Vanishing Point

by Patricia Wentworth

  At the sound of the opening door Henry Cunningham made his accustomed protest.

  “If you don’t mind-I’m busy.”

  Lucy had often minded before, but this time she was making no bones about it.

  “I’m sorry, Henry, but I’ve really got to speak to you.”

  He said in a mild worried voice,

  “Some other time, don’t you think?”

  “No, Henry-now.”

  He sighed, laid down the fine instrument, and sat back in his chair, where he pushed his glasses up and ran a hand across his eyes.

  “I thought you were in bed.”

  She went round to the other side of the table and pulled up a chair.

  “Well, I’m not.”

  He sighed again.

  “So I see. But it is very late, and I am really very busy. I have these specimens to get off to a Belgian correspondent. He is giving a lecture on spiders, and I am able to supply him with the specimens he needs for it. Slides will be prepared and thrown upon the screen greatly magnified. The series illustrates Lelong’s theory-but that won’t interest you.”

  Lucy Cunningham said, “No.”

  Since he appeared to be about to relapse into concentration upon the spider, she repeated her previous remark, only in a louder and firmer tone,

  “Henry, I must speak to you.”

  He sat back again and said,

  “I am really very busy. What is it?”

  “Henry, someone tried to kill me last night.”

  His spectacles were half way up his forehead. He peered at her and blinked.

  “Someone tried to kill you! What do you mean?”

  As she leaned towards him, one of her hands was on the table. They could both see that it was shaking. She snatched it back into her lap and said in a voice that he would hardly have known,

  “Someone tied a string across the stairs. Then a bell rang in the hall. I thought it was the telephone, but it could have been an alarm clock or any electric bell. I was running to answer it, and the cord caught me just above the ankle. The mark is still there. I had my hand on the balustrade, or I couldn’t have saved myself. If I had gone down head first upon those flagstones I should probably have been killed. Don’t you think so?”

  Henry looked bewildered.

  “My dear Lucy!”

  “Don’t you think so, Henry?”

  He had taken up the fine steel instrument. He laid it down again and flexed his fingers. Perhaps they had closed upon it with a cramping pressure. He said,

  “Someone must have left a piece of string lying about and you caught your foot-Nicholas-or Mrs. Hubbard. Very careless-very dangerous. I remember in Constantinople -”

  She said abruptly,

  “This is Hazel Green. The string was garden twine. It wasn’t left lying about. It was stretched across the stairs and fastened to the balusters. It wasn’t there when I went to bed. After that there were only two other people in the house-you and Nicholas. I want to know which of you tied that string across the stairs.”

  “Lucy-”

  “One of you put it there. If it wasn’t you, it was Nicholas. If it wasn’t Nicholas, it was you. I want to know why.”

  “You don’t know what you are saying.”

  “I ought to-I’ve had all day to think about it. Someone tried to kill me.”

  “Lucy, you can’t be well! Don’t you think if you were to go to bed-perhaps a cup of tea and an aspirin-”

  All at once the fear touched her again. He was just Henry messing about with his specimens. But some of the things in those little bottles were poison-A cup of tea and an aspirin- She heard him say,

  “You’d much better get to bed. I’ll make you some tea and bring it up.”

  There was concern in his voice. Concern about what? She didn’t know. He had never made a cup of tea for anyone else in his life. He forgot his own meals unless he was called to them. She remembered picking up a book at a railway bookstall, and it was called Death in the Cup. The row of little bottles swam before her eyes. She took hold of the edge of the table and stood up.

  “Yes, I’ll go to bed. I can’t sleep. I won’t have any tea-it might keep me awake-I’ll just get to bed.”

  But on her way to the door she turned.

  “Why is Nicholas so late?”

  Henry Cunningham was already adjusting his glasses, picking up the long sliver of steel. He said vaguely,

  “Nicholas-he’s often later than this-”

  “But he telephoned from Dalling Grange and said he had been kept.”

  “Oh, well, he will have gone on somewhere.”

  He bent forward over the table, and she went out of the room.

  As she stood in the hall, it came to her that she had only to lift the telephone receiver and she could speak to anyone she liked-to Mrs. Stubbs at the Holly Tree-to Marian Merridew and her friend, that little Miss Silver-to Lydia Crewe. She could say what she chose to say-that she was ill, that she was nervous-that she had had a fall, a fainting fit. None of them lived more than a few hundred yards away-any one of them would come… Would Lydia? She turned her back on that, and in the next moment on all of it. To make herself the talk of the place- to rouse a friend from her sleep because she couldn’t sleep herself? It was too late, much too late for that. The church clock struck midnight as she went slowly up to her room.

  CHAPTER 34

  Miss Silver, conscious of having neglected a kind hostess, did her best to make amends. A good deal to her relief, she found on returning to the drawing-room that Mrs. Merridew had fallen into a comfortable doze from which she did not immediately awake. When at last she opened her eyes and sat up she really had no idea of the time, and it was not until quite half an hour later that she looked at the clock and exclaimed. Even after that there was some lingering conversation. By the time the round of the house had been made and doors and windows tested it was well on the way towards midnight.

  Refreshed by her sleep, Mrs. Merridew was pleasurably shocked. She really didn’t know when she had been up so late. From an irresponsible past she recalled an illicit feast in the dormitory at school, and how Cecilia had so narrowly escaped being caught.

  “Do you remember, Maud?”

  Miss Silver remembered-disapproval tempered by indulgence.

  “It is all a very long time ago.”

  Mrs. Merridew sighed.

  “Yes-I suppose so. But sometimes it doesn’t seem as if it were. We haven’t really changed very much, have we-any of us? Not in ourselves. Of course we don’t look the same-but then you change so gradually that you don’t notice it. But I really should have known you anywhere-and Cecilia too, though we used to call her Cissie and she has grown rather stout.”

  The good-nights finally said, Miss Silver closed her bedroom door and prepared to embark upon the settled routine of undressing. Advancing to the bedside table, she took off the watch which she wore pinned to the left-hand side of her dress, wound it, and laid it down. The next step should have been the removal of the hair-net which she wore in the day and its replacement by the much stronger sort which she assumed at night. No matter at what hour alarums and excursions might occur-and Miss Silver’s experience had included some of a quite violent nature-she had never yet been seen with a single hair out of place. The arrangement at night would be different, the plaits a little tighter, but order and neatness would prevail. Tonight she had got as far as putting up a hand to remove the hairpins which controlled the net, but at that point something stopped her. The hand came down again, the hairpins remained where they were.

  She stood where she was for several minutes and became immersed in thought. It might be Marian Merridew’s talk about the old days when a rule could still be a challenge, or it might be something a good deal more important than that. There was a sense of uneasiness, of urgency. She looked at the comfortable bed which was waiting for her, and knew that it could offer her no rest until this disturbance in her thought was quieted. It came to her that there was
a not too difficult course which might afford relief. Marian Merridew was not at all deaf, but she did not possess the acute hearing that Miss Silver herself enjoyed. Her bedroom looked to the back of the house. It had a delightful view of the garden. There would be no difficulty about a careful descent of the stairs or the opening of the front door. It would, in fact, be perfectly possible to leave the house without having to embark upon an explanation of her movements.

  At this point in her meditations Miss Silver picked up her watch and pinned it on. After which she assumed her coat, her second best hat, and a pair of outdoor shoes. Fastening the aged fur tippet, cherished companion of many winters, firmly about her neck, she extinguished the light in her bedroom and found her way down the stairs and out of the house without making any sound at all. The air was cold, but there was no sign of rain. Miss Silver felt gratitude for her tippet and for the fact that the night was fine, but even if it had been raining heavens hard, she knew now that her errand would have taken her out in it. Before she could sleep she must at any rate walk past the Dower House and look up at the windows. She did not know what she was to do when she got there. By now the house should all be dark. Darkness did not mean safety. A phrase from the Scriptures slipped into her mind-“They that are drunken are drunken in the night.” There was more than one sort of drunkenness. Men could be drunk with pride, with passion, or with power. They could be drunken with hatred, or with the lust of gain.

  She walked down the dark and silent street and made no plan. If there was something for her to do, when the time came she would know what it was. The entrance to the Dower House was not more than a few yards away when she heard a step behind her. There was no moon, but the night was clear. Someone large loomed up. The height and breadth induced her to take a chance with his name.

  “Mr. Lester-”

  Even in his astonishment he could not mistake her voice.

  “Miss Silver! What are you doing here?”

  She said composedly…

  “I might ask you that, might I not?”

  He laughed.

  “I didn’t feel like sleeping. I thought I would come out and walk.”

  He wondered if she would guess him fool enough to go up to Crewe House and gaze at the dark square of Rosamond’s window, appropriately barred since Miss Crewe would not have considered it safe to sleep on the ground-floor without taking every precaution. He did not really mind whether Miss Silver thought him a fool or not. A bridegroom is entitled to wear motley if he will. He was in the mood to shout Rosamond’s name abroad, or to carve it on the trees. This was his hour- and hers. He heard Miss Silver say,

  “I have been feeling extremely uneasy about Miss Cunningham.”

  He was taken completely by surprise. Rosamond and himself-Jenny and Miss Crewe-to any of these his response would have been instant. But Lucy Cunningham-He stared through the dark and said,

  “Why?”

  “I believe that an attempt was made on her life last night. I did not feel that I could sleep without coming as far as the house.”

  He said bluntly, “What can you do?”

  “I do not know. I shall at least feel that I have done what I can.”

  They were standing still in the shadow at the side of the road, their voices muted, the last cottage behind them and all the village asleep. He said quickly,

  “What do you mean? There’s been an attempt on her life!”

  She told him plainly and precisely.

  “But that would be someone in the house.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lester.”

  He gave a faint half laugh.

  “That damp dreep Henry! I can imagine his being crooked. He’s the sort to slide down the drain, but I shouldn’t have thought he would hurt a fly. That leaves Nicholas. She brought him up. It’s not pretty.”

  “Crime very seldom is, Mr. Lester.”

  “What do you propose to do?”

  “Miss Cunningham was kind enough to take me over the house this afternoon. Her room is at the back. There are two windows. She informed me that she always slept with them open. If her light is out and they are open now it will be some indication that things are normal. In the ordinary way I should not anticipate that a second attempt would be made so soon, but there might be some special reason for silencing her without delay, and I could not disregard my own uneasiness.”

  Some of it seemed to have communicated itself to Craig. He had found himself startled, sceptical, and now a good deal disturbed. He said,

  “I’ll come with you if I may.”

  There was a slight but significant pause. He was being weighed. A laugh just touched his voice as he said,

  “I shan’t make any noise. I can walk like a cat if I want to.”

  “Then I shall be very glad of your company.” The Dower House had no drive leading up to it. It stood fronting onto the road with a stone wall screening it and the Victorian edition of a glazed passage covering the bare dozen feet from the gate to the front door. As Craig lifted the latch and stood aside for Miss Silver to pass, the church clock struck the quarter after midnight.

  CHAPTER 35

  The house appeared to be in complete darkness. On either side of the passage running up to the front door the windows on both floors showed nothing. A narrow glass door on the left led from the passage into the garden. It was locked on the inside. Miss Silver producing a very serviceable torch from her coat pocket, the key was located and turned. Feeling a good deal like a burglar, Craig preceded her, and found himself on a gravel path between two banks of shrubs. Closing the door behind her, Miss Silver followed him. She extinguished the torch, put it back in her pocket, and began to walk along the path with as much composure as if she had been an invited guest.

  At the corner of the house the path turned, the shrubbery widened out. A blackness of trees appeared behind it. There was still no light anywhere. The mass of the house towered over them like a cliff. Craig bent to say, “Do we go all the way round?” and could discern that she inclined her head.

  It was at this moment that they heard the sound. It came from in front of them and to the left-the small crisp sound of a snapping twig. He felt Miss Silver’s hand on his arm, drawing him away from the path and towards the house. A couple of steps, and they stood amongst bushes, listening. Someone was coming through the shrubbery on the other side of the path. If it had not been for the snapped twig, they would all have come together a little farther on. Miss Silver stood motionless remembering the lie of the land. This wall of the house did not run straight back from front to rear. It broke, to form a small paved courtyard, rather damp and gloomy at this time of the year, and with what she considered an excessive number of creepers. She remembered an old magnolia, a good deal of Virginia creeper, and one or two dark cypresses growing far too close to the house.

  Someone came out of the shrubbery on the left and entered the courtyard. Miss Silver’s hand came down with a warning pressure upon Craig’s wrist. Then, quite soundlessly, she was gone. He could be in no doubt but that he had been told to remain where he was-the clumsy man whose big feet would naturally betray him if he moved. Since he had served as a paratrooper and time and again risked more than his own life upon his silence, he could afford a private grin over that. Nevertheless he stood where he was, since it wasn’t his show, and in any event two people made more noise than one.

  Time goes slowly in the dark. It goes slowly anywhere when you wait and wonder what is going on. When something stirred in the gloom ahead of him he stepped to meet it. Miss Silver’s hand came out and touched him. As he bent to her, she said in an almost soundless voice,

  “Someone has just come from Crewe House and entered the Dower House by a concealed door. I believe that we should follow.”

  “How do we get in?”

  If it was breaking and entering, he was definitely prepared to put the male foot down and keep it there. In a good cause any woman would break any law with an unruffled conscience, but he was not prepared to celebrate h
is wedding by being arrested.

  Miss Silver’s reply was lucid and succinct,

  “She unlocked the door, but I did not hear her lock it again.”

  He found a Gilbertian echo in his mind-“Who the deuce may she be?”

  Lucy Cunningham? But why the melodramatic secret door?

  Jenny? He wouldn’t put it past her. But how would she come by an illicit key?

  It wouldn’t be either of these-oh, no. It would be Lydia Crewe. And that set such a danger signal ringing that he hadn’t a word to say.

  Miss Silver kept her hand on his arm. The stones of the courtyard were damp and soft with moss. Where the added blackness of a tall cypress pressed against the dark wall of the house she stepped before him. Her hand groped, found what it felt for, and reaching back, invited him to follow. There was no more than room to pass. He scraped the wall and was buffeted by twigs and branches. There was a cold aromatic smell. And then they were in a narrow, a very narrow passage. He was to learn afterwards that it ran between two of the rooms. His shoulders touched it on either side. He wondered how many cobwebs he would collect before they were through. The place reeked of dust.

  Ahead of them there was a line of light. It cut the darkness like an incandescent wire-as narrow and sharp as that. As they came up to it, he saw that there was a door-no, not a door, a sliding panel. Someone had gone through that way and pushed it to carelessly, leaving the shining crack. Where light can pass sound passes. Lydia Crewe’s deep, harsh voice spoke from beyond the panel.

  “Really Henry-what a story! Lucy must be going off her head!”