by Mary Stewart
"How is she?" came simultaneously from Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson, her husband, Hubert Hay, and Alastair. Alma Corrigan's quick "Has she said anything yet?" cut across it like a knife.
I crossed to the fire and held my hands to the blaze. "The doctor's with her now, setting her leg. Apart from that, the damage appears to be superficial, and the doctor said nothing to me about her chances of recovery from the exposure." I looked at Alma Corrigan, who was twisting an empty whisky glass round and round in her fingers.
She looked, I thought, frightened. I said: "I don't think she's said anything yet."
As 1 turned to ring for a drink, I saw that Hartley Corrigan had moved up near his wife, and had sat down on. the arm of her chair. It made a nice change, anyway, 1 thought, and wondered, a trifle sardonically, where Marcia was at this moment. One thing was certain, she was well out of whatever was going on here, though just now 1 would have welcomed the company of one other person in the same equivocal position as myself. There was nothing overt in the manner of anyone in the room to suggest that they knew or resented the fact that I alone was free from police suspicion, but still 1 felt isolated among them, uncomfortably a sheep in the middle of the goats. And there had been something oddly protective about that gesture of Hartley Corrigan's.
Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson looked up again from the inevitable knitting. "I presume—I hope—the police will take adequate precautions to protect that girl from this beast that's loose among us?"
The phrase sounded curiously shocking, and the speaker seemed to realize this, for the pale eyes behind her spectacles moved round the group, and she said, almost defensively: "There's a murderer in the room. You can't get away from that fact."
"Not necessarily," said Alastair, rather drily. "We're not all here. Grant, Drury, Persimmon, not to mention Jamesy Farlane .. . they lengthen the odds a little, Mrs. Crowdray-Simpson." He gave a hard little laugh that held no trace of amusement.
"What odds do I lengthen a little?" This was from Roderick, pushing through the swinging doors with a glass in either hand.
"We're just beginning to take seriously the fact that someone in this hotel is a murderer," said Alastair.
Roderick gave me a glass, and his eyes met mine in a quick look. He said, a little coldly: "Is anything to be gained by discussing it here? I imagine the police have it pretty well in hand. They can usually be trusted to do their own job."
"If they only look after that girl Roberta, and pull her round," said Mrs. Cowdray-Simpson, "she'll do the job for them."
"There'll be a constable watching her all night," I said.
"Young Neill Graham? Is that quite—adequate?"
I hesitated, and then said: "I'm staying with her too." I added, lamely: "She's in my room."
"Oh. . . ." Once again I felt the imperceptible withdrawal of the group, leaving me, as it were, marooned alone on the hearthrug, isolated by my innocence.
"Won't you be frightened?" This from Alma Corrigan. Was there, or was I imagining it, a trace of malice in her tone?
"I don't think so." I took a drink, and gave the group a quick look over the rim of my glass. "Where's Mr. Drury?"
"I think he went out to the garage." It was Hubert Hay who answered. "He's lost a book, and he thinks he left it in his car."
"Why?" asked Alma Corrigan, and this time I certainly heard the venom in her voice. "Has the Inspector asked for a report on our movements?"
I felt myself go scarlet, but I held onto my temper, and said, very evenly: "I am not, as you imply, Mrs. Corrigan, appointed by the police to spy on you all. I happen to be in the lucky position of not being a suspect, simply because I wasn't here when the first murder was committed, and since the odds are that we only have one murderer and not two, I can't be guilty. So the Inspector can leave me with Roberta until the nurse comes."
"It's monstrous to suggest—" began Roderick, hotly, to Alma Corrigan, but I cut across him.
"It's all right, Roderick. And the suggestion isn't so very monstrous after all. I'm certainly co-operating with the police—I hope we all are. And if that includes giving the Inspector an account of anyone's movements at any time, I'll do my utmost to describe them for him."
"Well!" said Alma Corrigan. "I must say—" Her husband dropped a hand on her arm, and she broke off. I said to her, coldly: "I should hardly need to point out that this isn't a case of the police versus a bunch of suspects. It's a case of the murderer versus every single other person here."
"Good for you!" said Hubert Hay unexpectedly.
Colonel Cowdray-Simpson cleared his throat. His face looked all at once remote and austere, with a curious withdrawn intelligence that his gentleness had hidden before. It was a look both forbidding and compassionate, the look of a judge rather than of a soldier. I found myself wondering if he were a magistrate. "It is more than that, my dear young lady." he said to me. "Each case of murder is a case of the murderer versus every civilized human being. Once a man has put his hand to murder he is automatically outcast. I would go further than that. I would assert that once the very idea of extreme physical violence has occurred to a man as an acceptable solution to any problem, then he is*in danger of forfeiting his claim to consideration as a civilized being."
"That's a strong statement, sir," said Roderick.
"I happen to feel strongly about, it," retorted the Colonel.
"Do you apply the same principle to nations as to individuals? You, a military man?" "I do."
"To acts of war?"
"To acts of aggression. It seems to me a denial of the intellectual progress of centuries, for a nation to consider violence as a tool of policy."
"All the same," said Alma Corrigan mulishly, "it's absurd that we should all be treated as suspects. The police must have some idea who did it."
"If they haven't now," said Hubert Hay, "they certainly will have as soon as Roberta Symes opens her mouth."
There was a nasty little silence.
I set down my glass with a click on the glass-topped table. "Well," I said, "for the sake of everybody here who isn't a murderer, I promise you that Roberta will be kept safe until she does open her mouth."
Then I walked out of the room.
It didn't take much, I thought, to skin the veneer of politeness and sophistication off people who were in some kind of danger. There had been some strong undercurrents there in the lounge tonight, and I had a feeling that, if one had been able to trace them out, one would be a fair way to solving the mystery. On the face of it, I thought (as I crossed the hall and started down the dark passage towards the kitchen and back premises), I would be inclined to absolve the Colonel. He had delivered himself so convincingly of his principles; but then (I added a despairing rider), that, surely, might be just what a murderer would do? And, heaven knew, our murderer was clever. He was an actor who could hide the instincts of a werewolf under an impeccably civilized exterior. Nobody in the lounge tonight, hearing his own condemnation, the statement of his utter isolation from the rest of us, had so much as batted an eyelid. But then, of course, the murderer might not have been in the lounge. . . . There were other possibilities, as Alastair had pointed out.
I turned a corner of the passage and ran straight into Nicholas.
Literally ran into him, 1 mean. He caught me by the arms and steadied me, peering down in the dimness of the passage.
"Why," he said softly, "it's our little copper's nark. The Inspector's not down this way, darling."
I did lose my temper then. I blazed at him, pulling against the pressure of his hands. "Let me go, damn you! Let me go! Don't you dare to speak to me like that! You've no right—"
"So you keep telling me. Where are you going?"
"That's none of your damned business!"
"It's anybody's business in this murderous locality to stop you from wandering about in the dark alone."
"I'm going to the kitchen to get some food," I said waspishly, "and I'm in a hurry."
He did not move. "Where's the boy friend?
"
"What d'you mean?"
"Your preux chevalier with the golden hair. Why isn't he playing bodyguard?"
"You always did have a filthy tongue, Nicholas," I said bitterly.
"I did, didn't I?" He grinned sardonically. "You could say it's a valuable stock in trade as a writer, though perhaps as a husband—"
"Exactly. Now let me go."
"Just a moment. I'm quite serious, as it happens, Gianetta. It seems to me you're altogether too fond of wandering about the place alone—or with somebody you don't know. If you had a grain of sense you'd know this chap meant business. Aren't you scared?"
"I wasn't," I said tartly, "until three minutes ago."
I don't know what made me say it. The instant the words were out I regretted them, but it was too late. He dropped his hands from my arms and stood looking down at me in the semidarkness. I thought he must hear the thudding of my heart.
"O-ho ..." he said at length, and then, very softly: "Sits the wind in that quarter?"
I was silent. I wanted to run from him, towards the lights and warmth of the kitchen, but I was held there, nailed to the passage wall by the hammer blows of my own heart.
Nicholas said: "So you "re afraid I'll kill you. Gianetta mia? . . . Do you really think I'd do that, Gianetta? Cut that pretty throat, Gianetta - , and ah for what? Auld lang syne?"
"Do you need a reason7" My voice was a whisper that sounded strange to me. This could not be happening; this fantastic conversation could not be taking place. . . . "Do you need a reason?" I whispered.
He did not reply. He stood looking at me in silence, his face, in that uncertain light, quite inscrutable. At length he said, in quite a different tone: "What's your proof?"
I almost jumped. "I haven't any."
"If you had, would you hand me over—for auld lang syne?"
Fantasy ... thickening round us like the spinning of a spider's web. He might have been asking if I wanted more housekeeping money. I put a hand to my head. "I—don't know, Nicholas."
"You—don't—know." His tone brought the blood to my face.
"Nicholas," I said desperately, "try to understand—" "You were my wife." "I know, but—"
"You always used to say that you didn't believe in divorce."
"I know," I said again, a little drearily. It was auld lang syne all right. Every quarrel we had ever had, had ended with my being forced on the defensive. I heard the familiar note of excuse creeping into my voice again now, feebly, infuriatingly: "But it wasn't my fault we got divorced."
"Even so, according to what you used to say, you should think of yourself as still bound to me ... or do you— now?"
"Now? I don't follow."
"No? I was harking back to the blond boy friend." "Damn you, Nicholas!"
He gave me a hard little laugh. "You've got a nasty problem, haven't you, Gianetta? Moral loyalty versus civic duty ... or does the situation simplify itself now into the old love versus the new? It would save you a lot of trouble if you could hand me over this minute, wouldn't it?"
The outrage that swept over me was as real, as physical, as shock. I went cold. My voice dropped to a flat icy calm. "If you had been in the lounge just now, you'd have heard Colonel Cowdray-Simpson expressing what happen to be my views. He said that by an act of violence, like murder, a man cuts himself off from his fellows, and forfeits his—his human rights. If I were still your wife"— I put my hands against the wall behind me, feeling for its solid bracing comfort—"if 1 were still—legally—your wife, I shouldn't help to incriminate you, even if I could, because, as your wife, I should be identified with you in all you did . . . but I would leave you. I couldn't stay with you, knowing you were—"
"Cain?"
"I—yes."
There was an odd note in his voice. "And as it is?"
"As it is—" I stopped, and to my horror my voice caught on a little sob. "As it is," I said raggedly, "I don't know, God damn you. Now let me by."
He moved without a word, and I ran past him, and down the passage to the kitchen.
Chapter 16
IN THE KITCHEN there was light, and warmth, and the good smell of food. The cook was busy over the stove, and one of the girls who waited at table was bustling about with stacks of plates.
I hesitated inside the doorway, conscious suddenly of my shaking hands and the tears in my eyes, but Cook looked up, gave me a flushed, fat smile, and pointed to a place set at one end of the big scrubbed table.
"If it's nae odds, mistress," she said in a brisk Lowland voice, "ye can hae yer denner in here. Ye'll get it hetter and quicker. Yon Inspector telt me ye'd want it the noo."
"It's very good of you. I hope it's not too much of a nuisance."
"Nae trouble at all," said Cook comfortably, not moving from the range. "Effie, gie the lady some soup." Effie was thin and dark, with enormous eyes that devoured me with curiosity. She brought me a plate of steaming soup, putting it down in front of me warily, almost as if I might bite. Then she backed off a step or two, gripping the front of her apron.
"Noo. Effie!" This sharply, from Cook.. "Gang awa' intae the dining room wi' the breed!"
Effie went, casting a longing, lingering look behind. As the kitchen door swung to behind her, Cook put down her ladle, and said, in a hoarse, impressive whisper: "Sic a cairry-on, mistress, wi' a' them murrders! It's fair awesome. It garrs yer bluid rin cauld!"
I agreed mechanically. The hot soup was wonderfully comforting, and the bright warmth bf the kitchen rapidly helped to dispel the effect of that fantastic little interview in the passage. Cook leaned her plump red fists on the opposite end of the table and regarded me with a sort of professional pleasure.
"Noo, they're grand broth, aren't they?"
"They're—it's excellent, Cook."
"They're pittin' a bit reid intae yer cheeks. Ye looked fair weshed oot and shilpit-like when ye cam' in, I'll say. They were sayin' it was you found her?"
"Yes, I was lucky."
"It was her that was lucky, the puir lassie, to be livin' the day." She nodded heavily. "Mony's the yin that hasnae been sae lucky—and I canna mind a waur simmer."
"Well," I said, "it isn't every year you get—murder."
"No. Guid be thankit. But I wasna' meanin' that." She whipped away my empty soup plate and substituted a lamb chop flanked with peas and roast potatoes. "It was the accidents on the hill I was meanin'."
"Oh?" I remembered something somebody else had said. "Has this year really been worse than usual?"
"Aye, that it has, miss. Thae twa lassies"—she jerked her head vaguely towards the ceiling—"they're the third casualities we've had this season, no' countin' murrders."
"Who were the others?"
"Well, there was a pair frae London—the daft craturs went into the Cuillins wi' neither map nor compass. They were no' fun' till a week after, lyin' at the fit o' a pressy-piece."
"How dreadful! Had the mist come down on them?" "The day they went up it was as clear as consommay," said Cook. "Naebody kens what happened."
"It's a big price to pay for a bit of carelessness," I said.
"Aye, it's that. But them hills are no' to be taen lightly . . . aye, and that puir man lyin' upstairs, he's mony a time said the verra same, and a grand climber he was an' a'. Aipple tairt."
"I beg your pardon? Oh, I see. Thank you, Cook. This is very good."
"It's no' sae bad," said Cook complacently, watching me sample her rich, flyaway pastry. "Then there was twa o' them students, frae the College at Oxford-and-Cam-bridge. They baith tummled doon frae a muckle rock— gey near the same bit."
"Dead?"
"Aye, deid as a stane. The rope snappit."
I put my spoon and fork down carefully, side by side, on my empty plate, and stared at them for a moment. But I wasn't seeing them. I was seeing, in a queer fugitive vision, two pairs of climbers climbing in the Cuillin . .. but in each case, another climber moved with them; the third climber, in whose presence ropes snapped, and bo
dies hurtled to their death. ...
"A cup o' coffee noo?" suggested Cook.
"I'd love one," I said, "but I think I'd better take it upstairs to drink. The doctors must have finished up there, and Mrs. Persimmon'll want to come down."
"Hoo was the lassie when ye left her?" She set a large blue cup on the table, and began to pour coffee.
"Not too good. But I've a feeling she's going to be all right."
"Thank guidness. I've gien ye the big cup. Ye'd better-tak' it quick, while it's warm. Sugar?"
"Please. Thank you very much, Cook. That was excellent. I feel a whole lot better."
"Aye, an' ye look it," said Cook. "Mind ye keep the door lockit the nicht, ma lassie."
"I certainly will," I said fervently, and got up as she turned back to her stove.
There was no one in the passage. I went quickly along it, round the corner with my heart beating a little jerkily, then out into the open hall. Nicholas was there, leaning over the reception desk talking in an undertone to Bill Persimmon. He saw me, but beyond a slight twitch of his black brows he gave no sign. I ignored him, and almost ran up the stairs, balancing my cup of coffee carefully.
I met Mrs. Persimmon and a maid on the landing.
"Oh, there you are, Miss Brooke!" Mrs. Persimmon still sounded harassed, which was hardly surprising. "Did you get some dinner?""
"Yes, thank you, I've done very well."
"Oh, good, good. Well, the police are expecting you now, I think."
"How's Miss Symes?"
"I hardly know. Still unconscious, and the doctor won't say very much. Oh dear, oh dear. . . ." And she plunged downstairs, followed by the maid laden with crumpled linen. I heard her still lamenting faintly as 1 went along to my room and knocked on the door.
The Inspector opened it.
"Ah, Miss Brooke. Come away in."
He shut the door carefully behind me. The doctor had gone. Roberta, in her blankets, looked very white and still, so white that I exclaimed anxiously: "Inspector Mackenzie, is she all right?"
He nodded. "The doctor thinks so. He says she'll pull through."