He began to think about Rosamond. He could not believe, he would not let himself believe, that anything could go wrong now. Whatever happened or didn’t happen tonight, they must be married as he had planned. He hoped with all his heart that nothing would happen. He supposed Miss Silver was bound to ring up the police, but somehow he didn’t see the country people rushing over in the middle of the night to arrest Henry Cunningham on the word of an elderly spinster. There would have to be a search warrant, and a search warrant meant recourse to a higher authority. Higher authority didn’t take kindly to being knocked up in the small hours. He considered there would be some weight behind the argument that if the Melbury rubies were in Henry Cunningham’s drawer they could very well stay there for a few hours longer. As to Miss Cunningham being in any danger, he felt that a good deal of scepticism could be expected.
He began to feel a good deal of scepticism himself. If he had not stood behind the panel and heard Lydia Crewe say, “Lucy knows too much,” the scepticism might have been complete. As it was, the words stuck in his throat-“Lucy knows too much.” And how did it go on-“She knows enough to ruin us.” He could tell himself that she was putting a case to Henry Cunningham, and that anyhow people said a lot of things they didn’t really mean. But the words stuck, and the voice that carried them. It occurred to him quite suddenly that he had never disliked any one as much as he disliked Lydia Crewe.
If his ears had not been trained to listen, he might not have heard her when she came. The path ran close beside his tree. If he had taken one step and stretched out a hand he could have touched her, but she went past with what was hardly a sound. The air moved, something went by. Since he knew where she must be going, he did not hurry to follow her. He had unlaced his shoes, now he slipped them off and left them hanging on the tree. He came in his stocking feet to the edge of the little courtyard as she slipped behind the bush which screened the secret door. The key turned, the door swung in, and she was gone. He could neither see nor hear these things, but he knew that they were happening.
And then Miss Silver was saying, “She has just gone in, has she not?”
“Yes.”
“She must be followed, and at once.”
The tall figure of Frank Abbott loomed up. He said in the almost soundless voice which the others were using,
“There’s a delay about the search warrant. It may be some time before it gets here.”
Miss Silver was already on her way towards the house. Frank followed her.
“My dear ma’am, we can’t just go in!”
He considers that her reply exhibits the Victorian tradition at the point where the sublime transcends the ridiculous. It is not so easy to achieve dignity without emphasis, but she achieved it.
“My dear Frank, I am on visiting terms with Miss Cunningham, and I feel no difficulty about entering her house. You and Mr. Lester will, of course, do what you feel to be right.” With which pronouncement she too stepped behind the bush and entered the passage.
Standing for a moment to listen, she could hear nothing. There was need for haste, but there was also a need for caution.
Lydia Crewe passed through the study, leaving the panel open. A small light burned in the hall. After some consideration she left it as it was and went up to the bedroom floor. If she had to make a sudden retreat it would be useful to be able to see her way. Lucy Cunningham’s door was the first on the right at the top of the stairs-Henry opposite on the left, and Nicholas at the back of the landing. She had no fear that they would wake, but if either of them did, Henry had alarmed her about Lucy and she had slipped over to see that all was well.
She tried the handle of the door and found it fast. Her brows met in a frown. She lifted her hand and knocked. After a moment a voice said,
“Who’s there?”
She would hardly have known it for Lucy’s voice, it was so hoarse and strained. She made her own voice smooth.
“It’s Lydia, my dear. Henry was concerned about you. He said you were not well. He was concerned enough to ring me up.”
Lucy Cunningham was startled right out of her fear.
“Henry rang you up!”
“Yes. You can tell how worried he must have been. Let me in-we can’t talk like this.”
She heard Lucy come up to the door and turn the key. A triumphant sense of power took hold of her as she stepped into the room and pushed the door to behind her. She did not stop to latch it. She would not be here for long. What she had to do could be done without delay. She looked at Lucy, still in her afternoon dress, and said in a shocked tone,
“But, my dear, you are not undressed. Do you know how late it is?”
Lucy shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter-I can’t sleep. Did you say Henry rang you up?”
Lydia Crewe nodded.
“He’s terribly worried. I told him I would come over and bring you a sleeping-draught.”
“Henry rang you up?” Incredulity struggled through the flat fatigue of her voice.
“That is what I said.”
“Henry?”
“Would you be glad to know that we have made it up again?”
“Glad? Oh, Lydia!”
The tears began to run down her face. She put out her hands gropingly. Lydia Crewe took them, guided her to the bed, and sat there beside her, speaking to her soothingly.
The sound of this soothing voice reached Miss Silver as she came to the top of the stairs-that and the sound of Lucy Cunningham’s sobs. They made it quite safe to approach the door, which was ajar. Standing there, she heard Miss Crewe say,
“Now, Lucy, there’s nothing to cry about. Henry and I are just where we were, and you ought to be pleased about that. But he is terribly worried about you, so I want you to take this sleeping-draught. What you need is a good night’s rest. Henry can ask Mrs. Hubbard to let you sleep on in the morning, and when you wake up you can tell us how glad you are that we can all be friends again. Of course you and I always were. We never did let anything come between us, did we, and we never will.”
All the time that she was speaking Lucy wept, not loudly, but in an exhausted fashion as if she had come to the end of her strength and could do no more. Lydia and Henry had made it up- Lydia was being kind-there was nothing to worry about any more. But she was too tired to be glad. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep. She was conscious of the removal of Lydia ’s arm and of her getting up and going over to the wash-stand. There was the chink of glass against glass.
And then Lydia was back again, standing in front of her and holding out a tumbler.
“Now, Lucy, drink this. And then we’ll get your clothes off and you can go to sleep.”
Miss Silver pushed the door an inch or two wider. Lucy Cunningham was sitting on the side of the bed, her face wet with tears, her eyes blurred. Standing over her with her back to the door was Lydia Crewe. There was a tumbler in her hand half full. She held it out to Lucy and said in a tone of authority,
“Come now-drink it up!”
Lucy gave a last tired sob and said,
“I don’t-want it, Lydia. Now you’ve come-I shall sleep.”
The tone of authority became harsher.
“You will drink it at once and no nonsense about it! What you need is a good long rest!”
Lucy Cunningham put out her hand half way and took the glass. And saw Miss Maud Silver come into the room with her black cloth coat, her fur tippet, her second-best hat, and her warm woolen gloves. It was such a surprising sight that it shocked her broad awake. The impact of Lydia ’s will was blunted. Her face changed, she drew back her hand.
Miss Silver gave a slight arresting cough and said,
“I think it is extremely wise of you to resist a sedative, Miss Cunningham. Natural sleep is always to be preferred.”
Lydia Crewe turned stiffly round. She had had one shock already. She had surmounted it. Now there was this. In a moment she would be able to think, to plan, to know what she must do. Just now, in t
his instant of time, she could only stand there and stare.
With a purely instinctive movement Lucy Cunningham leaned sideways behind Miss Crewe’s back and set the tumbler down upon the bedside table. There was no design in what she did. There was a tumbler in her hand, she set it down. Something had brought Miss Silver into her room in the middle of the night. She got to her feet, passing Lydia, standing away from her, because all at once the room was full of fierce currents. She didn’t understand them, but they were there. Lydia who had been kind was not kind any longer. Her voice shook with a sound which Lucy knew and feared beyond anything else.
“What-do-you-want?”
Miss Silver did not appear to be impressed. She said in her usual composed manner,
“I want you to go home, Miss Crewe. I believe that you had better do so. Miss Cunningham should rest.”
Lydia Crewe made a great effort. She controlled the rage that shook her. She controlled her voice to say,
“I found she had dissolved some tablets for a sleeping-draught-they are some she had by her. I was just waiting to see her take them and help her to bed.”
And what must Lucy say, the babbling fool, but “ Lydia, I’ve never had any sleeping-tablets. I don’t like them-I don’t need them. It was you-”
There was a silence. Lydia Crewe gathered her remaining forces. She said,
“Very well, I’ll go. Since you don’t need that draught, we can throw it away.” Then suddenly, sharply, “What have you done with it?… Ah!”
She had not turned in time. Miss Silver had moved between her and the bedside table, and at that her control broke. She made a dreadful sound and reached for Miss Silver’s throat.
Lucy Cunningham screamed at the top of her voice, and in a moment the room was full of people-Frank Abbott, Craig Lester, Nicholas. And at long last Henry Cunningham, his shaking hands to his ears, because now it was Lydia Crewe who was screaming-dreadfully.
CHAPTER 41
Rosamond lay dreaming. She walked in a spring garden with Craig. The dark wood was a thing of the past, she didn’t seem to remember it any more. This was a spring garden. There were apple trees rosy with bloom, there was cherry blossom. The path where they walked was set on either side with daffodils and coloured primroses. There was a blue sky over head, and the sun shone. She woke to darkness and a voice that called her name.
“Rosamond! Wake up!”
It was Craig’s voice. The sweetness of the dream was still round her. She sat up beside Jenny in the wide old-fashioned bed and called softly,
“What is it?”
“It’s Craig. Come over here to the window. I want to speak to you.”
They kissed with the bars between them. He held her.
“Darling, I hate to wake you like this, but we’ve got to push the time on a bit.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you afterwards. Look here, it’s nearly six o’clock. I want you to wake Jenny and get dressed-both of you. If you’ll let me in by the side door, I’ll be getting you some tea. I don’t want to start our married life by starving you. I suppose there’ll be eggs?”
“There ought to be. But, Craig-”
“My sweet, there’s no time for any buts-you’ve just got to do what I say! Put on your dressing-gown and let me in, and I’ll wrestle up some food while you get packed.”
She did what she was told. It might have been part of the dream-darker than the one from which she had come and full of questioning thoughts. They did not pass her lips. There was a sense of urgency, of fear. If Lydia Crewe should wake-she shrank appalled at the threat of what scene would follow and of what the bitter tongue might say. The thoughts came and went. There was no time to dwell on them. The sense of urgency persisted. It was in Craig’s clasp and kiss when the garden door swung open to let him in. It was in the quiet haste with which he sent her back to dress as soon as she had shown him the way to the kitchen.
Jenny was awake when she got back, and the light was on. There sprang up in her a picture of Lydia Crewe standing at her window to look out and seeing that bright rectangle printed on the path. It was her custom to sleep with windows closed and curtains drawn, but in the picture Lydia stood at the window to watch the light from Rosamond’s room. She might have stood there to listen when Craig spoke from the other side of the bars. Rosamond did not know that Lydia Crewe would never stand at those windows to listen and watch again. She made haste to draw the curtains across her own.
Jenny was stretching and, yawning.
“Darling, it’s the middle of the night. Where have you been?”
Rosamond said soberly,
“It’s after six. Craig wants us to come with him now. Hurry up and get dressed! He’s making tea in the kitchen.”
Jenny stopped yawning to blow her a kiss. Her eyes sparkled, the sleep all gone from them.
“Ooh! Lovely! We mustn’t make any noise, must we? Suppose she heard us and came along snorting out fire and forbidding the bans!”
Rosamond was stepping into her clothes. She said briefly,
“We should go all the same-she couldn’t stop us. But hurry!”
As they turned from the side passage which served their room and Lydia Crewe’s, Jenny looked back. Words came tumbling out of her mouth in a whisper.
“What do you say when you are going away from a place you hate with all your might? It can’t be ‘Good-bye’ because that means ‘Good be with you,’ and it can’t be ‘Farewell.’ It had better be ‘Horrid, horrible place, I hope I shall never, never, NEVER see you again!’ ” She caught at Rosamond’s arm. “Run, before it comes after us and pulls us back!”
Rosamond could feel that the hand was shaking. She steadied her own voice to say,
“I can’t run with two suit-cases. And there’s no need-no one will come after us.”
It was whilst she was saying it that she could feel for the first time that it was true. They crossed the hall. She had left one light burning there. It did very little with the darkness except to show how the shadows clung about the stairway, and how black was the upper landing and the mouth of every passage. Somewhere in the gloom above their heads the ancestral portraits watched them go. It was a relief to pass the baize door at the back of the hall and find bright lights beyond. Craig seemed to have switched on everything as he came to it.
He was fishing eggs out of a boiling saucepan as they came into the kitchen. There was a cloth spread on the table. Cups and saucers, butter and a loaf, stood ready. He called over his shoulder,
“Get out the salt and pepper, and the knives! Oh, and the milk-the kettle is just going to boil!”
It wasn’t romantic, but it was extremely reassuring. When the baize door fell to they had left the haunted shadows behind them. Kitchens don’t have ghosts. Or at least no more alarming ones than the lingering aroma of bygone meals. They ate and washed up what they had used. Mrs. Bolder would miss the eggs and know that the bread and the butter had been cut, but she wouldn’t be able to say that they had left their cups and plates for her to deal with.
It was striking seven when they let themselves out of the side door and walked down the drive to where Craig had left his car. It was a still, cold morning, and the darkness had begun to thin away.
CHAPTER 42
Mrs. Selby woke up. She had heard the clock strike quarter after quarter all through the night, and then quite suddenly she was asleep. Or was she? She didn’t know. The clock had stopped striking. Everything was very still and very cold. She was quite alone-there wasn’t anyone or anything. It was more frightening than the most frightening dream.
Then into the emptiness and silence there came something that must have been a sound. She didn’t know where it came from, but it woke her. She sat up in bed and heard a car come down the lane. It was quite dark in the room. She didn’t care about having windows open and the night air coming in, and she kept her curtains drawn. Horrid and damp the night air was in the country, and she didn’t hold with letting it in.
Besides there were bats, and if a bat got into the room she would go crazy. Fred, now, he liked his windows open-said the room got stuffy if they were shut, and he couldn’t sleep. Well, she couldn’t sleep with them open, so he had his own room, and she had hers. It wasn’t what she had thought they would ever come to. Married people ought to sleep together, and that was a fact. But have those windows open on the ground floor, and cats and bats and goodness knows what coming in, she couldn’t and she wouldn’t. There hadn’t been any unpleasantness over it-she would have liked it better if there had been. What she didn’t like was the feeling that Fred was just as well pleased to have it this way. He ought to have been put about and have made a fuss, instead of just smiling to himself and saying, “Have it your own way, my dear.”
She sat up in bed and heard four men get out of the car. She knew that there were four, because she heard them talking, and not troubling to keep their voices down neither. They came up to the door and she heard the buzz of the electric bell. Well, she wasn’t opening doors in her nightgown-Fred would have to go. But she got out of bed and went to the window. With the curtains pulled a little to one side to make a peephole she could see that it wasn’t dark any more, just the grey of the early morning, and the clouds so low that they would be bound to have rain before you could turn round. Funny how you got to notice the weather down here in the country. When they lived in town she never noticed it unless it was snow, or hail, or a thunderstorm, or one of those hot spells when it didn’t seem as if there was enough air to go round.
The electric bell went again. This time the man kept his thumb on it. She could see him now, and the others, standing round the door waiting for someone to come. Policemen! She let the curtain fall and stepped back, cold and shaking. What did the police want, coming here like this before anyone was dressed? Fred would have to go to the door. They would have to wait. She reached for her dressing-gown, clutched it about her shoulders, and went in barefoot to the room at the back where he slept. The draught from the open window met her. He lay facing it with his back to her and the bedclothes huddled up around his ears. She had to pull them away and shake him before he roused, flinging out an arm and grumbling, “What’s the matter?”
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