Home through the Dark

by Anthea Fraser

  “Yes, he’s had him in mind for some time.”

  “I was glad to see you together on Thursday –” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “Our togetherness,” I said crisply, “was purely academic.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Cup of tea?” I thrust one into her hand. “How are things backstage?”

  “Much as usual. Unfortunately Suzanne’s back in evidence and she’s such a bag of nerves, even though she’s not in the play, that she infects everyone else.”

  A bell sounded and people began to push past us to replace their cups and glasses on the counter.

  “I’d better go and hook Joanna into her costume. Are you staying for the next act?”

  “I’ll probably watch it for a while.”

  I had thought there might be a chance of finding my way behind the scenes while Laurence and Stephen were occupied onstage, but it immediately became evident that the girl on duty in the cloakroom had the bend in the passage clearly in view, and might well wonder what I was up to if I disappeared along it, especially since she didn’t know me. There was nothing more I could do today, and after watching the play for some time from just inside the auditorium, I slipped out quietly and drove back home. At least between them Suzanne and the theatre had passed a sizable portion of the day for me.

  Chapter 10

  MY thoughts were still revolving round all the new facts I had learned from Suzanne, and when I pushed open the front door of the flat, it was a moment before I fully registered the impact of what met my eyes. Water was lying at least two inches deep all over the hall carpet and from the kitchen a strange, rhythmic grating reached me which, panic-stricken, I immediately associated with the washing machine I had switched on before going out that morning.

  Frantically I waded through to survey the chaos in the kitchen. Water was still gushing from the pipe connecting the machine to the wall, while the machine itself jerked and vibrated alarmingly. Closing my mind to the probable condition of the sheets inside it, I splashed across and switched it off. The next priority was obviously the mains water tap, but here my desperate attempts proved useless. It was jammed solid and none of my frantic wrenches moved it one iota. I tore open one drawer after another, searching for a spanner, pliers, any of those mysterious implements with which Carl seemed able to ward off any emergency. There was nothing. I turned flounderingly, the water swirling round my legs, and waded out of the kitchen. The water was seeping out of the open front door onto the gravel, and in that moment Marcus came quickly into view. I had never been more glad to see him.

  “Ginnie, what in the name of heaven – ?”

  “It’s the washing machine. The mains tap is jammed and although the machine’s turned off now, the water still keeps coming.”

  As I spoke, he was swiftly removing shoes and socks and rolling up his trouser legs. Within seconds he had reached the stubborn tap, wrestled with it, and won. The water stopped with a last mournful drip and we turned together to assess the extent of the damage. I said tremulously, “I don’t know where to start!”

  “Buckets,” he said crisply, “buckets, mops, and all the cloths you can lay your hands on. Have you a broom? You start to sweep the water out of the front door while I tackle this room. Will it have got in anywhere else, do you think?”

  “There’s a raised threshold outside the bedroom and drawing room doors. I don’t think it’s reached that high.”

  “Well, don’t open the doors, for Pete’s sake, till we’ve got the level down a bit.”

  A quick search revealed only one bucket and the washing-up bowl. Marcus handed one to me and the great clear-up got under way. My main concern was the state of the emerald carpet in the hall. It made a sickening, squelshing sound as I walked over it mopping and squeezing, mopping and squeezing. At the end of an hour Marcus had restored the kitchen and bathroom more or less to normal and came to see how I was progressing.

  “I think we ought to have that done professionally,” he commented. He glanced at his watch. “It’s five o’clock now. No one would come and collect it at this time on a Saturday, but if we roll it up in towels and take it along, they’ll do something, surely. Have you any old towels?” I shook my head. “Then get plain white ones. If the dye comes off on them, at least they’re easier to replace than the carpet.” He knelt down and felt round the edges just inside the door.

  “Thank heaven it’s such a small hall. You kneel the other side and we’ll roll it up very slowly, keeping level. Move the telephone table, will you?”

  Ten minutes later the sodden carpet, protected by towels, was in the boot of his car. Wearily I watched him drive away and turned disconsolately to survey the bare boards of the hall. Only then, with fingers crossed, did I dare to open the doors to the other rooms. To my overwhelming relief, all was well. Except for a damp patch just inside, the carpets in the bedroom and drawing room were dry. I went back into the damp kitchen and automatically started to unpack the basket of groceries I’d dropped on the table when I first came in. Then I stuffed newspaper inside my wringing shoes, vainly hoping they weren’t ruined beyond repair, and changed out of my soaked skirt. I had just hung it in the airing cupboard when Marcus came back.

  “All right, they’ll do it. They seem reasonably optimistic about the result. It may be pricey, but worth it, I imagine. How are the other rooms?”

  “All right, thank goodness. Marcus, I can’t begin to thank you for all your help.” Especially after my attitude last time we met, I thought with embarrassment.

  “Don’t mention it. One thing you can do, though. Come up and have dinner with me. You don’t want to crash up and down the bare boards here all evening and you look as though you could do with relaxing while someone else does the work.”

  In the circumstances I could hardly refuse. He lit the central heating boiler for me to help dry out the damp floor boards and add a little comfort and then I went with him up the stairs to his own flat. Being in the main building, it was a different layout from mine. A small kitchenette was separated from the main sitting room by a breakfast bar and the bedroom and bathroom were at the back. “It suits me admirably,” he remarked, handing me a drink. “I can still watch the telly while I prepare a meal!”

  The sitting room was obviously male-orientated. A deep leather sofa stood comfortably on one side of the fireplace, there were dark red easy chairs, an open desk littered with papers and, to one side of the window, a drawing board with plans pinned on it. In the fireplace an electric fire with mock logs flickered cosily, its red shadows reflected on the ceiling.

  “Now, the menu tonight is either goulash or coq au vin!” I turned in astonishment. “Good heavens, don’t tell me you’re a cordon bleu cook!”

  He smiled. “People, especially women, seem to imagine that left to themselves men will exist on tinned steak and baked beans. Quite wrong, you know. We usually have one pièce de resistance that we bring out for company and for the rest, well, it’s simpler to make a big casserole of some sort that will last for most of the week. That’s the way I work it, anyhow. There’s some of Wednesday’s goulash left and I bought a frozen chicken this morning, hence the alternative.”

  “The goulash sounds wonderful. I’m most impressed.”

  “I once became involved in a culinary discussion with our two artistic friends in Flat Four – it was quite illuminating. They even go so far as a lace tablecloth and candlesticks!”

  “That I can believe,” I said drily.

  “I have to confess that cork mats and a bottle of plonk are more my style, but they’re nice mats, views of old London. Anyway, presumably you’re not ready to eat yet; it’s only just after six. Finish your drink and I’ll pour you another.”

  He switched on a lamp beside the fireplace and its soft glow lit the surrounding area, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. “Excuse me a moment while I go and change. These clothes are more than a little damp. There are magazines under the coffee table.”


  I bent forward to retrieve a couple, that week’s Punch and a current edition of Autocar, but I didn’t open either. I was very tired, mentally and physically, and it was pleasant to lie back in the luxurious depths of the sofa and let my eyes move lazily over the comfortable outlines of the room. If only Marcus had not followed me, had not made that moonlit excursion to the park, I could have relaxed still more.

  “A penny for them!” I hadn’t noticed his return and his voice made me jump. He had changed into a light-coloured polo neck shirt and slacks and the immediate effect was to make him look younger. I had never seen him in casual clothes before.

  “Well? What were you thinking about?”

  “Nothing in particular,” I hedged.

  “In other words, mind my own business!” He sat down opposite me, settling back in the folds of the chair so that his face was in shadow. “That was the answer I expected, of course, though I haven’t given up hope that one day you’ll tell me exactly what’s going on. Personally I can’t decide whether it’s diamond smuggling or espionage!”

  I said with an effort, “Don’t be silly, Marcus.”

  “Then at least tell me why you’re under constant surveillance from that seat in the park.”

  My hands tightened convulsively round the cold glass. “I was hoping,” I said carefully, “that you could tell me.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Only that if you’re in the park at dead of night yourself, you should presumably know what other people are doing there.”

  There was a silence, punctuated by the steadily ticking grandfather clock in the shadows and a faint hissing from the fire. He said quietly, “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I can’t afford to.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. I went over there to find out what the hell was going on. A torch beam had been moving over the window and I decided the time had come to get to the bottom of it all.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. Whoever it was vanished into thin air.” There was another long silence before he added, “Do you believe me?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He moved impatiently. “I suppose that stupid Foss woman has been filling your head with more nonsense. I have to admit with all due respect that she irritates me profoundly. I don’t doubt it was she who told you I was following you?”

  I didn’t reply but he went on, “Well, I explained about that. Hell, Ginnie, I lead a dull, rather lonely life, and when someone like you appears close at hand, and wrapped in mystery to boot, of course I’m interested, and not a little concerned for your welfare.” He stood up abruptly and poured himself another drink. “So you see,” he went on brittly, “there’s no mystery as far as I’m concerned. I just happen to fancy you more than somewhat, and from my angle it’s one hell of a drag that you’re still so hung-up on that husband of yours. And if that’s any of Sarah Foss’s damn business, you have my permission to tell her.” He drained his glass and added more calmly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

  I had no choice but to believe him. After all, I’d never been able to see how he fitted in with the kidnapping, and his reasons for such intervention as he had made were plausible enough; all of which, while it settled my mind in one direction, gave rise to an entirely new problem of a more personal nature. This quiet, softly lit room, allied with my own extreme lassitude, was not the ideal setting in which to resolve it.

  The silence lengthened between us and I steeled myself to break it. “Please don’t ask me any more, Marcus. There is something, of course, it’s pointless to deny it, but it’s not my secret and I can’t tell you. Actually, I rather wish I could.”

  He was standing looking down at me during this stiff little speech, but again, since he was above the lamplight, I couldn’t see the expression on his face.

  “One last question, then. Does your husband fit into it at all?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “So the business he wanted to discuss with you wasn’t divorce?”

  “No.”

  He seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind. “How was the play?”

  “It went off very well.”

  “And the Master was impressed?” He didn’t seem able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice when he referred to Carl.

  I remembered Carl’s opinion of him – “bloody officious.”

  “He was, yes,” I replied steadily.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t go back with him. Or is he leaving you here to do the dirty work for him?”

  “Marcus –”

  “Sorry, I’ve exceeded my quota of questions, haven’t I? I’ll shut up and put a record on instead.” He walked quickly over to the stereo set and a moment later the quiet room had settled back into a listening silence as music throbbed from the dark corners. We sat in almost complete silence for the next twenty minutes or so, our thoughts swirling and dipping aimlessly against the background of the music. When the record at last ended, I turned my head to find Marcus watching me. “You know,” he said softly, “there’s a restful quality about you, with that wide brow and smooth hair. You’ve been on edge ever since I met you, but it still shines through. I can quite see the attraction you must have for Clements, surrounded as he is by all that synthetic glamour. You remind me of the old song, ‘You’d be so nice to come home to.’” He gave a short laugh. “And that, lady, is dangerous thinking, believe me! I’d better go and see to the meal.”

  “Can I help?” I asked a little awkwardly.

  “Certainly not. This is your evening off. You might turn the record over, though.”

  I did so, then wandered over to the window. It was strange to look out on a different view of the park and from a greater height. Lights showed in the windows of the houses at the far side. I wondered with a tremor of apprehension whether a vigilant figure was still concealed in the shadows. It was oddly comforting to know that Marcus was after all concerned for my safety. I looked across at him as he moved about the kitchen, aware of a faint regret. He had been astute in deploring my continuing fixation about Carl. Without that safeguard I knew I would have been attracted to him.

  “Why did your wife divorce you?” I asked suddenly, without stopping to think. His hand paused fractionally over the rice pan and I said quickly, “I’m sorry, Marcus, I’ve no right whatever –”

  “It’s all right.” He carried the pan to the sink and poured the contents into a colander. The kitchen was as tidy and spotless as a ship’s galley, despite the dinner preparations in progress. I wondered for a moment whether he had taken my apology as a negation of the question, but he went on, “Incompatibility, really. Not that it’s called that over here. I think the term is ‘irretrievable breakdown’ of the marriage. Same thing, at least in our case.”

  “Does it upset you to talk about her?”

  “Not in the slightest. We married very young and for all the wrong reasons. She was pretty, gay, sociable; I was studious, quiet and home-loving. Hopeless.”

  He brought the dishes round the end of the counter and laid them on mats on the mahogany table. “And added to all that, I was studying for exams and she just couldn’t understand that we couldn’t go dancing every night. Oh, it was largely my fault, I suppose. I wasn’t prepared to make allowances when she behaved like a spoiled child. It got to the stage when I dreaded going home at night.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

  “I suppose it’s because of Angela that I don’t care for Mrs. Foss. She’s much the same type, chattering endlessly, irresponsible, the eternal little girl. It leaves me cold.”

  “I think you’re being rather unfair to Sarah.”

  “No doubt, but I can’t see it worrying her. She’s probably convinced that I murdered my wife, anyway.” He passed me a plate of steaming goulash. “The fact of the matter is that I’m a thoroughly unsociable devil and never at my best with women anyway. I just can’t seem to relax with them, somehow.”

 
“You seem pretty relaxed now.”

  “Yes,” he said briefly, “that was the point I made earlier. Would you like to help yourself to rice?”

  We ate in silence for a while and then, apropos the goulash, started talking about Europe and the places we had visited. It seemed the safest topic we had found yet and I prolonged it as much as possible. We had fruit and cheese and Marcus made an enormous jug of coffee which we carried back to the fire. The music still played sensuously in the background and I knew it would not be wise to stay much longer. There were lengthening gaps now in the conversation and the warmth and food had made me sleepy. At last, reluctantly, I stood up. Across the hearth Marcus also rose to his feet. I said, “Marcus, it’s been lovely, but –”

  He took two steps towards me and without conscious thought I was in his arms, my treacherous body instantly responsive after its long abstinence from Carl. At some level of consciousness I was ashamed of the pleasure Marcus’s kisses were giving me, at another more basic level I wanted them never to stop. Without warning, reason suddenly asserted itself and I wrenched my mouth free of his. “Marcus, I must go – I have to –”

  His hands dropped away. His breathing was ragged and uneven. After a moment he said flatly, “If you must, you must.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “Well, don’t cry!” he said harshly. “All I ask is, don’t cry.”

  He moved quickly away and stood staring out of the window with his hands driven deep down into his pockets while I tried weakly to marshal what resources I had to enable myself to regain the lonely safety of my own flat. God help me, I wanted to stay.

  Over by the window Marcus made a sudden startled movement. “Ginnie, come here.” I hurried across and he put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, down to the left.” His voice was taut with excitement. “Do you see? There’s someone on your balcony!”

  I stiffened under his hand. “Oh no!” But I too could see the flutter of movement against the white painted scrollwork. From this angle only the near corner of the drawing-room balcony was visible. Marcus turned suddenly.