The Woman Who Was Not There

by Jennie Melville

There was also a photograph of a plump, attractive, bold face.

  Charmian sat looking at it, wondering what had happened to the woman. Had she come on business to see a client? And was Frank Felyx that client?

  Or was the coach driver, Doby, a liar who had killed Alicia himself and then for reasons unknown left the shoe in the lavatory?

  Funny business, that: made you wonder who was lying: the driver or Frank?

  She looked out of her window where the trees blew in the wind and hoped that Rewley would get back soon. When she heard voices in the outer office she listened. No, not Rewley, a woman.

  Fanny.

  She got up and put her head Out of the office. ‘ Come on in, Fanny. I can give you five minutes.’ She shut the door. ‘ I wanted to see you, anyway. How did it go last night? I came round to see if all was quiet … It seemed to be, so I went away.’

  ‘You must have come before the others,’ said Fanny. ‘Dorie, Ethel and Paulina.’ She threw up her hands. ‘ Shouting and banging on the door … I had to send them away. It was all quiet then.’

  Charmian picked up the emphasis. ‘Then?’ She studied Fanny’s face. The bruise was fading but she looked tense and ill. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘It was quiet at first. I sat there at the top of the stairs, listening and waiting. Mind you, I had gone over the house sprinkling holy water which the good Father gave me. So, I thought, that’s done you, you devils. And then the house started up.’

  ‘Started up? What do you mean?’

  ‘Like an orchestra, it was. First just a little noise, a creaking in the timbers.’

  ‘Old houses do that, Fanny, as the temperature changes.’

  ‘The house got colder too, as if a chill wind was blowing through it. And then the banging started. At first little tapping noises, then bang, bang.’

  ‘Banging where?’

  Fanny thought about it. ‘It seemed all over the place … but up the stairs from the basement.’

  ‘What’s in the basement?’

  ‘That’s it. There isn’t one. But it sounded like there was.’ Fanny stared straight in front of her. And then I was frightened … I thought if I stay here one of those waxen creatures will walk down the stairs, or up, perhaps both. I felt as though there would be two and I would be caught between them.’

  ‘That was just your imagination.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps. I tried to tell myself that. So I wrapped myself in my rugs and curled up at the top of the stairs.’

  ‘And? And, Fanny?’

  ‘The noises died away. I think I dozed off; seems extraordinary that I could in the circumstances, but perhaps I did.’ She shook her head. ‘When I felt strong enough, I took my torch and looked in the room upstairs. She hadn’t moved, not that one.’

  Charmian looked at the old woman without speaking.

  Fanny went on: ‘So I went downstairs. It was beginning to be daylight, that’s how I know I might have slept.’ She stared at Charmian with piteous eyes: ‘The dining room looked different. The cloth was still on the table, the table, all the silver and glass just as they had been. But the pair of dolls – if that’s what you can call them – closer together. They hadn’t moved far, just edged nearer to each other. And there was a smell of wine in the air, as if they’d been drinking.’

  Charmian remained silent. She did not know what to say. What she wanted to say – that it was all Fanny’s imagination – would not please her friend.

  ‘That was what all the banging and the creaking was … The house was telling me.’ Fanny nodded her head. ‘ You don’t believe me, I can see that. Right, well, tell me what you make of this.’

  She put her hand in her pocket and drew out a gold coin. ‘A sovereign. It was on the table. Tell me who put that there? Payment, I reckon. One creature was paying the other.’

  ‘Right,’ said Charmian, standing up. ‘ There is one thing I can do. I’ll spend tonight there myself.’ She patted Fanny’s thin shoulder. ‘You can come or not, as you like.’

  Fanny thought about it, her face drawn into deep lines around her mouth and eyes. ‘ I’ll come,’ she said eventually. ‘ See you there.’

  Charmian watched her leave, standing by her window to see Fanny come out of the door and cross the road. So, she said to herself. If you don’t believe in ghosts and ghoulies what do you believe, because something happened in that house.

  I believe that Fanny was asleep. She had a bottle of brandy with her, she drank, she’s an old lady and she fell asleep. While she slept, someone came into that house. This person left the sovereign, just to make Fanny believe in a walker from the past. That’s what I believe. But why this game is being played, I do not know.

  As she stood there, Rewley came in.

  ‘I did knock …’

  She swung round from the window. ‘Sorry, I was far away. Well, what did you make of the driver?’

  When Rewley had given his account of Arthur Doby, then she would tell him about the second shoe.

  ‘You ought to see Doby’s place … Sordid isn’t in it. But cosy, somehow. He has a collection of old coins, nicely arranged, too. He belongs to a society that collects coins, part of the facade, the front he puts up … But the way he is,’ Rewley threw open his hands, ‘I don’t know if he’s a liar or not, but I think I’d want to check every word he said, and I don’t think I’d ever lend him any money. Still, he sticks to what he said.’ He produced a small tape.

  ‘I took a WPC with me, and he agreed I should tape the interview as long he had a copy.’

  ‘Play it over.’

  The man had a rough, deep voice. His answers were short, never a word said more than he needed to utter.

  ‘You didn’t like him?’

  Rewley shook his head. ‘You ought to see him for yourself.’

  ‘I will.’ Tomorrow, she thought, after my wakeful night with Fanny. ‘You should know that another shoe’s turned up. Frank Felyx claims he found it in a rubbish bin in the men’s lavatory at the coach station. He says it points the finger at the driver.’

  ‘They accuse each other, then,’ said Rewley. ‘Which one to believe.’

  ‘We don’t have to believe either,’ said Charmian. ‘Give me your notes and let me have the tape.’ She stood up. ‘ We’ve got to talk. I have to shop – food for the cat – but there’s a coffee shop in the market. Come with me, we can talk over a coffee. I want to have your views.’

  The supermarket, one of a local chain, was not crowded at that hour; she picked up a basket, tracked down the shelves where the pet food was lodged and chose a dozen tins of different flavours. Her cat liked a change of taste.

  ‘You spoil that animal.’ Rewley had picked up a jar of coffee powder and a box of teabags.

  ‘Of course I do. It’s a game between us.’ She moved down the aisle. ‘ Better pay for these before they think I’m lifting the stuff.’

  ‘They’ve got their own security man here,’ said Rewley, focusing into the middle distance at a row of tinned fish. ‘That’s him over there, trying to look interested in sardines … There’s one of Drimwade’s team here too, that woman in the dark tweed suit: I recognize her, Lesley Fitton. There must be something going on here.’

  ‘There usually is, isn’t there?’ said Charmian indifferently. ‘And probably a load of kids at it.’ If she had to admit it, she rather liked the idea that Drimwade had problems and was overworked. But all the same she stood there, watching. Two youngsters pelted through the shoppers, pursued by Lesley Fitton, but they were out of the door and down the street before anyone could catch them. ‘Well, that pair got away.’

  She led the way to the coffee shop, where she sat down while Rewley went to get their cups and cream. He took his black, she noticed. He looked thinner today.

  ‘How are you sleeping?’ she asked.

  ‘Alone.’

  ‘I know that. A pity.’

  She really meant it, he thought. Charmian was a surprise: sometimes almost puritanical, at other times amazin
gly open-minded. ‘It’s not too bad and as for what you mean …’ He shrugged. ‘ I sleep enough.’

  A liar, she thought, but a polite one. ‘You could cut down on the coffee.’

  ‘It’s better than whisky.’

  She looked at him with understanding. ‘I’m not saying it’ll get better because it won’t, but it’ll change.’ Grief did, after a while, it changed shape and fitted itself round you in a way you could live with.

  Rewley drank some coffee. ‘ Wouldn’t be so bad if Anny would let me have the child, but she won’t – yet.’

  ‘It’ll work out. Your promotion will help. You can get a bigger place.’

  ‘I couldn’t afford two nurses and a nursery suite.’

  Charmian was silent. The child was wealthy; her money in trust could pay for whatever was needed, but pride and misery were acting the devil inside Rewley.

  I don’t want to lose you, Rewley, she thought.

  He had dressed in a hurry that morning; his shirt and tie were at war with each other, and he had shaved clumsily, leaving a trace of dried blood on his chin.

  ‘I have the tape,’ she said, ‘but I want you to go through the whole interview for me now … What you saw, what you heard, and what you made of him.’

  She listened quietly, occasionally putting in a word.

  At the end she said, ‘Thank you.’ Then she was quiet. ‘I wanted to hear it in your own words.’ She finished her coffee. ‘My turn now.’ She told Rewley how Fanny had spent the night. ‘I’m going there myself tonight. Something’s going on.’

  Rewley frowned. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of all this. Want me to come too?’

  Charmian looked down at her hands. ‘Yes, I’d like you to come …’

  Rewley thought: She’s a married woman, she loves her husband, and I loved my Kate. In addition, she’s my boss …

  Oh, God, life was not easy.

  ‘But no,’ said Charmian, raising her head. ‘No.’ She stood up. ‘Better go.’

  In silence they moved towards the exit, where their way was obstructed by a woman clutching a small child by the hand and pushing a trolley loaded with groceries. Another child sat on the trolley busily excavating her shopping.

  The boy grabbed an orange and threw it at Rewley; he caught it and threw it back. The boy grinned but his mother ploughed on, looking at no one. She got through the door before them when Rewley stood aside politely to let Charmian go first.

  Charmian stopped. ‘Wait a minute, hang on … Look out there.’

  Across the road Fanny and Frank Felyx were standing together, deep in conversation.

  ‘Now what does that mean?’ said Charmian. ‘What are they up to?’

  She saw Frank talking earnestly to Fanny, who was not saying much, except every so often she wagged a finger at him.

  A large truck passed down the road, blocking their view, and when it had gone Charmian and Rewley saw Fanny preparing to go one way and Frank the other.

  Chapter Six

  Later on that very Wednesday and on to Thursday

  Charmian and Rewley, close behind her, reached the pavement just as Frank and Fanny were splitting up. They halted to look at Charmian. Not exactly pleased or welcoming.

  ‘Hello, Frank, you and Fanny having a little chat?’

  He was gruff. ‘Not exactly my choice. Listen I’ve made a statement about the shoe to Drimwade and his boys, I’ve been questioned once again by you and Dolly Barstow, my house has been inspected and searched, but I haven’t been charged with anything and I was told I was free to take a walk so long as I didn’t leave Windsor.’

  ‘And you are taking a walk?’

  ‘I had to buy some food, just like you.’ He stared at Charmian’s carrier bag. ‘I had the bad luck to run into this lady here.’ He looked down at Fanny who had prudently kept quiet. ‘Not sure what she was buying, but something liquid, I daresay.’

  ‘Just having a word with Frank,’ Fanny said, seeing that something was expected of her. ‘I wanted some milk for tonight.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Charmian answered, not without menace. She looked down the road to where Ethel and Paulina could be seen emerging from the shop, each carrying a shopping bag.

  ‘There they are,’ said Frank. ‘ The other old witches.’

  ‘Where’s Dorie?’ asked Charmian, as Ethel and Paulina saw them and hesitated.

  ‘Working. She’s doing a commercial, voice-over for a new milky drink.’ Dorie excelled at doing children’s voices, even a baby crying could be rendered plausibly and even charmingly by her.

  ‘And that’s not milk they’re carrying,’ growled Frank.

  ‘Something for tonight.’ A defensive murmur from Fanny.

  Charmian knew what she was being told: Fanny was bringing her supporting bottle of brandy. Or would it be whisky tonight? ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said.

  Charmian sat slumped against the wall at the bottom of the stairs in Waxy House, her rug wrapped round her. She was thinking. Fanny was stretched out at the top of the stairs, silent but breathing heavily.

  ‘You needn’t come,’ she had said to Fanny. ‘ If anything happens I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Of course you will. But I’d rather be there.’

  It was dark in the house and cold; the chill was more intense in some areas than in others. ‘ Oh, haunted houses are like that,’ Fanny had said happily. ‘ It’s well known, we can take it as confirmation.’

  I wonder, Charmian had thought; she preferred natural, realistic explanations for unusual phenomena. ‘And the smell?’ That seemed stronger in some areas of the house than in others. Like the hall, and the stairway. She had gone over the house with a torch when she came to find Fanny already there; Fanny’s smell was a mixture of Miss Dior and whisky, with tincture of peppermint.

  ‘I can’t smell it now,’ said Fanny, preparing to walk upstairs to make her nest for the night; ‘I daresay I’ve got used to it.’

  She took another peppermint.

  Charmian felt like saying: Fanny dear, if you think the peppermint masks the smell of alcohol, then you’re wrong. In my opinion, it draws attention to it.

  The house had its smell, though. A strange smell, earthy yet astringent, not one smell exactly but a compound. The smells jostled for supremacy, with first one and then the other coming out on top, as the nose sorted them out. It was possible that underneath was yet another smell, darker, grimmer.

  She crept up the stairs to see how Fanny was surviving on the top landing. She found her comfortably seated on cushions, with a shawl round her shoulders and a rug over her legs. She was raising a glass to her lips. The whole scene was lit up by a candle in a glass funnel.

  Fanny jumped. ‘You shouldn’t steal up on a person like that,’ she said crossly. ‘ Might have given me a heart attack.’

  ‘I came to see how you were.’

  ‘Now you see.’

  Charmian looked at Fanny. ‘Do you really believe that something supernatural happens in this house? Or did you just say so in order to get me here?’

  Fanny considered. ‘Let’s say half and half.’

  ‘So nothing happened?’

  ‘Oh, something happened all right. You’ll see.’

  ‘If there’s a repeat performance.’

  ‘Oh, go away and think about life.’ She held out the bottle of whisky. ‘Want a swig?’

  ‘No.’ Charmian went back down the stairs, passing the large looking-glass on the middle landing wall on the way to her own rug and pillow in the hall. She sat down, closed her eyes and prepared to follow Fanny’s advice.

  She closed her eyes because she wanted to think over what Rewley had had to say about his interview with coach driver, Arthur Doby.

  Doby had been lurking behind the front door – at least Rewley said it had looked like lurking – of his South London flat. He had called it a maisonette, but it was a tiny, one-bedroom apartment of no beauty and some dirt, the top floor of a small suburban house. The hall a
nd stairs leading to Doby’s place were clean enough, so the downstairs tenant must be a better hand at housekeeping.

  Well, more than dirt, she could hear Rewley saying, disorder and litter and the smell of dead mice. Possibly a live mouse or two. No, correct that, a whole bloody nest of them.

  The WPC who had accompanied Rewley into the Lower Greenwich Road establishment had flinched at the rustlings and scufflings, but had stood her ground.

  The place smelt of too much frying oil, often burnt and stale to begin with, too much cigarette smoke, and too much living, all of the wrong sort.

  But the man himself, Art Doby – ‘Call me Art’ – was clean enough in blue jeans, a checked shirt and a tweed jacket. Unpressed but washed. Shaved as well, although judging by a photograph on a table he had once had a beard, long and straggly. Rewley said he looked better without it. And the man, seeing his eyes on the picture, explained that his beard was seasonal. That in the winter when the coach company laid him off and he took temporary work as a long-distance lorry driver, then he had a beard. In spring and summer the coach company said their clients preferred him shaven. Beard discrimination, in short, but Doby gave way because the pay was good and he liked the places he drove to: Windsor, Oxford, Bath.

  ‘All on rivers,’ Rewley had said, to see how it took him. He did not react. A cool customer, or stupid, or innocent, unknowing of the shoe by Runnymede.

  But which? The WPC thought him just stupid, but Rewley, observing a twitch of the lips, had thought him knowing and evil.

  ‘He was a deity, that one,’ Rewley said to Charmian. ‘And worships at the shrine, a creditor in wickedness.’

  It was not like Rewley to be poetical, and Charmian found his words echoing in her mind. She felt she was brushed on all sides of wickedness just now. Perhaps she attracted it instead of repelling it, pushing away, as she had always thought she had done, in her small way.

  But it’s a web, really, she thought dreamily, pouring herself a mug of coffee from her Thermos flask. The strands of good and evil are spun together, hard to separate.

  Rewley’s words sounded in her ear; she saw what he had seen. Doby had smiled at his two visitors, offered them seats on the sagging sofa, not minded when the WPC had cautiously moved a pile of papers to see what was underneath before she sat down. Underneath had been a plastic display card with some coins placed on it. He had grinned at her little frown when a hard-porn mag fell on to the floor. But he had said nothing.