Harriet gave up. There were too many whys and wherefores, too many unanswerable questions. All she knew now, with a sort of dumb stubbornness, was that to find out she had to stay on the trail of the woman in the black raincoat, follow her to wherever she was going, even if it was the house she so hated.
She sat in bemused chilled misery, so lost in her thoughts that the train’s arrival at Thaxham almost caught her unawares. She sat for a long moment after the train had stopped, and not until it began to slowly to move again did she open the door of her carriage and very swiftly, drop to the platform, to crouch low out of the range of lights of the train windows until it had gone.
Along the platform, she could see the black rain-coated figure disappear up the wooden stairs toward the exit, and as she crouched, terrified in case the woman should turn and see her, another memory stirred. A figure that had got onto the train at Thaxham that night she had run away, a faint blur of movement. Had that been someone involved in this business, someone who had followed her? But she had no time to think about that now. She had to get out of the station, get after the woman in front of her without delay. And that meant she couldn’t pass Joe Potter at the ticket office, for once again, she was ticket-less and without the money to pay for one. She couldn’t risk and delay in arguing with Joe Potter.
And the she remembered. If she could cross the line, to the up platform, she might be able to squeeze through the far fence and cut across the rough grazing field that abutted it. Odd she should think of that now, when the night she had run away she hadn’t. But there was, again, no time for memories.
Moving as stealthily as a cat, afraid that there might just possibly be someone on one or the other side of the line who might see her, she slid her body over the edge of the platform to drop silently onto the cinders between the lines. Then, creeping half couched, she moved over the lines toward the other side. She could feel the lines humming gently beneath her thin shoes as she stepped on to each one and for one horrible moment she had a vision of a train bearing down suddenly on her. But there was no sign of a train in any direction, except for the diminishing rear lights of the one she had just left.
On the far side she moved in the shadow of the platform itself, along its edge, until she reached the slope at the far end, and then skirting that, found the wire fence that separated railway property from the rough grazing field beyond.
It was all far easier than she could have imagined. Within a few minutes she was over the field, over the low ditch that separated it from the road, and in the dark lane that led from the village to the house.
She stood very still, straining her ears in the country silence. Had the woman she was following gone on to the house? If she had, was she walking, or had someone— who?— met her with a car? But then she heard it— the distant crunch of footsteps on the road, somewhere ahead in the darkness on the unlit road.
With an unconscious cunning that surprised her, she began to walk too, making sure her own footsteps coincided exactly with those of the woman ahead. Even if the woman listened for a follower she would not be aware of Harriet walking in perfect rhythm with her.
But, clearly, the woman was not aware that she might be followed. She walked fast and with no attempt at quietness along the dark road, under the bent trees all shrinking away from the harsh sea winds that blew so consistently over the marshes, her head high. Harriet could see her now, now that her eyes were used to the darkness, see her ahead on the straight flat road that was flanked by ditches and a few scrawny hedges as well as those bent old trees, see the darker patch in the darkness that was the black raincoat.
The woman never hesitated. She reached the gate to the Cooper farm— Cooper, thought Harriet, Marcus Cooper— oh, Marcus, where are you? If only that old man gave you the message, if only you could have guessed where I am— but she knew with a sickening certainty that there was no reason why Marcus should guess her quarry had led her back to Thaxham, none at all.
The woman went purposefully past the farm gate up to the house and turned sharply, pushing the creaking garden gate open and walked noisily up the path. And then she opened the front door with a key and closed the door behind her, leaving Harriet lurking silently in the dark road just outside the gate.
And now what? she thought. Do I go back to the village and get the police out? By the time I get back, she may have gone. And anyway— I want to know. Maybe there’s someone else there, maybe if I get in, quietly, I can see who is in this with her, hear them talk, find out what’s going on—
She was reckless now, past being commonsensical— if ever I was, she thought ruefully, remembering all the stupid things she had already done, from the moment she had decided to run and leave the impostor in possession of her home and her husband. Why stop now?
She moved up toward the house, climbing easily over the gate to avoid its creaking, walking on the grass beside the patch to avoid the sound of footsteps. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, that larder window latch is still broken—
It was, and she managed to climb in silently this time, biting her lips in terror as she moved. But the kitchen was dark and silent, not a sound reaching her from beyond its heavy door. She skirted the furniture with the ease of familiarity and, moving as silently as she could, gently turned the doorknob. It moved smoothy under her cold fingers, and a faint rim of light appeared around it from the hall beyond.
After a long moment of listening, she opened the door wider and slid out into the hall, first taking off her shoes and putting one into each of her coat pockets. A hell of a way to treat an expensive new coat, she told herself severely, almost giggling at the thought. But she pushed the hint of hysteria down and moved slowly and fearfully across the hall.
The she heard her. She was in the drawing room. She heard the clink of a bottle, the sound of a drink being poured, and then the woman moved across the room. There was a click, and Harriet head the rattle of the dial.
Immediately, Harriet moved closer, praying the woman wouldn’t hear her on the creaking old floor, because her ear was pressed to the telephone. She didn’t, and Harriet reached the drawing-room door unsuspected.
“Yes,” the woman was saying as Harriet got near enough to hear her more clearly. “I got here. Mmm? I think so.” Her voice had a deep husky quality, very like Harriet’s own. But the was an odd timbre about it that Harriet couldn’t quite place, an accent that sounded faintly odd. American? Not quite— but the woman was speaking again.
“I did my best not to lose her— mind, she’s a pretty lousy tail. I saw her all the time. Stuck out like a sore thumb. Mmm? Outside somewhere, I think. But you’d better hurry. She’s a bit of a fool, one way and another, and she might get cold feet and sheer off. OK. Only for Christsake, put a move on—”
Harriet hardly realized she had moved. She crept away from the drawing-room door, back under the shadow of the staircase, her thoughts in a whirl. The woman had wanted to be followed— had done her best to make sure she didn’t lose Harriet! It just didn’t make sense— or rather it did, very horrible and terrifying sense. She had been lured down to Thaxham to this lonely house, had played right into the hands of the people who were trying to harm her, for there could be no doubt now that there were at least two people involved
There was a movement from the drawing-room and, with a speed born of sheer terror, Harriet slipped sideways into the cupboard under the stairs, pulling the low door behind her just as the woman came out of the drawing-room, leaving the door wide open so that a broad swath of light fell across the paneled hallway.
Harriet crouched, sick with fright, her heart beating so loudly she was sure the other must hear it, among the brooms and buckets and mops, listening, Her whole body concentrated on that one sense, her hearing.
The woman went into the kitchen, switching the light on, and Harriet heard the swish of water, a plop as the tap was turned on, the rattle of the fire as he woman shook the range to put the kettle on. My God, but she knows her
way around my kitchen. Harriet thought, with a sudden very feminine peevishness, Then, the larder door rattled open, another familiar sound to the listening Harriet.
She’s making herself a meal, Harriet thought, feeling a sudden revulsion at the thought of food. If she makes enough noise, maybe I can reach the phone, call some help
Moving quietly again, she slid out of her hiding place, and crept toward the stairs. There was an extension to the phone in her bedroom. If she could only get there, could call for help— call Marcus— then barricade herself in and sit tight till he arrived—
She went up the stairs fast, knowing that slowness would be more likely to cause the old timbers to creak, and when she reached the upper landing, crept across it, trying not to think as she passed the bathroom door of what she had seen there that day, and slipped quietly into her own bedroom.
She closed the door behind her, her heart almost stopping at the way it clicked, but there was no sound from downstairs. And then, she was across the room, reaching for the telephone. Marcus— she must call Marcus— even if he weren’t there at the flat, Sue must be, and she would be able to reach him, or get help, somehow—
And then she stopped, sickened with the sudden realization that she had no idea what the phone number of the flat was. There was no time to ask the exchange to find it, either. She must make her call fast before the woman downstairs heard anything.
She remembered then, remembered the number on the back of Andrew Peters' card, could see it clearly written across the scrap of white pasteboard, as clearly as if she were holding it in her hand. Perivale 200697.
She picked up the telephone, just visible in the glow from the window from a thin half-moon that threw faint gleams of light across the gray-black panes.
Breathlessly she dialed the number, peering at the dial, grateful that Thaxham had been put on subscriber trunk dialing the year before, remembering incongruously how Jeffrey had cursed the fact, convinced it would send his telephone bills soaring.
There was a long silence at the other end, and then a ringing tone. The steady burr-burr seemed to go on for an interminable time as she stood there in the dimness, staring fearfully over her shoulder at the door, waiting for an answer.
And then, there was a click, and she heard Andrew’s voice, and she said breathlessly, almost whispering, “Mr. Peters— Andrew Peters, is that you?”
“Of course it is,” the voice said irritably at the other end. “And who the hell is that, at this hour of the night, disturbing—”
“Harriet,” she said again, a little louder— and then there was a sudden rush of light, and she turned sharply to stare at the door, blinking in the brilliance at the woman standing in the doorway.
“Hello? Hello?” clacked the phone. “Is that you, you bloody fool? where are you? Harriet?—”
But Harriet could only stand there like a mesmerized rabbit as the woman moved across the room, grinning malevolently, to take the telephone from Harriet’s frozen and numb fingers and drop it back on the cradle.
“You got here then,” she said conversationally. “You’ve a bit of a wait yet, but make yourself comfortable.”
And then she was gone, and Harriet stood there, staring at the door, listening to the tumblers fall as the woman turned the key in it, leaving her locked firmly in the house, alone and helpless with a murderess for a jailer.
Chapter Eleven
How long she stood there, numb with shock, Harriet didn’t know. It was a sudden beating of wings against the glass as a night bird blundered against the window that broke the spell for her, releasing her to fall, shaking, to sit on the bed, shivering with cold and reaction.
There was another long pause before she realized that the telephone was still there beside her, and she reached for it eagerly. But, as she lifted it to her ear, there was a click cutting across the dialing tone. Th woman downstairs. She had, of course, guessed that Harriet would try to use the telephone again, and had effectively prevented her from dong so.
Harriet listened for a moment to the sound of the woman’s breathing as she held the phone downstairs, and then remembered. Even if the extension was off the hook, it was possible to dial. She reached out and dialed 999 deliberately, and then, as she listened there was a rough crackling sound, and the phone went dead.
It was a moment before Harriet realized what had happened. The listener downstairs had pulled the wire from the plate that connected it to the wall. She had broken Harriet’s only connection with the outside world.
Desperately, she prowled about the room. There must be a way out, somehow — but the heavy door was locked, and there was no hope that Harriet alone could break it down. And even if she could, the woman downstairs would be up to catch her as she did it.
She tried the window next, but a big heavy nail had been driven into the frame beside the only section that would open, so there as no way out of there.
They certainly were expecting me, she thought dumbly, certainly made very plan for my— reception. She couldn’t even break the window and get out that way, for it had small leaded panes, and only heavy wire cutters could get through them.
She must have prowled round the room for a long time before she admitted herself beaten and threw herself on her bed, to lie staring miserably at the ceiling, trying not to think what the woman had meant when she had said, “You’ve a bit of a wait yet—” or what the woman and her friend had in store for her, why they had deliberately lured her down to Thaxham.
She did wonder, for a while, how the woman had known she would be at the theater, would see and recognize the impostor through the doors of the foyer, but even that didn’t seem all that odd anymore.
She must have been following me, waiting for a chance to cross my line of vision, waiting for me to recognize her, hooping I’d follow her. She must have followed me for a long time, planning that I should see her when I couldn’t tell Marcus she was there, making sure we wouldn’t both follow her.
She had told no more than the truth, Harriet thought miserably, when she told whoever it was on the phone that I was a fool. I must have been given a dozen opportunities to recognize her, for God’s sake dozens.
She lay there, staring up at the uneven old ceiling, listening to the silent house, trying to hear what the woman downstairs was doing, but unable to hear anything but the thick ringing in her ears and an occasional animal or bird sound from beyond the tightly sealed window.
The times she had lain and stared at that ceiling, at its hateful familiar lines and cracks, during those long miserable years when she thought she’d never get away.
And I thought I had got away, and here I am again, staring at the lines that look like a map of Australia, the ugly bump where the ceiling had had to be replastered that time I nearly fell through from the loft, that day I had gone up there to find an old trunk I wanted
She sat up sharply, still staring up at the ceiling, remembering. She had tried to walk across the joists in the loft, but her foot had slipped and gone crashing through the thin plaster, showering the room below with white powder, making Jeffrey curse furiously. Of course! What goes up must come down, she thought absurdly, and giggled.
She moved fast then, spreading the counterpane from the bed and a couple of blankets all around so that any sound would be muffled, hunting desperately through the room for some sort of implement anything— anything sharp would do.
She found it in her dressing table— a long steel nail-file with a wickedly pointed end— one she hardly ever used because it was so sharp. Then, carefully, she climbed on the bed and reached upward. For one sickening moment she thought she wouldn’t be able to reach— low as the ceilings were and tall as she was, it was a considerable stretch. But she piled the pillows from the bed into a precarious heap and climbed onto them. And began to work.
It seemed at first as though she would never make any mark on the plaster. It had seemed so friable underfoot that day long ago when she had nearly gone crashing thr
ough; it wasn’t nearly as responsive to a picking nail-file. But gradually a small hole appeared and widened. The powder fell into her face, her mouth and eyes, making breathing hell, making her eyes smart and weep, but she ignored that, picking laboriously on.
And then the hole was big enough to admit a couple of fingers, and now she could get on faster so that she shower fell thicker, so that quite big pieces came splattering down to land on the blankets with a dull thud.
After one particularly large piece fell and glanced off her shoulder to land beyond the blankets on the bare floor, she stood frozen with fear, in case the sound had been heard downstairs. but there was no movement, no rattle of footsteps outside, so, her hands shaking with fright, she started work again.
How long it took her to complete a hole big enough to admit her body she had no idea. She seemed to have been working for many hours before she could see, at last, the gaping black hole just big enough to take her shoulders. Awkwardly, she clambered down, feeling for the first time the pain in her arms and shoulders, still and cramped from their prolonged work above her head.
She felt sick and giddy for a moment as she dropped her arms to her sides, and remembering vaguely about first-aid measures for faints and sat on the edge of the bed and let her head drop between her knees.
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