Unsuspected

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Althea couldn’t change a fuse,” said Oliver. Then his face rumpled up in the firelight. “Why didn’t you call Althea, Grandy?” he asked uneasily.

  Mathilda remembered with a start that Althea was only outside in the garden or in the guest house. Surely not far. She had no wrap. She had only slipped out for a moment. She couldn’t have gone far. She looked at Grandy for his answer.

  He said flatly, “It would have looked odd, I thought. I’m sorry, Oliver. After all, Althea out with Francis at this time—” He was looking at Tyl.

  Yes, it was at least odd. Here sat Francis’ bride, by his own reckoning, and only tonight was she returned from the sea. And where was Francis? Off somewhere with Oliver’s bride. Or was Althea, as usual, after that which she had not? Or was Francis after Althea?

  “You’re damned right,” growled Oliver, playing the he-man. His fingers did dramatic things with his cigarette. “It’s plenty odd. Where the devil are they?”

  Mathilda straightened her back. It was odd, but she ought not to feel annoyed just because she didn’t understand. “Grandy,” she begged, “can’t we talk now? Alone, I mean. Please, darling, it’s important.”

  13

  Down in the guest house, Grandy’s charming little cabin-style nook at the bottom of the garden, Althea was lying on the couch before the fire. Francis had put her there, put her feet up, touched a match to the kindling, set his stage. Now she was waiting. Her yellow skirt rippled off to the floor. The ruching at her neck made a deep square. She knew she was lovely. Her silver eyes still held the same expression of pleased and shrewd surprise. He knew he was nervous and too eager, and afraid to startle her with his need for haste.

  “Althea.” She moved her body in toward the back of the couch, folded in the cascade of her skirt with one quick gesture, making room for him to sit down. His face was above her. She let her lashes hide that pleased and wondering look. The ruching moved with her breathing. “Help me, will you?” Her darkened lashes lifted. “I’ve got a problem,” he said. “Did you ever wonder,” he went carefully, “why Rosaleen Wright did what she did?”

  Althea looked disappointed. He groped for some way to interest her.

  “I have an idea. I may have found out something—”

  No flare She was looking at him rather more coldly. To touch Althea, you touched what? Her vanity. Her jealousy.

  “—about someone,” he stumbled.

  “Who?”

  “Not Grandy,” he lied quickly. He dared not make that mistake now. “Not Oliver,” he added. He saw her mind scrambling behind the silver eyes. And in his need was able to follow it. She gave him the cue herself. “Someone else,” he said lamely. There was only one person else, and her face was lighting up. “Help me,” he begged. “I can’t tell you more now. It would spoil what I want you to say.”

  “Me to say!”

  “Listen.” He took her hand. “Life is a needle. It writes on wax. Your memory’s got a record. And I want to play it back. Will you try, Althea?”

  “My memory?”

  “Only you,” murmured Francis. “And that’s a bit ironical, isn’t it?” He gave her his self-mocking look. “It means a good deal to me,” he confessed. “Something I’ve got to know.”

  He thought, I’ll mystify her. I’ll give her romance. I’ll give her drama.

  Althea raised her shoulders from the pillow. “I thought there was something queer between you and Tyl. I thought she didn’t seem—you didn’t seem— What is it? What did you find out?”

  Francis turned his face away to keep it an enigma in the face of this.

  “Maybe she didn’t go to Africa,” whispered Althea. It was venomous. “I thought the whole thing sounded phony. The little fraud! People with one eye and all that junk!”

  Francis wondered what to do now, with this thrust of her imagination in the wrong direction. Use it. Use it, if he could.

  He said, “It’s the morning Rosaleen died. I want you to go back and remember. Everything. Whether the phone rang. Did you hear a sound? Did anyone come to the house?” He threw ideas at her. Mix her up. Never mind what she thought. Make her talk. There wasn’t much time. She had to talk tonight, in this hour.

  Althea said, “But that hasn’t anything to do with—”

  “You mean, she was drowned by then?” said Francis bitterly.

  Althea’s brows drew together. He got up and poked the fire. Let the woman think any wild thing, only let her tell him.

  She said very meekly, “I don’t understand. What is it you want me to do?” She tilted her head back to lengthen her long white throat.

  He told himself, Go easy. Forget that any minute somebody from the house may come down to see where we are. Pretend there’s time. Make the most of this chance. She was willing, for this moment, and she was thrown off the real track by her jealous wish that Mathilda be somehow damaged. But she wouldn’t go deep enough or carefully enough unless he held her to the detail he wanted.

  “Do you remember getting up that day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “With whom?”

  “Grandy, Oliver, Rosaleen.”

  “What did you have to eat?”

  “Good heavens, Francis—”

  “You can remember, if you try. I want you to try. Because of something later.”

  “Because of what?”

  “I can’t tell you until afterward,” he evaded.

  “But there isn’t anything,” she said.

  He leaned down, took both her hands. “Althea, please.”

  “All right. Coffee, toast, marmalade. That’s what we had for breakfast.”

  “Go ahead. Play the record for me. Then what?”

  Althea closed her eyes. Her fingers tightened on his. “Breakfast,” she murmured. “Then it was Oliver’s turn to do the dishes. I did the downstairs. Rosaleen made beds. Grandy ordered on the phone. Rosaleen came down and went into the study with him. Is this what you want?”

  “Go on. Little things.”

  “Oliver went downtown. He kissed me and went out by the front door. He had galoshes on. One of them flopped.” She was smiling, exaggerating the details. Good, let her. “Let me see. I vacuumed. I had the radio going.”

  “What program?”

  “News,” she said.

  “What station?” Radio gives times. His pulse was faster.

  “Heavens, I don’t know. But then the Phantom Chef came on. He talked about bread. I wanted some. I went out to the kitchen and got out his book—”

  “Got out his book,” droned Francis.

  “Had a pencil,” she went on dreamily. “Checked the recipe. Got out a bowl, flour in the canister on the table. I was looking in the icebox for what it took.”

  “Did the light go out?” He held his breath.

  “Go out? Light? Oh, the icebox light? Yes, it was out.”

  “You didn’t see it go out?”

  “No, but it was out. How did you know?”

  “Go on.”

  He’d broken the spell. Maybe a mistake.

  “Grandy came out of the study,” she said slowly, still puzzling over that accurate guess. “He was talking over his shoulder to Rosaleen. He couldn’t hear.”

  “Why couldn’t he hear?”

  “The radio,” she said impatiently. “I had it up loud.”

  “Radio in the living room?”

  “Yes, the kitchen end. I turned it down. He said what he had to say, and she answered.”

  “You heard her voice?”

  “Yes.” His heart sank. “No,” said Althea. “Why?”

  Was she defensive? Be careful.

  “It was her voice, I mean.”

  “What?”

  “No, no, I’m wrong. Not then.” He struck his forehead. “Of course not, because Grandy was there. Wait now. Rosaleen answered or you thought she answered.”

  “I thought she answered,” said Althea carefully, “and she did
answer, because Grandy said to her, ‘That’s it, dear.’”

  “Then?”

  “I went back.”

  “You were still at the radio?”

  “Yes. I turned it up again.” Her thoughts seemed to stick at something. Francis dared not interrupt her now. A log fell in the fire. Flames murmured over it “Bum tenderly,” said Althea.

  “What—was that?”

  “Burn tenderly.” Althea smiled. “That’s exactly what he said. It sounded so silly, blurted out loud without the context. He’s pretty precious, anyhow. He can’t do it the way Grandy can; although, of course, he tried to imitate.”

  “Who?”

  “The man on the radio.”

  “Who said, ‘Burn tenderly’?”

  “The Phantom Chef. He did. That’s the way he talks.”

  “He said ‘Burn tenderly,’” said Francis gently. “Go on. Grandy had just, what?”

  “Closed the study door.” She shut her eyes again. “I said, ‘I’m making bread.’ I don’t remember every word we said.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I showed him the icebox light. He said it was the bulb. He’d fix it.”

  “Did he?”

  “Fix it? Yes, I guess he did.”

  “Did he go down cellar?”

  “To get the apples?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, he got the apples. Oliver came home. We put the dough together.”

  Francis thought, Don’t let her see the trail. Don’t let her see the point. Don’t let her realize what she’s told me.

  “Now!” he said breathlessly, and she tensed. “Did the phone ring?”

  “No. No-o.”

  “Any bell?”

  “No.”

  “Did you—was there a draft?”

  “Draft?”

  “Current of cold air.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Someone came in the front door?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Might have?”

  “If it wasn’t locked,” she said.

  No need to keep on with this any longer. He’d got what he wanted and covered it up enough.

  “What is it?” she demanded. “What are you thinking?”

  He shook his head. Althea said tartly, “And now you’re going to be a little gentleman and tell no secrets.”

  Francis grinned at her. “That’s right.”

  She settled back on the cushions. “Tell me something,” she asked lazily. “Are you as much in love with Tyl as you … made out?”

  He let his eyes look startled, and make a tiny negative sign. He felt he owed her that. He turned to the fire. He was thinking he’d have to send Jane in to New York tomorrow. That meant one night more. He was thinking he’d better remember to be dejected, not let excitement show. For the old man was keen.

  What Althea was thinking, he neither knew nor cared. Her hand was warm in his, and from time to time he pressed it. He was thinking of Mathilda. A little while and he could explain to her and beg her pardon. He could explain why he’d had to go into that song and dance about love. Because the story made no sense without it. He’d explain. Then he was thinking of Rosaleen, of her gallant little figure that seemed to diminish with the days, as if she were traveling away from him toward a horizon beyond which she would someday vanish entirely. He was thinking that sometimes she seemed to be looking back at him. But when it was done, when he had finished this task, then she would turn her face away forever.

  14

  “Grandy, can’t we talk now? Alone, I mean. Please, darling. It’s important.” Mathilda hadn’t seen them come in.

  “What’s important?” drawled Althea.

  Oliver turned around to look at her, and his face flushed vividly with anger. Francis was a dark background, where the firelight and the lamplight barely touched him, as they stood there, just inside the room from the kitchen.

  “Where have you been?” exploded Oliver. Her insolence set him off. The anger was genuine.

  “Oh,” said Althea, “talking.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “Nothing worth repeating now,” she said, and yawned daintily. “I do think I’ll go up to bed,” she said in the awkward silence. “After all, my first day out of it.”

  “Yes, do,” said Grandy hastily. “Do, dear.”

  Jane got out of her chair. Mathilda thought she saw a glance pass between Jane and the white blur of Francis’ face. “I think I’ll say good night,” said Jane primly. “Good night, Althea. Miss Frazier. Mr. Grandison, Mr. Keane.” She murmured all their names politely.

  All but one. She forgot to say good night to Francis. Mathilda thought it was odd. There was something in that forgetfulness that assumed he was different; either he didn’t matter, or he would understand, or, thought Mathilda, he mattered most. Nobody else seemed to notice. Nobody else seemed to notice that she’d said “Miss Frazier.”

  “Good night,” they said to Jane, raggedly.

  Grandy said benignly, “Good night, child.”

  Jane showed them all her pretty smile and went away, withdrawing from the family, sweet, pretty and dutiful.

  Althea stood where she was, looking strange, as if she’d been only half waked out of a hypnotic state or as if she were sleepwalking.

  “Good night, Althea,” said Francis. His voice had no caress or even much meaning.

  “Good night,” she murmured.

  Oliver said, “Good night, all.” He hadn’t even a special word for Tyl, the returned one. He didn’t even look at Francis. He was furious. His fury had a female quality. Oliver was in a tizzy.

  “Now, Oliver,” said Grandy with remarkable clumsiness.

  Oliver bared his teeth as if to say “Keep out of this.” He took his wife’s arm to pull her along, but his hand slipped. The gesture was pitiful and ineffective.

  “Oh, Oliver, don’t grab at me,” said Althea crossly.

  “Very well,” said Oliver. He was shrill. Tyl wanted to hide her eyes.

  Althea swayed a little, standing there, looking down at Tyl. She wasn’t very tall, but she looked tall at that moment, and slender, and mysteriously malicious. Tyl’s heart contracted with a little fear.

  Althea laughed softly. “Well, Tyl, you’re back, aren’t you? All the way back.”

  She bent her silver head and Grandy kissed her. She walked down the long room, vanishing into the dark at the far end. In a moment, Oliver snapped on the light in the hall and she was outlined in brilliance briefly. Then she was gone.

  The three of them, by the fire, were silent until Francis threw his cigarette into the flames decisively.

  “I’ll go back to the guest house now,” he said, with no emphasis at all. Tyl looked at him, but his face was turned away.

  Grandy said softly, quickly, “Yes, yes, of course. For tonight.”

  Mathilda got up. She didn’t know whether she wanted to run or fight it out now and smash that lie, this heroic suffering pose of his that lied so expertly. She looked at him with her anger and her suspicion and her resentment and her defiance in her eyes. But as he moved closer, she didn’t shrink away. It came to her that she was not afraid of him. She would enjoy a good fight, a good, bold, hard-hitting clash.

  “Don’t run,” he said surprisingly. But when he stood over her very close, although he didn’t touch her, she could tell that he wanted to, and not so much with love as with pity. “Good night, dear,” said Francis. He sounded sad. They were not fighting words. The words were lonely.

  Mathilda still stood there when he had gone. She couldn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. The only thing that explained him was the lie he told. If he really were in love—But he was not! He was a stranger.

  “Grandy.”

  Grandy was all huddled in his chair. He looked shrunken up, his hand shaded his eyes.

  She knelt down swiftly. “Grandy, what is it?”

  “This house,” he said. “Tyl, is it talking? Do you feel … somethi
ng wrong?”

  Her throat tightened. She cast a quick look behind her.

  “I don’t like it.” Grandy rocked his shoulders. “Oh, no, I don’t like it.”

  Tyl said, “Grandy, there’s nothing. But there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  He pulled himself up and smiled then. His hand came to cover hers warmly. “Darling, I know. I must lock the doors. Run up, sweet. I’ll come. I’ll tuck you in, eh?”

  She nodded. She went upstairs slowly, grasping the banister too tightly. She could hear Grandy below, moving briskly, locking the doors. Whatever the mood had been, he’d thrown it off. And this was her home. Surely it was safe here. There could be nothing here to fear.

  She went into the gray room and found the switch, but she didn’t press it. She crossed quickly to the window in the dark. Was that a sound?

  Outside, the night was not too deep for her to see a figure in the garden. Was it only this morning, she wondered, that she had first seen that figure, that man’s shape? Only today?

  The sounds were faint. She knelt and hid her head behind the curtain. She could see another figure, climbing down the trellis from the roof of the kitchen porch. Only she could see it, only from this room. Climbing down! Out of Rosaleen’s old room to the porch roof, of course. That Jane! Her blond head caught a little light from the sky. The two figures met and shimmered in the dark and seemed to dissolve into shadows.

  Tyl sat back on her heels. “My noblehearted lover!” she said. “My suffering bridegroom! Oh, brave good lonely soul!”

  15

  “Jane.” Francis held her by the shoulders. He spoke in a low tone that wouldn’t carry. His face was just a blur. “You’ve got to go to New York tomorrow.” He shook her with his impatience. “Make it your day off. Disappear and leave a note. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t like it. Get away early.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ve got it!” he croaked triumphantly. “I finally got Althea to talk about it. Listen, see if you don’t get the point. We know the clock stopped at twenty after ten.” He let go of her shoulders.

  “Fran, I’ve got to tell you—”

  “Not now. Wait. So the fuse blew at twenty after ten that morning. Now Althea says that Grandy came out of the study and was closing the door of it behind him at the very minute when the Phantom Chef fellow was on the air—the one who gives out recipes, you know, Jane. She remembers something he said. Jane, it gives us the time! Don’t you see?”