Columbella

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  Thoughtfully I turned to look about the rest of the room, and found that the bed had been readied for the night by one of the maids. But a maid would not have tampered with the French doors as I had left them. I stepped to the bureau, puzzled, and the glass gave back the look of a woman bemused—gray eyes wide and troubled, lips parted, the wings of brown hair smoothly framing a slender face. As often before, I wondered how others saw me, what they really thought.

  My face in the mirror seemed to lose its familiarity as I stared at it—as though it belonged to someone less vulnerable than I. The voice, when I spoke aloud, was mine, yet it was directed toward me from that more critical girl in the mirror.

  “Be honest!” she challenged me. “Tell yourself the truth and learn how to accept it. You pulled down all the fences around you when Helen died. You stood out there in the open without protection and you fell in love with the first man who came along and was reasonably kind to you. If you’ve got any spunk at all you’d better face the fact that this has happened. He’s lonely, and he’s grateful to you and touched because you’ve tried to help his daughter. But you—you’re in love with him! And there isn’t anywhere to go from here. So what do you have to say for yourself now?”

  I turned away from the accusation. There seemed no answer for me anywhere.

  14

  That dreadful night!

  It was almost dawn and I sat in my room, troubling no longer to lock my doors, struggling to put my thoughts, my emotions, my understanding, into some sort of sensible form.

  The sounds of people moving about on their weary duties had died away, though lights still burned across the driveway in the servants’ area. There were no longer the sounds of a party—all that was long over, and even the memory of it was fading. In a little while the lights of Charlotte Amalie would dim and sunrise would streak the sky. If I sat here long enough, there would be a new day—with all its new and frightful problems to be faced.

  At least I’d had a little sleep at the beginning of the night. Though even that was restless sleep because of what I had discovered there at my bureau when I first came back to my room. I do not mean merely the accusation which my own reflected face directed at me—but the fact that someone had come into my room and carefully searched a small portion of my possessions.

  Over those years spent with my mother I had learned orderly habits. When two people live together and one of them drops her possessions carelessly about so that she never knows where anything is to be found, the other one usually becomes methodical to a fault. The weaker perhaps? Or, hopefully, the more considerate? At any rate I had learned to keep each article, not only in its appointed place but often in a certain order.

  “Finicky,” my mother said. “Old maidish.” But these were words she used to protect her own feckless ways.

  Tonight the habit served me well. I knew my powder box was not where I had left it. My comb and brush had been moved—though I could not see why, since they hid nothing. A maid might have done these things in dusting, but no one dusted at night and they were not where I had put them when I went downstairs to the supper. In the top drawer everything looked neat enough—but there were changes visible to my practiced eye.

  The small padded case in which I kept my few pieces of jewelry had been carefully searched, and earrings, pins, and beads put back in a way I did not keep them. My stack of clean handkerchiefs in the top drawer had been looked through one by one, so that the edges were slightly askew, the stack moved slantwise from its corner. So it was through the two top drawers of the bureau. As far as I could tell, the lower two had not been touched. When I undressed and put my lingerie into the mesh bag I kept for laundry, I found the mouth of the bag turned round on its hook.

  As I got into my pajamas I tried to figure out the puzzle. As far as I could tell, nothing had been taken—so no one had come to steal. I would have little of value for a thief, in any case. Whoever had gone through my possessions must have been looking for something specific. But what small thing—since it must be small if such places were searched—could I be presumed to have hidden? And why—why?

  Perhaps this was another effort to frighten me away. But then it would surely not have been managed in so neat and secretive a manner. I could imagine Catherine coming to my room, hurling everything about vindictively, and leaving the upheaval for me to discover. But I would not expect of her this quiet seeking. A seeking that appeared not to be complete—so that perhaps the seeker would return and try again?

  When I was ready for bed I turned off my lamp—and then decided that I did not like the dark. Tonight darkness seemed too lonely. I lit a match and touched it to one of the hurricane candles cupped in heavy glass, and got into bed, pulling up sheet and light blanket to shut out the faint eerie glow. Downstairs the party was still noisy, the music tireless. Malcolm seemed to be repeating his repertoire, but he did not sing again the “Song for Columbella” that had so angered Catherine.

  From the next room—Leila’s room—I heard no sound and I hoped she was asleep. The young could be hurt so easily. There was no way in which I could convince Leila that her painful feeling for Steve O’Neill would suddenly be gone overnight and she would be wholeheartedly interested in someone new, and perhaps closer to her own age. Change was the proper order of the day for the young. Even Leila’s worship of her mother was something she might well throw off, escape from, in the very near future. If only there was time to wait for this and nothing happened in the meantime to damage her beyond repair.

  As I lay there my thoughts began to turn from Leila to myself and a strange, drowsy comfort came over me. As sleep began its gentle encroachment and my breathing grew more regular, a sense of warm happiness began to spread through me. Perhaps there was a hint of danger and excitement laced through it, but these were not unpleasant I slipped into a dream in which I was coasting down a mountainside on a wild toboggan ride—yet I had no fear of the probable crash at the bottom. I knew only that someone sat behind me, guiding and holding me safely, so that I need not be afraid. I had only to relax, to cease the struggling that possessed me when I was wide awake. It was a pleasant way to fall into deep sleep.

  My awakening came with a jerking suddenness that was far from pleasant. I sat up and stared at the chair across from the foot of my bed, but no golden-haired woman in a flame-colored dress sat there smoking. The wick burned low in its glass and the room seemed hot and humid.

  Somewhere down the hill a dog barked furiously, steadily, and I suppose this was the sound which awakened me. Now that I was fully roused, the feeling that something was amiss—if not in this room then somewhere in the house—was so strong that I knew I would not sleep again until I had tried to determine the source of my uneasiness.

  I flung on some clothes, slipped my feet into walking shoes, and went out on the gallery. The garage and driveway areas were dark and quiet. The last car had left the hill long ago and the servants were asleep by now. The moon had begun its downward movement in the sky, but it was still large and full and very bright. Far below, Magens Bay lay like an irregular silver platter, partially rimmed in the wild beauty of its protected park.

  Slowly I walked along the side gallery toward the front of the house. Leila’s outer door stood ajar and I paused to listen for a moment, but the rushing sound of the wind outside hid anything so soft as a sleeper’s breathing. At least her room seemed innocent of restless tossing. Maud’s room was dark, with no light to be glimpsed behind shutters, though I knew she sometimes stayed up very late at night reading.

  From the front gallery I could stand in the shadow of climbing bougainvillea and look down upon the terrace. There were still patches of wet, as though more showers had fallen during the night. No wavering torch flares lighted the scene; only the moon lent a touch of silver to scattered pools of water. Here and there puffed clouds promised more showers and the wind seemed stronger than before—almost a gale. It tried to
blow me along the gallery and I held to the cold iron rail, resisting its thrust.

  My sense of something being wrong had not been lessened by rising and moving about. How quiet the night seemed—and how noisy! The trees dripped. Night insects kept up an incessant clamor from every bush and tree, and the wind rustled through branches without cease. Yet there was a void of human sounds. What stars could be seen were very bright. Bright and close—and deadly cold. In the tropic night I shivered and was dreadfully afraid.

  Although nothing stirred within my line of vision and though lights were scattered and few in the sleeping town, I had the feeling that something was up and about. The moonlight had a wickedly greenish cast to my receptive senses—like the colors of some illustration for a story of dread and mystery.

  Fanciful, fanciful! I could almost hear my mother’s voice, but the fancy remained. Whatever antennae of perception I possessed were tuned to some quality of the night that I could not see or hear or understand. I told myself that quiet was not ominous, that dreadful deeds were not done in silence. Wicked acts needed movement and sound. Yet only the wind rushed across the island and flung itself out to sea, hurrying, hurrying because there were other islands it must brush in its breathless journey before the night was done and the sun came blazing up from the Caribbean.

  The movement I sought became suddenly real and my hands tightened on the rail. Someone burst upon the terrace from the direction of the tropical forest. In the fluid line of Leila’s running she betrayed herself—her entire body spoke of the fear and desperation that drove her. She still wore her yellow dress—greenish now in the wet shine of the terrace—as if she had not gone to bed at all, and as I watched she ran into the house, disappearing from view beneath me.

  Moving quickly, softly, I ran along the gallery and back to my room. When I went through and opened my hall door I was in time to meet Leila as she came running up the stairs terror-driven. At once she clasped my wrist and pulled me into her room, shutting the door. Outside it began to rain again—another quick, heavy shower, pounding upon roof and gallery, pouring water down the waiting catchments of St. Thomas, to drain into echoing cisterns underground. Inside there was only the sound of a girl gasping out words while I strove frantically to understand what she was trying to tell me.

  She had not let go of me, and she almost pummeled me in an astonishing mixture of anger and entreaty.

  “It’s your fault and you’ve got to stop him! Dad’s down in the lookout clearing with Cathy. They’ve had a frightful quarrel and I think he’s going to kill her.”

  I was on my way downstairs before she stopped speaking, alarm ringing along every nerve.

  The room below was quiet and empty—dark, with the night pressing against glass at either end, the door to the terrace open. I ran the length of the room toward a rack near the door, where raincoats and beach coats were kept, with flashlights on a nearby shelf.

  My hands fumbled over the hooks and I felt the coarse material of the enveloping burnoose Catherine liked to wear. It was damp to my touch and my hands snatched up a plastic cape and reached for a flashlight. Putting the cape around me as I ran, I hurried down the terrace steps and toward the path through the woods. Already the last shower had stopped and shrubbery dripped around me as I ran beneath the branches of the flamboyant, catching the spattering of drops on the slick surface of the cape.

  Shiny-wet tree boles sprang up about me as I started into the forest. There were patches of mud and in my haste I slipped and nearly fell, catching myself against the rough wet trunk of a tree. Scarcely losing a moment, I went on and my beam of light ran ahead, picking out turns of the path amidst the darkly crowding growth. There was a smell of wet foliage and earth, laced by the penetrating sweetness of jasmine and cereus—a sweetness that brought Catherine’s perfume sickeningly to mind.

  Still there was no sound anywhere, except the dank dripping of the trees. Ahead of my stumbling feet the black, twisted bole of a tree protruded into my path, its wet bark like glistening black satin in the shine of the torch. In relief, I saw that this was the tree which marked the way to the clearing, and I knew it had taken me only moments to get there. I found my way around the tree, sweeping the light beam ahead, so that the green fruit of the huge mango sprang into vivid color.

  The clearing was empty. I had surely taken no more than two or three minutes since Leila’s words had sent me on my way, but whoever had been here was gone. How had the quarrel ended?

  I stood still to let my thudding heart quiet. The showers had blown away in the sudden island manner, and moonlight shone white on the empty marble bench where I had sat talking to King. Across wet earth and grass the wooden rail guarded the lookout place.

  The wooden rail!

  My heart lurched again and I stepped closer, sending the flash beam along the barrier. It was not as it had been. A portion of railing had broken through like kindling and hung outward into empty space, the raw ends sharp and jagged. I swung the light down toward the catchment, but in that vast, steep spread the beam was quickly lost and ineffectual. I did not need it, however, for the clouds had moved on and moonlight touched the stone slide, revealing the black humps of rock that protruded part way down. Three black humps. Three!

  I remembered only two protrusions of rock interrupting the smooth downward flow of the catchment. Yet now there was a third black huddle, too far away for my flashlight to reach, too undefined to be made out clearly by moonlight alone.

  Two people had quarreled here—furiously, according to Leila. Now one was gone, the railing broken through—and something sprawled down there upon the catchment. Which one—Catherine or King?

  I called out frantically, but the dark mass upon the stone did not move and there was no answer. I considered kicking off my shoes, letting myself through the broken space, crawling down the steep stone slide. But even if I managed without falling, I would be of no use once I was there and time would be wasted.

  I ran from that dreadful place and back toward the house. In spite of slippery spots and sharp turns of the path, I ran. Once or twice I had the horrid feeling that Catherine might step out from the black tangle on either side to catch me by the arm and stop me from getting help. Sometimes it seemed that this had really happened, for the very trees reached rain-laden branches to grasp at me, to catch at my hair and slap wetly across my face and body.

  But the beam rushed ahead, showing me the way, and I reached the terrace driven by a terror that winged my heels. On the flagstone my shoes made a noisy clatter, and just as I reached the steps to the gallery a light went on inside and Edith Stair came to look out as she had done on my first arrival at the house. As I ran toward her, out of breath, unable for a moment to speak, I noticed that she too was fully dressed.

  She came down the steps and when I would have cried out my alarm she grasped me by the arm. “Hush! Don’t waken the house. Just tell me what has happened—what has frightened you?”

  Under the pressure of her hand I managed to steady myself, and as I did so the first awareness of a need for caution roused itself in me.

  “There’s been an—an accident!” I cried. “The railing down at the lookout point has broken through and I—I think someone has fallen down the catchment.”

  She stared at me, whether in disbelief or challenge I could not tell. Then she said, “I’ll call King,” and ran inside and up the stairs.

  I walked into the big hall where a light now burned, trying hard to get myself in hand. The import of what lay behind that broken rail was beginning to penetrate my sheer fright. It was far less likely that Catherine could have pushed King through the railing than that he might, in his fury, have flung her down from the height. Until I knew what had really happened, I must be careful about what I blurted out.

  Absently I noted that down the room near the stairs a line of light shone beneath the door to Alex’s study—so he must still be up.

/>   Edith came running downstairs almost at once. “King’s not in his room. Nor is Catherine in hers. Their beds haven’t been slept in!”

  The door where the pencil line of light glowed was pulled open and Alex came out. He wore night clothes and seemed faintly elegant in a dressing gown of maroon silk over gray pajamas.

  Edith rushed to him. “Miss Abbott has been in the garden. She says the wooden rail is broken through and someone has fallen down the catchment. Neither King nor Catherine is upstairs.”

  Alex gave me a sharp look and took the flashlight from my hand. Then he ran across the terrace in the direction of the path. Edith went after him and I followed. Even though my knees had a tendency to buckle, I had to know what was down there.

  Alex reached the clearing first and kicked off his slippers before he lowered himself through the opening in the rail, dropping lightly to the top stones of the slide. There he started down backward in his bare feet, clinging to crevices with his fingers, moving surely and quickly. When he neared the mounds that interrupted the smooth flow of stone, he turned the flash beam upon the third dark huddle that lay humped beside the other two. At once a gleam of bright red shocked my vision.

  Beside me, Edith drew in her breath in a gasp. “It’s Catherine!”

  The light moved along the inert shape and I glimpsed the gold of loosened hair fanned out upon wet stone. Alex stayed a few moments, bending above her. Then he extinguished the light and climbed up the steep slope to the top, where Edith helped to pull him through the broken rail to the clearing.

  When he stood up I saw how shaken he was, how grim. “She’s dead. I can’t bring her up alone. We’ll have to get help—call the police.”

  “The police!” Edith wailed. “Why not the doctor, the hospital?”