Danger in the Dark (24 page)

He kissed her briskly. Then sat down beside her and took off her oxfords and took both her feet in his hands.

“Two small chunks of ice,” he said and went to the bathroom and rummaged and returned presently with a little rubber hot-water bottle. “Its coat seems to sort of slip,” he said, fumbling with the quilted satin cover. “But it’s warm.” He put it to her feet and pulled the eiderdown around her, tucking it in. He adjusted the pillow, pulled the eiderdown around her chin and kissed her again. Tenderly this time; loving her dearly.

And went away. Johnny, yawning, had waited.

When they had gone she remembered that she hadn’t told Dennis that it was Archie on the stairway. But it seemed, then, unimportant.

She couldn’t sleep, she thought dully. And promptly did.

And so passed most of that strange, cold day.

A crowded, busy day on the part of the police. On the part of the crowds of newspaper men.

The sprawling, cold old house was a very beehive of strange activity—alien feet tramping over rugs and up and down creaking stairways. New, curt voices; cigarette smoke from a dozen brands of cigarettes mingling with the floating odor of flashlight powder.

Cars coming and going continually. A few hardy souls parked along the highway for hours; people who had no business there, who were simply curious, watching, looking through the bare trees at the roofs and gables below which two murders had taken place.

“It must be up there where that little hill is. See?”

“Two murders. I bet old man Haviland’s turning handsprings in his grave.”

There were even a few skaters on the river. Cold. Building a little fire. Finding remains of another fire. Finding some things which were not quite ashes, not quite charred. Finding them—consulting over them—hurrying to the bank at last and taking off their skates and bringing the things (in a body, five high-school boys the later reports said) to the house.

For the reporters at the door saw it; scurried into their cars and to St Germain to telephone, because the police would not let them use the telephones in the house. Shouting to rewrite men over telephones. Lingering to get some hot coffee at Dutch John’s on the corner of Main and Charity streets. And to talk of the Havilands. People in the village had never done so much talking or had it so gratefully and flatteringly received.

And then scurrying back to the house to get a new story for the night editions.

It was late afternoon when Daphne awoke.

Maggie was pounding at the door.

She let her in and sat down and blinked sleepily.

“It’s Miss Gertrude,” said Maggie. She was stupid and red-eyed with her cold and with fatigue. She still wore her morning uniform of striped blue broadcloth, and her first excitement had given place to something still and deep and frightened. It was a good place; she had been there so long that she wouldn’t know how to go about getting another place. But she would have done it at once if the police had let her. Laing could stay if he wanted to; and his wife. But she was going. Although it would be hard to leave. She looked at Daphne; it didn’t seem, just then, possible that she was now a young lady. The years had gone so fast. “I’m sorry about the hammer,” said Maggie.

“It’s all right. You couldn’t help it, I suppose.”

“No, Miss Daphne. I’ll bring some tea and a sandwich. There’s no need to hurry to see Miss Gertrude—she’s in,” said Maggie, “one of her tantrums.”

But it was not exactly a tantrum.

Daphne took the tea and a hot shower, feeling as if she hadn’t undressed for a month. She dressed slowly, grateful for the reviving cheer of the tea. It was quiet back there in the L; distant from the commotion and tremor in the rest of the house; far from the continually arriving and departing cars.

She even took care to put a little scarlet scarf at the throat of her blue wool gown, a small scarlet handkerchief in its pocket. And then, to match it, lipstick on her mouth.

She went to Gertrude’s room, knocked, and Rowley said, “Come in.”

Gertrude was lying in bed, but her fine, dry hair was done carefully, her face made up, and she wore a pink satin jacket. The curtains were drawn, and a low light was shaded from Gertrude’s eyes, and a fire was going in the grate. Rowley was lounging, smoking.

Gertrude said, “There you are; close the door, Rowley. Now then, Daphne, it’s all arranged.”

There was a triumphant little snap and flash in Gertrude’s eyes. She said, “He’ll be here as soon as he can come. No one need know about it yet; it will be kept a secret. But it has been done and it can be done. I’m sure he’ll consent. If not, of course, you can get one—but I’m sure he’ll do it. After all, it’s as binding, if there are witnesses—”

Daphne took hold of the polished mahogany railing at the foot of the bed.

“Who? What?”

“Reverend Dr Lonergan,” said Gertrude. “Legally it will hold. Then you can get a license later and have it done over again. You and Rowley, I mean. Married.”

I
SUPPOSE, THOUGHT DAPHNE
, holding the footrail, that I ought to humor her. That’s what they do, isn’t it? Aloud she said, with the calmness of complete disbelief, “Aunt Gertrude, you cannot possibly mean that you expect us to marry. Rowley and I. Now.”

“Certainly, I mean it. Dear me, Daphne, you aren’t in a position to draw back. Not now. I’ve read and heard that it’s quite legal. You needn’t live together till this thing has blown over, and you can get a license and be married all over again publicly. But just now that isn’t exactly practicable. No,” said Gertrude, looking very shrewd and wise and nodding her head as if, though everyone else had gone out of their wits, she, Gertrude, could be trusted to keep a cool and wise grip on things. “No, it isn’t exactly practicable now. But my idea is this: Reverend Lonergan is coming to see me. In fact, he’s on the way now. I telephoned for him, and he said he’d come at once; that he was only waiting for us to call and wanted to be of any possible service to us. Well,” said Gertrude smugly and closed her eyes, “he can be. And will.”

“He won’t,” said Daphne. “He—”

“Oh, come, Daphne.” Gertrude’s eyes flew open, and she said, with inexpressible complacency, “We haven’t supported his church for forty years for nothing.”

“You needn’t be vulgar,” said Rowley suddenly.

“Vulgar,” said Daphne. “Is that all you can say!”

Rowley rose and came toward her, his black head shining, his long, sallow face again masklike; his eyes shining.

“It’s not a bad plan, Daph,” he said slowly. “You’d do well to think of it.”

“It’s a good plan,” said Gertrude. “You see, all he—Dr Lonergan—needs to do is to read the marriage service. I know exactly how it should be—I’ll be witness, and we’ll have—oh, Maggie, or somebody, witness it, too. That makes two witnesses. It will be binding to you and to Rowley—then later—”

“Oh,” said Daphne. “I begin to understand. You want—”

“My mother thinks,” said Rowley, “that it would be better to have no misunderstanding about our—our agreement. You see, once this affair is over with, she feels that you might change your mind about what you promised her—”

“I didn’t promise anything.”

“Oh, come, my dear, a bargain is a bargain,” began Gertrude, and Rowley went on as if he had not heard her: “It’s just as well to do as she wishes. She knows that once you and I make these sacred vows before a minister and before witnesses—”

Sacred vows, said Rowley.

“I won’t!”

“—it will be perfectly binding. She feels—I’m sure, rightly—that neither of us would—ah—break such vows. She feels—”

“It’ll make your marriage certain,” broke in Gertrude forcefully. “That’s all I want. I don’t like the way you’re acting about Dennis, Daphne. I know all about his tender little love scene with you the night Ben was murdered. I know you would have run away with him then if Ben hadn’t tried to stop you.”

“Hush, Mother. Let me talk. There’s no use getting upset—having any words about it. I think it would work out all right, Daphne. We’ll keep it secret, of course; but, as Mother says, it would be binding. And perhaps you’d better know, my dear, that the police are getting closer and closer to the real truth of the matter. They found Ben’s shirt and waistcoat today.”

“You didn’t burn them!” His narrow shoulders shrugged lightly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only one more scrap of evidence. They know it actually happened in the springhouse. They found ashes on the back of Ben’s coat which were the same as the ashes Dennis dropped at some time—earlier in the day, Dennis says—in the springhouse. On the floor. A nice little bit of laboratory work, that was. Nothing unusual, they say, but nice. It’s only a matter of a few hours until they get at the real truth of it. Well, just consider what I can do for you. I can tell the truth—that I walked into the springhouse shortly after the shot was fired and found you and Dennis bending over the body. Or I can tell them I was with you; that I met you both in the hall downstairs—or anywhere you like—and went to the springhouse with you. I can tell them—describe as vividly as you like—your surprise when you found Ben dead. Can corroborate Dennis’ story of how and why we moved the body. That’s going to be the rub, you know.”

“I’m not going to marry you.”

“Oh, very well,” said Rowley. “But what will you do when you both—you and Dennis—appeal to me to uphold your story?”

“Our word is as good as yours.”

“Oh, is it?” said Rowley. “When my mother has told what she knows?”

“Rowley,”—Daphne tried to speak quietly and reasonably—“please think what you are doing. You know what Aunt

Gertrude’s like when she—”

“What’s that?” said Gertrude, sitting up. “What do you mean? I was never clearer in my mind. Thank God, it’s like my father’s. Always clearest and finest in time of need. Dr Lonergan ought to be here in an hour. Keep her here, Rowley, until he comes.”

“Why, you are both mad! Do you really think I’ll stay here—let myself actually be married? I’ll tell Dr Lonergan. I’ll scream—I’ll—”

“Scream if you like,” said Rowley. “It’ll cost Dennis something. Now get this, Daphne: This wasn’t my idea. I’ll admit it sounds plain nuts. And, of course, we aren’t going to use physical force or anything so absurd as that.—Hush, Mother!—But the more I think of my mother’s plan the better I like it. There’s good sense in it. After all,” said Rowley, “I’d rather have cash than a promise to pay any day.”

“I didn’t promise anything. I won’t. There is no possible way you can carry out this—this—Oh,”—she flung out her hands toward them—”don’t you see how—how silly it is? How childish—how—”

“Oh, is it really!” said Rowley. “Well, we’ll see.”

That had been a mistake; opposition had always fixed Rowley in his course. And ridicule had always enraged him.

“I think,” said Rowley, “we could even borrow the wedding ring. From Dennis.”

“From Dennis!” cried Daphne. “
Dennis
—” And understood. She ought to have known at once. How could she have been so blind! She must let the detective know; it was as if she had suddenly found a weapon and had seized upon it, but without investigating its strength. For she cried, “You put the wedding ring in Dennis’ pocket. It was not taken from Ben at all. He gave it to you. Gave it to you because you were going to be best man. That was it. I’ll tell the police—I’m going to tell them now—it’s you, Rowley. You murdered Ben. That’s why you came into the springhouse just then. That’s why you wanted to cover everything—that’s why—But how could you murder your own father—”

Gertrude cried savagely, “Stop that!”

Rowley had her suddenly in his arms and had his hand over her mouth. She struggled against him, writhing, gasping, crying out. Dimly she heard Gertrude’s sharp whisper, “Her throat—get her—”

He was stronger than she. He did not, however, take her by the throat. Instead he flung her, hard, down into the chair from which he’d risen. And then—quite coldly—slapped her.

Gertrude watched.

“And that, my girl, is what you need. Now we’ll have no more of this raving—Never mind, my dear. Years from now you’ll be grateful for this. We really are saving your life—aren’t we, my son?”

The cold fury in Rowley’s narrow eyes covered itself. He stood looking down at Daphne for a moment and said, “Sorry, Daph. But, after all, you can’t go shouting around like that. Preposterous accusations—”

“Now, now, Daphne,” said Gertrude suddenly, looking uneasy. “Don’t look like that. Perhaps Rowley went too far. Sit there for a moment, Daphne. You—”

Daphne stood. She looked once at Rowley and then at Gertrude.

“Understand me,” she said in a queer, unnatural voice. “I am not going to marry Rowley. Now or ever.”

“Do you mean—” gasped Gertrude incredulously.

“You can do anything you please, say anything. I’m going now. You don’t dare stop me.”

“Now listen, Daphne,” said Rowley hurriedly. “You know my temper. It was your fault altogether. You can’t say things like that—I didn’t murder Ben. And you know I didn’t. Suppose I did slip that ring into Dennis’ pocket. I’m not admitting it, but suppose I did—what of it? Of course, I’ll admit I rather lost my head just now. But I’ve apologized. Now let’s be friends again.”

“Get between her and the door,” said Gertrude. “Quick, Rowley. Now look here, my fine young lady. Just stop for a moment and think—”

Someone knocked heavily at the door. She stopped, and Rowley stiffened a little, looking at the door. Daphne made a quick move forward, and Gertrude said suddenly, “It’s Dr Lonergan. Good!”

But it wasn’t. Dennis called, “Daphne—are you there?” and Daphne said, “Dennis! Dennis—”

“I told you to hold her,” whispered Gertrude sharply. “Keep him out.” But Rowley did not move, and Dennis flung open the door.

“Oh,” he said and entered, looking from one to another. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” said Gertrude, “that’s anything for you to interfere with. Please leave us, Dennis. At once.”

“What’s the trouble?” He ignored Gertrude and came to Daphne. “Look at me. What have they been doing—” He stopped abruptly, said, “What’s that mark on your cheek? It looks like—” and stopped again and whirled around suddenly toward Rowley. “I’ve been wanting to do this for some time,” he said. Quite neatly and expertly his fist shot out to engage Rowley’s chin. Rowley made a flailing, futile motion and slipped sidewise over a chair and subsided. Gertrude uttered a stifled scream, and Dennis said to Daphne, “Get out of here,” and Amelia opened the door. Amelia and—behind her—Jacob Wait.