To the Devil, a Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘It was a few days before we were due to move that I found her in tears. She told me then that they had never been married and that he didn’t consider her good enough for him any longer. But she didn’t make a scene. She had more natural dignity than many better-bred women whom I’ve met, and I’ll always remember her walking out, dry-eyed and smiling, to the taxi that was to take her to the station. I never saw her again.

  ‘For me, her going robbed the new house of all its glamour, and very soon I came to hate the place. Father never again made the mistake of getting married, or pretending that he had divorced Annie and acquired a new wife. Instead, he replaced Annie with a girl who had been one of his secretaries. They never bothered to conceal the fact from me that they slept together, but to preserve the proprieties she was given the status of governess-housekeeper. Her name was Delia Weddel, and she had been brought up in quite a good home, but if ever there was a bitch she was one.

  ‘She was another blonde, but the thin kind, and strikingly good-looking, until one came to realise the hardness of her eyes and the meanness of her mouth. Why she should have taken a hate against me I have no idea, but she made my life hell, and she was so cunning and deceitful that neither Father nor the daily woman we used to have in to do the housework guessed what was going on.

  ‘As a child I was subject to sleep-walking. That meant if sounds were heard in the night someone had to get up and put me to bed again. Annie used to do that so gently that I hardly realised it had happened, but Delia used to put me outside the back door until the cold woke me up. While I was there she would go upstairs, strip my bed and throw the clothes on the floor; so that when she let me in, shivering with cold, I had to make it again myself before I could get to sleep. Next day, too, she always gave me some punishment for having disturbed her, and, of course, that only made me worse.

  ‘Then there was the agony of lessons. As she was officially my governess she had at least to make a pretence of teaching me. But all she ever did was to point out a passage in a history or geography book and order me to learn it by heart, while she read a novel or went shopping. It was torture, because I wasn’t old enough to master things like that. I had got to the stage of reading only fairy stories and books about animals; yet if I couldn’t say my piece at the end of the hour I knew that I was going to get my knuckles rapped. I would have given anything in the world to be back at kindergarten with the common little children, singing songs and playing games with bricks. But at that age a child is absolutely at the mercy of grown-ups; so there was nothing I could do about it.

  ‘A breakdown in my health saved me from Delia. Perhaps the doctor suspected what had led up to it. Anyhow, he advised that I needed sea air to build me up, and that as I was getting on for eight I should be sent to a boarding-school at the seaside after Christmas. Delia was only too glad to be rid of me; so in January 1939 I was packed off to a school at Felixstowe.

  ‘It wasn’t a very good school. They fed us shockingly and cheese-pared on the central heating, although it was quite an expensive place and supposed to be rather smart. I had a thin time to start with, too, because most of the other girls were awful snobs. When they found out that I had been at a National Kindergarten and spent my childhood in a back street, they christened me “the little alley cat” and were generally pretty beastly. Still, anything was better than Delia, and from then on going back to her for the holidays was the only thing I really had to dread.

  ‘Soon after war broke out the school was moved to Wales, and when I came home the following Christmas I found to my joy that Delia had gone the way of Annie. The house was being run for Father by a middle-aged couple named Jutson. Their status was simply that of servants: she was cook-housekeeper and he did the odd jobs and the garden. They have been with us ever since. Later I learned by chance that from 1940 Father was well off enough to have a flat in London. Or, rather, that he kept a succession of popsies in flats that were nominally theirs and used to stay with them whenever he went up; so I know very little about his later mistresses.

  ‘The Jutsons are a respectable, hard-working couple, but she is rather a sour woman. During the holidays and the Easter ones that followed she did what she had to do for me, but no more. I was fed at regular hours and seen to bed at night, otherwise I was left to amuse myself as well as I could. I think Father has always paid them well to keep their mouths shut about his affairs, because when I asked either of them why he was often absent from home, or where he had gone to and when he was coming back, they always used to say “Ask no questions and you get no lies!” And that has been their attitude ever since.

  ‘That April the real war began and Father decided it would be best for me to remain at school for the summer holidays. Many of the other parents felt the same way about their daughters, so more than half of us stayed on in Wales, and while the Battle of Britain was being fought we had quite a jolly time. We couldn’t foresee it then, but for most of us that was only the first of many holidays spent at school. In my case I didn’t see my home again for the next five years.

  ‘As part of the drill at school I wrote to Father every week, and occasionally he sent me a typed letter in reply. It was always to the effect that producing war supplies kept him desperately busy, but he hoped to find time to come down to see me soon. He did, about two or three times a year, but I would just as soon that he hadn’t, as we had absolutely nothing to say to one another, and I could almost hear his sigh of relief when the time came for him to catch his train back to London. I must say, though, he always treated me very generously. He allowed me to take any extras that I wished, and I had only to ask for anything I wanted in one of my letters and his secretary would have it sent down.

  ‘The summer that the war ended I was fifteen and I came home at last, but not for long. Apart from a few of Mother’s old friends I didn’t know a soul, and I hope I haven’t become a snob myself, but I seemed to have moved right out of their class. I no longer talked the same language as their children, and although I tried to get over that, Father said he did not wish me to have those sort of people in the house. Within a fortnight I was at a dead end and hopelessly bored.

  ‘One day Father suddenly realised how isolated I was and took the matter in hand with his usual efficiency. He explained that his own social life was in London, but for various reasons he could not have me with him there; so some other step must be taken to provide me with suitable companions of my own age. He had found a place in Somerset that ran courses in domestic science and was open all the year round. His suggestion was that I should go there for the rest of the summer holidays.

  ‘Anything seemed better than staying at home doing nothing; so I agreed. And I was glad I had. It was a lovely old house and most of the pupils were older than myself; so we were treated much more like grown-ups than are the girls at an ordinary school. I liked it so much that I asked Father to let me go back there for good after one last term in Wales. That suited him; so I spent nearly the whole of the next two and a half years in Somerset. Occasionally, just for a change, I spent a week at home, and seven or eight times I was invited to stay at the homes of girls with whom I had become friends. My best friend lived in Bath; another one lived in Kensington, and with her I saw something of London; but such visits were only short ones and at fairly long intervals.

  ‘I was perfectly content for things to go on that way indefinitely, but just before my eighteenth birthday the principal wrote to Father to say that as I had taken all the courses they ran and passed all the exams it did not seem right to keep me on there any longer. Faced with the same old problem of what to do with me, he decided to send me to a finishing school in Paris, and I was there until last December.’

  Christina lit another cigarette, and added, ‘I forgot to tell you that in 1949 old Mrs Durnsford died and Father bought The Grange…’

  She paused and a look of consternation came over her face. ‘Oh damn, now I’ve given away the one thing I didn’t mean to tell you.’

 
Molly smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I won’t try to ferret out your name from that, and a little slip of that kind can’t really be considered as breaking your promise to your father.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Christina agreed. ‘Anyhow, the fact of his going back there made very little difference as far as I was concerned. The Jutsons now live in the flat over the garage where I was born; but we have no other servants living in, and Father never does any entertaining. On balance, I prefer it out there in the country to living in a suburb of the town, although there are no shops and cinemas handy. When I get back I hope to interest myself in the village, but until this winter I’ve never lived there for more than a few days at a time; so I’ve had no chance yet to get to know any of our neighbours—except old Canon Copely-Syle, and I’ve known him as long as I can remember.’

  Again Christina paused, before ending a little lamely, ‘Well, there it is. I really don’t think there is anything more to tell you.’

  ‘You poor child.’ Molly took her hand and pressed it. ‘I think your father has been terribly selfish in not providing you with a proper home life. You seem to have missed all the jolly times that most young people have on seaside holidays and at Christmas parties.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. People never miss what they haven’t been used to, do they? Except when I first went to school, I’ve always got on well with the other girls, and most of the mistresses were awfully kind to me.’

  ‘Perhaps; but that isn’t quite the same thing. What about your grandparents? And had you no aunts and uncles to take an interest in you?’

  ‘I know nothing about Father’s family. I have an idea that he was illegitimate; but if he ever had one he must have broken with it as soon as he began to get on, so that it should not prove a drag upon him. Mother was an only child and her parents both died when I was quite young; so I have no relatives on that side either.’

  ‘Tell me about your father’s friends. Although you have been at home so little, you must have met some of them. Recalling the sort of people they were might give you a line on what this present trouble is about.’

  Christina shook her head. ‘For the past ten years Father has spent a great deal of his time in London, and the only social life he has is there. He subscribes quite generously to local charities, but after he had to withdraw his candidature for the town council he would never mix himself up with public activities in the district. The only people he has ever asked home as far as I know were senior members of his office staff, and then it would only be to discuss confidential business with them over a drink in the evening.’

  ‘Just now you mentioned a Canon somebody?’

  ‘Oh, old Copely-Syle is an exception. He lives only a mile or so from us, on the way to the village, at the Priory. Although, even when we lived in … in the town, he used to drop in occasionally.’

  ‘In view of your father’s bias against religion it seems rather strange that he should have made a life-long friend of a Canon.’

  ‘He is not a practising clergyman, and I think he helped Father to make his first start in business. Anyhow, they knew one another when Father was chauffeur to Mrs Durnsford, and it may be partly on my account that the Canon has always called whenever I’ve spent a few days at home. You see, he is my godfather.’

  ‘Have you any idea what your father’s plans for you are when your month’s tenancy of this villa is up?’

  ‘Yes and no. That is one of the things that worries me so much. He said that if everything went all right he would come back and collect me. If he didn’t, I was to return to England and go to the head office of the National Provincial Bank in London. If I made myself known at the Trustee Department and asked for a Mr Smithson he would give me a packet of papers. When I had read them I could make up my own mind about my future; and I need have no anxiety about money, as he had made ample provision for me to receive an income which would enable me to live quite comfortably without taking a job.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ Molly exclaimed. ‘From that one can only infer that the danger threatens both of you, and that it is something much more serious than blackmail, or even being sent to prison.’

  Christina nodded. ‘Yes, it’s pretty frightful, isn’t it, to think that he may already be dead, and that if they find me I may be dead too before the month is up?’

  ‘My dear child!’ Molly quickly sought to reassure her. ‘You mustn’t think such things. He may only have meant that he might have to leave you for a much longer period, and that during it you would have to make arrangements for yourself. I must confess, though, that in spite of all you’ve told me, I haven’t yet got an inkling who this mysterious “They” can be.’

  For a further quarter of an hour they speculated on the problem in vain; then, as Molly stood up to leave, Christina said, ‘You have been terribly kind, Mrs Fountain; and just being able to talk about this wretched business has made me feel much less miserable already.’

  Molly went on tip-toe to give her a quick kiss. ‘I’m so glad; and you do understand, don’t you, that you can come in to me at any time. If I don’t see you before, I shall expect you tomorrow for lunch; but if you have the least reason to be frightened by anything don’t hesitate to come over at once.’

  Together they walked out into the sunshine and began the descent of the steep garden path. They were about halfway down it when there came a rustling in the undergrowth and a joyful barking.

  ‘That’s Fido, my cocker spaniel,’ Molly remarked. ‘The wicked fellow must have seen me and broken through the pittosporum hedge.’

  Skilfully avoiding the prickly cactus, the dog came bounding towards his mistress. On reaching her he barked louder than ever and jumped up affectionately.

  ‘Down, Fido! Down!’ she cried in mock severity. ‘How dare you invade someone else’s garden without being invited to call. You are as bad as I am.’

  Like the well-trained animal he was, he ceased his transports, but ran towards Christina, expecting to find in her a new friend.

  Suddenly he halted in his tracks. His body seemed to become rigid; the hackles rose on his neck, his jaws began to drool saliva, and through them came a low whimper of fear.

  ‘Whatever can be the matter with him?’ Molly exclaimed in astonishment. ‘I’ve never known him behave like that before.’

  Christina’s face had become half sullen and half miserable as she said in a low voice, ‘It’s not my fault! I can’t help it. But animals always take a dislike to me on sight.’

  Chapter 4

  Enter the Wicked Marquis

  It was March 1st and John Fountain had arrived that morning. He and his mother had just finished lunch, and with a sigh of satisfaction he smiled across at her.

  ‘What a meal! How good it is to eat in France again. I bet there were six eggs in the omelette. And that fillet of beef—as tender as foie gras and as big as a month’s ration! Real butter instead of National grease, and the pineapple au Kirsch topped with lashings of cream. Most of our wretched people at home have forgotten that such food still exists.’

  Molly nodded. ‘It is years now since there has been a shortage of anything down here. Food is expensive, of course, but the markets are always overflowing with it. The rich alone could not consume one-twentieth of the perishable stuff that is offered for sale every day, and even the poorest classes show no signs of being hungry. It’s simply that the French people always have spent most of their earnings on food and they still insist on the right to do so. I can’t think why our people continue to allow themselves to be half starved by their Government. I’m sure it isn’t necessary.’

  ‘I can answer that one.’ John’s voice was bitter. ‘It’s due to the Socialists and their insistence on continued bulk buying by the nation. That may have been necessary during the war, but by forcing it on us for six years afterwards they destroyed the whole organisation that had been built up over centuries of private firms importing our food from the best markets at the best prices. It will be years befo
re the incredible muddle they made can be unsorted. But tell me more about this girl next door.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much more to tell, Johnny. During the past three days I’ve seen quite a bit of her. She is still nervous of going out in the daytime but, quite illogically, she doesn’t seem to mind at night. On Sunday I always dine out for a change, so yesterday afternoon I suggested that she should come with me to the Reserve at St Raphael. She said she would rather not, but about half-past six she turned up here and asked if she might change her mind. Of course I said “Yes”, and I’m sure she thoroughly enjoyed herself.’

  ‘Do you really believe her story?’

  ‘Yes. She has the naturally frank expression and well-spaced eyes that can nearly always be taken as a sign of honesty; and I don’t see what she could possibly hope to gain by deceiving me. After all, it wasn’t a case of her approaching me and attempting to win my sympathy, perhaps in the hope of a loan; but I who invited her confidence. Then the way she inadvertently let out the name of her home and its previous occupant shows that she is not an accomplished enough liar to have made the whole thing up.’

  ‘With a pre-1949 telephone directory of Essex those two items of information should be sufficient for us to trace the village she comes from, and the initials on the manicure-set make it pretty certain that her real name begins with B; so it shouldn’t be very difficult to find out who she is.’

  ‘I don’t think it would be quite playing the game for us to do that.’

  ‘It may be necessary if these people who are after her suddenly appear on the scene.’