"Yes, Grandy."
"There's a pressure in my house. You can't see it, of course. You can't hear it. Five senses don't betray it to you, but you feel it all the same. I was afraid of it before. It's death, I think. Not our familiar death that comes on schedule for the old or the sick. This is Death, the fascinator. The Death that's like a dark lover. Don't you see, duck? If it got Althea, it was because it got her unaware. She didn't know. She hadn't been warned. There's an attraction, a dreadful pull. Have you never stood on the edge of a steep drop, Tyl, and felt the urge to go over?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Grandy."
"It's similar, similar. Pressure. Pull. What difference? Something wants you to go over and be done with everything. Francis was so right, duckling, to be afraid."
Tyl tightened her hands on the coverlet. She had been lying on top of the bed, still dressed. Now she sat up, tense, not resting her back against the headboard. The light was dim. Grandy's face was in darkness. His voice was vibrant. She could feel the vibrations
in her breast.
"You mustn't worry about me," she said as stoutly as she could. "Please, Grandy. I do love you so. And I'm all right."
"Bless you."
"Grandy," she whispered, "if you're frightened, it scares me more than anything. Don't talk any more. Not about that."
She reached across. She thought he glanced at her, although she couldn't be sure, since his head didn't move in the dusk. Her fingers found the chain and she pulled on her light near the bed. "Let's talk about something else." She sent her voice high and gay. "Please,
Grandy. Darling, I brought you a present and you haven't even seen it. I nearly forgot"
It took all the strength she had to be so gay. It took all the courage she could find to try to change the mood for him, as he had so often done for her.
"A present?" he said. His effort was obvious. But he understood and he would play. He would try to be cheerful. "A present for me!"
She slid off the bed and ran to her dresser. The bag of Dutch chocolates was in the drawer. Grandy took it in his hands. He bowed his head. For a dreadful moment she thought he was going to weep. But he did not He opened the bag gleefully. He took a
handful out and tossed them gaily on the bed. For her, he said. Their secret. Their childish secret hoard of goodies. He made a show of it It should have been such fun.
But all the time she could hear the tears unshed behind his laughter, and when, at last, he kissed her gently on the cheek, and when he went away, clutching the bag of chocolates to his heart, Tyl threw herself on the bed and burst into tearing sobs.
Dear, dearest Grandy, he'd tried so hard, but it was enough to break your heart to see how hard he had to try.
Chapter Twenty
Her ears muffled by the sounds of her own weeping, it was a while before she heard the staccato tapping on the glass. Mathilda sat up, face wet, eyes red, hair tousled, frozen in the very image of distress, all rumpled by it. She saw him clinging there outside her window.
She knew who it was, and in a curious mood of suspended emotion she got off the bed and went calmly to open the window. Francis scrambled in. He gave her a quick look, enigmatic, and went immediately to lock the door to the hall. Tyl opened her mouth to protest. He hushed her.
"What was Grandy saying?"
She looked dumbly at him, the tears drying on her checks. For the moment, she couldn't remember what it was Grandy had been saying. Francis' face was serious, but his eyes hadn't that dark, reproachful, tortured look. On the contrary, they looked down at her with a warm light behind them, something simpler and more friendly than love.
He said, "I do wish you could trust me, Mathilda. I wish you could trust me a little bit, anyhow. I don't know what I'm going to do about you."
"You needn't do anything about me, thank you!" she said fiercely.
His hand on her arm invited her to sit down on the bed. He pulled the dressing-table bench over. They sat there, knee to knee. It seemed absurd, yet Mathilda had a feeling, half memory, that she owed him some courtesy. She sat where he had put her, and
prepared to listen.
"You haven't believed very much of what I've told you," he asked her gently, "have you, Mathilda?"
"No."
"There's one thing maybe you could believe, if you'd try. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."
"Why does everybody think something bad might h-happen?" Her voice shook. "I'm all right."
He took her hands suddenly and eagerly. "What did he say? He was talking to you about something happening, was he?" She didn't answer. Francis released her hands, although she hadn't tried to pull away. "I wish you could believe me. This is the damnedest mess. I know. You've got good reasons not to trust me an inch. And yet—Mathilda, listen. I never did think there was any danger that you'd kill yourself. Can you believe that? I was only trying to fix it so nothing would happen to you."
She shook her head, couldn't understand.
He went on desperately, "Now I'm going to do one thing more . . . might help. I want to ask you—I want to beg you to make it a little easier."
"What do you think might happen to me?" she insisted. Her green eyes challenged.
His dark eyes wavered. Then they came back boldly. "You might as well know that much. I don't want you to be murdered."
"To be what?"
"Murdered, as Rosaleen was. Althea too." His voice was very low. Mathilda drew away, leaned back, away from him, watching his face. He was watching hers. It was a strange duel between them.
"Why do you think they were murdered?" she said at last. "Are you a detective or what?" She was thinking, This explains— And yet nothing was quite clear.
“I'm no detective," Francis said. Tm just a blundering ass, tangled up in a mess here. And one girl died who might have lived if I'd stayed out of it. I don't want you to be another."
"You have been lying," said Mathilda. She sat up straighter. "You admit it now, don't you? All of that stuff in New York, all those people—you lied. You fixed it."
He didn't answer. He kept watching her face.
"If you admit that," she said, "then I just might believe what you say now."
Evading, he said, "Did you tell Grandy about it?"
"Certainly."
"About my lies?"
"Certainly."
"Did he believe you?"
"Of course he did!" She would have risen in her rage and gone away, but he caught at her hand.
"Don't be angry. I asked a question. I just wanted the answer."
"Grandy knows I wouldn't— He knows it couldn't be true that I— He knows—" she sputtered.
"Then why can't you tell me so, without getting so mad about it?"
"You won't admit you're lying!" she cried. "And I know you're lying. Why won't you?"
"Is Grandy quite sure I was lying?"
Mathilda covered her face with both hands. "Please, go away. Get out of my room. What do you want, anyway?"
He said grimly, "I want to fix it so you'll live, baby. I've got here a will you made."
"A will?"
"Will. Last will and testament. I expect it's one of those things you've forgotten. It was made in the three lost days." Francis' voice and manner had changed. He was casual, glib. "Oh, it's legal, all right. The whole thing is in your handwriting. Perfectly good last will and testament. At least plenty good enough to raise an awful stink if you should die."
“If I should—"
"My object is . . . that you don't die. I believe that if I show this little paper in certain places, it will tend to lengthen your life." He looked at her insolently. No, not insolently, but with a reckless look, a gambling look.
She said, "Oh. Now I understand."
"You do?"
"It was the money." She laughed in his face. It pleased her to see his face sobering, losing some of that wild light. "Why I should have been confused by the lie you told about your wealth— What's one more lie to you? You thought I
was dead. You thought I'd never
come back! You worked out this whole scheme to chisel in."
"Muscle," he corrected. "Muscle in."
"You saw a chance to get your hands on the Frazier fortune! You re so good at forgeries. You really do lie very well."
Francis looked down at her white angry face. "I really don't know whether I can keep you from being murdered," he said with a curious, detached effect. "I'll try."
Mathilda sprang up. Tm just beginning to wonder," she blazed, "if your scheme doesn't include my murder!"
They were eye to eye now in anger.
"In about a minute," said Francis, Tm going to spank. I tell you you're in danger of your life. I know it. It makes no least difference to me what kind of liar you choose to call me. I'm some kinds of liar, but this kind I'm not. For some strange reason, I don't want you to die."
"Because you love me," sneered Mathilda.
"Unh-uh." It was a negative. It slipped out. It was an admission. She ought to seize upon it triumphantly. But she didn't. "Lets not worry about who loves whom," he went on gently, and he was smiling. "Let's forget that and go back and start over. Do you think you could listen to an idea?"
"What idea?"
"Sh-h, sh-h."
"What idea?" she repeated more quietly.
"I'll show this will to-show this around. Nobody then is going to murder you for your money except me. Right?"
"Right," she said.
"Now we'll protect you from me. Make another will, Mathilda, and hide it. Hide it from me, but tell a stranger where you hide it. The only thing is—promise don't tell—"
"Don't tell whom?"
"Don't tell anyone you know."
Mathilda drew her breath as slowly as she could. She shook herself down to calmness. "You are trying to make me afraid that someone wants to kill me. Why don't you tell me straight out who that person is?"
"Because," said Francis, "there are two Mathildas. One of them could not ever believe me. The other one knows already."
The silence closed in. Suddenly she found herself in Francis' arms. Her impulse was to let go, give up to the warmth there, put her face against him and let the tears through. But she struggled.
"Sorry," he said. He set her back on her own equilibrium. "I know what you're going through. Something about the way you take it breaks my heart." He spoke lightly. His eyes had that warm light. His eyebrows flew up with his smile. He half turned, as if to let her pull herself together. "Lookit! Chocolates!"
She watched him pick up a brightly wrapped candy, peel off the wrapper. She made herself remember that he was a liar. She said, 'Your forgeries are so very clever, perhaps I'd better make a genuine will."
She went to her little gray desk, pulled out paper and pen. "To all whom it may concern," she wrote angrily, decisively. She put down the date in big firm figures and underlined it. "This is my will and it supersedes all others, including the one forged by a man who calls himself my husband. I am twenty-two years old, unmarried, perfectly sane. I don't know legal language, but I intend to make my meaning so clear—"
Standing behind her, Francis munched chocolates.
She wrote down that everything she had must belong to her beloved guardian, Luther Grandison. She finished it. She signed it.
Francis nodded. "Good," he said.
She looked up into his eyes. They didn't seem anything but clear and friendly. "If you'll just hide it," he said. "Please, Tyl. And tell a stranger. But only a stranger. What harm can that do? Call it a whim. Call it anything. Give me that little bit of trust or take it for
a little bit of advice that cant hurt you."
She thought she could feel the warmth of his presence close above her. The moment crystallized, as some moments will, and for just that while she was aware of the whole setting—herself at the desk with the light falling on her hands, the paper under them, white against the rosy blotter, the green pen lying there. All the background was in her mind, as if she could see it too. The gray walls around them, the furniture, the bed with its yellow spread, its soft pale yellow silken quilt, the hollow in the pillow where her head had been.
And she heard the silence of the house beyond the rooms walls. She was aware of the deserted gardens outside, below, and of the globe of the world turning through the dark toward dawn.
And in the core of the moment was the warmth of his presence, where he stood just behind her, looking down over her shoulder easily, not touching her and yet surrounding her as if there were a shield at her back.
She said, "All right. Ill hide it."
Where had her wrath gone? Where was the stubborn conflict and clash of wills? Mathilda tilted her head, looked up and back. She smiled.
He bent and kissed her warmly, heartily, like a brother, like a friend. An endearing kiss, it asked for nothing. It congratulated her.
Then he put a handful of chocolates in his pocket. "These are good," he said. "Good night" For the second, he hesitated, as if he wondered what to call her. Dear, or what? He touched her shoulder. 'Thanks, pal," he said.
Then he put one long leg out the window absurdly, as if he were getting into a pair of trousers. His face grinned at her a last moment over the sill. She heard faint scrambling noises. He was gone.
She put the window down, stepped quickly back and away from it. She didn't want him to see her watching, if he should look back. Because, of course, she wasn't watching.
She had the new will in her hand. She folded it small. She looked about for a place. A little hanging shelf near the bed had some books in it. She took one down, a thin book of poetry-Lucile-in a cardboard case. She put her piece of paper inside, between the book and its case. It wasn't a very good hiding place, but it would do.
Mathilda undressed, got into bed. She told herself that when the light was out she would lie and think things through. She would start at the beginning and be clear about everything. She would try to organize the facts, make some sense out of what had been
happening. She would try to understand with her brain, instead of reeling about in the confusion with a straining heart Instead of drifting in and out of people's arms. She thought, What a way to behave. She must—must be clear.
But once the light was off and she lay snug under the yellow comforter, Mathilda fell immediately asleep.
In the morning, she was surprised to find that the door of her room had been locked all night. It wasn't her habit to lock her door. It made her a little ashamed to think she'd forgotten. Because, of course, it was Francis who had locked it, and she'd simply forgotten.
Chapter Twenty-one
Grandy pushed the button; the gadget operated. Francis opened the study door from the living room and came in. He crossed easily to the visitor s chair and sat down. Jane, at her little desk in the corner, kept the rhythm of her typing steady, but the sense of the line she had been typing dissolved into a jumble of meaningless letters, as if she'd suddenly begun to type in code.
Grandy had a cigarette in his holder. He pushed papers fretfully away and leaned on his folded hands. He inquired after Francis' health this morning.
Francis said, “I want to talk to you."
"By all means," said Grandy with some curiosity. . . . "Jane—
"I'd like Jane to stay, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind." Grandy took the holder out of his mouth and fingered it delicately. He waited.
"Because," said Francis, "I'd like a disinterested person to hear what I am going to say."
"Would you like Jane to take notes?" said Grandy charmingly, obligingly. "She does shorthand very well."
Francis was not diverted. "I came to tell you that you are no longer unsuspected," he said quietly. "And murder's too much, you know, to excuse, even in one who has been so kind."
Grandy's interested expression remained unchanged, unless he looked even more interested. "Please do go on," he said in enchanted tones, as if this were the very thing he had needed to stimulate and excite him.
&n
bsp; "When Rosaleen Wright hanged herself that winter morning," said Francis coolly, "she knocked over a lamp, uprooted some wires and blew a fuse."
So Tom Gahagen was telling me," said Grandy amiably. One would think they approached a puzzle together.
"Your clock on the mantel just beyond that wall was stopped. The time was twenty minutes after ten."
Grandy shifted in his chair. "Yes, yes. All this we know. What's the significance?"
"Althea was in the kitchen that morning?"
"Yes. Certainly. Althea was in the kitchen."
"So were you, Mr. Grandison."
The Unsuspected Page 12