The Girl in the Cellar (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 32)

by Patricia Wentworth

  Yours,

  J.F.

  She read it twice. It meant nothing to her at all. When she looked up and saw that Lilian was watching her – she had been watching her all the time she had been reading the letter – she had a moment of acute fear. It came, caught her, and obliterated thought, sense, everything. It was like being pounced upon by some strange animal in a nightmare. She didn’t know what she was afraid of, or why she was afraid.

  Lilian’s rather high voice came to her as if from a distance. She could only just hear it.

  ‘Good gracious, Anne, what is the matter?’

  She heard her own voice say with the same effect of distance, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Anne – are you all right?’

  The nightmare feeling left her. She was able to say, ‘Yes – thank you—’

  She could see Lilian’s face now – curious. She said, ‘I don’t know why – as if—’ Her voice tailed away.

  ‘Well, as you are all right now – you’re sure you are all right? You’re very pale.’

  ‘Yes, I’m quite all right. It was just—’

  Lilian looked at her. There was something curious in her expression.

  ‘You haven’t really forgotten Jim, have you?’

  ‘I don’t know how long I knew him.’ There was uncertainty in her voice.

  Lilian gave her little high laugh.

  ‘You will have quite a tidying up to do when he comes – won’t you?’

  TEN

  IT WAS TWO days later that Jim Fancourt came. Anne was in the garden. She heard the sound of a car. It went past her on the other side of the hedge. She felt nothing. Oh, no – nothing at all. That seemed very curious to think about afterwards, but at the time it seemed quite natural. She didn’t even think about it, but went on tidying up the border. There was a gardener, but he was an old man, and in his time the garden had had three men to do the work. Wherever she had been for all the unknown years, she had known all about clearing up a border. She didn’t have to think about that. Her hands remembered, if she had forgotten. When she heard steps behind her on the garden path she took them for the old gardener’s and said, ‘These chrysanthemums have done well – haven’t they? They must like the soil here.’

  The voice that was not the gardener’s said from behind her, ‘Oh, they do.’

  She looked over her shoulder and saw Jim Fancourt. There was a moment in which she didn’t know who he was, and another moment when she knew. In between those two moments there was a feeling as if she was drowning. She had nearly drowned when she was ten years old. It came back to her vividly. They were in a boat, and the boat was upset. She was in water – deep, deep water. And then through the fear and the drowning there had come a voice – hands – and she was saying …

  She got up slowly and faced him. He was tall – that was the first impression. And then she saw that he was frowning.

  He said short and sharp, ‘Who are you?’ and she gave him the only answer she could.

  ‘I don’t know – if you don’t.’

  The frown deepened.

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  She made a helpless gesture.

  ‘I don’t know – anything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said.’

  There was a moment’s pause before he said, ‘You’re not going to faint, are you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think so. I – I’d like to sit down.’

  He gave a half laugh.

  ‘There’s the potting-shed – can you get as far as that?’

  She nodded, and moved. The next thing she knew was an arm about her, a feeling of support, not unwelcome. She shut her eyes, was conscious of being guided, and of returning consciousness. The voice said, ‘Here we are. Untidy old man, Clarke. Can you stand for a minute whilst I get all these sacks to one end of the seat? Now – sit down! Feel better?’

  She opened her eyes and said, ‘Yes – thank you—’

  Those opened eyes of hers were like two open windows. The thought went through his mind – two windows open, and someone there not knowing that she was being looked at. He turned round quickly, walked to the door of the potting-shed, checked himself, and walked back again. He said, ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘I think so—’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You are Jim Fancourt, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  Something came over her, she didn’t know what it was. She got to her feet and stood there, leaning forward a little, her hands holding each other tightly, her eyes fixed on his face. They stood there looking at one another. He had no consciousness of ever having seen her before. They were strangers. She did not know him, nor did he know her. But underneath all that there was a deep, strong pull. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there. He said in a rough voice, ‘Who are you?’

  Her eyes were wide. They seemed to search his face. She said in a toneless whisper, ‘I’m Anne—’

  ‘Anne who? Anne what?’

  ‘I – don’t – know—’

  She thought he was going to leave her, for he turned and went out of the shed.

  She sat down on the bench again and closed her eyes. Time ceased. And then her hand was taken and he was there quite close to her, sitting on the bench, his warm hand holding hers. His voice, strong and firm, seemed to come from a long way off. It wasn’t kind or unkind, it was just a voice. It wasn’t angry. Perhaps it was too far off to be angry. She didn’t know. The voice said, ‘You’re Anne?’

  ‘I’m Anne.’ It was the one thing she was sure about.

  ‘You’re not the Anne I was looking for.’

  There was a lonely wind blowing. It cut her off from everyone else in the world. She didn’t belong to anyone.

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘Didn’t you know that?’

  She was looking at him again. She said, ‘No, I didn’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t – know—’

  The hand that was holding hers increased its warm, strong pressure. He said, ‘Look here, what is all this? You came here. You had Anne’s bag. What does it all mean? You’ve got to tell me!’

  ‘Yes—’

  If she told him, would he believe her? There was so little to tell – so very, very little. Would anyone believe she was telling all she knew? She went on looking at him, but she didn’t really see him. Not as he saw her.

  She said, ‘It’s all dark – up to a point. I’ll tell you what I can. I don’t see why you should believe me, but I’ll tell you—’ She paused for so long that it was as if a tap had been turned on and no water flowed from it. And then, just as he was going to say something, she began to speak. ‘It was quite dark. Quite, quite dark. I thought I was going to faint. I was standing on some steps. I sat down. I put my head on my knees. The faintness went away. I was on steps. I knew that. I knew I had come down the steps and dropped my bag. I knew that someone was lying dead at the bottom of the steps. I don’t know how I knew it, but I did.’

  She stopped, and there was a silence. When he said, ‘Go on,’ she began again.

  ‘The bag was on the steps beside me – I thought it was mine.’ The hand that was clasped in his twitched, and she said more earnestly and naturally than she had spoken yet, ‘I did think that. I thought it was my bag, and that I had dropped it there on the steps.’

  He said, ‘Yes—’ His voice gave her some reassurance, she didn’t know how or why. When he said, ‘Go on,’ it was suddenly easier. She began to tell him about taking the torch out of the bag and switching it on.

  ‘It was there – in the bag. I switched it on and saw her. She was lying on the floor at the bottom of the steps. I knew that she was dead.’

  He said quick and sharp, ‘How did you know that? Did you kill her?’

  She said in a surprised voice, ‘Oh, no, I didn’t – I’m quite sure I didn’t! Why should I?’

&
nbsp; ‘I don’t know.’

  She said with the simplicity of one who explains to a small child, ‘I couldn’t have done it. There wasn’t anything to do it with.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I could see. There wasn’t anything there to shoot her with. There wasn’t anything at all – there really wasn’t.’

  He found himself believing her. It wasn’t the words, it was something else – something in her look, in her voice.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I went down. I felt her wrist. It was quite cold. There was some broken glass – it was from the other torch—’

  ‘What other torch?’

  ‘I think it was mine.’

  She was aware of his eyes on her, steady and level – not accusing, not believing – just waiting. She went on.

  ‘I can’t remember, but I think – I think I must have come down the steps before. I think it was my torch that I had when I saw her.’

  ‘But you can’t remember?’

  ‘No, I can’t – remember—’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I went down. The other torch was there – broken – on the ground. I had the feeling it was mine. I don’t know if it was really.’

  ‘Well?’

  She said with the most touching simplicity, ‘I felt her hand. It was quite cold.’

  ‘How do you know she was dead? Anyone who is in a faint may be cold.’

  She pulled her hand away from him, and put both hands over her eyes.

  ‘Why do you make me say it? She had been shot from behind. Her head – oh—’

  ‘You’re sure she was dead?’

  She dropped her hands from her eyes and said, ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure – quite sure. Nobody could be alive with a wound like that.’

  There was a pause. He believed her. He didn’t know why, but he did believe her. He got up, walked to the door of the shed, and stood there. When he turned his manner had changed. He said, ‘How much have you told them here?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She felt as if he was looking through and through her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I kept thinking – perhaps I should – remember—’

  ‘Well, go on. What did you do?’

  ‘I came up the steps.’

  ‘With the light in your hand?’

  ‘No – I put it out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That someone had killed her.’

  ‘Who else was in the house?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She was looking at him all the time.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘The hall was dark – the front door wasn’t quite shut – I came out into the street—’

  ‘What street?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. It was quiet – dark. It went into a street with buses. I got into a bus. It brought me to the station.’

  ‘What made you come here?’

  ‘There was a Miss Silver – she was in the bus—’

  ‘Miss Silver?’

  Something in his tone surprised her. She said, ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘What is she like?’

  She turned her thoughts back.

  ‘She’s small – not young – old-fashioned looking – like the governess out of an old-fashioned story book. She was very kind and – and – practical. She had on a black coat and a kind of a fur tippet, and a hat with red roses on one side and little sort of whisks of black net on the other. I think she saw that I didn’t know what to do. She took me into the station to have tea, and I told her all about it.’ She stopped there with an air of finality. She had told him what she knew. Now it was for him to do something about it.

  He sat in frowning silence. If this was true? He believed that it was true. He couldn’t say why, but he did believe it. His thoughts strayed off to Miss Silver. He had met her. She was a friend of Frank Abbott’s. He could check up with her. He didn’t really need to. He could feel the girl straining to tell the truth as she saw it. It was a very queer business – very queer indeed.

  ELEVEN

  THEY CAME BACK towards the house. There was no more said. She had a curious feeling of relief. She hadn’t to think any more, or plan, or be troubled. It was his business, and he was fully able for it.

  When they were still some way from the house he stopped her, his right hand on her arm.

  ‘Wait a minute – we’ve got to say the same thing.’

  Those clear eyes of hers looked up at him. When he saw that she wasn’t going to speak, he said, ‘We’ve got to say the same thing. I had to send you here – that is, I had to send Anne—’

  ‘If I’m not Anne, you didn’t send me.’ The words came out a mere statement of fact. Behind the calmness of her tone there was a dreadful void feeling. If she wasn’t Anne, who was she? The answer to that came fast and breathless, ‘I am Anne.’ There must be thousands and thousands of Annes in the world. She was one of them, if she wasn’t Anne Fancourt.

  He said, ‘Look here—’ He stopped, and then began all over again. ‘You haven’t said anything about this to Lilian and Harriet?’

  She went on looking at him with those clear eyes. She said, ‘No,’ and then, after a pause, ‘I didn’t know – I didn’t remember. I thought perhaps I might remember—’ Her voice faded out.

  He said, ‘Then I think it would be best just to go on in the same way. I shan’t be staying, so it won’t be difficult for you. I must try and find out what has happened to her.’

  She said, still looking at him,

  ‘She was dead – she was really dead.’

  ‘Don’t you see I must prove that? If she was dead, who killed her and why, poor girl?’

  She said, ‘Will you tell me about her? Who was she?’

  He frowned suddenly.

  ‘She was Anne Borrowdale. She was with her father in—’ He paused and said, ‘I’d better not say where. We had no business to be there really. No, I don’t know that I can tell you any more – I think better not. Her father was killed accidentally, and right on that an American plane came down – and you’d better not say anything about that either, because they’d got no business there. Bad weather, and they were a hundred miles off their course. They came down, put her right, and got off again. They took Anne with them, as my wife. There – that’s the story. And you keep mum about it until I tell you! Do you see?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The curious thing was that her one word carried such conviction. He went on.

  ‘I’ve got to try and trace her.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  He was wondering about that, but as soon as she spoke he knew.

  ‘I shall see Miss Silver.’

  She made a little doubtful movement of her head.

  ‘I don’t know that that will help. What can she do?’

  ‘She can tell me where she got on the bus.’

  ‘Yes – she can do that. But would that help?’

  ‘I don’t know. It might.’

  They walked along in silence. It wasn’t the strained, awkward silence that it might have been. Each thought of that. It was more like the companionable silence of two people who do not speak because there is no need to speak, because they have confidence in one another. Neither of them knew that the other had this feeling. Each had it so strongly that it sufficed without words.

  They came down out of the garden and across a spread of lawn to where he had left his car before he spoke again. Then he said, ‘Will you tell them I couldn’t wait? They’ll think it odd, but no odder than most of the things I’ve done in the last ten years.’

  She said, ‘I’ll tell them,’ and stood to see him get in and drive away.

  When he was almost out of sight, Lilian came out of the house.

  ‘He’s not gone? Oh, he can’t be gone! You haven’t let him go!’

  Anne came back from a long way off to say grav
ely and simply, ‘He had to go.’

  ‘But why? I don’t understand at all – why has he gone?’

  Anne said, ‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.’

  She got a sharp look for that.

  ‘Have you quarrelled?’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  There was genuine surprise in her voice. There hadn’t been time for them to quarrel. She had the feeling as she spoke that, with all the time in the world, there would be no time for them to quarrel in.

  Lilian had come close up to her.

  ‘I don’t understand you at all, Anne. Your husband comes down here. We are expecting him, naturally. I tell him you are in the garden, and he says he will go out and find you. And now you tell me he has gone! I don’t understand it at all!’

  Anne roused herself. It was all rather like a dream. But she mustn’t let Lilian be angry if she could help it – she wasn’t sure that she could help it. She said, ‘He asked me things. When I told him, he said he had better see about them at once. He said to tell you.’

  ‘Things!’ said Lilian angrily. ‘I can’t imagine what you mean! I can’t imagine what he means! It all sounds nonsense to me – perfect nonsense!’

  TWELVE

  MISS SILVER HAD not forgotten her encounter with the girl who might or might not be Mrs James Fancourt. It had occurred to her more than once that she would like to know what had happened, and whether her memory had come back. But she had restrained herself. She had been partly helped in this restraint by the fact that not only was she very busy with the tail end of the Lena Morrison business, but she had also been concerned about, and her thoughts a good deal taken up by, the accident to her niece Ethel Burkett’s youngest child, Josephine, who had slipped on the kerb just opposite their house and contracted so badly bruised an ankle that for three days there had been doubts as to whether it had not been broken. This was now happily a thing of the past. The Morrison affair was practically done with, and there was nothing to prevent Miss Silver from giving her full attention to a new appeal for her help.