Home through the Dark

by Anthea Fraser

  “Thank you,” I said meekly.

  He looked at me for a moment, then pushed his chair back and stood up. “Thanks for the drink and for God’s sake take care of yourself. I’ll be watching out for you and I’ll come down as soon as I hear the car. You’ll have to pop in here anyway for your night things.” I went with him to the door, feeling the tension in him; I was trembling myself as I went back to the kitchen to drain the vegetables.

  The wind had risen again by the time I drove to the theatre, hurling leaves down from the trees and rushing them in eddies and swirls along the gutters. I had timed my arrival for just after the curtain had gone up. The foyer was deserted, but Harry was still behind the bar at the far end, washing glasses and wiping down the counter. He waved to me and

  I waved back and moved towards the kitchenette. Then, as he turned away for a moment, I slipped quickly back and round the corner of the passage beyond the stairhead. The cloakroom girl, duty done for the moment, had gone into the kitchen for a coffee as had her predecessor when Kitty and I had been there. I hurried past the first three doors, knowing they hid nothing of interest, and rounded the second corner. The door at the top of the short flight of steps stood open and I could hear Joanna’s clear, ringing tones from the stage beyond. In the passage itself all was quiet. Softly, with wildly pumping heart, I started along it.

  Another two doors opened with creaking hinges under my careful hands to display storerooms full of props; furniture stacked expertly on top of itself, boxes of books, vases and Victorian ornaments. By this time I was directly under the stage and the boards creaked as the actors moved about over my head. The passage had widened now into an open space, lit only by one naked electric light bulb. I wondered whether people often came down here and where would be the safest place to hide a prisoner where no sound he might make could be overheard.

  Cautiously, my ears straining to the limits to detect instantly any slightest sound, I moved round the huge mounds of dust-covered furniture and great wicker baskets full of forgotten costumes. Hidden away at the far end was another short passage ending in a dark, grimy window. A faint glow coming from it indicated that it gave onto some basement area which had a street lamp just above it. And here, too, was another door, out of the way of the usual to-ing and fro-ing below the stage: an ideal hiding place.

  Above me the Clown began to sing: “O mistress mine, where are you roaming?” You’d be surprised! I thought with a touch of grim humour. My hands were sticky with sweat and I wiped them down my skirt. Gently I took hold of the doorknob and slowly turned it. It resisted the pressure. Locked. There was no sound from within, but to my heightened senses the very silence held a listening quality. The door was thick and the cracks round its edges had been filled in with bulky draught-excluder. It must be virtually soundproof. I put my mouth against the lock and said clearly, “Is anyone there?” The words struck a grotesque echo in my mind of illicit séances in the common room at school. One thump for yes, two thumps for no.

  My mouth to the crack again: “If you are there, you’ll have to speak loudly, the door cracks are padded.”

  And at last, faintly but unmistakably, the reply I’d been waiting for. “Who is that?”

  I ignored the question. “You are Etienne Lefevre?”

  The voice rose excitedly, became more clearly audible. “Suzanne! C'est toi?”

  “No, it’s Ginnie Clements,” I said, and had no time to wonder at the volte-face reversion to my right name. “Can you come nearer to the door? I can’t hear you very well.”

  Incredibly there was a faint laugh. “Hélas no, mademoiselle, I regret. I am held to the bed.”

  My mind raced furiously. “How many people come into contact with you?”

  “Only Stephen and his so disagreeable sister.”

  “Not Laurence?”

  There was a slight pause. “Non, pas Laurence.”

  “At what times do they bring your food?”

  “Quoi?”

  “Your food – when do they bring it?”

  “In the morning early, at midday and at about six hours, but I have no hunger. Mademoiselle, you will release me?”

  “I intend to try. Do you ever come out of there?”

  “Mais oui. When Stephen brings my breakfast and again late in the evening when the theatre is empty. He takes me to his dressing room to wash.”

  “There’s no chance of breaking away from him?”

  “He has a gun,” Etienne said with devastating simplicity.

  “A gun?” The implications of that were too wide to reflect on now and I pushed it out of my mind for the moment. My throat was aching with the strain of trying to shout quietly.

  “Have you any idea if there’s more than one key?”

  “Je ne sais pas.”

  “And it’s impossible for you to jump them when they bring the food?”

  “Assuredly, or I should have done so. I am confined with steel.”

  “Steel?”

  “A chain and lock.”

  “A padlock?”

  “C'est ça.”

  Above me and slightly to my right, the Clown broke into “Come away, come away, death.” The second interval would not be long and the actors would be moving about more freely, might even slip down here for something. “I must go,” I said quickly. “I shall try to think of a way to help you but it is dangerous for me to come again. Be patient and don’t mention having spoken to me.”

  “Mademoiselle – Suzanne – does she know?”

  “No, she doesn’t. I’m going now. I’ll do my best to get you out.”

  “Merci, mademoiselle. A bientôt.”

  Step by step I retraced my way along the passage, past the danger point of the staircase and round the corner to the passage leading back to the public part of the theatre. My luck held. The girl was not at the cloakroom counter. I entered the foyer at the exact moment that the first members of the audience reached it from the opposite direction. My mind was spinning with wild surmises. It was almost unbelievable that I had at last managed to locate Etienne. At least he was all right so far; that was something. The next problem was to work out how to free him. Crazily I contemplated hiding under the stage until Stephen or Rachel came with his food and then – then what? Even if I could overpower Rachel, Etienne would be unable to help me, padlocked to the bed, and she might not have that key with her. He would only be released when Stephen was there to keep an eye on him. With his gun.

  If only Suzanne were more stable she might prove an invaluable ally, but in her present state she was more likely to precipitate some crisis.

  “Ginnie, I didn’t see you! Hello!” It was Kitty at my side. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I just thought I’d pop in and see how things are going. You’re not on duty again, are you?”

  “I’m selling programs. It should have been Barbara, but she had a dental appointment this afternoon and her face is all swollen, so I said I’d come. Are you going to stay for a while?”

  Marcus wasn’t expecting me back till after ten. “Just for a few minutes. Are there any free seats?”

  “Yes, one or two. I’ll join you.”

  So it was that yet again I sat through the second half of Twelfth Night with Kitty beside me and my mind circling round the man imprisoned beneath the stage. All their efforts to frighten me away had failed and at last I had the answer to everything in my grasp.

  “I hear Mrs. Davidson’s back from holiday and you’ve finished at Culpepper’s,” Kitty whispered between scenes. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’ve got a job as secretary-receptionist at the George.”

  “Good for you. Any chance of a free meal?”

  I smiled. “Not a hope.”

  “Coming to the end of play party on Saturday?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it,” I said slowly. Of course, next week would be back to the rehearsal routine, which meant that as people would be in and out of the theatre all day, it would be
that much more difficult to approach Etienne unnoticed. In any case now that I knew where he was, I was anxious to get him out as soon as possible. It was almost a month now since we had both arrived in Westhampton. I realized that Kitty was still whispering about the next production.

  “What did you say they’re doing?”

  “Christopher Fry – Venus Observed. They’re opening on the first of November. It’s the last one before the Christmas presentations.”

  Christmas. I closed my mind to the prospect of spending it alone at the flat. The play wound its way to a close. I had stayed longer than I’d intended. “See you Saturday, then,” Kitty said cheerfully.

  “Perhaps.”

  The wind caught my coat and tore it apart, whistling coldly through the wool of my sweater. I shivered and hurried to the car, holding tightly onto the door as I opened it to prevent its being snatched out of my hand. Marcus’s light was a very welcome sight as I turned into the Beeches and he was at the window watching out for my return.

  I let myself into the flat and collected the night clothes and sponge bag I’d left ready before going out. His ring at the bell came just as I reached the hall again, and I opened the door.

  “No problems?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God. I might tell you this has got me thoroughly jittery. I’ve been pacing up and down all evening, wondering what you were doing and if there were any sinister figures looming up around you.”

  “Poor Marcus. Never mind, I don’t think it will be going on much longer.”

  “You said that before. Do you mean you’re leaving?”

  “I – don’t know.”

  “It depends on Carl, no doubt,” he said heavily. He gave me a crooked smile. “All right, I can’t say you didn’t warn me. Come on, I’ll see you safely into the flat. Have you got the car keys?”

  I handed them to him.

  “Turn out the hall light. We don’t want anyone to see the switch.” I did so and together we went across the short stretch of gravel which separated our front doors, keeping close into the angle of the house. He opened his door for me and stood aside to let me pass.

  “Good night, Marcus, and thank you for looking after me so well.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m only sorry it’s a temporary arrangement. Good night, Ginnie; sleep well.”

  A moment later I was alone in the warm little hall. Outside the engine of my car started up and moved away in the direction of the garage. With a sigh which I didn’t stop to define I moved towards the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  THE next few days passed uneventfully. I was kept fairly busy at the George, but every free moment my brain was worrying at the problem of how to effect Etienne’s release and I seemed to be getting no nearer a solution. It was the gun I came up against each time, but I was not completely convinced of its veracity. To someone with Etienne’s background, it would no doubt seem quite natural that an actor in a small provincial theatre should possess firearms. For my own part, I doubted it. It was much more likely to be a stage prop. The point was whether I was convinced enough of my theory to risk putting it to the test.

  Marcus and I had slipped easily enough into our nightly switch of flats and the knowledge of being able to count on an undisturbed sleep was incredibly comforting. He had reported another telephone call in the night watches but no more imminent dangers. Yet time was passing relentlessly. It was three days now since I’d held my whispered consultation with Etienne. He would be wondering whether after all I was to be any help to him.

  On the Friday morning, Kitty phoned me at the George. “Ginnie, we always turn to you in an emergency! Could you possibly help out at the theatre this evening? Barbara’s face is still bad – apparently she’s developed an abscess, poor thing, and now one of the girls in the kitchen can’t make it. I wouldn’t ask you again, except that you seem quite to enjoy dropping in there.”

  My brain clicked into action. “Yes, all right. The only problem is that I can’t make it between six-thirty and seven-thirty. I could go straight from work, though, and set out all the cups and things. That would make it easier for whoever’s left to cope with the pre-show coffee.” And Etienne received his evening meal about six.

  “That would be a help, yes. The intervals are the main panic.”

  “The only thing is –” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. “How will I get into the theatre at that time? Will anyone be there?”

  “You can always get the key from old Bert, the caretaker. He lives in a flat over the mews, just opposite the entrance. I’ll give him a ring and tell him to expect you. Then there’ll be no problem.”

  “Thanks.” My hand was shaking as I put the receiver down.

  Marcus came into the bar as usual at lunchtime, and I was able to slip across and tell him it would be after ten again that evening before I would be back at the Beeches.

  He eyed me shrewdly. “Things are hotting up, aren’t they?”

  “It’s beginning to look like it.”

  “Promise me you won’t take any chances.”

  “No more than I have to,” I answered evasively, and he had to be content with that. I drove to the theatre straight after work and duly called on “old Bert.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said brightly, taking the key he had ready for me. “I suppose you’re used to it, though. Is this the only key there is?”

  “Mr. Grey has one to the stage door, o’ course, and I think there’s a spare up in the office at the theatre, but this here’s mine and you’re welcome to borrow it any time, long as you let me have it back safe.”

  I thanked him, as much for the information as his offer and for the first time myself unlocked the door at the foot of the stairs and pulled it shut behind me. Rachel would doubtless let herself in by the stage door, either with Laurence’s key or the spare, but I had no wish to warn her of my presence by leaving this door open. I ran lightly up the stairs and straight along the passage. It was just after five-thirty. Etienne’s door was still firmly locked. I bent to the keyhole.

  “Etienne?”

  “Ello?”

  “Are you still chained to the bed?”

  “Bien sûr. What is happening? Each day I hope –”

  “I know. I’m going to hide out here and see just what the procedure is when they bring your food. I’ve a pair of pliers in my bag and if there’s any chance at all of taking her by surprise I should be able to cut through the chains. But I really intend only to watch today. I’d rather have Suzanne or someone with me when it comes to getting you out of here. I’m going now. Rachel should be here soon.”

  I eased myself carefully between two anonymous mounds of furniture shrouded in filthy dust sheets, and prepared to wait for Rachel. The minutes passed, punctuated by the ticking of my watch, loud as a time bomb in the stillness. Then at last, somewhere up above me, I heard a door close and footsteps approaching. A moment later the light bulb flared into lurid life and I forced my head down between my knees. I had reckoned that from where I was I should be able to see diagonally into the room where Etienne lay.

  Rachel was coming down the short flight of steps just along the passage. Moments later she passed within inches of me. There was a click as the key turned in the lock, the door opened and she went inside. Cautiously I raised my head. She was alone, but she was taking no chances. I saw with grudging admiration the method they had devised to keep their distance from their prisoner. An old trolley was just inside the room and it was on this that she unpacked the hot food she had brought wrapped in foil. I could hear the low murmur of her voice – Rachel never spoke loudly – but the words were indistinguishable. Nor, except for an outline on the bed, could I see Etienne Lefevre. When the food was set out, she pushed the trolley carefully over the floor towards the bed and he caught hold of it. I had only just time to duck down again before Rachel appeared in the doorway with a tray of dirty plates, no doubt Etienne’s lunch dishes. Seconds later the door was shut a
nd locked and her footsteps were retreating in the distance. The light clicked off, leaving small yellow discs floating in the darkness in front of my blinded eyes.

  I stood up slowly, easing my cramped limbs and straightening my dress. “Etienne,” I called softly through the door, “I’ll come back as soon as I can. Bon appétit!” I heard his low laugh in acknowledgment and then, with another glance at my watch, hurried back along the passage. My mind was so full of plans that I had pushed open the kitchen door before, too late, I realized that the light was already on and Rachel, stark panic on her face, had turned swiftly from the sink where she was washing Etienne’s dirty plates. For a timeless moment we stared across the room at each other. She was the first to find her voice.

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  I drew a steadying breath. “I might ask you the same thing.” Was my expression as undeniably guilty as hers?

  She said rapidly, “I brought along Stephen’s costume which I’d washed and ironed.” Her eyes flicked to the soapy plate still in her hand. “I found these in his dressing room. He probably had a snack here at lunch time. They’ve already started preliminary rehearsals for the next show.” She paused and, confidence returning, demanded accusingly, “How did you get in?”

  “I borrowed the caretaker’s key. Kitty arranged it.” Thankfully I knew that could all be checked.

  “I didn’t notice the door open.”

  “I probably pulled it to after me. I’ve come to set out the cups for the early coffee. I’m helping tonight but I can’t get here before seven-thirty.”

  She stared at me without speaking and I knew she was trying to assess the truth of what I said and at the same time to discover whether or not I had believed her quite plausible lie. It took quite an effort to break away from her gaze and start with trembling fingers to lay out the cups and saucers, fill the kettle and urn and pour the milk into the pan. I didn’t look in her direction again, and after a moment I heard her turn back to the sink and go on with the dishes.

  “Did Miss Davidson have a good holiday?” I asked casually, when I felt able to control my voice. I thought she was not going to reply, but after a moment she said briefly, “God knows.” I didn’t attempt any further conversation. When I had finished my self-allotted task, I meekly said goodbye and left her. I locked the door behind me, since she would let herself out the same way she had come in, and returned the key to Bert. Suppose it occurred to her to check what time I’d arrived at the theatre? Would Bert have registered it? He had only to mention a time some fifteen minutes before Rachel and I had come face to face in the kitchen for all her dormant suspicions to rise again like a swarm of hornets. I did not care to contemplate what she and Stephen might do then.