Step in the Dark

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  The cruellest of all her early frustrations had been leaving school at sixteen for a cheap secretarial training, instead of going on to a university in due course. Even now a familiar angry sense of injustice rose up in her, but she brushed it aside, heartened by the Chairman’s appreciation. Recalled to the present and looking down, she caught sight of him demonstrating the trompe-l’oeil, a cleverly painted set of bookshelves forming a door leading through a small storage space to the boiler house. Nearby, another new friend, Alastair Habgood, was sitting on a sofa with some members, examining a large illustrated book. Nox, the Habgoods’ small black cat, appeared to be sharing their interest from a vantage point on the top of a book-stack.

  Evelyn’s eyes moved on. Her expression hardened at the sight of Annabel Lucas engaged in badinage with an elderly man who was displaying a tendency to paw. She disliked Annabel, accurately sensing that Peter Escott was in the habit of mocking at her with the girl. Her own antipathy to Peter went deep, fed by resentment at his having had the university education denied herself. She was suddenly riled at the thought of his playing the knowledgeable host to Professor Thornley, and seized with a desire to assert her family status and genuine interest in the building.

  She surfaced abruptly to find that a middle-aged couple had joined her. The woman was saying how attractive the library looked from the gallery. ‘Really, we’re most awfully lucky to have a place like this for the Society’s HQ,’ she went on.

  Evelyn warmed to her, and on impulse disclosed her own identity. The couple’s instant interest was gratifying. They introduced themselves as Alan and Barbara Langley, RLSS members who had recently joined on moving to the area. In the course of conversation a question about the history of the Athenaeum suggested an idea to Evelyn. It transpired that they had not yet seen the famous ceilings in the Habgoods’ flat, and her offer to act as guide was eagerly accepted. She escorted them round the gallery, enjoying the sense of involvement and hoping that Peter Escott would still be in the flat. It would be satisfying to demonstrate publicly that she had an equally good — if not better — knowledge of the Athenaeum’s features of architectural interest.

  As they went in she caught a glimpse of Peter disappearing into the Habgoods’ sitting room, and through the half-open door she could see Professor Thornley occupied in making a sketch of a section of ceiling. Several other people were wandering around, and on hearing her conversation with the Langleys, they asked if they might tack on to the escorted tour.

  ‘Please do,’ she said, feeling gratified. ‘I’d be only too glad. What is so interesting about these ceilings is that they show the progressive development of local ornamental plasterwork over about two centuries. Let’s start here, in the bathroom. Shall I stand in the doorway, as there isn’t much room? Well, this is an example of early sixteenth-century work. You see that the panels are defined by single ribs, and based on squares. There are central bosses, and the only ornamentation is a simple Tudor rose.’

  As she talked, Evelyn was at pains to enunciate clearly, and make her voice carry in the direction of the sitting room. After answering some questions, she moved her party on to the kitchen, and began to point out the elaboration of panel ribbing by the seventeenth-century pargeters.

  About five minutes later, from the Habgoods’ bedroom, she saw the two men emerge from the sitting room and go towards the stairs. Without hurrying too obviously, she speeded up her party and shortly afterwards returned to the library herself. Almost at once she was swept up with cheerful informality by James Westlake, and led towards the small, almost bald man with rimless spectacles whom she had earlier observed with interest from a distance.

  ‘Here’s another member of the Founder’s family, Professor,’ he said. ‘Miss Evelyn Escott — his great-great-niece, to be exact — who’s writing the history of the Society for us.’

  ‘Aha!’ The resignation on Professor Thornley’s face promptly vanished. ‘The lady who is so well-informed about your Ramsden pargeters! I must admit to listening-in just now, Miss Escott. I’m glad to have the chance of a chat with you. Tell me, what sources are you drawing on for this history of yours?’

  James Westlake faded away, leaving them together. Aware that something about the Professor invited confidences, Evelyn plucked up her courage. ‘Quite honestly, I’m not sure that I’m capable of writing it at all,’ she heard herself saying, with a sense of relief at putting her secret fear into words. ‘You see, I’m only self-educated. I never went to a university.’

  ‘That, my dear lady,’ he replied with emphasis, ‘could well be an advantage. Shall we find a seat? I understand from your excellent librarian that the Society’s Minute Books provide an unusually full record. A great old chap, your forebear,’ he added with a chuckle as they sat down. ‘I was enchanted to hear from the Chairman that his last conscious moment was devoted to Braithewaite’s Encyclopaedia of Extinct Mammalia.’

  The centenary party, as more than one member remarked to Laura Habgood, had gone like a bomb. It was nice to get so many congratulations on the flowers and the food, but she had had a long, hard day and began to wish that people would go. At last the trickle of departures became a steady stream and she decided to make an unobtrusive start on the clearing-up. It was out of the question to let Flo Dibble, the cleaner, be confronted with a complete shambles on arrival the next morning.

  The Chairman, always a tower of strength at this depressing stage of a party, had gone off to give Professor Thornley and Alastair dinner at an hotel, but Laura was heartened by the number of volunteer helpers who presented themselves. Within a short time she had the operation organized. The hired wine glasses were being collected and packed up, left-over food sorted and removed to the kitchen and furniture restored to its normal position. Evelyn Escott showed herself particularly deft and brisk. Laura wondered briefly why she was looking so starry-eyed, and was surprised to see Peter Escott stacking folding chairs and taking them to the store, instead of sloping off at the earliest possible moment with his objectionable parents. With some irritation she noticed Annabel Lucas’s blatant come-hither tactics towards him, but these were apparently being ignored.

  In half an hour the job was done, and the library largely restored to its normal appearance. Reiterating her thanks, Laura manoeuvred towards the front door those helpers who had stayed to the bitter end. She dropped the catch with a sigh of relief. All that remained now was to take a final look round and lock the library door. This done, she went wearily upstairs with the key. Nox preceded her with tail indignantly erect, indicative of a long overdue supper.

  Chapter 2

  The chrysanthemums and autumn foliage were still bright patches of colour when Evelyn Escott went into the library the following morning, but all other traces of the centenary party had vanished. There was a spring in her step. In her case were the invaluable guidelines and lists of reference books that Professor Thornley had given her. Even more than this, he had insisted on her having his address in case she needed further advice. She put down the case on the table in her favourite bay and went up to the gallery to fetch the earliest volume of the Trustees’ Minutes. Noticing Annabel Lucas was at the card index cabinet, she wondered briefly where Alastair Habgood was. Wednesday morning was not normally one of Annabel’s library times.

  She had already worked through the earliest Minutes, from the initial enthusiasm and grandiose schemes of 1873 to the first faint intimations of restiveness under the Founder’s autocratic chairmanship. Then had come his sudden death from a heart attack in 1895, and the carefully recorded eulogies with their discreet references to high ideals and strong personality. Now, before the year was out, the floodgates were opening. Evelyn read with amusement that the playing of chess, draughts, backgammon and halma were at last authorized by the Trustees, albeit with the proviso that gaming for stakes in any part of the Athenaeum was strictly prohibited. Then 1897 saw an even more revolutionary development: a room in the gatehouse was set apart for smoking!

&n
bsp; What would have happened if old Evelyn had lived much longer, she speculated, glancing up at the portrait over the fireplace? Just as well that he hadn’t: it was all rather pathetic as well as comic.

  It was not long before she came upon the first reference to the financial difficulties that were to bedevil the Ramsden Literary and Scientific Society for the next fifty years. In 1898 the annual accounts were in deficit for the first time. The Treasurer reported that repairs to the roof had been a great deal more costly than expected. Some sharp exchanges followed. Reading between the lines, it was clear that the work ought to have been put in hand much earlier. Perhaps old Evelyn had flatly refused to admit that the building was developing defects? At the same meeting there was an acrimonious discussion about the disappointing sum realized by the sale of the Founder’s stamp collection, which he had bequeathed to the Society with his books. The Chairman had replied, with easily imaginable asperity, that Mr Escott had presumably disposed of some of the more valuable items before his death, and that the Trustees could rest assured that expert advice had been taken about the most appropriate way of putting the collection on the market.

  At this point Evelyn decided to break off for lunch, and took her sandwiches to the room where tea and coffee were available for the Society’s members. On the way there she ran into Laura Habgood, and learned that Alastair was having a bad day with his leg and had been obliged to knock off.

  ‘It was all that standing about last night,’ Laura said. ‘He just can’t take it. But he’ll be perfectly OK tomorrow, after a rest today and his dope. It was lucky that Annabel was able to come in this morning as well as this afternoon.’

  Evelyn sent a sympathetic message. After finishing her snack she went out to do some domestic shopping, then returned to the library, with a pleasant afternoon in prospect. She had hardly sat down, however, when she felt a sudden chill: someone had obviously been examining her notebooks and papers. They were disarranged, and in one case were actually out of order.

  She thought back rapidly. Two men had been reading in the library when she went out to lunch, but she discounted them at once. No, it was that odious Annabel Lucas, of course, probably hoping to find something to laugh at with Peter Escott. She reddened with anger, while recognizing that there was nothing she could do about it, beyond making sure that there were no further opportunities of the kind.

  Apart from this annoying discovery, the afternoon passed peacefully; and it was nearly five o’clock when the recurring image of tea made her feel that it was really time to knock off. She would just check one reference in the Ramsden Recorder, the town’s weekly newspaper, and then go home.

  The Recorder dated from the late eighteenth century, and the Society had a valuable unbroken run of its issues, bound up annually in large, unwieldy volumes. These were kept in a bay with specially designed shelving. Evelyn went over to it, and with some difficulty managed to get down the year she wanted. As she opened it on the table, she chanced to look up: Annabel Lucas was sitting at the librarian’s table, holding a book by its spine in both hands and shaking it as if expecting something to drop out. While there was nothing particularly remarkable in this, Evelyn was forcibly struck by a kind of furtiveness in the operation, and the impression was reinforced by Annabel’s quick look in her own direction. She hastily pretended to be absorbed in the Recorder, turning its flimsy pages as if searching for some item. Her professional experience, however, had included responsibility for a roomful of typists, and she was adept at unobtrusive observation.

  One book after another was taken up and shaken. Then two things happened at once: a small flat object shot across the table on to the floor, and the door opened to admit Laura Habgood.

  ‘Alastair’s much better, thank goodness,’ she said. ‘He wants you to bring his letters up for him to sign before you go.’

  Annabel, on her feet in a flash, had come forward and was standing over the small flat object on the carpet.

  ‘Oh, fine,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad. I’ve done the letters. I’ll be up in just a minute, when I’ve put these books back.’

  As Laura disappeared again, she stooped down, picked something up and reached for her handbag.

  Useless to challenge her, Evelyn thought. Whatever she was up to, she’d simply say she was looking for a missing index card or something. She might complain about me, too...

  The possibility of this was so unpleasant that she hastily plunged into speech to allay any suspicion of having snooped. ‘You must have had a busy day, with Mr Habgood out of action,’ she said.

  Annabel looked round from a bookshelf. ‘There hasn’t been much doing, actually. Hardly anybody’s been in today. Just routine jobs and whatever. You know. Would you mind switching off the lights when you come out?’

  She collected her things and hurried off.

  As Evelyn followed, curiosity impelled her to find out what books had been investigated so carefully. She had noted exactly where Annabel had replaced them, and paused to look. She found herself staring at the six volumes of Braithewaite’s Encyclopaedia of Extinct Mammalia.

  A series of facts began to link up in her mind. Professor Thornley’s amusement at old Evelyn’s having expired while actually reading this formidable work had led her to make a note of the incident. She had also recorded the surprise felt at the absence of valuable stamps believed to be included in his collection. Without any doubt, Annabel had read her notes during the lunch hour... At any rate, something had drawn the girl’s attention to the Encyclopaedia: it was inconceivable that anything in the day’s work in the library had involved taking down all six volumes and examining them. And what was more, she had secreted something which had fallen out of one of them.

  She shan’t get away with whatever it is, Evelyn thought angrily, feeling proprietorial towards the Society’s assets and activated, to a greater extent than she realized, by personal dislike.

  She slipped out into the hall and stood listening. Conversation was safely in progress upstairs. The door of the librarian’s office was open, and Annabel’s handbag lay on the desk. In a matter of seconds Evelyn had opened it and found a small semi-transparent envelope tucked into an inner pocket. She removed it, and was back in the hall on the way to the cloakroom as footsteps approached the top of the staircase. There was just time to establish the incredible fact that the envelope did, in fact, contain stamps, before oddly muted voices became audible outside the door. Her mind reeling, Evelyn fancied that she caught her own name, but perhaps she had imagined it...

  Laura Habgood came in briskly, followed by Annabel. ‘I was just saying that there’s a House Committee on Monday, Miss Escott,’ she said. ‘The redecoration of this room’s coming up, among other things. Same again, do you think, or would it be nice to have a change?’

  Evelyn did her best to give a coherent answer, every fibre of her being intent on Annabel, who had put on a coat and was scrutinizing her make-up in a mirror. Would she start hunting for cosmetics in her bag and discover her loss? Apparently her face passed muster, and she moved towards the door.

  ‘I must dash,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to drop in the car for its MOT test and the garage will be shutting.’

  They followed her into the hall, Laura still discussing the redecorations programme.

  By a miracle the telephone began to ring in the flat, and she dived for the stairs, breaking off in mid-sentence. ‘Sorry,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘I don’t want Alastair to get up.’

  Evelyn opened the front door, willing Annabel to follow her. As it shut behind them both, she released a pent-up breath of relief. They parted with brief goodnights, and Evelyn set off on foot, her ears straining for the sound of Annabel’s car being driven out of the Athenaeum yard. At last she heard it emerge, and the slam of the double doors. Finally it drove away towards the town.

  Now at last she could take stock of the extraordinary situation into which she had so recklessly precipitated herself. The first thing was to get home and loo
k at the stamps properly. It was unfortunate that she knew virtually nothing about philately, but there must be books about it in the public library. She would go round there first thing tomorrow morning. Of course, if they turned out to be very ordinary stamps, nothing further need be done, which would be a relief in one way. But at the back of her mind Evelyn knew that it would also be a bitter disappointment. It was beginning to dawn on her that she could be the means of restoring a lost fortune to the Society. One sometimes read of rare stamps fetching a fabulous sum at auctions...

  Her home was the first of a small row of Victorian cottages that had survived in a residential road of big Edwardian houses and gardens. Being at the end of the row, hers had the advantage of greater privacy, its front door leading off a lane. As she turned into the latter, her mind was conjuring up a delectable vision of being thanked for her discovery by the Board of Trustees.

  The violent thrust between her shoulders and the sensation of falling helplessly forward happened without the slightest warning. The objective world suddenly contracted to contact with hard muddy ground. In her sheer bewilderment at experiencing brutal force for the first time in her life, it took her a second or so to realize what had happened. Then she grasped frantically for her handbag. It had gone.

  The shock of the discovery brought her to her feet, and she leaned helplessly against the cottage wall, looking desperately to right and left. No one was to be seen. A car flashed unheeding past the end of the lane, emphasizing her isolation. Remembering thankfully that she always carried her latchkey in an inside pocket, she managed to let herself into the cottage and struggled to the telephone to dial 999. Nothing mattered, absolutely nothing but getting her bag back.

  But no sooner had she put the call through and sunk on to a chair when she felt appalled at what she had done. Without consulting anyone she was involving the Society in the most dreadful publicity, perhaps quite unnecessarily. Suppose the stamps were practically worthless? If only she had waited to put the whole story before Alastair Habgood. She realized that she was shivering uncontrollably. Before she could collect her thoughts, a car turned into the lane.