“No—you don’t care for none of us,” said Phoebe, Her voice was heavy with pain. She walked away to the back of the room and stood there twisting her hands.
Asphodel watched her, a light smile upon her lips, her cigarette in her hand.
Rachel was trembling a little. She ought to go, and yet she could not go.
All at once Phoebe spoke.
“What are you doing with Rachel? I’ve got to know.”
“I’m sending her abroad. She knows a great deal too much.”
“Is she going with you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Alone?”
“She’s going with a friend of mine. She’ll travel as his daughter.”
Phoebe had not turned round. She stood with her back to the room and to Asphodel. Rachel thought that she was crying. She knew how Phoebe cried, with slow, painful tears which forced themselves between the reddened lids. Even now, in this strait, her heart was sad for Phoebe. And Asphodel didn’t care; she smiled and blew her smoke-rings.
“Is he respectable?” said Phoebe with a sudden rending sniff.
Asphodel laughed.
“How respectable do you want him to be?”
“I won’t do it if he’s not respectable, not for no one.”
Asphodel went over to her and patted her on the shoulder. All her movements were graceful and alert.
“Well then, he’s perfectly respectable. He’s got daughters of his own.”
“And she’ll be safe?”
“She’ll be very safe indeed,” said Asphodel.
Her hand was on Phoebe’s arm in a careless caress, her face was turned towards the black curtain. She smiled, but not as she had smiled before when Phoebe could see her. Phoebe could not see her now. She smiled as if she were quite alone, and just for an instant it was as if the woman who was behind the smoothly charming face was smiling.
Rachel’s heart stood still in her breast. The lips smiled and the eyes, and the smile turned them into the lips and eyes of a devil. To think of some secret wickedness and to laugh—that was what a devil might do. Rachel was to be “safe.” That smile gave her a cold, awful glimpse of what that safety might be. It was as if a door had opened a very little way upon something which could never be forgotten. A shudder swept her from head to foot, and her whole consciousness was flooded with the sense of danger. She let the curtain slip from her hand. It came softly back against the wall and hid the lighted L.
Rachel wasn’t trembling now. She was strung to a tensity of thought and action. She was at the door before the slight movement of the curtain had ceased. Her feet made no sound upon the stair. Before she came into her dark room she knew what she was going to do. She must have her shoes, and her Chinese shawl because it had been her mother’s—nothing else. She wrapped it round her, locked the door on the outside, and began to climb the ladder to the trap-door in the ceiling,
She was lifting the trap, when the drawing-room door was opened two floors below. She went on as if she had not heard it. Before Phoebe’s step was on the stair she had gained the loft and shut the trap again.
There was an absolute darkness in the loft, but Rachel knew her way. It was not the first time that she had climbed the ladder. During the long hours of loneliness when Phoebe, in the basement, had supposed her locked in her room, she had found an interest in exploring the loft. It ran right across the house and was full of the strange remnants of many tenancies. There were, amongst other things, two old porcelain baths, a great quantity of wire netting, half a dozen heavy broken fenders, some dilapidated furniture, and a number of old boxes and packing-cases of all sizes and shapes.
With hands that were sure in the dark Rachel found the heaviest of the fenders and lowered it across the trap. She managed to do this without making any noise. Then, moving with hands stretched out before her, she felt her way across the loft to where the packing-cases were piled. Every now and then she stopped to listen. Phoebe had never been up into the loft. A ladder made her giddy, and she had enough to do with the stairs. Asphodel had never been up to the top storey at all, but she might come now. A cold, sick shudder caught Rachel’s heart and shook it. She stiffened against it and took a step which brought her up against the wall.
The packing-cases were on her right. There was one by itself, and she pulled it aside. She did not need a light, because she could see everything in her mind.
Behind the single packing-case there was a pile of others leaning against the wall. Only between the bottom one and the wall there was a space. Rachel crept into this space and pulled the single packing-case back into position. She was now inside the bottom case of the pile, and even if anyone came into the loft, it was very unlikely that they would find her, since the pile of boxes had a very solid and impenetrable appearance.
She had reached the refuge which she had planned for just such an emergency as this. There had been some old curtains in the loft, and she had spread the floor of the packing-case with them. She sank down and listened, holding her breath. She listened for a long time, but no sounds came. Then, with a suddenness that made all her pulses leap, someone was trying to lift the trap. The heavy fender must have been raised an inch or two, for it fell with a clang. After this had happened two or three times the sounds ceased.
Rachel relaxed. All her limbs were suddenly soft and weak. The tears began to run down her face. She was safe. She lay down amongst the curtains and began to say her evening prayer, but she was asleep before she finished it.
She did not know how long it was before she woke. She felt as if it must be a very long time indeed, because she had been dreaming a long, long dream about Jeremy. She knew no more of the dream than that, for as she waked, it was gone. Only the thought of Jeremy remained. She crawled out from behind the packing-cases and felt her way to the trap-door with the single thought that she must go to Jeremy. She moved the heavy fender and, lifting the trap, kneeled above it, listening. Darkness and silence came up to her out of the house—dead darkness, and dead silence. She descended the ladder and stood at the head of the stair. It was like standing over a black, waterless well.
She came down to the drawing-room floor, and there was no one there. There was no one anywhere in the house. She stood in the hall, and knew what had happened. Phoebe had come to find her and had found her gone. They would know, then, that she had a key, and when they had searched the house they would be afraid because she knew too much, and they would make haste to be gone. There was no one now to stop her if she too made haste to go.
She went to the door and put her hand on the bolt. The door had not been bolted. No, of course it could not be bolted, since Phoebe and Asphodel must have gone out this way. She turned the handle, and a rush of fear chilled her. The door was locked, and the key was gone. She was locked into the empty house.
She leaned against the wall and steadied herself. It meant that she must go through the cellars again. It meant no more than that. It was foolish to tremble and sicken at the thought. She must go to Jeremy, and there lay her way. He must surely be home by now, and she would not have to wake anyone, since she had in her pocket the key that had opened the door when Asphodel had hidden the papers in his room. It had comforted her beyond words to know that she had this key. She slid her fingers down into her pocket now and held it tight, and, still holding it, went down the cellar stair. She did not need a light. She had passed this way so often in the dark.
She came to the empty cellar which joined the cellars of Bernard Mannister’s house and felt along the stones of the wall with either hand. When she had found the right stones, she pressed hard and threw all her weight on the right-hand side. A section of the wall pivoted,
CHAPTER XXXVII
MR SMITH HAD BEEN dining with an old friend. They had spent a very pleasant evening. He let himself into his house at a quarter past eleven, and as he closed the door. Miller came to meet h
im from the library.
“Mr Ware telephoning, sir—he’s just this instant rung off. I told him you might be in at any time.”
“Did he—er—say whether I could ring him up?”
Miller was taking Mr Smith’s coat and hat.
“No, sir—he said not, sir. I understood him to say that he was speaking from a call-office.”
Mr Smith nodded and went through to the library. Miller followed him.
“Colonel Garrett rang up an hour ago, sir. He said he would be calling in on his way back from the country. He was very particular about seeing you, sir.”
Mr Smith nodded again. Then he went over to the fire, which displayed a generous bed of rosy embers. He stretched his hands to the glow and said in his pleasant, courteous voice,
“Thank you, Miller. Colonel Garrett will probably like some hot coffee.”
“It is ready, sir.”
The room was very still when Miller had gone out. Ananias slumbered beneath the green baize covering of his cage with his head under his wing. He may have been dreaming of pirates, or of the innocent days of his youth when, free and untamed, he slept or flew in a wild, free forest.
The stillness in the room had lasted for some little time, when it was broken by a characteristically vehement ring at the bell, and upon that there came in Colonel Garrett, stamping his feet, slapping frozen hands together, and expressing himself with violence about the British climate. He threw two logs on the fire, kicked them with a wet heel, and clapped Mr Smith on the shoulder.
“I’ve got my mare’s-nest!” he said. “And by gum, it’s full of eggs!”
Mr Smith produced a pair of tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses and put them on. Through the lenses he fixed a mild, inquiring gaze on Garrett’s face.
“Er—eggs?” he said.
Garrett withdrew his hand, only to bring it down again with a resounding slap.
“Yes, by gum! I don’t know who wrote that anonymous letter, but it’s done the trick. I’ve got ’em! I’ll eat my hat if I haven’t got ’em!”
The door opened and Miller came in with a tray. He had no more than set it down, when the front door bell rang again.
“Who’s that?” said Garrett sharply.
“It might be Ware. He rang up whilst I was out.”
Miller went to the door. There was a murmur of voices, and then Miller announced,
“Mr and Mrs Denny—”
He closed the door behind Rosalind and Gilbert Denny, and they advanced together, moving down the long room without any spoken word.
For once at least in her life Rosalind achieved beauty. Her eyes shone and her lips trembled with it. She carried the air, and the colour, and the bloom of it with her. Yet neither of the two men had eyes for her at all. They looked at Gilbert Denny who had come back from the dead.
Garrett’s face twisted in a hideous grimace. He stared as if those small, sharp eyes of his were denying their own evidence. And then, with a couple of jerky strides, he had met Gilbert and was wringing him by the hand.
It was in the midst of the ensuing explanations that Ananias woke up. He said “Awk?” once or twice in an inquiring manner, and as no one took any notice of him, he proceeded to scream at the top of his voice, using at haphazard such words as “Help!” “Fire!” “Murder!” and “Police!”
Mr Smith went over to him, removed the baize cover, admonished him, and drifted back again to the hearth, watched by an eye that was piercingly wary and intent.
Gilbert Denny told his story very concisely, but when he had brought it to the point of his disappearance, he paused and addressed himself to Garrett.
“Well, Frank?” he said. “Have you been to Ledlington yet?”
Garrett kicked at the log behind him.
“Just come back,” he grunted.
“And what did you find there?”
“Was the note that sent me off there from you?” said Garrett sharply.
Gilbert Denny nodded.
“I thought seeing might be believing,” he said.
Mr Smith leaned upon the mantelshelf. His dreamy gaze passed from Rosalind lying back in one of the big chairs, over Gilbert Denny standing behind her, and so to Garrett on the hearth. He said gently,
“Would someone be good enough to—er—explain?”
Garrett jerked round on him.
“He sent me down to Ledlington—that is, his anonymous note did. I was to look up the register of births, marriages and deaths under certain dates. I found that Geoffrey Livingstone Deane was born in Ledlington on the twentieth of September eighteen ninety-eight, his father being the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur Deane, vicar of St Leonard’s church. I found, under the date of January the first, nineteen hundred, that a daughter was born to the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur and registered as Maud Millicent. I further found, under the marriages for the year nineteen-nineteen, that Maud Millicent Deane was married on the second of July to John Harold Simpson, bachelor. Further, under the deaths, I found that the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur Deane died on the first of September of the same year. And—” Garrett brought one hand down on the other with a loud slap—“and on the fifth of October nineteen twenty-nine I found the death of Geoffrey Livingstone Deane”
There was a pause. Ananias said “Awk?” in a tone of subdued inquiry.
After a moment Mr Smith repeated the name:
“Geoffrey—Livingstone—Deane——”
Garrett nodded and thrust again at the fire. He was frowning ferociously. Gilbert Denny, leaning on the back of his wife’s chair, watched him with a faint whimsical smile. He had come to a place where he could afford to smile.
“By gum,” said Garrett, “that knocked me! I nosed round and found that Mr Geoffrey Deane always came down to Ledlington for his holiday. He stayed frugally in rooms kept by the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur’s retired verger. He was the virtuous, dull person of his dossier. He was Mannister’s secretary. He was Maud Millicent Simpson’s brother.” He turned on Mr Smith. “Remember I told you Asphodel’s real name was Maud Simpson. He was Asphodel’s brother. He wasn’t ever very strong. He got influenza and died in the verger’s lodgings on the fifth of October ’twenty-nine, and he is buried in St Leonard’s churchyard.”
“I see—” said Mr Smith.
Rosalind leaned forward with a puzzled air.
“Asphodel?” she said.
“Yes, Asphodel!” said Garrett savagely. “Maud Millicent Asphodel Simpson! Maud Millicent Asphodel Mannister!”
“What!” said Mr Smith sharply. And then, “Dear me!”
“Simpson died a year or two after the marriage. The verger and his wife were quite chatty, but a little uncertain as to dates. Miss Maud never came back to Ledlington, and they didn’t know where she was. She and Mr Geoffrey were as like as two peas to look at, but as different as chalk from cheese in everything else. Not much liked Miss Maud, but a very clever young lady, and such a mimic as never was. There wasn’t nobody’s voice she couldn’t take off so that you’d never know that it wasn’t them speaking. I got a lot of good meaty stuff like that from the verger. And then the bright young man I’d sent down to Farrow-in-the-Fold rang up and told me that Maud Millicent Simpson, widow, had married Bernard James Mannister there on the thirteenth of December nineteen twenty-nine—and a damned unlucky thirteen it was for him, I should say.”
Rosalind half turned in her chair. She put up her hand and found Gilbert’s. A deep distressed colour burned in her cheeks.
“I went to see her. I went because Mimosa said that you had gone there. She did your voice—just like Frank says. Oh, Gil—it was your voice!”
Gilbert’s hand closed hard over hers.
“Well, it wasn’t me,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone which perhaps covered some emotion. “She’s a damned good mimic. What did she make me say?”
“Not to trust Jere
my,” said Rosalind in a whisper. She could have cried with shame. Tears stung her eyelids.
“Yes—that was her game,” said Gilbert. “Jeremy was to be the scapegoat when things began to get a little too hot.”
“Mannister—” said Mr Smith. “She married Mannister—”
As if the name had touched some chord in his memory, Ananias began to intone:
“Walk with care, walk with care.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom—”
His voice became a little louder with each line until the final “boom,” when it dropped to an uncanny whisper.
“No, Ananias!” said Mr Smith. “No!”
“Why don’t you wring his neck?” said Garrett. “Yes, she married Mannister—the great booby! I’m guessing a bit, but I expect it was this way. She did come down to Ledlington when her brother died. That’s fact. And she fetched away his things. Where I’m guessing is about her relations with Mannister. I think she saw a chance of getting hold of him and went back to him as Geoffrey. From what I heard from Mr and Mrs Verger, she could have done it. There was a nasty scandal the year before she married. She impersonated Geoffrey and drew on his account at the local bank—where, mind you, the clerks all knew him and his signature. It was passed off as a joke, but it made talk. She could write any hand and mimic any voice, and I gather that there was one overwhelming sigh of relief when she married Simpson and left Ledlington for good.”
“And now I’ll tell my tale,” said Gilbert Denny. He came round and sat on the arm of Rosalind’s chair. “I’m going to cut it as short as I can, and I’ll give you the details later, because I rather think we shall have to get a move on. I told you how I faked my death. It was inexcusable, but I was nearly off my head. I had only one idea left, and that was to track down the devil who had been hounding me. I’m not going to tell you how I did it, because it would take too long, but right at the very first I had a stroke of luck. I wanted it!”
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