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

by Patricia Wentworth

  ‘Yes – yes, I can see that. But she’ll need money. Will you see that she has what she wants? I’ll give you a cheque. Will fifty pounds be all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fancourt.’

  ‘Couldn’t you tell me where she is?’

  She smiled.

  ‘I think it will be better if I do not.’

  He leaned forward and took her hands. His were hard and strong, but she felt them tremble.

  ‘If I say I won’t see her – I won’t go near her—’

  ‘Do you think you could really keep to that?’

  He said, ‘I don’t know. I suppose I couldn’t, but I would try.’

  Miss Silver looked at him with a great degree of kindness. She said, ‘Let it alone for a little, Mr Fancourt. It will be better that way.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  HAVING LET GO, it is always difficult to take things up again. Anne had let go. She felt that way about it. It was as if she had been climbing a very steep hill, the sort of hill that it takes every atom of your strength to climb, and then quite suddenly she had come out upon a flat, easy place where she could stop and rest. A week went by. She did not know that a process of healing was going on. She did not see, as Janet saw, that there was a change in her – colour coming back to her cheeks and light to her eyes.

  She woke up suddenly after a week to think about how much money she had. She came down to breakfast with a troubled look, and was glad to find Janet alone.

  ‘I must get something to do.’

  ‘There’s no hurry.’

  ‘Oh, but there is. I must get a job. I haven’t much money.’

  Janet hesitated.

  ‘You’ve got plenty for the present. I shouldn’t be in a hurry.’

  Anne looked at her in a distressed way.

  ‘You’re so good to me. But don’t you see I can’t go on taking it? You don’t know anything about me, and if you let a room you’ve a right to be paid for it, and – and I ought to be earning something.’

  Janet went on putting out the breakfast things. She didn’t want to tell her, but she would have to. She hoped Anne wasn’t going to mind. She said, ‘You needn’t worry about the money.’

  Anne was looking at her with wide, distressed eyes.

  ‘You’re so good – but I must.’

  Janet stood there with the teapot in her hand.

  ‘You know you spoke about Miss Silver – I told her you had come to me.’

  The blood ran up to the roots of Anne’s hair and then down again. She looked as if she was going to faint. Janet put her in a chair and pulled up one beside her. She had been talking for some time before what she said came through to Anne.

  ‘– fifty pounds. Have you got that? You don’t look as if you had.’

  Anne said, ‘No – no—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Janet firmly, ‘there’s fifty pounds for you.’

  Anne came back slowly. Janet was sitting beside her, holding her hand.

  ‘Miss Silver sent me fifty pounds, and it was for you.’

  The colour came into Anne’s face again.

  ‘He – he mustn’t,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Anne’s hand went out.

  ‘It’s from Jim. He mustn’t—’

  ‘Why?’

  Anne was shaking.

  ‘He – he mustn’t. I don’t want him to.’

  Janet was frowning.

  ‘Look here, Anne, I do think you’ve got to be helped just now. Miss Silver says he’s in a dreadful state about you.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘She says he is. Look here, if Miss Silver says it’s all right for you to take the money you really needn’t worry. She’s like all the maiden aunts in the world. If she says it’s all right, then it is, and that’s that.’

  ‘Does she say it’s all right?’

  ‘She wouldn’t send it on if she didn’t think so.’

  Anne woke up to the fact that she was talking about Jim, and – did Janet know anything about Jim? If she did, it wasn’t Anne who had told her. Jim had been in her mind, in her thoughts, but she had never mentioned his name until now. She said, ‘Who told you about Jim?’

  ‘Miss Silver thought I knew.’

  ‘You’ve seen her?’

  ‘Yes, I have. That’s when she gave me the money. She said it would be kind to take it because he was in such a state about you. You can pay it back, you know.’

  Anne said slowly, ‘Yes – I can pay it back—’ And then Lizabet came in and there was no more private talk.

  The letter from Jim came next morning. She didn’t know it was from Jim at first, because it was enclosed in one from Miss Silver. She read Miss Silver’s first.

  My dear Anne,

  I am very glad to have news of you, and to know that you are safe. Mr Fancourt has been in a great state about you. I have told him that he must wait until it is your wish to see him. Do not keep him too long, my dear. He is very much concerned for you, and quite trustworthy.

  With affectionate regards,

  Yours, Maud Silver.

  Anne looked up from the neat handwriting to the enclosure, which wasn’t neat at all. Something of the desperation in his mind came across to her as she looked at the envelope with the name that wasn’t hers scrawled across it – Mrs Fancourt. That touched her. Suddenly and unexpectedly it touched her. She was trying to break away, and it was just as if he had put out a hand and caught at her to make her stay. She took the letter, ran up to her room with it, and locked the door. And even then she couldn’t open it or read it for a long, long time. She wanted to, and she was afraid. She wanted to with all her heart, and just because she wanted to so much she was more afraid than she had ever been about anything.

  When at last she moved, it was with a strong effort. She tore the envelope, and out came the package of sheets which were inside.

  The letter began without any beginning as formal as beginnings go. It said:

  Why did you go away like that? It was cruel of you and quite useless. Don’t you know – don’t you know that I care for you? You must know it. Let me come to you. I don’t know why you went away. I think Lilian had something to do with it. You need never see her again if she had. I can promise you that. There is nothing else that I can think of that would come between us. Miss Silver says that you are safe. She won’t tell me where you are. She says she only knows in confidence, and that she won’t tell me unless you say she may. Oh, Anne, please do say so – please. Whatever is the matter – whatever you think you must keep to yourself, please, please, please let me know about it. I only want to help you. Darling – darling Anne, do believe that. You may feel that it is too soon for me to say all this. I know I shan’t change. I won’t worry you, I will promise that. But do let me see you. Don’t shut yourself off from me like this. I can’t stand it.

  There was a big bold ‘Jim’ scrawled across the bottom.

  Anne read her letter through three times. Then she put up her hand to her eyes, found that they were wet, and got out a handkerchief to dry them with. She didn’t know why Jim’s letter should have made her cry, but it had. Then she saw that there was another sheet. It had dropped on the bed beside her. She picked it up and read it:

  I haven’t told you about Anne. There isn’t much to tell. I hardly knew her. She was with her father in the place where we were. Her mother was Russian, and she had been brought up out there. I don’t know whether she was legitimate. I think perhaps she wasn’t, because her father, Borrowdale, was in such a state about her when he was dying. He met with an accident and only lived a few hours. He asked me to marry Anne and look after her. I hadn’t had a lot to do with women, but there was no one else so I said yes. There wasn’t much time to think. He sent for the local priest – it was ten miles over very rough country – and he married us. The priest had been gone about an hour when the American plane came down. They got off again after a couple of hours, and they took Anne with them. It was a bit of a wangle, so don’t
talk about it. There have been difficulties about getting anyone away from Russia, especially if their nationality wasn’t quite clear, so that American plane was just what was wanted. I thought it was the safest thing for her. But how she came to be murdered in London I don’t know, or how you got mixed up in it. Let me come and see you. Please do.

  It was an extraordinary story. How and why had she come into it? She didn’t know at all. To think about it was like pushing at darkness itself. At dense darkness. Memory didn’t come back that way. If it came, it would come naturally – as naturally as she remembered getting up this morning, or what she did yesterday.

  After what seemed like a long time she got up and washed her face. She couldn’t make up her mind what to say to him. She would have to write to him. What did she say? It wasn’t that she distrusted him, but he might distrust her. Suppose she told him just what had happened – how she had come down in the night and found Lilian talking to the man whose name she didn’t know. Suppose he didn’t believe her. Her heart beat hard at the thought. Why should he believe her? Lilian was his own kin. If it hadn’t been for that, she could have trusted him, but— She tried to put herself in his place. A strange girl with no background at all telling the strangest tale about the people you had known always. How could you believe her? How could you believe anything she said?

  She didn’t know.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  JIM FANCOURT CAME down to breakfast after a night of tumultuous dreams. There was a little pile of letters, and he was sorting them through when he came on Anne’s and dropped the others. She wrote as he had done, without a formal beginning and without a formal address. He read:

  I don’t know what to say. You don’t know anything about me. I don’t know anything about myself. You have sent me some money. I don’t know whether I ought to take it, but I am going to just for now, on the condition that you let me pay it back when I have got a job. You needn’t worry about me at all. Miss Silver knows the girl I’m with, and nobody could be kinder. Please wait a little before you try and see me. I want to think things out. If I could only remember – but it’s no use trying, it only makes everything confused.

  He put his head in his hands and groaned. Why wouldn’t she? Because she didn’t trust him? Because she didn’t want to be rushed? That hurt a little less than the other. But there wasn’t a word to explain why she had gone off in the middle of the night. He went over the scene with her on the open slope of the hill. She had told him everything then. How did he know that? The answer came passionately. He did know it, but he didn’t know how he knew it. He just knew that everything was all right between them then. Whatever had happened, whatever had gone wrong, had come afterwards. Something had happened. What was it? Something had happened to make her run away in the middle of the night from Lilian’s house – from Lilian. That was it – Lilian had done something that had driven her away. Now, what had Lilian done?

  That she was an idle, mischief-making woman, he had no doubt, but the idlest mischief-maker in the world needs something to start her off. It came to him then and suddenly that the man who had frightened Anne in the garden might be in on it. He had gone to the house first, and he had seen Lilian. What had passed between them, and was that their first meeting? He had no idea, but he meant to find out. He looked at his watch. He could catch the eleven o’clock for Haleycott.

  Lilian was considerably surprised at his arrival. She had been congratulating herself on the way she had managed. Anne had gone. Jim had come and gone. The man whom she knew as Maxton had gone. There was nothing to bring any of them back again except Jim, who would naturally come down occasionally on a family visit which could have no particular significance, and which would be quite pleasant. She was all for keeping up pleasant relations with the family. What she had not allowed for was his coming down again right on top of his other visit and in such an exceedingly overbearing and difficult frame of mind. He had refused curtly to come into the garden and see how the borders were progressing, and had opened the study door, shown her in, and shut it again, all in the most peremptory manner.

  She said, ‘Really, Jim!’ And then, ‘What is it? What have I done?’

  ‘That is what I mean to know. Just what have you done?’

  She went back to her ‘Really, Jim!’ And then, in a tumble of words, ‘I don’t know what you can possibly mean. I don’t think you can be well. I don’t know what this is all about.’

  ‘Don’t you? Are you sure, Lilian? Are you quite sure you don’t know?’

  She was beginning to be frightened. What did he know? How could he possibly know anything at all? He couldn’t – he didn’t! She opened her eyes as wide as they would go and said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can only suppose that you’re not well, or – or that you’ve been drinking.’

  ‘No, I’ve not been drinking. There’s nothing wrong with me, Lilian. You’d better make up your mind to it and tell the truth. Anne told me about the man who came down to see her. I know that he saw you first. It’s really quite useless to try and deceive me. I’ve come here to get the truth, and I mean to get it.’

  He saw real terror in her eyes. Her hand went up to her throat.

  ‘I don’t know – what you mean—’

  ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘something happened here in the middle of the night when Anne disappeared. It’s no good your telling me you don’t know anything about it. It’s no good, I say.’

  Lilian did the best she knew for herself. She broke into sobs.

  ‘Really, Jim … I can’t think … I don’t know why! Oh – oh dear! What do you think I’ve done?’

  He said, ‘I don’t know. You’d better tell me. That man who came down – I want to know whether you had ever seen him before.’

  He didn’t know, then. He wanted to know. Well, she wasn’t going to tell him, and that would serve him right.

  There was a sofa by the window. She made her way to it and sat down, moving feebly. It would serve him right if she were to faint. She wondered what he would do if she did, and then decided regretfully that she had better not. And it was quite obvious that he didn’t know anything. He didn’t know that she knew Maxton, or that Maxton had been here in the night. She must remember that he didn’t know, and she must stick to it. She got out her handkerchief and dried her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what this is all about,’ she said in the most pathetic voice she could contrive. ‘Anne ran away from here. I’ve no idea why, but if you want to know what I think—’ She paused, mopped her eyes, and looked at him round the handkerchief. ‘If you want to know what I really think – well, I don’t like to say it, but I’ve no doubt in my own mind—’

  ‘What have you got no doubt about in your own mind?’

  She wished that Jim would stay farther off. She wished she had not sat down, but her legs were shaking and she had to. She was afraid to say what she had begun to say, but there didn’t seem to be any way out of it now. She spoke in rising agitation.

  ‘I thought she was odd when she came – very odd. And I didn’t think—’ She stopped.

  Jim repeated her last words, ‘You didn’t think—’

  Lilian was goaded into speech.

  ‘I didn’t think she was right in her head,’ she said.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ANNE PUT ON her hat and went out. She must think, and to think she must keep moving. When she sat still her thoughts were all confused. It was a clear, sunny afternoon. There was a blue sky deepening a little into mist, greying a little. There was no cloud, no cloud at all. The houses stood up tall and stiff. She wasn’t thinking about what she had come out to think of. It was no good trying to think of things you had forgotten – thoughts just drifted … just drifted. It wasn’t any use trying to remember. She knew that – she did know it really. Some day it would come again, the whole thing – who she was – what had happened to her – how she had come to the house with a dead girl in it. The curtain would lift quite suddenly and she would kn
ow it all. It wouldn’t come with trying. It was no use to try – no use at all.

  She walked on, not knowing where she was going. The air was pleasant, soft, and mild. It reminded her of something, she didn’t know what something very far back. And then suddenly she remembered. Only it wasn’t autumn, it was spring a spring day with the birds singing, and the sort of uprush of living that the spring gives you – or used to give you in the days when you were yourself and you knew who you were.

  The spring – everything fresh and green. Aunt Letty always said the spring was the time for children and all the young things in the world. She remembered her quoting a piece out of the Bible about it… something about the singing of birds… and she said – she said— No, it was gone. She couldn’t remember what Aunt Letty had said about spring.

  Aunt Letty – who was Aunt Letty? She didn’t know any more. She had been a child for a moment. Aunt Letty had been someone whom the child knew – knew very well. But it was gone again. She wasn’t a child any more. It had all gone. Aunt – Aunt – she couldn’t remember the name any more, it was all quite gone. Like something that had happened in another world, another life.

  But it was her life, her very own life. She had nothing to put in the place of it, nothing at all, until she came to what was for her the dreadful beginning of her present experience – the dark stair – herself sitting crouched upon it, knowing that below her in the black dark a dead girl lay.

  She stood still, shuddering violently, and stamped her foot. Had she no sense at all? Couldn’t she control her thoughts better than this? The answer was that she hadn’t been trying to control them. She had just been letting them drift, and that she mustn’t do. Not ever.

  For the first time she looked about her. She had been walking on, letting her thoughts run, not noticing where she was going. When there had been a crossing she had taken it mechanically. The thoughts that occupied her mind had given way and then closed in again. She had not noticed which way she went, only come out of her thoughts sufficiently to cross, to turn, to follow some road, some pattern that lay deep in her mind, too deep for conscious thought. Now, quite suddenly, she looked about her and saw a quiet decorous street and close beside her an entrance. She stood and looked at it.