That pulled her back to reality, out of the wash of new feeling that had held her so strongly. “Let’s go in— now,” she said, suddenly wanting to face Jefrey, to get the whole business over and done with. “Let’s tell him. Tell him I’ve left him for always. I don’t want any explanations from him Marcus— I just want to tell him about us, and start fresh— let’s go now.”
When they were out of the car and standing by the gate, looking at the house, silent in the gray cold afternoon, a sense of foreboding filled her, as real as the sound of her own pulse beating in her ears.
“There’s something wrong—” she whispered, the words snatched from her by the wind. “Something very wrong. Marcus— something’s happened here. I can— feel it. It’s too— quiet—” She moved closer to him, clutching his arm, and he put his gloved hand reassuringly over hers. “I’m frightened— not just of Jeffrey— but something else— something bad—”
“Silly girl,” he said, and his voice sounded unnaturally loud. He pushed the gate open and walked up the path, his feet loud on the stones. And after a moment, she followed him, almost scuttling in his shadow.
He knocked, loudly, and she heard the sound echo through the house, so loud that it was almost as though beyond the heavy door there was emptiness, no furniture or carpets to deaden the sound.
There was no reply, no hint of movement from inside, and Marcus knocked again, banging cheerfully. After another silent pause, he raised his head and shouted; “Anyone there?”
“ ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered— that I kept my word’ ” Harriet said absurdly and, at Marcus’s stare, laughed shakily. “A stupid poem I learned at school,” she said. “All about horses and forest’s ferny floors—”
“ ‘And the silence surged softly backward’— I remember. Only that chap went away and we’re not doing that,” he said and knocked again.
“I suppose he should be here, Harriet? I mean— does he go to an office or something?”
She shook her head. “Not after a trip abroad. He takes a couple of days to deal with paper work before he goes up to town. I don’t know much about what he does, really. He never told me. Something to do with export, I think.”
“My God, but he’s a bastard,” Marcus said. “How can a man be married for five years and not tell his wife what his work is? Look, is there a back door? Whether he likes it or not, we’re going to see him. And if he’s out, I’m damned if I’ll stand out here waiting for him. We’ll get in somehow and you can make some tea, and we’ll wait in comfort for him. Come on—”
She led the way to the back of the house, past the dripping shrubs that lined the side path, to the back door. But it was locked, resisting firmly against the bolts on the inside. Marcus moved back onto the grass of the dank lawn, staring up at the small windows of the back bedrooms, and called again But the house stayed silent, in the deepening gray of the afternoon.
“The larder window—” Harriet said.
“Mmm?”
“The lock’s broken on it. I meant to get it fixed because it wouldn’t close property and sometimes field mice got in— I remembered it yesterday— It broke the other day. But I forgot again—”
“Where?” he was brisk now.
She led the way to the small window that was on the far side of the jutting kitchen wall. “Here,” she said, and pointed.
The window was hanging slightly open, and he reached up and pulled and it swung wide.
“Too narrow, for me, sweetheart. Here—” he looked around, and moved over to the pile of heavy logs stacked beside the kitchen door.
“These should hold— look, if I steady you, could you climb in? You’ll manage without your coat—”
He helped here out of her coat, and then, moving carefully, she stood on the logs he had set under the window, and with an effort swung herself up and around, so that she was perched on the sill.
“If you hear a crash, it’ll be the cold shelf giving way—” she said, trying to be as matter-of-fact as Marcus, trying to stifle the foreboding that was growing ever stronger in her.
The shelf held, though she knocked off a far of jam that hit the stone-flagged floor with a thick splat; but she was in and, moving quickly, she hurried through the kitchen to fumble with the bolts on the back door, letting Marcus in so that he filled the silent cold room with the safety of his presence.
He held her close for a moment, and then finally shut the door behind him and put her coat over her shoulders.
“It’s damned cold in here—”
“The boiler must be out—” She moved across the kitchen to peer at the antique coke boiler, but it was cold, only dead clinkers filling it.
“It’s not like Jeffrey to let this go out— he’s furious if I forget it and he has to relight it— I never could understand the wretched thing—”
Marcus put his gloved hand on the cold stove and nodded. “This thing’s been out for hours. Look, I’ll have a look around, and then we’ll have a got at it, and you can make some tea, hmm? Put a kettle on now, Harriet— I’ll be back in a moment—”
“No—” she said frightened again. “Don’t leave me alone—”
“Silly girl! In your own kitchen? All right, mouse. Come on—”
There was no one in any of the downstairs rooms. Just the dead fire in the living room and a tray with dirty cups and a pot of cold coffee on the table beside it. Harriet stared at it— two cups. She picked one up, and the smudge of lipstick— the color I use, she thought— made her feel sick suddenly. Marcus had gone upstairs, and as she heard the crunch of his footsteps above her, she hurried after him, running up the stairs in sudden terror.
“Marcus? Marcus— wait for me—” she called, and as she reached the upper landing, peering around in the gloom that was always there because of the heavy wooden paneling that covered the walls, she wanted to scream, for there was no sign of him. And then, he appeared, coming out of the bathroom door, closing it behind him, his face shadowed.
She ran over to him, and he put his hands out to stop her.
“Don’t go in there,” he said, and his voice was harsh and thick. She tried to see his face in the dimness, but couldn’t.
“Why? What’s the matter what is it?”
“Don’t go in there—” he said again, but she pushed past him, her need to know what had made him sound so odd more urgent than her fear.
She pushed the door open. The brightness made her blink for a moment after the darkness of the hall outside, for the light was on, and the heavy toweling curtains that covered the window were tightly closed. The light gleamed back at her from the tiled walls, from the chrome on the taps, and she could see her own face in the mirror over the basin. And then she looked down at the floor.
Jeffrey was lying there in his striped green pajamas, his head back, his eyes wide open and glassy. But the green couldn’t be seen on his pajama jacket. It was a thick dark red, like the floor around his head and neck. And his neck— his neck had a gaping gash in it, gaping widely as his mouth.
She heard the screaming coming from a long way away, a screaming that changed into a horrible retching noise, and it wasn’t until Marcus pulled her out of the room and held her close that she realized she was making the noise.
Chapter Five
He found the brandy for her, found the firewood and coal, lit a fire, all without asking for help. Not until she was sitting close to the warmth, clutching the drink in her icy fingers, did he come to sit beside her, one arm about her shoulders, and begin to talk.
“Try not to remember how he looked, Harriet”
“I-I can’t forget. It was—” She retched again, and he took her hand, made her lift the brandy glass to her lips, so she had to swallow. The warmth of the spirits went through her, making her shudder.
“I know. I tried to stop you—”
“Yes . Thank you—” She turned her head, to bury her face in the tweed of his jacket, her voice coming muffled. “Thank God for you Marcus. I thin
k I would go mad if I hadn’t got you—”
“Poor darling,” he said gently, and then, awkwardly, “Look, my love, this— complicates matters. I don’t want to pry, God knows. I just let you tell me what you wanted to, and no more. But if we’re to sort this out this ghastly business, I’ve got to know more— about you— about him, upstairs—” She shuddered again. “Yes, I know, but you must see. I’ve got to have some— well, some of the background. Can you tell me more about yourself? About him? Your marriage? Then perhaps we can see just what sort of situation we’re in— what we should do”
“We— we’ll have to call the police. Won’t we?”
“I— don’t know.” He sounded very somber, and she stared up at him puzzled.
“But we must—”
“Look, Harriet. Think for a moment. You saw this woman yesterday— did anyone else? I mean, anyone else who also saw you, who could corroborate the fact that this other wasn’t you?”
She tried to think, rubbing her face with one hand.
“No— I don’t think— I mean, how could anyone? Only Jeffrey saw us both — and he—”
“So, if anyone— any outsider— was about last night, they’d have seen— Jeffrey with his wife. And now Jeffrey is dead.”
“My God—” she whispered. “You see, now?”
“They’ll think I— I killed him?”
“Could you blame them? This house is miles from the village— no neighbors nearby. No one to see you shut out, or go away to London when you did— and even if they had, well, Jeffrey could have been— dead before you left—”
“I hid from Joe at the station. Oh, my God, I hid from him. No one saw me— and I was glad they hadn’t. Even if— even if they can prove he was dead after I left here, no one can say they saw me go—”
“I can.”
“But you didn’t—”
“Darling— of course I didn’t see you leave. But I saw you in London, didn’t I? And if the police can prove Jeffrey was alive before the London train left, you’ll be all right. But what worries me is that— well, perhaps the police won’t be able to work out just when he was killed. They’ll immediately look for you. Unless there is someone else who could be expected to— want Jeffrey dead? That’s what I meant, Harriet. I’ll have to know more about you and Jeffrey before I can see what we should do.”
“Yes. Yes, I see,” she said bleakly.
“Has he— had he other relatives? Enemies?”
“No relatives I ever heard of. I suppose, in a way, that was what— what I was drawn to, in the beginning.”
He said nothing, waiting or her to go on. She sat there, in the crook of his arm, staring into the fire, and talked, with difficulty at first, and then more easily as memory took her back five years.
“I met him at a concert. We— we got our seat numbers mixed up, and when we’d sorted them out, he talked, and when he asked me to have a drink with him afterwards, I did. I was so lonely— so frightened, you see.”
She could feel it again, the way she had felt that night. She had visited Barbie at the hospital— frail, tired Barbie, lying there in the white bed looking so small and shrunken, so very ill. After visiting hours were over, and she had kissed her cheerfully, leaving her with that bright smile on her face she had forced herself to wear, the Sister had stopped her, taken her into the small office, made her sit down.
“My dear,” the Sister had said, in her kind brittle voice. “You’re very young to cope with this alone. Have you no other relatives?”
“No,” Harriet had said. “There’s just the two of us.”
“Your father?”
And eighteen-year-old Harriet had reddened and in the surly voice that such questions always made her use said bluntly, “I never knew him. There’s just the two of us.”
The Sister sighed then and said, “Then I must tell you. Your mother is dying my dear. If she lives another three months, well, she will be lucky. I’m sorry.”
And Harriet had stared at her, and shaken her head almost angry, and cried, “No— she can’t— not Barbie—”
But she had had to face it, had to believe her. Barbie was dying. And the Sister had given her coffee and, as she was leaving, suddenly thrust a concert ticket into her hand.
“Don’t got home to brood, my dear,” she said. “I can’t use this anyway. You go— it will take your mind off the problem for a while—”
And she had gone, unable to face the tiny flat she shared with Barbie, the flat Barbie would never again live in. And she had met Jeffrey. And in her misery, she had told him, over that drink, of her dying mother, of her loneliness, the emptiness that would be life without Barbie, had listened to his own account of his loneliness, seeing it in a sort of bulwark against her own misery. And he had come with her to visit Barbie, and Barbie had seemed so happy to see her Harriet with a friend. And within a fortnight Jeffrey and Harriet were visiting Barbie together every time, so that Barbie seemed to relax, to be less frightened than she had been.
“She knew she was dying, Marcus,” Harriet said now, looking up at the man beside her. “And all she cared about was me.” Her voice thickened with tears at the memory. “And she told me he loved me— poor Barbie, she really thought he did— and begged me to marry him. And when he asked me, I did. I thought he cared, too, you see— Barbie said he did. And a week after we were married, Barbie died—”
She shivered. “I found out then, Why, I mean. He didn’t love me, you see. Not at all. But Barbie she’d been in a very expensive private hospital, you see. I couldn’t bear to let her be in an ordinary ward, not when she’d been so ill, and she’d never had much— comfort. I spent everything we had on her, and when she died, and Jeffrey realized there was no money left— he was so angry—”
“He thought you were rich?” Marcus said.
“Yes. I’d never talked about money, you see. he— never asked me— and I never thought about it. And when Barbie died, he asked me how much money she’d left, and I told him— Oh, must I remember?”
“Your father— had he died when you were small?” Marcus asked. “Did he have any relatives?”
Harriet stood up, began to walk about the room restlessly, not looking at him.
“I don’t know—” she said, distress making her voice surly, just as it always had. “I don’t know—”
Marcus looked puzzled, and moved across the room to bring her back to the seat by the fire.
“Harriet please, darling, tell me. This is Marcus— remember?”
So she told him, dragging the words out of herself, feeling all the old sick shame and anger boil up again.
“I was illegitimate. A bastard. Barbie hardly ever spoke of him. All I know was he left her when he discovered about— her pregnancy and she never saw him again. So there was just the two of us. Barbie and me. I don’t know how she managed— but she did. Sent me to a good school— she was marvelous. I didn’t find out how she’d kept us so well. She worked— in houses, in hotels. Scrubbing and cleaning— and she died before she was forty. And she died thinking I was settled, with a good husband. Christ, she died thinking—”
“Stop it!” he said sharply, and she pushed the rising hysteria down. “You never knew where your father went when he left Barbie?”
“I don’t think so— though I had a vague idea, once, that he’d gone abroad. I got a parcel, once at Christmas— I think it must have come from America. A doll.” She laughed suddenly, shrill with painful memory. “I didn’t like it because it was too big, and Barbie said American dolls were always like that— and I gave it away, and she thought that was funny—”
“Harriet—” He sounded very brisk. “Stop it. You’re— wallowing.”
“Wallowing?”
“In self-pity. Stupid shame, So you were illegitimate. So your mother died when you were young, and you made a bad marriage. All right. But it’s over now, and you’ve got to start living now, in the present. Do you understand me? Right now— and I’m a part of the now. Beca
use I love you— bastard or not.”
“Dear Marcus—” Harriet said, and cried and mopped her face with the handkerchief he gave her that smelled of tobacco and his hair cream, and kissed him and drank some more brandy.
“That’s better,” he said approvingly. “Now, where are we? No possible relatives apart from you who could be blamed for this mess upstairs. No one who saw this other woman you saw last night. No one who saw you leave Thaxham. But Sue and I know you were in London last night, and, if necessary, that old man at Prince George’s Mansions will remember you, too. So, you’ve got the beginnings of an alibi. But—”
He stood up and pulled her to her feet. “We’ve got to get out of here— right away. You’ve got to get back to London, right now, and no one need know you were here today. That’s important.”
“But— the police— shouldn’t we call the police?”
“No,” he said decidedly. “That would be crazy. They’ll think you never went away, that you killed Jeffrey. No, you’ve got to get back to London, and when eventually the police find Jeffrey and come looking for you, you won’t know a thing. You understand? You ran away from him last night, and you’ve never been back here. Come on.”
“But—”
“Darling— no buts. You’re implicated to the eyebrows in this mess, you must see that. I’ve got to get you out of here— fast. And—” He hesitated. “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“There’s some evidence to get rid of. You told me, last night, that the other woman was wearing your housecoat. A blue one.”
“Yes?” He went out of the room, and she heard his feet go up the stairs, heard him moving about on the upstairs landing. When he came back, he was holding, very gingerly, her blue housecoat.
“Was it this one?” he said, holding her hand out.
“Yes—” She moved over toward him, her hand out.
“No—” he said violently, pulling away from her, and then she saw what he was hiding. The front of the housecoat was a deeper color, splashed with a broad stain.
The House on the Fen Page 5