Dark on the Other Side (4 page)

Michael was too concerned for his hostess and too
confident of his host to feel any embarrassment at his farcical
position. Randolph’s smiling face changed and he began to run; but his
first words made it clear that he had not misinterpreted the situation.

“Darling, what’s wrong? She gets these dizzy spells,” he
explained distractedly. “Too much sun, or not enough vitamins, or
something…Linda…”

He put his arms around his wife, and Michael hastily
removed his. Linda straightened.

“I’m all right. Sorry, Mr. Collins.”

“You scared the hell out of him,” Gordon said, sharp in
his relief. “Damn it, honey, this time I’m not kidding. You’ve got to
see a doctor.”

Linda started back toward the house.

“I don’t need a doctor.”

Her footsteps were a little unsteady, but Gordon made no
move toward her. As if by mutual consent, the two men fell into step
together, following Linda’s slight figure.

“What did you say that set her off?” Randolph asked,
under his breath.

Michael stiffened.

“I hope you don’t think—”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t talk like a fool. I meant,
what were you talking about when she came over queer?”

Gordon’s candid gaze was one of his most attractive
features. It was not in evidence now; he scuffed his feet and stared at
the ground like a delinquent caught in the act. Michael saw the truth
then, and cursed himself for his stupidity. Alcoholism was a symptom,
not a disease. Naturally Gordon couldn’t come right out with it, not to
a stranger…

“I don’t remember exactly,” he said truthfully. “But it
certainly wasn’t anything that might frighten or distress her.
Something about the grounds—flowers, animals, damned if I can recall.”

They had been muttering, like stage conspirators. Linda
was about ten feet ahead of them. She stopped and turned, and Gordon’s
reply was never uttered.

“Wait up,” he said easily. “What’s the hurry?”

“I thought you wanted to get to work. Didn’t you come in
hot pursuit of your biographer?”

The color had come back to her face, and it was perfectly
composed. Too composed; the animation that had given it life was gone,
and she looked like a tinted statue.

“No, I finished the letters and thought I’d like a walk.”
Gordon came up beside her, but he did not touch her or take her arm.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he added.

“Yes, isn’t it.”

They walked on together—a perfect picture, Michael
thought sardonically, of a happy three-some spending a morning in the
country. Diffused sunlight trickled through the overhanging boughs,
waking highlights in Linda’s satiny black hair, turning the tan on
Gordon’s bare forearms to a golden brown. They made a handsome couple.

“By the way,” Linda said casually, “Andrea is back. I’ve
asked her to dinner tonight.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” The words were explosive, but there
was more amusement than annoyance in Gordon’s voice. “Not Andrea!”

“I thought I’d better warn you well in advance,” Linda
said, smiling up at her tall husband from under the brim of her hat. It
was a charming, provocative look; no doubt, Michael thought, it was the
oblique slant of those oriental eyes that made him think of something
sly and malicious peering out between dark leaves.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Gordon said resignedly. “I find the
old witch amusing, even if she does hate my guts. But I don’t think
you’re being fair to Mike.”

“I thought he might find her amusing too,” Linda murmured.

“Who is she?” Michael asked.

“Just what I said.” Gordon was smiling. “The local witch.”

“What?”

“She lives in a stone cottage that’s over two hundred
years old,” Linda said dreamily. “She keeps cats. One whole wall of the
kitchen is fireplace—brick, darkened by centuries of smoke. There’s a
black pot hanging over the flames, and oak settles on either side of
the hearth. The roof is raftered; things hang from hooks in the beams.
Bundles of herbs—vervain and mandragora, and Saint-John’s-wort. And a
stuffed cockatrice.”

“And hams and strings of onions,” Gordon said drily.

“You’re putting me on,” Michael said, looking from one
smiling face to the other.

“Her mother was a witch, too,” Linda murmured. “And her
grandmother. It goes back for generations, like the house.”

“Cut it out, honey.” Gordon smiled. “The old lady is a
little touched in the head, that’s all. She calls herself a white witch
and denies all traffic with the powers of darkness. I think she really
believes it herself, which makes her an entertaining conversationalist.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Michael said. “One
forgets that people really do believe these things, even in this day
and age.”

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’”

“That, of course.” Michael studied his host with new
interest; none of his perfunctory research had exposed a mystical
streak in Gordon Randolph. “The limitation of human knowledge, at any
given point, must be admitted by any rational person. What I meant was
that some people believe, literally, in those old superstitions. I read
some books once by a man named Summers—a twentieth-century priest,
Anglican or Catholic, I forget which, but a trained scholar—who
believed in witchcraft. Not as a historical phenomenon, but as a living
force. He thought—”

“I remember old Montague,” Gordon interrupted. “Amazing
mind.”

“But it follows logically, doesn’t it,” Linda said, in a
high voice. They had reached the terrace; she stopped, outside the
French doors. “Especially for a priest. If you believe in God, you must
admit the existence of His adversary.”

“Certainly; but orthodoxy in these matters is a narrow
tightrope to walk. You can’t deny Satan; but you can’t attribute too
much power to him without risking the heresy of Manichaeism. Good and
evil—two equal, opposing powers—that doctrine was condemned at some
church synod or other centuries ago.”

He would have gone on, for the subject was one that had
interested him once upon a time, if he had not realized, tardily, that
his audience wasn’t listening. Linda’s face was as blank as a doll’s,
and her husband was watching her with that familiar look of concern.

“I’d better go and change for lunch,” Linda said.

Michael watched her disappear through the doors. He half
expected Gordon to speak to him, but Gordon went after his wife, like a
faithful dog. Dog…What the hell, Michael wondered, making up the end of
the procession—what the
hell
is going on in this
house?

II

That afternoon Linda searched her husband’s room.

Though their bedrooms were connected through the
twin-mirrored dressing rooms, she had not been in Gordon’s room for
almost a year. Not since that night…Her memory shook, and went dark, as
it always did when she thought about that night. But surely, today, it
would be safe. Gordon and his repulsive secretary were with Michael,
and would be until dinnertime. The maids cleaned the bedrooms in the
morning. No one else had any business upstairs, except possibly
Haworth, the butler, who doubled as Gordon’s valet, and she had set him
to polishing the silver. It was a week before the silver was supposed
to be polished, but…so what? That was what she had said to Haworth when
he courteously pointed out the discrepancy. So what?

She repeated it now, taking an infantile pleasure in the
cheap defiance of the phrase. She giggled softly, remembering Haworth’s
face when she said it. Then she stopped the giggle with a quick hand
that covered her lips. None of that. She had done well, so far
today—except for that one slip. If he hadn’t sprung it on her
unexpectedly, just when she was beginning to relax, to feel confident
of her power to charm and convince…That had been a bad one. It was all
the more necessary now that she be calm. Calm, and charming, and
gracious and…sane.

Yet, when the heavy door moved under the pressure of her
hand, she caught her breath with a sharp sound, and stepped back,
jerking her hand away as if the door had been red hot. Fine courage,
she jeered silently. You really hoped, deep down inside, that the door
would be locked on the other side. It had been locked on her side;
surely Gordon had an even stronger reason to keep his door bolted and
barred. But he had not done so.

There had not been bolts on either side of the door at
first. She had put hers on herself, after that night, on an afternoon
when Gordon was out of the house. The whole thing had come in a neat
package, enclosed in plastic—the bolt and the screws with which to
affix it. She hadn’t remembered the need—the so obvious need—for hammer
and screwdriver until she stripped off the stiff plastic, kneeling with
pounding heart by the closed door. Even now she could recall the wave
of terror that had gripped her when she realized she couldn’t do the
job without tools. It had taken cunning as well as courage to get rid
of
them
long enough to sneak into the hardware
store in the village. She could never do it again. The thought of
boldly entering the tool shed, where the gardener kept his tools, made
her stomach turn over. What if he came in and caught her, standing
there, with the hammer in her hand?

In the end, with a resource she had thought long
forgotten, she had used the heel of a shoe and a nail file.

The whole performance had been ridiculous, of course. She
could see that now. Gordon must have known about the bolt. If he had
not wanted her to have it, he could have had it removed. But he had
never said a word about it. Yet someone must have oiled it, because its
surface shone as brightly as it had when she took it out of its plastic
cover, and it had slid back without a sound.

Gradually her pounding heart slowed, as no noise came
from the next room. She pushed the door open wider and looked in.

His room was the twin of hers in size and shape, except
that the high windows on the south wall were French doors, leading out
onto a stone-balustraded balcony. They had breakfasted there, on summer
mornings, in the first year of their marriage…. The furnishings, of
course, were quite different. Gordon had had her room redone. His still
contained the furniture his grandfather had selected—heavy, dark
mahogany, with the unique sheen produced by decades of well-trained
housemaids. It was a somber room on dark days, with its dark maroon
hangings and heavy carpeting of the same shade. Now the afternoon sun
flooded the room, making the deep pile of the carpet glow like aged
Burgundy, reflecting blindingly from the tall pier mirrors in their
gilt frames. Another of Grandpa’s vanities, those mirrors. Gordon
looked a lot like him, according to the family pictures.

Tiptoeing, in stockinged feet, she ventured cautiously
into the room, casting a frustrated glance at the door that opened into
the hall. She wished there were some way of locking it, so she would
have warning if anyone came. But the smooth dark surface of the door
was unmarred by bolt or chain. She turned to look at the back of the
door by which she had entered the room. No—no bolt there either. So, he
had never had one put on.

Why had she supposed that he would? Because she had done
so. That was illogical. She knew what he would say if anyone asked
him—any one of those few who knew what had happened on That Night.
Barring his door to her would have been a symbolic thrusting away, a
rejection of need and a denial of trust.

She crossed the room. Carefully, touching only the ornate
brass knob so that no smudge would mar the gleaming wood, she pulled
open the top drawer of the dresser. Handkerchiefs, neat, plain, pure
white, without even a monogram. She put out her hand and then drew it
back, biting her lip. Damn Haworth and his neatness. It would be
impossible to touch anything without leaving a sign of disturbance. The
corners of the folded handkerchiefs might have been aligned with a
ruler. And damn Gordon, too. He was a fanatic about neatness, he had
trained Haworth, and he would be the first to notice the slightest
irregularity.

More drawers. Pajamas, neatly folded. Coiled belts,
looking like flat, curled snakes. Leather boxes, containing studs, cuff
links, and his grandfather’s ornate rings—one of the old gentleman’s
habits that Gordon had not emulated. More underwear. Nothing else.
Nothing else visible.

She would have to risk it. Her lower lip caught between
her teeth, she turned back to the top drawer and delicately lifted a
pile of handkerchiefs. There was nothing underneath except the
immaculate lining of the drawer. Her hands began to shake as she
returned the handkerchiefs to their place and went to the next pile.

Still nothing.

It was hard to control her hands, they shook so. The
silence of the room was unnatural; her ears rang with it. No—it wasn’t
her ears, it was a fly, trapped against one of the windows. Stupid
insect. There was an open window within a few inches of its frantic
lunges against the glass. For a long moment Linda stood perfectly
still, staring at the small, frantic black dot. The buzzing droned in
her ears. She turned back to her self-appointed chore with an
abruptness that swept a pajama jacket out of alignment. What was under
it?

Nothing. Nothing except the lining of the drawer.

Gradually her movements became quicker, jerkier. She
shoved at the last drawer of the dresser, turned, before it had stopped
moving, toward the tall bureau.

Sweaters. Folded neatly, encased in plastic bags. Nothing
under the sweaters. Scarves. Nothing…

Slowly, like a creeping stain, the yellow path of
sunlight from the window moved across the rug. As its warmth brushed
her arm, Linda flinched and jerked around. It was late, dangerously
late. How much longer before the conference ended, before Gordon came
up to dress for dinner?