‘When she was sure the girl was dead she put out the torch and came up the stairs. I told you about all that – her walking along the street, and getting on the bus, and meeting Miss Silver. Well, I went down yesterday and saw her. I told her that I’d been to look for the house, and I showed her the bead. She turned awfully pale when she saw it, and she said the beads that had been round the girl’s neck were like that. I pressed her, and she stuck to it. She said she was sure she had seen them. She shuddered violently when she said it – it evidently brought the whole thing back. She said, “They were there – but the string was broken!” I pressed her about going to the house. She couldn’t remember anything – anything at all – before the moment when she found herself on the cellar stairs with the consciousness that something dreadful had happened. It was after that that she sat down on the steps and waited for her head to clear. She found the bag, got out the torch, and saw the dead girl at the foot of the steps.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘I told you all that! What’s the good of going over and over it! But it was then that she saw the beads that had been round the girl’s neck. And the string was broken – this one had rolled away and got behind some boards that were leaning up against the wall. Everything else had been cleaned up – washed – tidied away. There was just this one bead behind the boards, and it proves the whole story, doesn’t it?’
‘Well – we’d like to see the girl. Anything more?’
Jim frowned.
‘No – not really. She says that she thinks the house was empty when she was in it.’
‘Why?’
‘She says why didn’t they kill her too if they were there?’
‘How did she get into the house?’
‘She doesn’t know. Everything’s a blank up to the moment she came to in the dark on those steps—’ He paused, and then said, ‘I think she’d seen the dead girl and dropped her own torch – she thinks she had a torch. There was a broken one on the ground by the dead girl. The one she used afterwards was in the bag – the black bag which she thinks must have belonged to the dead Anne. It was lying on the steps beside her. She put out her hand and felt it there when she was sitting down and trying not to faint. She picked it up and opened it, and there was a torch inside, besides some loose change and ten pounds in notes in the inside pocket. I told you all that. She says she doesn’t think the bag was hers, or the money, or the torch. As far as she is concerned she starts from scratch – there on the cellar steps without a penny.’
Frank Abbott frowned.
‘Give me her description.’
‘Whose – the dead Anne’s, or the living?’
‘Both.’
Jim said, ‘This Anne, the living one, she’s tall and slim. She’s anything between twenty and twenty-five – I should say nearer twenty – say twenty-two, twenty-three. Brown hair – dark brown – curly—’
Frank Abbott said, ‘That’s nothing to go by. Very few girls let themselves have straight hair nowadays. Any distinguishing marks?’
‘No. How do you suppose I should know? There aren’t any that show.’
‘And the dead girl?’
Jim stared at him.
‘What’s the good of describing anyone? What’s the good of a description? The dead Anne was a little thicker set and not so tall – about the same age. She had curly hair – it would be naturally curly, I should think, because there wouldn’t be permanent-waving machines out where we were, and she’d been there more than a year with her father.’
Frank Abbott looked up sharply and said, ‘Were you married to her – this girl who is dead?’
‘Not really – there was some kind of a ceremony.’
Frank’s hand lifted and fell again.
‘You told the Americans that she was your wife.’
‘Only way I could get them to take her.’
Frank remarked dispassionately, ‘There’ll be a row about that.’
‘Can’t be helped. If she’d been alive – but she isn’t, poor girl, she’s dead. It’s the other one, the living Anne, who’s got to be considered now. There’s something going on, I don’t know what, but yesterday a man turned up to see her. I’ve just come up from there, and she told me about it. Now listen – this is what she said. She was planting bulbs, and he came up the garden by himself. She thought he had mistaken the way. When she was telling me about it she was frightened – so frightened that she nearly fainted. We were out on the hillside above the house. I took her out there because I didn’t want anyone eavesdropping.’ He paused.
Frank said, ‘Go on.’
‘I said, “He’s frightened you – what did he say?” And she said—’ He paused.
For a moment he was back on the hillside. He was alone with Anne and she was speaking – ‘He said we’ve got to have a talk, and I wouldn’t want to have it in public. I–I turned faint like I did just now, I don’t know why.’ He came back to the office with the voice dying away in his ears – ‘It frightened me – it frightened me—’
Frank was looking at him. Jim went on speaking. He repeated her words, the description of the man, and his last words.
‘He said, “I’ll go for now. You’ll remember that we know where you are. And here are some orders for you. You’ll not tell anyone you’ve seen me, or what I’ve said. And when you get your orders you’ll do what you’re told right away, and no nonsense about it! Do you understand?” Then he said, “You’d better!” and he went away. And that was all.’
Frank Abbott said, ‘Very peremptory.’
Jim frowned and said, ‘Yes.’
TWENTY-TWO
ANNE’S HEART FAINTED in her. He had caught her. She put her hand on the handle of the door to steady herself. And it turned. It wasn’t a locked door barring her way to safety. It was open, and she was safe. The door swung in, and she with it. She shut it behind her, locked it, and leaned against it in the darkness. She felt faint with the narrowness of her escape. And then from the back of the hall in which she was standing a door opened and light shone out. A voice which was young, quite young, said sleepily, ‘Is that you? How late you are!’
There was a girl, and she was yawning. Behind her there was a partly open door to a lighted room. The light was dangerous. It was the dead middle of the night. There oughtn’t to be any light in a sleeping house. She moved so quickly that she had no time for anything except that one thought. The darkness was safe, the light was dangerous. She was along the passage and at the door, and in the same moment she was in the room and the door shut on her and on the girl. She leaned against it, drawing quick breaths and saying the first thing that came into her mind to say.
‘I’m so sorry. There’s a man – chasing me. Oh, please do help me!’
The girl looked at her. She was a little thing, and plump. Her fair hair was untidy, as if she had been asleep on it. She had on a short skirt and a flannel blouse, and she had kicked off her shoes. They were lying higgledy piggledy in front of a chair by the fire. Her round brown eyes were full of sleepy surprise. She said, ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Anne—’
‘Anne what?’
Anne said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you mean you’ve lost your memory?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh – how odd—’
Anne said, ‘It’s very uncomfortable.’
‘It must be. Would you like some tea?’ Her tone was brightly matter-of-fact.
And then quite suddenly there came a knocking on the front door. Every scrap of colour left Anne’s face. She had been pale before, now she looked as if only terror kept her alive. The girl nodded and said ‘All right.’ She put out her hand to the electric light switch and turned it off.
The hope of darkness … The words came into Anne’s mind and stayed there. She was covered and protected. She remained standing, her hand on the back of an upright chair and her whole reliance on this little creature with the steady brown eyes. Five minutes ago she hadn’t known of her existence, and now she was in the dark in a st
range house, and all her reliance was upon this girl, younger than herself.
The girl went past her out of the room. The knocking on the front door came again.
A quiet came upon Anne. There were two things that might happen to her, and she saw them quite clearly. The girl could have gone upstairs to get away from her. She could have gone upstairs to her room, and she could lock herself in. And she could speak from her window and find out who was knocking at the door. And if she believed what he would say she would give Anne over to him.
Something in her mind refused to accept this as a possible happening. It didn’t even frighten her very much. Perhaps that was because she was past being frightened either much or little. She waited, listening with all her ears – with more than her ears – with the whole of her, body and soul.
The tapping on the door came again.
This time it was followed by the sound of a window upstairs being thrown open. A sleepy voice called out, ‘Is that you, Aunt Hester?’
‘Well, no—’ It was a man’s voice. It was his voice.
‘Oh! What is it? What do you want?’
‘I just wanted to enquire, have you seen or heard anything of my ward? She is missing.’
‘Your ward?’
‘Yes. She’s been ill. She’s not fit to be out alone. If she’s with you—’
‘And what would make you think she was with me? If you’ve lost someone, go and look for her! Don’t come here, wakening me up and frightening me to death!’
The voice from the other side of the door became softer.
‘I do apologize – I really do. If my niece is there—’
‘Your niece is not here! How many more times do you want me to say that?’
‘She isn’t there?’
‘No, she isn’t!’ The window above shut with a bang.
The man on the other side of the front door put his hand on the knocker. Anne heard it make a faint creak. Then his hand dropped again. He stood for a moment or two, and then she heard his footsteps going away down the path, down the four steps that led into the road. She heard him go, and she went on listening. Every sense seemed to be stretched. She could follow his footsteps in the road, she could hear him get into the car. He banged the door with a heavy decisive slam, and the car moved off, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker until it was gone.
Anne felt the stiffness go out of her. She hadn’t realized how cold she was. It came over her now. She stood quite still where she was and waited, she didn’t know for what. Now that it was over and he was gone, she groped her way to a chair and sat down, her head against the back of it and her eyes shut. She heard the girl come back into the room, dimly. She heard her voice, but she couldn’t speak or answer. There was an interval – light in the room. It was warm – blessedly warm. Someone was shaking her by the shoulder. A voice was saying, ‘I’ve made some cocoa – you’d better have it.’
She opened her eyes. She didn’t know what a desperate appeal they held. She couldn’t do any more than she had done. Her eyes said, ‘Help me – help me.’
The little plump girl patted her shoulder.
‘Drink this up and you’ll feel better.’
It was cocoa, warm and sweet. She drank it up. It seemed strange at first, but as she went on it was comfortable and warm. Her eyes were open and she was dazedly conscious of the room and the girl.
When she had finished the cup it was taken from her, and the girl said, ‘It was a good thing you locked the door when you came in. I had left it open – I’m awful about doing that. But the thing is, my aunt was coming back. She had been up to town for the day, and then when she rang up to say she’d met a friend and been persuaded to stay the night, I put off locking the door until I went to bed, and I sat down to read and went to sleep. And when I woke up I thought she’d come after all. It’s an awful warning, isn’t it?’
Anne blinked at her.
‘I suppose it is. But if you hadn’t left the door, I wouldn’t have got in.’ She shuddered suddenly, violently.
The girl had a little painted tray in her hand. She scooped up the cup that had had the cocoa in it and laughed.
‘I shan’t tell Aunt Hester, or she’ll preach like mad. She’s all right, but she does hold forth.’ She put down the tray and the cup and said briskly, ‘Now the thing is, what am I going to do with you. Have you got any ideas?’
Anne looked ahead and turned her eyes away. She couldn’t do anything with tomorrow yet. Wait till it comes …
She was just going to speak when the girl said, ‘It’s half-past one. I think we had better go to bed. I’ll lend you a nightgown. It’ll be rather short, but that doesn’t matter. I always sleep with my feet tucked up. You can too. Then in the morning we can think about what we’re going to do. My aunt won’t be back till lunch-time, if then.’
Anne took hold of the table edge to get up, but the effort spent itself, swept away by a flood of gratitude. She said in a low, stumbling voice, ‘That’s good of you. You don’t even know my name – I don’t know it myself. I’m Anne, that’s all I know.’
‘I’m Prissy – Prissy Knox. Come along up! You look as if you wanted a good sleep.’
All at once Anne felt that was true. She got up. And that was the last thing she remembered at all clearly.
TWENTY-THREE
WHEN SHE LOOKED back on it she could just remember going up the stairs, and that they seemed very steep. After that there was a candle-flame that worried her. It kept getting in her eyes. Her clothes seemed to be coming off. Prissy’s little plump hands were undoing hooks and buttons and putting on a nightgown. And then – and then – the candle was being taken away and the room was dark about her. Prissy said something, she thought it was good-night, and the door shut. She sank into sleep like a stone sinking into water and there was nothing else at all.
At first her sleep was quite dreamless. She was too tired for thought. And then, as it drew near to morning and the dazed fatigue passed from her, the dreams came. She was running along a dark tunnel with the sound of an express train coming up behind her. She was sitting high up on a hillside with Jim. It was sunny, and they were at peace. It was like the time when they had been together on the last day she had seen him. She knew that there had been a last time, and she knew that he had taken her in his arms. He didn’t touch her now. They sat side by side in the sunlight and did not look at one another. It was quite peaceful. And then the waves began to lap against their feet. Time seemed to have passed. There hadn’t been any water, but time had passed and the sea was up to their feet. It filled all the place below them where she had seen the open fields and the trees. And suddenly a great wave broke over them. And Jim was gone. And she was alone. She came panting and struggling up from the dream into a crushing sense of loss. Jim was gone, and she was alone.
She opened her eyes and saw the strange room before she remembered anything. It frightened her. She started up in the grey, cold dawn and saw it. She had no memory of how she had come there, and for a moment everything was adrift. Then with a rush memory came back. She sat up in bed and saw herself coming downstairs in the other house, listening to the man as he talked to Lilian. She was back in the dark, her eyes wide, her heart thudding as she listened to them talking in the next room. She remembered it all. She could have repeated every word as she had heard, and every word said to her.
Get up and go from here as fast as you can. She was half out of bed, when there was a knock on the door and Prissy came in with her hair in a plait. It was absurd to feel caught, but she did.
Prissy was yawning.
‘I hate getting up early,’ she said. ‘Don’t you? It’s only half-past six, but if you really want to catch a train—’
The train … She didn’t know… She looked at Prissy for a moment of blank unseeing fear. And then it all cleared. She had to get away – to Jim – to Miss Silver. She shut her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again.
‘I’m sorry – I was dreaming. I don’t know
where I was, but not here.’
‘Are you here now?’ There was a frank curiosity in Prissy’s voice, and in her look too.
‘Yes – I’m here—’ Her voice shook a little on the words.
Prissy came over and sat on the bed.
‘Well then, I think we’d better talk. What I thought was – you’ve got friends, haven’t you?’
Jim – Miss Silver … She said, ‘Yes, I’ve got friends.’
Prissy hugged herself. She said with a good deal of relief, ‘Well, that’s all right. I should think the best thing would be if I were to drive you to Felsham to catch a train. It’s only seven miles, and it’s a different line, so that if anyone wanted to catch you they wouldn’t think of it – at least I hope they wouldn’t.’
‘Would you – would you do that?’
‘Yes, I would. Are you going to tell me anything?’
‘I don’t know. Would you believe me?’
Prissy burst out laughing.
‘How can I tell? You can try. I mean, if you were to say you had fallen out of an aeroplane, or something like that, I might help you, but I shouldn’t believe you, because that would be stupid. It would be much easier to believe that you were making it up, or – or something like that.’
Anne looked at her. Bright brown eyes in a rosy face, a red dressing-gown, bare feet tucked up beneath her. She said, ‘I won’t make anything up, I promise you that. I can’t tell you everything, because I’ve lost my memory and I don’t know it myself. If I tell you what I do remember you’ll maybe not believe me, so I think I won’t. Because they’ll tell lies – the man who came here last night—’
‘Yes, who is he?’
‘I don’t know – I really don’t.’
Prissy had her arms round her knees. She giggled a little and said, ‘He said you were his niece.’
‘I know – I heard him. It isn’t true.’
‘How do you know if you can’t remember?’
‘I’d never seen him before – I’m sure I hadn’t. He was utterly strange and – and horrible.’
Prissy was nodding.
The Girl in the Cellar (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 32) Page 9