Not After Midnight & Other Stories

by Daphne Du Maurier

  Before she could protest further they had seized her arms and were marching her between them down to the boat. It can't be true, she thought, it can't be happening, and a strangled sob escaped her, like that of a terrified child.

  'Ah, sshh now,' said Michael, 'no one's going to touch a hair of your head. You said yourself it's a fine night. It's finer still on the water. You may see the fish jumping.'

  He helped her into the boat and pushed her firmly on the stern seat. The postmaster remained on shore. That's better, she thought, at least there's only one of them.

  'So long, Mr O'Reilly,' Michael called softly, starting the engine, then loosening the painter from the mooring-post.

  'So long, Michael my boy,' called the postmaster.

  The boat glided away from the reeds on to the open lough, the chug-chug of the little engine quiet, subdued. The postmaster waved his hand, then turned back and started walking up the shore towards the footpath.

  The journey from mainland to island took barely five minutes, but seen from the lake the mainland appeared dark, remote, the hills in the distance an ominous smudge. The comforting lights of Ballyfane were out of sight. She had never felt so vulnerable, so alone. Michael said nothing until the boat drew in alongside a small landing-stage built out from the narrow shore. The trees clustered thickly to the water's edge. He tied up the boat, then held out his hand to her.

  'Now then,' he said when he had helped her on to the landing-stage, 'the truth is that the Commander is away at a meeting the other side of the lough, but he should be back by midnight or thereabouts. I'll take you up to the house and the steward will look after you.'

  The steward… The Ballyfane castle and the Georgian mansion had returned to the land of fantasy whence they had sprung, but steward had a mediaeval ring to it, Malvolio with a tapering staff, stone steps leading to an audience chamber. Wolf-hounds guarding doors. A faint measure of confidence returned to her.

  Michael was not going to strangle her under the trees.

  Surprisingly, the house was revealed after little more than a hundred yards, set in a clearing amidst the trees. A long, low, one-storied building, built surely of timber put up in sections, like pictures of relief hospitals erected by missionaries in jungles for sick natives. A verandah ran the whole length of it, and as Michael led her up the steps and paused before a door marked Galley Entrance a dog barked from within, not the deep-throated baying of a wolf-hound but shriller, sharper, and Michael laughed, turned to her and said, 'They don't need me as watchdog when Skip's around. She'd smell strangers twenty miles away.'

  The door opened. A short, stocky, middle-aged man stood before them, dressed in the uniform of a naval steward.

  'A small problem for you, Bob,' said Michael. 'The young lady here was wandering down by the lough just now in the darkness and all, and it appears she was enquiring off Mr O'Reilly for the Commander.'

  The steward's face remained impassive, but his eyes travelled down from Shelagh's face to her clothes, and her jacket pockets in particular.

  'There's nothing on her,' said Michael, 'and she must have left her handbag in the car beside the road. The young lady is staying up at the Arms, but we thought it best to bring her straight here. You never can tell.'

  'Please come inside, miss,' said the steward to Shelagh, his voice courteous but firm. 'You're from England, I take it.'

  'Yes,' she replied. 'I flew over to Dublin today, and drove straight here. My business with Commander Barry is a personal matter, and I don't want to discuss it with anyone else.'

  'I see,' said the steward.

  The little dog, a schipperke, with pricked ears and bright, intelligent eyes, was sniffing daintily at Shelagh's ankles.

  'Would you give me your coat?' asked the steward.

  A strange request. She was wearing a short tweed jacket and matching skirt. She handed over the jacket, and he examined the pockets and placed it over the back of the chair. Then-and this was disconcerting he ran his hands in a brisk professional way over her body, while Michael watched with interest.

  'I don't know why you're doing this,' she said. 'You've hijacked me, not the other way round.'

  'It's a way we have with visitors we don't know,' said the steward. 'It saves argument in the long run.' He jerked his head at Michael. 'You did right to bring the young lady along. I'll explain matters to the Commander when he returns.'

  Michael grinned, winked at Shelagh, raised his hand in a mock salute and went out, shutting the door behind him.

  'Will you come with me, please?' said the steward.

  Reluctant to see the last of Michael, who seemed suddenly an ally, not a prospective rapist, Shelagh followed Bob the steward (not Malvolio after all) along a corridor to a room at the further end. The steward threw open the door and ushered her in.

  'Cigarettes on the table by the fire,' he said. 'Ring the bell if there is anything you require. Would you care for coffee?'

  'Please.' said Shelagh. If she was going to sit up all night coffee would help.

  The room was spacious, comfortable, a blue carpet fitted wall-to-wall. A settee, a couple of deep armchairs, a large flat-topped desk near the window. Pictures of ships on the wall. A log-fire burning brightly in the hearth. The setting reminded her of something. She had seen some place like it in the past, reminding her of childhood days. Then she remembered. It was a duplicate of the captain's cabin in Excalibur, her father's cabin. Lay-out, furnishings, were identical. The familiar surroundings were uncanny, it was like stepping back into the past.

  She wandered round the room, trying to take it in. She crossed to the window and drew aside the curtains, half-expecting to see the deck outside, and beyond, in the distance, other ships at anchor in Portsmouth harbour. There was no deck, though, no ships. Only the long verandah, the shrouded trees and the pathway to the lough, the silver water shining beneath the moon. The door opened once again, and the steward brought in coffee on a silver tray.

  'The Commander won't be long now,' he said. 'I've just had word his launch left fifteen minutes ago.'

  Launch… They had more than one boat, then. And just had word. There had been no sound of a telephone ringing, and anyway the house wasn't on the phone. He went out and closed the door. She began to panic once again, realised she was lost without her bag, left in the car. No comb, no lipstick. She hadn't touched her face since before going down to the bar at the Kilmore Arms. She peered into the mirror hanging on the wall beyond the desk. Hair dank, face white and pinched, she looked frantic. She wondered whether it would be best for him to find her sitting in one of the armchairs, drinking her coffee, seemingly relaxed, or standing rather boyishly before the fireplace, hands in her jacket pockets. She needed direction, she needed someone like Adam Vane to tell her what to do, how to place herself before the curtain rose.

  She turned round from the mirror, facing the desk, and saw the photograph in the blue leather frame. The photograph of her mother as a bride, her veil thrown back, the irritating smile of triumph on her face. There was something wrong, though. The groom standing beside her was not Shelagh's father. It was Nick, the best man, hair en brosse, supercilious, bored. She looked closer, baffled, and realised that the photograph had been cleverly faked. Nick's head and shoulders had been transposed on to her father's figure, while her father's head, sleek-haired, smiling happily, had been shifted to the lanky figure behind, standing between the bridesmaids. It was only because she knew the original photograph on her father's desk at home, and had a copy herself somewhere, stuck away in a drawer, that she recognised the transposition instantly. A stranger would think the photograph genuine. But why on earth? Whom did Nick want to deceive, unless it was himself?

  Shelagh moved away from the desk, uneasy. People who were mentally sick deceived themselves. What was it her father had said? Nick had always been a border-line case…. She had been frightened before, standing on the shore by the lake questioned by the two men, but that had been physical fear, a natural reaction i
n the face of possible brutality. This was different-a feeling of revulsion, a strange apprehension. The room that had seemed warm and familiar became kinky, queer. She wanted to get out of it.

  She went to the French window and pulled aside the curtains. The window was locked. No key, no way of escape. Then she heard the sound of voices in the hall, and this is it, she thought, I've got to face it. I must lie, make up my lines, improvise. Fm alone here, but for the steward, with someone who is sick, who is mad. The door opened, and he came into the room.

  Surprise was mutual. He had caught her, literally, on the wrong foot, hovering between armchair and coffee-table, semi-bent, an awkward position, no sort of poise. She straightened herself and stared. So did he. He was not in the least like the best man in the authentic wedding group, except for the figure, lanky and tall. The hair was no longer en brosse because there was little of it, and the small black patch over the left eye suggested Moshe Dayan. The right eye was very bright and blue. The mouth thin. As he stood there, staring, the little dog pranced in behind him. He called over his shoulder to the steward. 'See that Operation B goes forward as of now, Bob,' he said, without taking his eye off Shelagh, and 'Aye, aye, sir,' replied the steward from the corridor.

  The door closed, and Nick came into the room and said, 'I see Bob brought you some coffee. Is it cold?'

  'I don't know,' Shelagh replied. 'I haven't drunk any yet.' 'Add some whisky to it, you'll feel better.'

  He opened a wall-cupboard and brought out a tray with decanter, soda syphon, and glasses upon it. He put it on the table between the two chairs, then flung himself down on the one opposite her, the dog on his lap. Shelagh poured some whisky into her cup of coffee, aware that her hand trembled. She was sweating, too. His voice was clear, rather clipped, authoritative, reminding her of a director who used to teach at drama school and had half his students in tears. All except her. She had walked out of class one morning, and he had had to apologise.

  'Come on, relax,' said her host. 'You're as taut as a bow-string.

  I apologise for the abduction, but it was your own fault for wandering down by the lake late in the evening.'

  'The signpost said footpath to Lough Torrah,' she replied. 'I didn't see a notice forbidding trespassers, or warning people away. They ought to advise visitors at the airport never to wander after sundown, but I suppose they can't, it would hit the tourist trade for six.'

  Stuff that up, she thought, and tossed down her whisky-laced coffee. He smiled, but not with her, at her, and began to stroke the smooth, sleek coat of the little dog. The one eye was disconcerting. She had the impression that the left eye was still there behind the patch.

  'What's your name?'

  Her reply was instinctive. 'Jinnie.' she told him, and added, 'Blair.'

  Jennifer Blair was her stage-name. Shelagh Money had never sounded right. But nobody except her father had ever called her Jinnie. It must have been nerves that had made her blurt it out now.

  'M'm,' he said. 'Jinnie. Rather nice. Why did you want to see me, Jinnie?'

  Improvisation. Play it by ear, Adam Vane always said. This is the situation, take it from here. Starting now….

  There was a cigarette box on the table, and a lighter. She leant forward and took a cigarette from the box. He did not attempt to light it for her.

  'I'm a journalist. My editors want to run a new series in the spring about the effects of retirement on Service men. Whether they like it, whether they're bored. Their hobbies, and so on. You know the kind of thing. Well, four of us were given the assignment. You were on my list, and here I am.'

  'I see.'

  She wished he would take that eye off her for one moment. The little dog, in ecstasy at the stroking hand, was now lying on its back, paws in the air.

  'What made you think I should be of any interest to your readers?'

  'That wasn't really my problem,' she told him. 'Other people do the check-ups in the office. I was merely given brief particulars. Service career, good war record, retired, lives at Ballyfane, and told to take it from there. Bring back a story. Human interest, and all that….'

  'Curious,' he said, 'that your bosses should have picked on me when there are many far more distinguished persons living over here in retirement. Generals, rear-admirals, scores of 'em.'

  She shrugged her shoulders. 'If you ask me,' she said, 'they pick the names out of a hat. And someone, I forget who, said you were a recluse. They love that sort of thing. Find out what makes him tick, they told me.'

  He poured himself a drink, then leant back again in his chair. 'What's the name of your paper?' he asked.

  'It isn't a newspaper, it's a magazine. One of the new glossies, very up and coming, published every fortnight. Searchlight. You may have seen it.'

  Searchlight was, in point of fact, a recent publication. She had skimmed through it in the aircraft coming over.

  'No, I've not seen it,' he told her, 'but then, living as a recluse, that's hardly surprising, is it?'

  'No, No, I suppose not.'

  The eye was watchful. She blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

  'So it was professional curiosity that took you wandering to the lake by night, rather than wait until daylight to approach me?'

  'Naturally. And the fact that you live on an island. Islands are always mysterious. Especially by night.'

  'You're not easily scared?'

  'I was scared when your henchman Michael and the rather unpleasant postmaster seized me by the arms and forced me into the boat.'

  'What did you think they were going to do?'

  'Assault, rape, murder, in that order.'

  'Ali, that's what comes of reading the English newspapers and writing for glossy magazines. We're a peaceable lot in Ireland, you'd be surprised. We shoot each other up, but that's traditional. Rape is uncommon. We seldom seduce our women. They seduce us.'

  Now it was Shelagh who smiled, in spite of herself. Confidence was returning. Parry and thrust. She could keep this sort of thing going for hours.

  'May I quote you on that?' she asked.

  'I'd rather you didn't. Bad for the national image. We like to think of ourselves as devils. We get more respect that way. Have some more whisky.'

  'Thank you, I will.'

  If this was rehearsal, she thought, the director would tell me to change position. Pour myself another drink from the decanter and stand up, look about the room. No, on second thoughts better stay put.

  'Now it's your turn to answer questions,' she said. 'Does your boatman make a habit of hi-jacking tourists?'

  'No, You are the first. You should be flattered.'

  'I told him,' she went on, 'and the postmaster as well, that it was too late for an evening call, and I'd come back in the morning. They wouldn't listen. And when I got here your steward searched me frisked me, I believe they call it.'

  'Bob's very thorough. It's an old naval custom. We used to frisk the local girls when they came aboard. It was part of the fun.'

  'Liar,' she said.

  'No, I assure you. They've put a stop to it now, I'm told Like the daily tots of rum. Another reason why youngsters won't join the Navy any more. You can quote me on that, if you like.'

  She watched him over the rim of her glass. 'Do you regret leaving the Service?'

  'Not in the slightest. I had all I wanted from it.'

  'Except promotion?'

  'Oh, to hell with promotion. Who wants to command a ship in peacetime when a vessel is obsolete before she's even launched? Nor did I fancy sitting on my backside in the Admiralty or some establishment ashore. Besides, I had more worthwhile things to do here at home.'

  'Such as?'

  'Finding out about my own country. Reading history. Oh, not Cromwell and all that-the ancient stuff, which is much more fascinating. I've written thousands of words on the subject which will never get printed. Articles appear sometimes in scholarly journals, but that's about all. I don't get paid for them. Not like you, writing for magazines.'
r />   He smiled again. It was rather a good smile. Not good in the accepted sense of the word, but in hers. Whipping-up, in fact, challenging. (Ile used to be such fun at parties.') Had the moment come? Did she dare?

  'Tell me,' she asked, 'I know it's personal, but my readers will want to know. I couldn't help noticing that photograph on your desk. You've been married then?'

  'Yes,' he said, 'the one tragedy of my life. She was killed in a car crash a few months after we were married. Unluckily I survived. That's when I lost my eye'.

  Her mind went blank. Improvise… improvise.

  'How terrible for you,' she murmured. 'I'm very sorry.'

  'That's all right. It happened years ago. I took a long time to get over it, of course, but I learnt to live with the situation, to adapt. There was nothing else I could do. I'd retired from the Navy by then, which admittedly didn't help matters. However, there it was, and, as I told you, it happened a long time ago.'

  Then he really believed it? He really believed he had been married to her mother, and she had been killed in a car crash? Something must have happened to his brain when he lost the eye, something had gone wrong. And when had he tampered' with the photograph? Before the accident or afterwards? And why? Doubt and mistrust returned. She was just beginning to like him, to feel at ease with him, and now her confidence was shattered. If he was insane, how must she handle him, what must she do? She got up and stood by the fireplace, and how odd, she thought, the movement is natural, it's not acting, not a stage direction, the play is becoming real.

  'Look,' she said, 'I don't think I want to write this article after all. It isn't fair to you. You've been through too much. I hadn't realised. And I'm sure my editor would agree. It's not our policy to probe into a person's suffering. Searchlight isn't that sort of magazine.'

  'Oh really?' he replied. 'How disappointing. I was looking forward to reading all about myself. I'm rather conceited, you know.'

  He began stroking the dog again, but his eye never left her face.

  'Well,' she said, searching for words, 'I could say a hit about your living here alone on the island, fond of your dog. keen on ancient history… and so on.'