Summer Lightning

by Jill Tahourdin

  There was a long, long silence, broken by the scrape of a match. Chloe smelled the Turkish cigarette Louise must have lit.

  Suddenly Louise laughed. With a complete, astonishing change of front she cried gaily, “For the love of Mike, darling, let’s play down the drama, shall we? If you want to marry your little camera girl, why, go ahead, with my blessing. Of course she’ll jump at you...”

  “Perhaps,” Dominic agreed coolly.

  Chloe felt the hot color flame in her cheeks. So he knew. She had given herself away.

  Louise laughed derisively.

  “Like that, is it? Girl meets boss, falls for boss, wins boss. Romance as it is in the love magazines. Well, darling, come and let’s have a final drink in the living room, to wish you luck—and then I promise I’ll behave.”

  “Very well.”

  Dominic still sounded exasperated but relieved, too, that the scene appeared to be over. Chloe heard the lights click off, the door open and close. There was silence and dimness in the library again.

  When she unclenched her hands she found the palms were wet. She was shaking all over. The scene had completely unnerved her.

  But the need to get quickly to her own room before the other two left the living room spurred her on. She turned off her lamp and groped her way to the door. Opening it cautiously, she peered out. Not a sound to be heard. Taking her shoes in her hand, she sped noiselessly up the marble staircase and along the miles of corridor.

  The contessa’s door was ajar as usual, and a light burned dimly in her room.

  Chloe sped past her door without pausing in her headlong flight. Reaching her own door, she opened it soundlessly and slid into the welcoming darkness. It was minutes before she switched on the lights.

  She was nearly in tears. Wild, chaotic thoughts chased each other half formed through her head—the result of strain and shock. Heart and mind were in turmoil.

  Some time soon—very soon perhaps, after tonight’s showdown—Dominic was going to ask her to marry him. And he didn’t love her. She knew that from the way he had evaded Louise’s direct question.

  Then why? To thwart Louise? Or—more likely—to please his mother?

  Whatever the reason, how could she say yes? But how say no, when she wanted him so much?

  Restlessly she walked up and down the room, trying to, calm herself.

  Lotta, knowing she was working late, had left a Thermos of hot milk and some cookies beside her bed. Lotta must have taken a fancy to her, she thought, touched.

  Or was it just that she was taking her cue from the contessa, whom clearly she adored? Her impassive manner certainly hadn’t shown any feeling at all, other than what any good servant would display toward a guest in the house she served.

  Sitting on her bed, Chloe absently sipped the hot milk. She was still bemused by what she had heard. She put down the glass and walked around again, feeling restless, upset, unable to settle.

  I’ll take a hot bath, she decided at length. Louise hadn’t come up yet.

  The warm scented water helped to soothe her nerves. When she had dried herself she put on a dressing gown and stepped outside onto the little balcony.

  Away to the south she could see lights, and an occasional rocket burst in the sky. She wondered briefly if it was the festa Mark had wanted them to visit.

  She leaned for a moment at the parapet. Its damp coldness felt unpleasant against her bare forearms, and she drew back, remembering, too, that it was unsafe. Refusing to think any more about her own affairs, she stood trying to identify the constellations that looked so near and emphatic in the sky’s dark bowl.

  A whiff of Turkish cigarette smoke brought her out of her astral speculations. She turned around to find Louise standing beside her. Her eyes looked enormous, and seemed to blaze with fury. She took a step towards Chloe, as if she meant to strike her...

  Afterward, Chloe found she had only a confused and fragmentary recollection of what had happened.

  She remembered shrinking away, and feeling the rail of the balcony against her body, cold through the thin dressing gown.

  She knew she had listened, with stunned amazement, to a violent tirade of abuse; but no memory remained of what had actually been said.

  She remembered trying to leave the balcony, get out of reach of the venomous voice. Evidently she hadn’t succeeded. Her next memory was of a hand pressed hard, irresistibly, against the middle of her back.

  Someone had shrieked. Whether it was herself or someone else she didn’t know. Then there had been the terrifying sensation of losing balance, of flailing her arms to retain it, of feeling the balcony rail give way, of falling...

  Then there was another, wilder scream...

  She had found herself standing shakily beside what was left of the parapet. Lotta’s enormous hand grasped her arm in a grip that hurt. Lotta’s face wore a look of grim satisfaction.

  Shock had held her speechless for a while. She remembered how when she had recovered a little she had gasped, “What happened, Lotta? Where is Mrs. Carlyon?”

  Most vividly she recalled Lotta gesturing with her free hand. “Down there.”

  “Fallen? You mean—the railing gave way and she fell? But that isn’t possible. It was I who was falling.”

  Lotta said sullenly, “The signorina can see that the rail had broken. I was in the corridor. I saw her come along. I followed her—the contessa had warned me she was dangerous. I am glad she is gone. I hope she is killed,” Lotta finished simply. “So my contessa will be at peace again.”

  At that Chloe’s scattered senses had seemed to return to her.

  “We must do something quickly, Lotta. You must go and call...”

  But before she could finish the door of the bathroom had burst open and Dominic had walked out onto the balcony.

  From this point on her recollection was as clear as crystal.

  “I thought I heard a scream—two screams. Are you all right, Chloe? What’s happened?”

  His eyes went from her face to Lotta’s. Lotta was still grasping her arm. Chloe faltered. “The railing gave way. Mrs. Carlyon fell. She’s down there...”

  “But what were you doing, the pair of you, out here at this time of night?”

  He had thrust them both aside as he spoke, and was looking down over the edge of the balcony.

  “Louise, Louise! Where are you?”

  Louise’s deep voice answered at once. It sounded very angry indeed. “I’m here.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No thanks to that murderess who pushed me over if I’m not. I could have broken my neck!”

  “Then you’re all right?”

  “I’m alive, anyway. I had the luck to land in a tree.” Chloe was peering down over the edge of the balcony, too, though it made her sick to do so. She thought she could make out the pale blob of Louise’s upturned face, and the larger blob of her white dress.

  “Look, there she is,” she gasped, pointing.

  “For God’s sake do something,” the angry voice went on. “I daren’t move for fear this branch gives way under me.”

  “Keep still,” Dominic called. “I’m coming down there just as soon as we can find a rope.”

  Over his shoulder he told the silent Lotta, “Run and get Nibblu. Tell him to bring a long, strong rope from the garage. See that he hurries. And then go and make some strong coffee—a lot of it. ”

  Lotta went out muttering, and he turned to look at Chloe.

  “How did this happen?”

  “I—I don’t know...”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Chloe. You must know. You were here, surely?”

  “Yes. But I can’t tell you. You must ask Lotta—or Mrs. Carlyon,” she said wildly. Let him think what he liked. How dared he question her in that tone, as if she were guilty of something?

  I’m getting out of Santa Clara tomorrow, she thought. It’s too much. Did Louise mean me when she said that murderess? She told Dominic she’d kill me. Was it she whose hand tried to
push her over? Was that what Lotta meant?

  When Nibblu brought the rope Dominic lashed it to the foot of the heavy bedstead in her room and fed it downward over the sill of her window, with pillows from the bed placed to prevent the rough stone from chafing it. When all was ready he lowered himself nimbly, and disappeared into the darkness.

  It wasn’t very long before he was back, climbing agilely into the room again. Then he and Nibblu hauled in the rope hand over hand, very slowly and carefully. After what seemed a long time Louise’s head appeared. The two men helped her through the window. She was holding one arm with the other and groaning.

  “I’ve sprained my shoulder,” she said. “I can’t lift my arm. I suppose—” with a sudden return of venomous anger as her eyes fell on Chloe “—you wish you’d pushed harder. I might have been dead then.”

  Chloe stared at her aghast.

  “You’re daring to suggest that I pushed you over?”

  Louise laughed derisively.

  “Who else? And we don’t need to ask ourselves why she did it, do we, Dominic, dear?”

  Dominic was looking at Louise with grim distaste—but the look seemed, to Chloe, nervous and overwrought as she was, to include her, too. Perhaps he was thinking again how right he had been, the first time he met her, to say that women brought trouble.

  Perhaps, even, he believed Louise. He was speaking to her gently.

  “Please go to your room, and get into bed. Lotta is making coffee. She’ll bring you some up, and some aspirins. We’ll get the doctor out first thing in the morning, and meantime, I’ll fix your arm in a sling.”

  “Do, darling. It aches rather.”

  “And you, Chloe—better turn in, too. You can talk things over when you’re both calmer.”

  “There’s nothing to talk over,” Chloe protested hotly. “You can ask Lotta. She’ll tell you exactly what happened, and who pushed whom.”

  “Ha! A servant! D’you think Dominic is going to take her word against mine?” Louise retorted with insolent confidence. “Come along, Dominic, darling, and do my arm. Arid lock the door from the bathroom. I’ll feel safer that way.”

  Just for a moment, as Dominic’s eyes rested on her face, Chloe caught the gleam of ironic humor in them.

  It was as if he were trying to tell her he understood, that she mustn’t worry. She wanted to respond with a rueful grin, but she found she couldn’t make the effort. She didn’t have a grin left in her.

  With a hopeless shake of her head she turned away. When they had all left her room she shut and locked the door, and drank Lotta’s coffee with two aspirins. She wasn’t given to crying as a rule, but tears rolled down her cheeks. She flung herself down on the bed and let them come.

  After a while she began to feel better. She got up and went into the bathroom, and washed her face in cool water. When she turned off the switch, no crack of light showed under Louise’s door.

  Was she asleep? Or lying awake brewing fresh wickedness, like a mediaeval witch?

  You needn’t bother, Chloe muttered, addressing the closed door. You’ve won. I’m leaving Santa Clara tomorrow, and Malta just as soon as my job is finished. For the second time she wished she had never met Ronnie Fairfax, never let herself be talked into taking on this assignment in Malta.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Lotta came in with the early tea next morning she found Chloe on her knees, packing one of her bags.

  After a wretched night during which she had milled over and over everything that had happened since her arrival at Santa Clara, she still felt she couldn’t bear to stay on there another day.

  Lotta stood for a moment grimly watching her, then set the tray down with a disapproving thump, and noisily rattled back the curtains, letting in the usual flood of light.

  Then she stood over Chloe with feet apart, hands on ample hips, looking positively truculent.

  “The signorina is packing?”

  “As you see, Lotta.” Chloe rolled a pair of cobweb fine nylons without looking up.

  “The signorina is leaving us?”

  “Yes. Today.”

  “But why? You are not comfortable at Santa Clara? We haven’t pleased the signorina!”

  “Of course you have, Lotta. I couldn’t be more pleased with the way you’ve looked after me.”

  “Then where? Not back to England, surely?”

  “Not at once.”

  “Somewhere in Malta, then?” Lotta persisted, with the familiarity of a privileged and valued servant.

  “That is my business,” Chloe told her gently.

  “But, signorina, what will the contessa say? She is so happy you are here. She wants you to stay always,” Lotta burst out. “She is hoping...” She stopped short, biting her upper lip between her big teeth, knowing she had said too much. Her broad peasant face, usually so impassive, betrayed her agitation and unease.

  After a pause she went on coaxingly, as if she were persuading a refractory child, “Perhaps the signorina would feel happier in another room, further away from her. I will ask the contessa. The contessa knows very well what good reason there is to be afraid of her. It can easily be arranged. There are many other rooms here that the signorina might like.”

  Chloe snapped down the locks of the second bag and stood up. With a smile for Lotta, she went and poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it.

  “You mustn’t worry the contessa about me, please, Lotta,” she said. “It isn’t necessary. Everything is arranged.”

  That wasn’t true, of course, but she didn’t feel up to any more argument. Later on, after she had seen Dominic, she would walk over to the hotel in Mdina, which like Santa Clara was built into the ramparts. She would take a room there. Surely nothing could be simpler?

  Lotta retired, muttering that the contessa must hear of this at once, she would know how to deal with it.

  Chloe watched her go. A worried frown creased her forehead. She hoped the contessa wouldn’t be upset. She hoped, too, that Lotta would have said nothing about last night’s fantastic happenings. After a while she swallowed another cup of tea and started to dress.

  She wished she might leave without seeing Dominic. But she knew that wouldn’t do. He was her employer as well as her host. She would have to face seeing him.

  She expected he would be seriously annoyed with her. He would want to know how she proposed to manage without the darkroom and the car. She must be ready with something practical, as well as a plausible reason for leaving Santa Clara.

  Since she had no intention of telling him, in so many words, that it was Louise and his mother between them who were driving her away, she’d better let him believe her reasons were entirely frivolous ones. He didn’t love her, and wasn’t likely to. So it could scarcely matter one way or the other what he thought of her motives.

  Even so, she was shaking with nerves when, after breakfasting alone and without appetite, she went along to the library to wait for Dominic.

  It was Saturday and she knew he wasn’t going to the dig. He had asked her whether she was ready to project the first batch of slides, which had just returned by air from London.

  She got her screen and projector ready and settled down to wait. She felt more jittery with every minute that passed.

  When at long last, over an hour later, the door opened, her heart jerked. But it was Mark who came in, not Dominic.

  “Why, hello, Chloe. How calm and cool you look, after all the fuss there’s been around the place all morning.”

  Startled, feeling anything but cool, she repeated, “Fuss?”

  “Lord, yes. Didn’t you know? Mrs. Vining has had another of her attacks.”

  “Oh—how dreadful!”

  “Apparently Lotta went and told her something that upset .her thoroughly. Don’t ask me what, I haven’t been told yet. I’ve been haring around the countryside looking for Dr. Galea. I just brought him in from San Anton.”

  “What does he say?”

  “Don’t know yet. He’s with he
r now. You may as well put all that gear away, Chloe. Dominic will be fully occupied. He told me to tell you not to wait.”

  Chloe couldn’t help feeling a guilty sense of reprieve.

  “Was it a serious attack?”

  “I’m afraid it was, rather. In her state of health, any attack is bound to be serious, poor dear. She has a form of angina, you know. Might die any day, or equally, might live to a ripe old age. Awful anxiety for Dominic. He adores her. She was a wonderful woman before she became ill. I’ve heard she was a famous beauty. She’s still handsome, isn’t she? I wonder what Lotta said to upset her. Have you any idea?”

  Chloe said slowly, “I think I have.” Lotta had told her about the balcony incident, of course. Perhaps, too—almost, certainly—she had told her about her own decision to leave Santa Clara. Either would have agitated her—been enough, perhaps, to bring on one of her attacks, Chloe thought unhappily.

  “Come on, then. Come clean. Tell Mark.”

  She shook her head. She would have liked to confide in Mark. He knew all about Mrs. Vining’s obsession, and about Dominic and Louise. But she couldn’t bring herself to repeat, even to Mark, the conversation she had unwillingly overheard in the library.

  She could tell him about the balcony incident, of course. But her own recollection was so incomplete; and anyway, the whole affair was so fantastic. She could no more bring herself to accuse Louise of having tried to push her over the edge than to blame Lotta for Louise’s fall. She couldn’t imagine anyone believing her if she did. Any more than she could really believe that Dominic had credited Louise’s version of her accident.

  The whole thing was a mess. The only conclusion she could come to was that the sooner she got out of Santa Clara the better.

  “I’d rather not say anything,” she told Mark. “I expect you’ll hear plenty. You must form your own conclusions. What I am going to do, Mark, is leave here.”

  His face fell comically. “You mean throw up the job? Leave Malta?”

  “No, no. I mean leave Santa Clara.”

  “But what on earth...?”

  “Please, don’t ask me to explain, Mark.”