The Shadow In The House

by Maxwell March

  “There’s something about Edmund,” he said, “that makes me sick. There was no need for this. Who’s likely to read a telegram?”

  Mrs de Liane’s eyes blazed. “You’re a fool, Richard,” she said. “It’s Edmund’s care, Edmund’s attention to detail that makes him so valuable. You lie,” she added calmly, “but Edmund believes what he says.”

  Richard wandered over to the window and spoke over his shoulder.

  “All the same I don’t like him,” he said.

  His mother regarded his lean, boyish frame tolerantly.

  “My dear, don’t be childish. How is your wife?”

  The man did not answer immediately but stood staring out across the garden, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his dressing gown. Presently he swung round.

  “You know that fellow at Heronhoe Hall?” he said slowly. “That fair chap who spends most of his time abroad and only turns up for the hunting? He came past here this morning.”

  Mrs de Liane was gathering up her letters from the folds of the embroidered counterpane and did not reply immediately.

  “A fair boy?” she said at last. “Sir Peter Muir-David?”

  “That’s him. Mary and I were looking out of the window when he came past. He glanced up, and they recognized each other—I’m sure of it.”

  “Richard!”

  The word broke from the old woman’s lips in a startled whisper, and he swung round to see her crouching over her letters, her head twisted and her eyes piercing. The arrested movement was much more expressive than any gesture she could have made.

  “What are you saying?” she demanded. “What are you saying?”

  A frown appeared on the man’s forehead.

  “They recognized each other,” he repeated. “I saw it. But it wasn’t merely recognition. I don’t think he noticed me, but I had a good opportunity to see his face. As soon as he caught sight of her the colour went out of it, leaving him as white as paper. And then his horse, which was behaving pretty badly, carried him off.”

  “And she? What does she say?”

  “Oh, she lies.” He shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, and his frown deepened. “She behaves as though she was in love with him,” he said, and there was a hint of irritation in his tone. “But he looked as though he was frightened to death of her.”

  “Richard!” Mrs de Liane’s voice was momentarily uncontrolled in her exasperation, and she looked a very old woman. “Have you gone off your head? Do you realize what you’re telling me? This girl has got to lose her identity. No one must recognize her. Otherwise——”

  She broke off, and one of her small white hands rose in a helpless half-finished gesture.

  “But you were mistaken,” she went on with a sudden change of tone. “Of course you were mistaken. I must have a little talk with her. Did you lock her in her room?”

  He nodded and opened his mouth as though he would have spoken, but a glance at the old woman evidently made him think better of the words, whatever they were, and he turned away.

  For some time Mrs de Liane was silent. She sat up in the great bed, looking like a compact little ivory carving. Only her blue eyes were alive and thoughtful.

  Around her the great house rustled and echoed the early morning sounds; the rattle of milk pans in the yard, the soughing of brooms vigorously wielded on heavy carpets, and the subdued voices of busy servants.

  It was a pleasant and cheerful house, peaceful, elegant and comfortable, but the power of the little old woman sitting up in the bed dominated it with sinister influence just as the sweet, acrid smell of the wet leaves dominated every other perfume pervading the gracious old rooms.

  Presently the woman stretched out her hand.

  “Richard,” she said, “ring for Louise and then go back to your own room on the first floor. Your wife and I must have a chat this morning.”

  The man did as he was told but paused after he had pulled the heavily embroidered bell rope which hung down by the chimney.

  “Although I hold no brief for Mary,” he began deliberately, “I hope you won’t misunderstand me, Angel, when I say that I really shouldn’t like to see her reduced to—well—Jane’s condition.—No drugs.”

  Mrs de Liane’s eyes hardened.

  “Jane was a very foolish, obstinate girl,” she said. “Edmund agreed with me that she had to be taught.”

  He still hesitated, and she spoke to him sharply:

  “This little impostor is a very pretty girl, Richard. Don’t make a fool of yourself.”

  The man laughed and, going over to the bed, kissed her lightly.

  “Sometimes you’re almost human, aren’t you?” he said. “Almost funny.”

  He went out of the door without another word. Mrs de Liane glanced after him thoughtfully, but then, as heavy footsteps sounded down the passage, she leant back among the cushions and composed her face into a sad, appealing smile.

  The woman who came into the room was not young. When Mrs de Liane had referred to her as a girl she had spoken euphemistically. Short, square and miraculously neat, Louise Lafouchardière had all the French peasant’s reserve and silent patience. The small black eyes set too closely to the broad, full-bladed nose were dull and secretive. She came in quietly, only her big starched white apron crackling as she advanced across the room.

  She paused by the bedside and regarded her mistress without speaking. Mrs de Liane leant back among the cushions and smiled.

  “So tired, Louise,” she said with pretty helplessness. “So terribly tired. I’m growing old. You must take good care of me, my child, or I shall die, and that would be very awkward for us all, would it not, Louise?”

  The words were spoken so lightly and conversationally that it seemed impossible that they could express anything deeper than their obvious meaning, but the dull colour came into the other woman’s face and she murmured “Oui, madame” as she bent to find the tiny quilted bedroom slippers beneath the chair.

  Mrs de Liane made a careful but extraordinarily hasty toilet. While the woman arranged her hair she kept up a constant stream of chatter, all of it in the same vein.

  “Time is growing short, is it not, Louise? Still, I am not weak, you see. I have my wits about me. Don’t worry, dear child. You can rely on me. You know that, don’t you?”

  The last words were put sharply, and the old woman turned her head to look up into the dark face above her. Just for a moment a piteous expression appeared behind the small dull black eyes.

  “I hope so, madame. Sometimes I give up hope. Only one more little year and then——”

  She broke off, her voice quivering.

  Mrs de Liane patted one roughened hand.

  “Louise, don’t be foolish. I have given you my word. The child shall be found before he returns—that is, if it is still alive.”

  She uttered the last words with such gentle deliberation and her eyes were fixed with such curious satisfaction upon the other woman’s face that no one who had seen the little old woman just then could have thought the thrust was anything but deliberate.

  The other woman closed her eyes, and her lips twisted.

  “I have thought of that, madame.”

  “Of course you have, but you mustn’t.” Mrs de Liane rose and surveyed herself in the cheval glass opposite the window as she spoke. “You really mustn’t. You mustn’t be morbid.” One tiny white hand smoothed the heavy grey silk of her skirt. “I am doing everything that can be done, and if I can’t succeed there is nobody in the world who can. Oh, Louise …”

  The last words were uttered with a complete change of tone.

  “Mr Richard and his new little wife … I am curious about my son, naturally, Louise. You would understand that. I want to know how they get on together, what they talk about when they are alone. There is nobody who could help me there better than you, my dear. After all, Louise, you have listened at doors before now.”

  A wooden expression crept over the other woman’s face.

  “I�
�am growing a little deaf, madame.”

  One of Mrs de Liane’s small white hands rested on the maid’s arm, and not with light pressure.

  “Then recover, my dear Louise,” she whispered. “Recover. If you want me to help you you must help me. Just their attitude towards each other—that is all I want to know. If they quarrel it does not matter, but if they should stop quarrelling, Louise, come and tell me at once. Do you understand?”

  She peered into the woman’s wooden face, and evidently something she saw there reassured her, for, with a last glance at herself in the mirror, she rustled off to the wide staircase, her tiny high-heeled shoes clicking on the parquet.

  Louise Lafouchardière stood watching her, and it was not until her little figure had disappeared round the carved stairhead that a very odd thing happened.

  Her sombre, unutterably patient expression vanished, and there appeared in its stead another containing such passionate depth of hatred that her whole face seemed to be transformed into a mask of living fury.

  CHAPTER IX

  The Amateur

  SOMETIMES during a great emotional crisis the mind rallies. The gentlest spirit sometimes revives as though it had received from some unsuspected depth a new lease of courage and endurance.

  It is at such times that hitherto helpless, unsophisticated souls goaded by circumstances so terrible as to be almost outside their comprehension make an unexpected stand, receiving from their reserves a small measure of that exhilaration in the face of danger normally possessed only by their stronger brethren.

  As Mary strode up and down the enormous Louis Quinze bedroom, her bare feet sinking into the deep pile of the Aubusson carpet and the skirts of her severely tailored dressing gown swinging with the vigour of her stride, she was past terror.

  Her mind was working with feverish clarity. The shock of seeing Peter—and it really had been Peter, that was the amazing part of the whole incomprehensible incident—had been followed by another discovery.

  Not only was she a prisoner, but her clothes, her shoes and her handbag containing the little money she possessed had disappeared. Someone had entered her room during the night and removed them silently while she lay tossing helplessly in the great bed.

  It was this discovery, the realization of her physical helplessness, combined with the moral and legal web which surrounded her, which had driven her to a point of despair at which she must either have collapsed or rallied. As it was, she summoned her slender reserves and steeled herself to make an attempt at freedom.

  Once she could get away from this terrible old house, whose very graciousness had something spurious and dangerous about it, she felt certain she could discover some way to dissolve the legal tie by which she was bound to Richard. But the first and main thing was to get back her personal liberty.

  A careful examination of all the windows of the rooms composing the suite had forced her to the conclusion that direct methods were not to be contemplated. The only other way, then, was by strategy.

  Mary was an amateur at deception. Never during her short life had she been confronted by the need for it. But now she composed herself resolutely to her task, never realizing, mercifully, the hopelessness of pitting her gentle subtlety against that past mistress of the art, Eva de Liane.

  Her schemes were only half formed in her mind when a soft knock at the door disturbed her. She swung round to face it.

  The door opened gently with a rustle of silken curtains, and the old woman came in. Seeing her with new eyes, Mary had time to wonder at herself afresh. Mrs de Liane looked as charming, as utterly guileless as she had done at their first meeting.

  She came forward with a little impetuous movement of welcome, so spontaneous that it seemed incredible that it was not genuine. Even knowing what she did know, Mary yet felt her heart warm involuntarily before that infectious smile.

  “I’m afraid you’re cross with my poor Richard.” Mrs de Liane took the girl’s hand and drew her down onto one of the ornamental settees. “But you deceived me, you know, and not only about your name.”

  There was no reproach in the remark; only a quiet playfulness which Mary found mystifying. Her expression betrayed as much, and the old woman hurried to explain.

  “You told me you had no sweetheart, and now I hear you’ve found an old one on our very doorstep.”

  The attack was so sudden that the blood came into the girl’s face unbidden.

  “I—I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Oh, my dear, don’t be shy. We pretty women have lots of sweethearts.”

  A dimple appeared in the faded cheek as she spoke, and Mary found herself fighting against the charm of that extraordinary personality.

  “No wonder you’re cross with poor Richard—although I do think it’s most tactless of an old flame to turn up on one’s honeymoon morning.”

  The quiet voice rambled melodiously on.

  “A titled sweetheart too! And very wealthy, my dear. Did you know that?”

  Mary was genuinely astonished, and her expressive face showed it as clearly as if she had spoken.

  Mrs de Liane looked at her sharply.

  “I didn’t know you’d been abroad—or did you meet Sir Peter Muir-David in England?”

  “I met Peter Muir in a London boardinghouse,” said Mary, startled out of her caution. “I don’t know any Sir Peter Muir-David.”

  The bright, dancing blue eyes opened a fraction wider than was their wont.

  “But how romantic!” Mrs de Liane saw her advantage and pressed it hard. “And did you know each other well?”

  “No,” said Mary desperately. “I—we—that is, we shared the same table for six or seven months. But we were acquaintances, that’s all. I think you’re quite wrong about the title, Mrs de Liane. I did see a man I thought was Peter Muir out of this window this morning, but I was probably mistaken. Please forget the whole incident.”

  “Why, of course I will, my dear, of course, if it’s like that.” Mrs de Liane cast down her eyes, and a faintly prim expression appeared on her face.

  Mary was goaded into further explanation. She was too overwrought, too completely swayed by the experience and ingenuity of the other woman to realize the dangerous path she was mapping for herself and, incidentally, for Peter. Long afterwards she was to remember the conversation and to wonder at herself, but at the moment she was completely taken up with her new project. Mrs de Liane must be lulled into a false security.

  “You don’t understand,” she said with an attempt at cautious confidence. “We just met for meals. There was no question of him being my sweetheart, as you call it. We just discussed everyday things, and he can’t possibly be the man you seem to think he is, because he was just an ordinary London worker. I think he spent his time in some sort of office; I never knew what it was. He was the last person in the world to have a title or a fortune. Anyway, I’ve completely forgotten him.”

  There was a pause while she watched the other woman anxiously. To her relief Mrs de Liane seemed to accept her explanation.

  “Of course, my dear,” she said. “You know best. It was just some story of Richard’s, I suppose. I’m afraid you’re going to find him very jealous.”

  “Jealous!” The word formed on Mary’s lips, but she did not utter it. What right had Richard de Liane to be jealous, of all ridiculous things! With an effort she dragged her mind away from her wrongs. Mrs de Liane was a lunatic, one who had to be humoured, to be managed, and very timidly she set out to make the overtures on which she had decided.

  “I—I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’m afraid I may have behaved very stupidly. I was flustered by everything, you see. You—you made a suggestion to me yesterday, Mrs de Liane, and frankly it frightened me, but I—I’m not a fool and I’ve been thinking it over and I want to tell you that—well, that you can rely on me.”

  The ill-told little lie was over, and Mary took a deep breath. Mrs de Liane was not looking at her. She had turned her head away, and the girl di
d not see the smile at the corners of the gentle mouth.

  “My dear Mary,” she said, “what a very sweet child you are! Do you know, as soon as I saw you I knew we were going to be great friends. I’m so glad you’ve decided to be sensible. It’s so much easier in the end. You may even grow to love Richard in time …?”

  She paused, her voice ceasing on an upward inflection, and at the question the girl answered in spite of herself: “Oh, I don’t think so, I mean—well, all that can be arranged later, can’t it?”

  Mrs de Liane turned, took her hand and looked into her eyes.

  “Yes, of course it can, my dear,” she said. “Of course it can.”

  There was another pause, during which Mary looked out across the beautiful room and saw the glint of sunlight on the yellow leaves beyond the window. It was a beautiful morning, bright and clear and fresh, the last day on earth for the extraordinary drama working itself out inexorably in the mellow old house.

  Mrs de Liane’s voice startled her by its crisp practicalness.

  “Since you’ve made up your mind to be reasonable, my dear,” she said, “I may as well tell you my plans for today. We are going to London, you, Richard and I. I shall take you to see an old friend of mine who, for family reasons, may be extremely interested in your identity as Marie-Elizabeth Mason.”

  She paused and eyed the girl thoughtfully.

  “Last night you left your handbag downstairs,” she said deliberately. “It was brought to me, and quite by chance I found the passport which my niece lent you. It seems perfectly in order. Fortunately the photograph is extremely bad. Really, I don’t know how they let these things pass. There is no actual resemblance, of course, but I think with a little care, hairdressing and the right sort of clothes it will be possible to make you resemble it quite closely enough to pass by the rather foolish old gentleman whose eyesight has been none too good these last ten years. The description is easy. Your hair might easily be described as auburn, and the difference between grey eyes and grey-blue is a debatable point.

  “Now if you use your intelligence and are guided by me the whole interview can pass off most satisfactorily. If you are sensible you will find that I shall be a good friend to you. Do you understand me?”