Fear by Night: A Golden Age Mystery

by Patricia Wentworth

  He paid for his lunch and drove off. He certainly wasn’t going to be put off, but it was no use going back without some means of reaching the island. He wanted,

  1. A bathing suit, and

  2. A collapsible boat.

  Probably the nearest place which would produce both these things was Glasgow. His immediate objective, therefore, should be some place from which he could telephone to Glasgow. On the other hand, telephoning was a most devastating performance. He had a vivid recollection of a conversation with a motor-works in the Midlands from a Welsh village where he had broken a back axle shaft—and in that case he had at least known the name of the firm he wanted and every possible particular about the article he required. It had been a nightmare of voices off and sudden fadings out. A succession of people all most anxious to be helpful came and went upon the wire, whilst he automatically repeated the number of his car, the number of the chassis, the number of the engine, the year of manufacture, and a few more oddments of technical information. When some hours later he received a telegram inquiring the number of his car, words, perhaps fortunately, failed him. A further séance at the telephone resulted in the only possible train in the twenty-four hours being caught at the expense of a really prostrating effort on the part of everyone concerned.

  Recalling this experience, Charles felt that he might be equal to telephoning for a bathing-suit, but not for a collapsible boat—definitely not. He could get to Glasgow by midday to-morrow if he hustled. A glorious afternoon’s shopping, a night in bed, a start at cockcrow, and he could be back at Loch Dhu by nightfall. He thought he would add a tent to his equipment. He felt adventurous, and pleased with his dispositions. By taking a collapsible boat to the landward shore of the loch he would avoid the dangers of the inlet. If the weather held, camping out would be delightful. It was a good world, and with luck he would be seeing Ann the day after to-morrow.

  He sang aloud as he drove. There were moments when, in addition to the bathing-suit, the tent, and the collapsible boat, he contemplated the expenditure of the rest of his bank balance upon an engagement ring. Ann having just refused him for the second time, the Highland air must be held accountable for this. It was indeed a most exquisite and intoxicating draught for a lover—cool under a cloudless sky, and full of the sunny fragrance of heather and pine.

  Charles continued to sing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Charles shopped with energy and enjoyment. He bought a bathing suit, and a collapsible boat, and a number of articles of camp equipment which he added to his bill under the persuasive eye of a salesman who would have inspired a maiden aunt with a desire to go camping. In retrospect, Charles thought himself fortunate to have escaped without buying a caravan or a tent. He managed to weigh one against the other and thus stave off a decision until he could nerve himself to say that he had an appointment and couldn’t possibly wait any longer.

  After this he thought he would have some tea.

  He was threading his way amongst the small tables at Crawford’s, when someone said his name—“Charles Anstruther!” and, turning, he saw Hilda Paulett smiling and beckoning. He had just time to think she was the last person on earth he expected to see, when he remembered that she lived in Glasgow—with an uncle. Yes, that was it—an impossible old beast of an uncle—horribly rich. The name escaped him.

  He went over to Hilda, and found himself being invited to sit down at her table. She was alone, and she looked really pleased to see him.

  Charles sat down, and was not quite sure whether he was pleased or not. On the one hand, he had never cared very much for Hilda Paulett. He didn’t exactly dislike her, but he loathed her relations, the Craddocks with whom she stayed near Bewley. She had stayed with them every year for the last ten years, and he supposed he knew her pretty well, but as their acquaintance had never got beyond a little desultory conversation at a point-to-point, or an occasional dance at a hunt ball, it didn’t amount to very much. On the other hand, it was pretty dull having tea by oneself, and he was bursting with conversation about camp equipment.

  “What on earth are you doing in Glasgow?” she said.

  “Shopping,” said Charles, and ordered a comprehensive tea.

  “Lucky you! I can’t shop, because I haven’t got any money, and if I were to run up bills, my uncle would hear of it and cut me out of his will.”

  Charles began to wish that he had not caught her eye. He loathed people who talked about other people’s wills, and he remembered now that Hilda Paulett did it all the time. The uncle was rolling, and she would inherit, and she kept shoving it under your nose all the time. He said,

  “I nearly bought a gadget that calls you in the morning, boils a kettle, measures out a spoonful of tea, puts in the milk and sugar, boils an egg, and fries a rasher of bacon. I didn’t take it, because they wouldn’t guarantee that it would cook sausages.”

  Hilda Paulett looked a little blank, and when she looked blank she looked sulky. She was dressed in the bright green which had been the fashion of a few months ago and was now dead. It could never have been becoming to her dark skin. Charles thought her gone off, and remembered with surprise that she was considered handsome. He answered a number of questions about the Craddocks—a revolting fellow Craddock—and was edging the conversation round to the point from which he might begin to talk about collapsible boats, when all of a sudden Hilda was saying earnestly,

  “Charles, I want to tell you something—only you mustn’t speak of it, please.”

  She had her elbows on the table and was gazing at him with an air of soulful secrecy which was very intimidating.

  “Look here,” said Charles, “here’s a bit of advice—if you’re going to confide in me, don’t. You’ll probably be sorry as soon as you’ve done it, and loathe me like poison for the rest of your life.” He smiled at her pleasantly. “I’m assuming that you’re going to confess to a murder or something like that.”

  Hilda Paulett had no sense of humour; he ought to have recollected that. He had meant to head her off any possible approach to a serious confidence, but to his discomfort she turned pale and said in a low, agitated voice,

  “It isn’t one yet.”

  “What isn’t one yet?”

  She looked over her shoulder nervously. It was rather late, and the two nearest tables were empty.

  “Charles, I’m so awfully worried.”

  Charles groaned inwardly. Why had he not insisted upon conversing about his boat? Why had he flung himself to the wolves by asking her what she meant? He was for it now and had only himself to thank. An expression of pensive melancholy gave him a misleading air of sympathy, and would have encouraged Hilda if she had been in any need of encouragement. She had, however, reached the stage at which a confidant was a necessity, and it is to be doubted whether it would have been possible to head her off.

  “I must tell someone,” she said, and with a sharp sensation of surprise Charles registered the fact that she was frightened.

  He said, “What’s the matter?” and immediately there came tumbling out a lot of disconnected and agitated sentences. It was rather like having a jig-saw puzzle thrown at one.

  “Of course he said no one must know.” (Who on earth was he?) “And it was a legal marriage all right, because I went and asked a lawyer. And besides, he wouldn’t be so angry if we weren’t really married—would he?”

  Charles threw a swift glance at her left hand and found it ringless. She must have seen the look, for she answered it.

  “Of course no one knows—at least some of his friends do, but none of mine, and that doesn’t seem fair—does it? But of course if Uncle Elias knew, I wouldn’t have even an off chance of coming in for anything, so I do see Gale’s point there.”

  Charles could see no point anywhere. But the girl undoubtedly had the wind up. He said,

  “Do you mean you’re married?”

  And Hilda Paulett said, “Yes—yes!” and wrung her hands at him.

  Charles felt extre
mely self-conscious.

  “I say, don’t do that,” he said. “It looks as if we were having a row.”

  “I don’t care! I’ve got to have someone to talk to! You don’t know what it’s like, thinking all sorts of things and then wondering whether you’ve imagined them!”

  “Well, don’t you think perhaps you have?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hilda. She leaned towards him across the table. “There’s such a lot of money, and she’s got it all. Gale cares terribly about money. And you see, he thought I was going to get it, and so did I, so we got married—only of course we didn’t tell Uncle Elias. And now I’m frightened.”

  “Why?” said Charles.

  He leaned back in his chair. Even so she was very near him, and he could see that she was speaking the truth. She was frightened. Her nostrils quivered and her mouth twitched. She said,

  “I don’t know why. That’s what frightened me. It’s such a lot of money. Supposing anything happened to me, Gale would be free. He’s awfully attractive—she might easily fall in love with him. But he couldn’t be sure, and it would be an awful risk to take unless he was sure.” She dropped her voice and said, “Supposing he is sure—suppose he makes her fond of him—then what happens to me? I wake up in the night and think about that. What happens to me?”

  She was hysterical. Charles decided that with relief.

  “Look here,” he said—“do you want my advice? Go along home and sleep on all this. If you still feel worried in the morning, go and see your lawyer.”

  Hilda took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “I expect you think I’m silly, but it’s dreadful to feel so frightened. Sometimes I’m frightened about myself, and sometimes I’m frightened about her—but I’m always frightened.”

  At the moment Charles thought she was making rather a luxury of being frightened. He felt like pushing her jig-saw puzzle back at her and saying, “Here, do the damned thing yourself!”

  “You see,” Hilda was saying in an earnest, shaken voice—“you see, if anything happened to her, I’d get it all. And once anyone begins thinking about that sort of thing it gets a sort of hold of them, so when he began to talk about a boating accident in his sleep it frightened me most dreadfully, and if he’d asked me to go out in a boat with him, nothing would have induced me to. But supposing it isn’t me at all—supposing it’s her and she doesn’t know, and there’s an accident—well, what would I feel like?”

  Charles’ head was going round. He said with conviction,

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” and glanced ostentatiously at his watch. The woman was balmy.

  He pushed back his chair, and would have risen if she had not clutched him.

  “Look here, Hilda—”

  “I thought you’d help me. Aren’t you going to help me?”

  “I don’t see what I can do. If your husband isn’t treating you properly you’d better see a solicitor.”

  “A solicitor won’t stop Ann Vernon having a boating accident,” said Hilda Paulett.

  Charles received the most frightful shock. All the pieces of the jig-saw puzzle rushed together and made the most terrifying picture. He remained where he was with one hand on the table and his muscles flexed. He had actually begun to rise, but the movement froze, uncompleted.

  After about a minute he dropped back into his chair. He wondered if Hilda had noticed anything, and in the very act of wondering became aware that she was speaking—“If he had divided it, it would have been all right. There’s enough for two. I can see Gale’s point of view, you know, because it’s a lot of money, and I don’t suppose he’d have wanted to marry me if he hadn’t thought I was bound to come in for it.”

  Charles spoke. His voice sounded harsh and abrupt in his own ears.

  “We’re not getting this straight. You thought your uncle had left his money to you, and he hasn’t?”

  “We both thought so. I saw it in the will—‘every thing to my great-niece.’ And the page ended there, but of course I thought it was me, because I didn’t know Ann Vernon existed, and nor did Gale.”

  “You thought the money was left to you, and it wasn’t?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, but you didn’t seem interested.”

  A horrible griping laughter caught at Charles, but he choked it down.

  “Oh, I’m interested,” he said.

  Hilda Paulett opened her bag and produced a mirror and a powder-puff.

  “It’s awfully sweet of you, and I feel ever so much better. You know, I think it does you a lot of good to get anything like that off your chest.” She closed her eyes in order to powder the lids, after which she took out a lipstick and reinforced the discordant cerise of her lips. They were full, pouting lips and they took a good deal of colour. She managed to talk all the time.

  “Gale’s really very fond of me, and he’s so good-looking. I’d love you to meet him. Of course we couldn’t have got married without the money, and now it doesn’t look as if we were going to get it. It was silly of me to say all that about Ann Vernon. She’ll live to be a hundred—people always do if you want their money. I should get it if she died, you know. I shouldn’t go into mourning if she had an accident, but of course I’d like to feel sure about it—about it’s being an accident, I mean. But she won’t have one.”

  Charles got to his feet. He was angrier than he had ever been in his life. For a violent minute he stood there and felt the room shake with his anger. Then he said, “No, she won’t!” And what he would have said or done next he never knew, for at that moment a ginger-haired waitress arrived with the bill. By the time he had paid it he had himself sufficiently under control to bid Hilda Paulett a conventional farewell.

  She did not appear to have noticed anything, since she repeated that he had done her a lot of good, and that she hoped that they would meet quite soon.

  Charles evaded her hand, collected his hat and stick, and departed, hoping that he might never set eyes on her again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charles was already on the road when Ann woke next morning. The sun was shining in at the window, and as she sat up in bed, all the queer shadows of the night seemed to slip away from her. Whilst she dressed, she took herself to task. After all, what did it all amount to? Some broken scraps of conversation, and a shadow on the loch in the dusk whilst a cloud went over the moon. “But it wasn’t a shadow,” said something deep inside her. “It moved—and the water foamed.”

  She gave herself an impatient shake and stopped her ears. Those scraps of conversation—why need they have anything to do with her? This was a most reassuring thought. The two men were talking, and she had caught bits of what they said. They might have been talking about a book, or a play, or a case in the papers. Ann wished passionately that she could have found this a convincing line of argument, but she just couldn’t get any mental grip on the idea of Jimmy Halliday and Gale Anderson discussing a play or a book. A case in the papers was a little more likely. But what case? Ann read the papers diligently, both to herself and to Mrs. Halliday. They arrived once a week with the groceries, and Mrs. Halliday took them in daily instalments—a morning paper in the morning, and an evening paper in the evening. Ann simply couldn’t fit the scraps she had overheard to anything in the papers.

  “Murder,” and, “You should encourage her to learn to swim. Now, I suppose, it’ll have to be a boating accident,” and, “I won’t.”

  There was more comfort in the last two words than in all her attempts to explain the rest away.

  She went down, and found a very glum Gale Anderson and a spruce and sheepish Jimmy who sat between her and his mother and passed her everything three times until Mrs. Halliday, fixing him with a contemptuous eye, inquired what was the matter that he was behaving himself so silly, whereupon he blushed, chuckled, and upset his tea. Mrs. Halliday called him a great scummocking porpoise, and told Ann rather acidly to go and fetch something to mop up the mess. Jimmy did not offer to help her. He cam
e of a class whose womenfolk wait upon them, and it was noticeable that since they had come to the island he no longer troubled to maintain the social veneer of Westley Gardens.

  Ann mopped up the tea. There was a slight tension in the air when she returned after taking away the cloth she had used. Mrs. Halliday had pushed back her chair and risen.

  “You come along with me, Miss Vernon,” she said, and the customary “my dear” was lacking.

  They went into the parlour and plunged into the day before yesterday’s paper, but in the very middle of an exciting column headed Film Star’s Romance Ann became aware that Mrs. Halliday’s shrewd grey glance was fixed upon her. The shrewdness had a sparkle upon it, and the sparkle looked a good deal like anger. Mrs. Halliday’s voice broke in, and the anger was unmistakeable.

  “Romance! I’ve no patience! Vanity and empty-headedness is what I call it! Anything to get themselves noticed, and not caring how it’s done! You mark my words, Miss Vernon, it don’t bring a girl to no good. A proper-minded young woman don’t lay herself out to get taken notice of by a man that’s old enough to be her father.”

  Ann had a lovely picture of herself setting her cap at Jimmy Halliday. She silently ejaculated, “Golly!” and said aloud, in a beautifully meek voice,

  “Oh no—she wouldn’t.”

  Mrs. Halliday gave a sort of snort. She was sitting up in a horse-hair armchair with a white antimacassar over the back of it and a lovely fat patchwork cushion made of hundreds of scraps of velvet and satin faggoted together with crimson silk behind her shoulders.

  “Wouldn’t she then? That’s all you know about it! Though I don’t suppose you’re as innocent as you sound—girls never are. And I’ve had my experience of them. Jimmy wasn’t only sixteen when they started after him, and that there Bessie Fox she’d have had ’im sure as nuts if it hadn’t been for me. And where’d he have been now? Fox by name and Vixen by nature, that’s what she was—a ginger-’eaded girl with a come-along-and-kiss-me look in her eye. But she didn’t get Jimmy—no more did Mary Pott as set up to be a beauty and couldn’t so much as darn ’er own stockings. Red staring cheeks like radishers and great gooseberry eyes, and didn’t know how to cook a potato! A fine wife she’d have made!” She laughed a short angry laugh. “Well, she didn’t get ’im—nor yet Susan Moggridge, nor May Fisher, nor Polly Pocklington, nor the widow that had the greengrocer’s shop, and that was forty if she was a day, and talked a deal about what she’d got in the bank, and it come out afterwards that she hadn’t nothing and was looking for a ’usband to pay ’er debts.”