possible after I go up.”
She nodded and hurried away.
I certainly could not complain of being left out, I reflected. Everyone seemed anxious to confide in me. Everyone except Miss Godwin and Miss Grey, and perhaps they had nothing to confide.
I joined them on the terrace and we chatted rather feebly for a time, for I was absent-minded, wondering what on earth I was going to hear from Sonia, and they quietly continued with their needlework. I remembered Mrs Jerrison’s story about Miss Godwin’s one unexpected outbreak but, as they sat there, they looked complacent and assured, the last people to have ugly suspicions of their fellows.
We chatted of the weather, of course—it was hard to do otherwise in that late un-English heat wave—then relapsed into comfortable silence. Their calm made me feel that perhaps after all the whole thing was preposterous and I ought never to have listened to Mrs Jerrison or anyone else. While these two very ordinary old ladies could remain in the house coolly continuing to change their books at the lending library and do their needlework, oblivious of or indifferent to the suspicions around them, there could not be much wrong.
Then Miss Godwin gave me a look as keen as the needle she was using. “I saw the Grissells talking to you this afternoon,” she said.
It was a relief to hear her use the first person singular. The ‘we’ of Natterleys and Grissells always seemed somewhat unnatural to me. But there was no mistaking the sharpness in her voice.
“Yes,” I said blandly. “At least the bishop talked. His sister as you know only puts in a word now and again.”
“It’s quite enough,” said Miss Godwin. “I suppose they told you of their suspicions about Lydia Mallister.”
“Yes, but everyone seems to do that, except you and Miss Grey. It’s a relief to be with you.”
The needles never stopped.
“I never discuss it,” said Miss Godwin.
“How calm the sea is tonight! “put in Miss Grey, speaking for the first time since I had joined them.
When at last I went up to my room it was little more than half past ten but in a few minutes there was a gentle knock on the door. I did not call ‘come in’ but went across and opened it. Sonia Reid stood there and with a hurried smile quickly entered. I pointed to a chair and we sat facing one another. She did not seem in the least nervous or embarrassed, but had an almost mischievous smile on her face, as though she wanted me to join her in playing a practical joke.
“You must think this very odd of me,” she began.
“I’ve ceased to think anything odd,” I told her.
She smiled broadly. “I know. We must all seem rather peculiar to you. I want to tell you something.”
Looking at her I realized that there was something very ruthless about this young woman. I felt it had cost her a great effort to come to me, but that it was part of a course of action on which she was utterly determined. “Before you do so,” I said gently, “may I ask why you should have chosen me? There must surely be someone you know better in whom you can confide.”
“That’s just it,” she said. “They were all here. They are all concerned in this thing, and you are not.”
“They weren’t all here,” I pointed out. “Why don’t you go to Christine Derosse? She has just arrived and I’m sure she’s more able to cope with things than I am.”
She shook her head vigorously. “Oh no! “she said. “She doesn’t like me and I wouldn’t trust her. Besides, it is not after all very much that I want to ask you. Just to look after something for me for a few days.”
“Something?”
“Well, an envelope.”
“An empty envelope?”
“Of course not, Mrs Gort.” She could smile charmingly when she liked. “It has a … paper in it.”
“A letter?”
“A sort of letter.”
“But, my dear girl, why on earth don’t you put it in your bank for safe keeping? Even with all the safe-blowing and bank raids we’re having nowadays, surely a bank is the safest place for a valuable document?”
“There are two reasons, as a matter of fact. But the chief one is that I need this document here in the house.”
“Then hide it in your room.”
“I have. But I never feel it’s safe. My room’s been searched twice.”
“You may be surprised to know that my room has been searched, too.”
‘Surprised’ was mild. She positively goggled at me. “Yours? But why?”
“I supposed that it was because I foolishly admitted keeping a diary.”
She stared at me, seeming to consider this. “Was your diary taken?”
“No. But it may have been read. I’ve had a Yale lock put on the door now.”
“Then do take this—if it’s only for tonight.” She opened her bag and was about to take out a thickly sealed envelope. But as she did so I was able to observe that her bag held two of these and they looked identical.
“Why tonight?” I asked firmly.
“Because … Oh, I don’t know. I have a feeling …”
“You know, Miss Reid, what you are asking me is quite impossible. I couldn’t look after a document the nature of which I don’t know. And you admit that someone wants to get hold of it.”
She was evidently determined to try everything. Tears were in her large eyes. “I thought you would help me.”
“How can I when I don’t know what I am helping you to do? Let’s be frank and say what it looks like.”
“What does it look like?”
“Blackmail,” I said, and let the word hang in the air.
She grew neither indignant nor hysterical. “You mean you think this document contains evidence against someone?”
“Could be,” I said relentlessly.
“Perhaps you think it contains evidence that Lydia Mallister was murdered? “There was a strange, rather dangerous calm in her voice now.
“Look at it from my point of view. Remember what I have seen and heard in this house about Lydia Mallister’s death. It’s not an unreasonable conclusion to draw, is it?”
“Mrs Gort, I swear it isn’t that. You must believe me. The envelope I ask you to keep contains a document, yes, but it contains no evidence that Lydia Mallister was murdered.”
“You promise that?”
“I’ll swear to it. Oh, please keep this for me.”
For a moment I hesitated, then fortunately refused. “I’m sorry. I could not possibly do that.”
Suddenly she seemed to give way, to realize that it was hop
eless. She stood up. “You won’t tell anyone I asked you?”
“Of course not.”
She said goodnight rather sadly. When she reached the door she opened it very cautiously a few inches, peering out. Not till she was satisfied that there was no one in sight did she creep out.
8
IT is a pity I am not more time-conscious. I did not look at my watch either when Sonia left me or when I was awakened, but I gather the first was about eleven o’clock and the second between half past twelve and one. Nor do I know exactly what sound disturbed me. The first thing I knew positively was that a bell was being rung, not an electric bell but something like a church bell.
Pulling myself together I remembered that beside the front door was a ship’s bell on a wrought-iron bracket. It was, I had always supposed, merely for ornament, because there was an electric bell-push below it which was always used. But someone, for reasons of his own, was ignoring this and tugging away at the bell-cord as though determined to wake the whole household.
I had confused ideas that I might be wanted—something connected with Sonia Reid’s extraordinary request. Not a lover of my bed at the best of times, I was determined not to be seen in it now and decided to dress. I dressed quickly and pulled on a fur coat, not because it was a cold night but because it was in the small hours and I wanted its comfort.
As I was going downstairs Steve Lawson appeared, also fully dressed. “What’s going on?” he asked.
I ignored this and went down to the lounge where I found Mrs Derosse, her niece Christine and a strange noisy couple dressed in what is known as ‘holiday attire’. The man was in his late thirties, going bald, startled into a melodramatic manner, the woman a little younger. They were trying to tell some kind of story to Mrs Derosse but it was at first very confused. The man seemed responsible for the actual narrative, while the woman was content with awed or reproachful interpolations.
“The police ought to be told,” the man said. “I wouldn’t like to be responsible if they’re not. There was nothing we could do …”
“We’ve done all we could,” said the woman, “and I don’t know what’ll happen about the boat.”
“The police have been told,” said Mrs Derosse. “I phoned them just now, as I told you. They are coming at once.”
“I suppose that means giving evidence,” said the man. “What kind of a holiday shall we have now? I’d like to know. Sitting in court, and that.”
“I told you we shouldn’t have gone,” said the woman, “only you would have it.”
“Suppose you just tell us what happened? “suggested Christine. “Perhaps you’d like a drink first. Whisky?”
“I shouldn’t say no,” said the man fervently.
“I don’t mind if I do,” the woman responded with even more enthusiasm.
“Well, we decided to take out a rowing-boat. Ten shillings an hour it was and you have to give your name and address when you do it. Moonlight Boating they call it and it’s one of the extras at the Merrydown Camp where we’re staying. You can have a man with you, only being a bit of an oarsman myself …”
“I told you,” interrupted the woman.
“Anyway, we went, and I must say it was lovely out there. Not a bit cold.”
“I was frozen,” said his wife.
“And the moon on the water, like … like …”
“Silver,” supplied Christine to assist the tempo.
“We came a bit farther than what we ought to have done, perhaps, right along till we was level with this house. It looked interesting, as you might say, standing on its own like that and I wanted to have a look at it. The wife was all for going back because we’ve got two young children at the camp being looked after by the people in the next bungalow who are ever so nice and offered.”
“We don’t really know them,” his wife reminded him. “For all we know, Elizabeth and Doreen …”
“Haven’t I told you not to worry? Well, we were just thinking of turning back when we noticed this one window lit up in the house.”
“Which window?” asked Christine.
“The one at the top. Facing out to sea. It was the only window with any light on and it stood out from the rest of the house, as you might say. I’d been wondering if the house was empty it was so dark, when I saw this window lit up like a stage. Well, that’s what it looked like.”
“It’s a pity you hadn’t done what I asked you and turned back long ago. Then we shouldn’t have all this.”
“Still, it was like a stage, wasn’t it, Frede? You will admit that. ‘It’s like a stage,’ I said when I saw it, and the wife said, ‘Yes, isn’t it?’”
“Stage or no stage, it was time we turned back.”
“I was looking up at it when I saw someone sitting there. So I pulled in towards the land a bit to take a look from nearer.”
“It’s a pity you couldn’t mind your own business.”
“After a while I could see it distinctly. There was a girl sitting on a kind of balcony in front of the window, smoking a cigarette. She seemed to be enjoying the night just as we were.”
“You were,” said his wife.
“I shouldn’t have taken any more notice. I said to the wife: ‘She’s enjoying the night, same as we are,’ and that was that, so far as I was concerned. Only I thought we’d gone a bit too close in to the land and decided to pull out to sea. So I was facing the house, as you might say, and the wife had her back to it.”
“I never saw anything,” said his wife, and there seemed to be a touch of regret in this.
“All of a sudden … I wonder if I might trouble you for another drop of Scotch? My nerves are all anywhere, as you can imagine. Whoa! Whoa!” he spoke emphatically but none too soon. “Yes, all of a sudden as I was watching her, this girl …”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” said his wife.
“Well, no it doesn’t. I can’t think what possessed her. She seemed to be quite comfortable there a minute before. Smoking a cigarette, she was. Same as you or me.”
“Get on and -tell them what happened.”
“All of a sudden she seemed to take a dive over the edge. You could see her arms go up. She never made a sound as far as I could hear. And down she went. Must have been right on the rocks below …”
Steve Lawson, who had been standing there quite motionless, suddenly cried “Sonia! “and dashed from the room. We heard the front door.
“Is that her husband?” asked the woman in an awed voice.
No one answered.
“Can you get down to the sea from here?” asked the man more intelligently. “I suppose that’s where he’s gone. He won’t find much of her, I’m afraid. Do you think I ought to go with him?”
“You stay where you are,” said his wife. “You’ve done quite enough. It isn’t as though she could be alive after that, is it?”
I hacfa feeling that someone ought to go with Steve Lawson and was glad when Jerrison came in just then.
Christine was very calm. “There’s been an accident,” she told Jerrison. “Sonia Reid has fallen from the balcony of the tower room. Steve Lawson has gone down. Do you think you could? The police will be here in a few minutes.”
Jerrison nodded and left us.
“That path is dangerous at night,” said Mrs Derosse.
“They both know it. Jerrison will surely take a torch,” Christine told her.
“It’s a nasty thing to run into on anyone’s holiday,” said the man.
“And what’ll happen to the boat I don’t know,” said his wife.
“I just pulled it up on the sand as best I could, but if the tide comes up a bit it’ll soon be carried away, I suppose.”
“Then you’ll have to pay for it. It’ll serve you right for not doing as I said and rowing straight back to the camp.”
“I couldn’t do that. Not with someone gone like that. I had to come up and tell you what had happened. I was the only witness, remember.”
“You’ll get witne
ss when you have to spend the rest of your holidays giving evidence.”
“If you pulled the boat up,” said Christine, “I wonder you didn’t walk along the beach to where she had fallen.”
“Couldn’t,” said the man. “The water was up near the headland.”
Christine nodded. “It wasn’t deep,” she said. “But you couldn’t know that. It’s just where the rocks jut out.”
“He did the best he could,” said the woman resentfully, “and very likely lost the boat for his trouble. I should have thought anyone would be satisfied. How we’re to get home I don’t know. The children will be out of their minds. Well, it’s the last time I go moonlight boating, that’s one thing.”
“Whatever made her do it?” asked the man of Mrs Derosse. “She must have been out of her mind. Diving off like that.”
“There’s one point,” I ventured to say, “which you all seem to be taking rather for granted. I suppose it was Sonia Reid?”
This made Mrs Derosse and Christine turn towards me.
“But it was from her room,” said Christine.
“I know. Still …”
At last the bishop appeared, opportunely I considered. Hasty explanations were made and he at once volunteered to make a round of the house and see who was missing. Christine rose to accompany him.
“The police are a long time,” reflected the man. “It’s always the way when you want them.”
“They have to come from Belstock,” Mrs Derosse told them. I must say she seemed very cool for a woman who had just heard of-the violent death of one of her guests.
“To think we might have been back at the camp and asleep now,” said the woman. “What we shall tell Mr and Mrs Wickers I don’t know—leaving them with the children till all hours.”
“Tell them the truth,” said the man. “They can’t blame you when they hear what’s happened, can they?”
Did I see a faint smile on the woman’s sunburnt and peeling face? Perhaps the thought of the story she would have to tell tomorrow was some compensation to her.
The bishop and Christine came back.
“The door is locked,” said Christine. “Sonia’s room, I mean. All the rest are in their rooms, except Steve Lawson and Jerrison, of course. I’m afraid most of them will come down now.”