Reflected Glory

by John Russell Fearn

  “Pleasure,” the G.P. assented, and Brenda hurried after him.

  Elsa closed the front door and them came back slowly into the lounge.

  “I think I’ll have that cup of tea now,” Mrs. Castle said quietly, biting her lip as her husband helped her into a half-sitting, half lying position. “Evidently it won’t do me any harm.” Elsa poured it out and handed it to her, then she caught Castle’s look.

  “We’re all deeply grateful to you for your help, Miss Farraday,” he said quietly. “And naturally I must insist on paying for every hour we are here—”

  “There’s really no necessity.”

  “Maybe not, but I insist on it. We would not expect to walk into an hotel and live on their generosity, so there’s no reason why we should do so here. Believe me, we’ll move on the moment my wife is fit. Maybe later tomorrow.”

  “It’s of no consequence,” Elsa said, shrugging. “As I told you, I have very few callers and I like company...of the right kind. You can stay as long as ever necessary.”

  “Brenda shall help you all she can,” Mrs. Castle decided. “It will share the work. It’s far more difficult to cater for four than for one.”

  “Well, all right,” Elsa agreed, smiling; then she seemed to think of something and her expression changed a little. The smile faded. She said slowly: “If by some chance I should receive a visit from the police, and in consequence have to leave home, we will discuss further. I think you should know that that is a possibility.”

  “It all sounds most grim, Miss Farraday,” Castle commented, frowning.

  “It is,” she sighed. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all, but since you may be here for a day or two I don’t wish you to have the sudden unpleasant surprise of finding the police here talking to me without you knowing what it is all about. You are quite sure you haven’t seen the newspapers?” she asked, a trifle incredulously.

  “I have,” Mrs. Castle said, and gave a serious smile. “But the papers say such things, don’t they? The incredible part to me is that we happened to land in the very house of the woman in the case. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know much about it,” Castle said calmly. “What’s supposed to have happened, anyway?”

  “Apparently a young artist by the name of—er—Hexley has dis­appeared, Adam,” his wife told him. “A Miss Farraday—this Miss Farraday, extraordinarily enough—was engaged to him, and she, and several other people are being badgered by the police for informa­tion. That’s all there seems to be in it when the sensational garnishings are removed.... Am I not right, Miss Farraday?”

  “Quite right. At least,” Elsa said, “you have some idea of the person I seem to be—according to the newspapers. I assure you I am not like that really. It’s all a most dreadful business, and I still haven’t the remotest idea how it will end.”

  “My wife and I take people as we find them,” Castle assured her, smiling. “If the police should come here bothering you, we will at least know why, and I might be able to help you too, come to think of it.”

  Elsa looked at him with interest. “You might? How?”

  “I am a lawyer,” Castle said, and breathing hard he fished in his jacket pocket and drew forth a visiting card, one of a batch which he had had printed the previous day. Elsa took it and read:

  Adam Bennington

  Barrister-at-Law

  Vance Chambers

  Middle Temple

  London

  Castle watched the girl in silence. Vance Chambers were occu­pied by one of his greatest friends, a Q.C., who would be ready for anything that might happen should Elsa take it into her head to make inquiry.

  “That’s fine,” Elsa said, looking up and smiling. “I feel quite at home now in admitting my troubles. A lawyer is so like a doctor, don’t you think?”

  “Very much so,” Castle agreed, with a touch of dryness. “How­ever, bear it in mind, and if you need legal advice I’ll gladly give it, if only to repay you for your kindness.”

  He seemed about to say more and then changed his mind at a vigorous banging on the front door. It was the energetic Brenda, and accompanying her was a greasy-looking individual in blue over­alls.

  “I got him, dad,” Brenda exclaimed, bouncing in. “He’ll tell you himself.”

  “Afternoon, sir,” the mechanic said, and, dumped the car’s lug­gage, comprising two suitcases, on the floor. “Afternoon, Miss Farraday.... About the car, sir; it’s in a mess, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes,” Castle agreed gravely, “I’m afraid it is. Anyway, what can you do about it?”

  “Tow it to the garage and find out how much is needed to patch it up—and from the look of it there’ll be plenty. Engine’s pretty well wrecked, I’m afraid.”

  “I have the feeling,” Castle sighed, “That I shall have to buy a new car. All right,” he agreed. “Thanks. I’ll drop in tomorrow and see how you’re going on.”

  The man nodded and departed.

  A silence fell for a moment, each looking at the other, then Elsa said quietly:

  “If you’d like to lie down in bed, Mrs. Bennington, I’ll be glad to see what I can fix up for you.”

  “No, no, thanks all the same,” Mrs. Castle protested. “That would make me feel far too much like an invalid. I’m sure I’ll be all right here. I can rest my back comfortably.”

  “Just as you like.” Elsa glanced at Castle, then at Brenda. “You’ll wish to freshen up. Come with me and I’ll show you around.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was during the evening meal, Mrs. Castle having managed to “struggle” as far as the table, when Brenda, briefed beforehand by her father, went into action. The conversation, which had been pursuing normal enough channels, suddenly changed its course as she said:

  “I do wish I never had to grow up!”

  Elsa looked at her in surprise. Castle did too, but it was only simulated. His blue eyes moved to Elsa, studying her expression.

  “What an extraordinary thing to say!” Elsa exclaimed.

  “It may seem so to you, Miss Farraday, but you’re grown up,” Brenda responded. “You’ve forgotten what childhood’s like—and adolescence too, I expect. I don’t ever want to grow up because it will mean taking over responsibilities and losing many of the things which make youth worthwhile.”

  “Rather contrary to some of the remarks I’ve heard from young folk of your age, Brendy,” Castle commented, smiling expansively. “Many young people are glad to grow out of childhood because they feel that in so doing they can fight for themselves, on equal terms with the grown-ups. As children and adolescents they stand no chance.”

  “How very, very true,” Elsa agreed, gazing absently in front of her.

  Castle gave her a glance and moved another man on his mental chessboard.

  “You have had experience of such young people, Miss Farraday?”

  “Yes—indeed I have!” The girl’s lips tightened for a moment. “Myself, for instance. I had parents who were mercilessly strict. I was not allowed any freedom, and I had to tolerate their un­doubtedly brutal treatment because I was too young to fight back. I only found liberty when they died.”

  “You are sure you didn’t find it before then?” Castle murmured, and the girl gave him a sharp look.

  “How could I?”

  The psychiatrist chuckled. “Well, in the course of meeting many repressed young folk, the natural outcome of my profession as a lawyer, I have always noticed that they have found an outlet somehow. They just have to, you see. Nature won’t permit herself to be restrained indefinitely. I think there must have been some way in which you found liberty, Miss Farraday, though perhaps it was only in your imagination.”

  “Well, I did take to writing stories,” she admitted.

  Castle spread his hands. “There we are! What did I tell you? I’ll wager that you wrote romances, if only to satisfy the void that was in your adolescent heart.”

  “No.” Elsa’s dark head shook. �
�I wrote, and still write, thrillers. Crime stories. And for years I had no success, chief­ly because I had to be so secretive. Then shortly after my parents died two years ago I began to get acceptances. Now I’m quite well known.”

  “Splendid! Thrillers, eh? What in the world turned you to writing crime stories of all things?”

  Elsa hesitated, then with a slow setting of her mouth she answered:

  “I enjoyed inflicting on imaginary people something of the unhappiness which had been inflicted on me, from babyhood up. I suppose that sounds pretty diabolical, but it’s the truth. I—I sort of felt that in that way I was getting my own back.”

  Castle fondled his chins and contemplated the table.

  “It is said, of course, that much of a writer is in his or her works. Maybe that is why your books are successful, Miss Farraday: there is so much in them based on bitter experience.”

  “If you ever read any—or have read any,” Elsa said, “please don’t think that everything I put into them bears a real-life relationship. Otherwise you’ll get the impression that I’ve spent my life in a medieval dungeon, or something!”

  Mrs. Castle gave a smile and Brenda giggled openly—but Dr. Castle did neither. He played idly with the napkin ring beside him.

  “I am a voracious reader of novels, even though I detest news­papers,” he said, after a moment, “and I consume thrillers by the truckload, but I can’t recall the name Farraday anywhere. I take it you use a pseudonym?”

  “Yes—Hardy Strong. I found a man’s name moved me to the top quicker than anything.”

  “You chose a nice, dominating one,” Castle commented. “And I’d like the chance to read some of these thrillers of yours. You have some by you, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes—a copy of every one I’ve written.” Elsa got to her feet. “Why don’t you come and see my study and choose whichever book you’d like? In fact all of you might like to see where I work?”

  “I would!” Brenda exclaimed, jumping up actively.

  “Excellent idea.” Castle struggled to his feet, breathing hard, and then helped up his wife. She made several wry expressions and held her back painfully as he helped her slowly from the room.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, “but I’m a firm believer in defeating any physical ailment by trying to carry on as usual.”

  Elsa gave an understanding nod and waited until she and Castle had reached her at the door, then she led the way across the hall and into her study. She switched on the lights to dispel the lowering evening twilight.

  “What a lovely, quiet little room!” Brenda exclaimed in de­light, glancing about her. “Is that where you work, Miss Farraday—at that table in the window?”

  Elsa nodded silently and Brenda glanced again at the disordered mass of blank and written quarto sheets; then with her mother and father she turned to the massive bookcase as Elsa motioned to it.

  “Ah yes, indeed,” Castle murmured, considering a row of titles. “Obviously you are a prolific writer, Miss Farraday.”

  He did not add that he had read three of the books in the brief time he had had before arriving here by “accident.” With every sign of interest he selected the novels one by one and glanced through them. Elsa stood watching him, her brows knitted.

  “Yes indeed,” Castle repeated, beaming as he glanced up. “These appear to be just the kind of thing I like, Miss Farraday. No trimmings—the plain, unvarnished tough facts. That’s the stuff!”

  “Apparently my public is impressed too,” Elsa responded. “To judge from the royalty returns, that is. But those who know me personally tell me they’re frightful.”

  “Why?” Castle looked surprised.

  “They seem to think the stories are brutal and sordid—grim stuff even if a man had written them, but when they realize that I did them they’re nearly shocked out of their senses.”

  “Then they’re squeamish!” Castle declared. “I’ve only glanced, of course, but I can see that you know your job.” He took one of the books, slipped it in his jacket pocket, and then closed the bookcase doors. Interested, he looked at the manuscript in course of execution on the desk. “And this is how it looks in the ‘build­ing-up’ stage, I take it? Authors fascinate me, you know.”

  He picked up a sheet of the quarto idly and glanced through it. He read a couple of sentences pensively:

  In the dak there was something she had never sen before. It filled her with a sudden and tremndous terror....

  “My word,” he murmured. “I thought I held the prize for missing letters out of words, but evidently you can teach me a few tricks, Miss Farraday! Haste, I suppose?”

  She laughed. “I’m afraid so. I’ve quite a habit of missing letters out. I have all my manuscripts retyped by an expert and she straightens out the missing bits. I just haven’t got the time to write in full when my thoughts are flowing freely.”

  “No—of course not.” Castle studied the handwriting, his mouth upturned at the corners and his round, moonlike face wearing no expression in particular.

  The words in the handwriting were executed in a series of short jerks, with few of the letters properly connected. Many of them, as he had already remarked, were completely missing.

  “Write anything else outside fiction?” he inquired finally, putting the sheet down.

  “No. Only thrillers. I don’t find any other form of fiction anything like as satisfying.”

  “Mmm. This type gives you a spacious feeling, I take it? A sort of sense of—er—superiority?”

  “Funny you should say that,” Elsa replied in surprise. “That is just what it does do, come to think of it.”

  Castle did not say any more. The survey of the study over, Elsa led the way back into the lounge and Mrs. Castle was helped back to the settee. Whilst Castle stayed with her, his huge bulk deep in an armchair, Brenda offered her assistance in clear­ing away the dinner things and preparing the rooms that Elsa had to offer.

  “We are learning things, my dear,” Castle murmured, when at last he and his wife were alone. “Doubtless you are thinking that we are progressing nowhere—rapidly?”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist, Adam,” she responded. “But certain­ly I cannot see that we have discovered anything beyond the fact that Miss Farraday is quite a pleasant, good-natured young woman.”

  Castle tugged out his long-stemmed, small-bowled pipe and filled it from an oilskin pouch.

  “That young woman is extremely ill—mentally,” he commented, brooding, “and she doesn’t seem to realize it herself. It isn’t guesswork,” he added, seeing his wife’s quick, disbelieving glance. “It stands out a mile in a number of places—and chiefly in her handwriting. I’ve seen writing like hers many a time—disjointed, and with letters left out. It is an established fact that people who leave letters out of their words without real­izing it have a mental disturbance bothering them, though they are usually quite unaware of it and blame their omissions on lack of time. If it isn’t stopped the trouble gets worse until finally....”

  Castle stopped, lighted his pipe and puffed at it gently for a moment or two. Then he added, “The writing itself, too. It belongs to a woman of exceptionally erratic character.”

  “Do you mean,” Mrs. Castle asked slowly, with something like horror forming on her face, “that you, Brendy, and I are shut up in this house with a...a killer?’

  “We may be; but I don’t think so. In any case I’m pretty sure that we shall never become objects of her attention. Her passion, as I see it, is only to cultivate those who can put her in the lime­light, and we can’t do that. Not in the way she would like it, at least.”

  Mrs. Castle was plainly bewildered. “Limelight? How do you mean? Why should a retiring girl like that want to—”

  “That retiring pose, my dear, doesn’t mean a thing,” Castle interrupted. “It isn’t the real Elsa Farraday. The real Elsa is an embittered, unhappy young woman, trying with everything that is in her to break free from fetters seal
ed on her in child­hood. You heard her admit that she was mercilessly treated by her parents.”

  “Yes, but surely she’s outgrown that by now?”

  “Very few people outgrow the experiences of childhood, espec­ially if they be unhappy ones,” Castle answered seriously. “I have not yet found out the full facts concerning her childhood, but I will before I’ve finished, and on that I hope to be able to base everything. As things stand now I can say with some certainty that what that young woman longs for more than anything else on earth is domination. But she wishes to achieve it in such a way that she herself is not presented to the populace.”

  “How utterly contradictory!” Mrs. Castle said, thinking.

  “Maybe, but not if you understand these things, as I do. She is frightened, I think, of the naked publicity which would involve her personally—so, to draw attention to herself, over which she can gloat in private, she resorts to other methods. For one thing, she writes: that brings her reflected glory whilst she herself can stay in retirement—unlike the actress who is on show and has to reveal her personality. Also on the dominant side we have the singular pen-name she has chosen....”

  “Hardy Strong?”

  “Exactly. Both words, in their literal sense, mean bold, audacious, robust. In other words—dominant. I’d like to wager that Miss Farraday gets a tremendous kick out of a name like that. It suggests power, something that she has never had throughout her life until perhaps now.... Again, consider the case of Hexley, to whom she became engaged. It appears that as long as it was possible for him to paint her portrait, and so perhaps once again bring her a good deal of reflected glory, and once again without her needing to be present in person to do it, everything was all right. But the moment she knew he could not paint any more she cut him dead. His usefulness, as far as she was concerned, had ceased.”

  “Yes, that does seem to hold together,” Mrs. Castle admitted; then after thinking for a moment she asked, “Do you think, Adam, that she is trying to make it up to herself for the things she didn’t get in her youth because of parental domination?”