Dorothy Eden (12 page)

But the house
was
the same one. Numbers did not change overnight, and she had this one written clearly in her diary. Besides, everything was the same about the architecture. Only that fusty room and the grotesque pair of elderly Pekes and the woman with the straggling witch-locks had been overlaid with a film of age.

Perhaps when she found Francesca she would discover that over her, too, the years had passed, and she would be a grown young woman, self-assured and independent.

Kate arrived breathlessly at the office. She swept through the outer office into Miss Squires’ small, dark sanctuary.

“Miss Squires, what is Rosita’s address?”

“Rosita!” Miss Squires blinked her owlish eyes. “Who is Rosita?”

“Francesca’s mother, of course. Surely you know.”

Did a shade come down over her eyes? Levelly she answered, “I’m afraid I don’t. I never knew much about that particular mission. It was Mrs. Dix’s pigeon.”

But the small plump pigeon who spoke only in her own language was lost. Or stolen…

“But listen, Miss Squires. I’ve just called on Rosita, exactly where I interviewed her the other day, and she isn’t there.”

“Gone away, I expect,” said Miss Squires laconically.

“Perhaps. Nothing would surprise me now. But the old woman says she has been in that particular room for fifteen years. She practically said that Rosita didn’t exist. I dreamed her up, or something.”

“I think you ought to mind your own business, Kate,” said Miss Squires severely. “I know nothing about Rosita. I never did. But if a foreigner chooses to do a midnight flit, it isn’t any business of yours, is it?”

“It’s not a midnight flit,” Kate persisted. “It’s a sort of Rip Van Winkle thing, as if it were fifteen years since I called on her. Even the room had aged!”

Miss Squires looked at her uneasily.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

“You were pretty done in yesterday. I just wondered—oh, well, you’d better see Mrs. Dix when you come back. You can’t yet. She’s still resting. She had a bad night. And in the meantime there’s this urgent errand to do in the city. One of our clients, an elderly lady, Mrs. Mossop, confined to her bed with arthritis, wants some gifts for her twin granddaughters’ birthdays. They’ll be twenty-one and she thought perhaps wrist-watches or simple gold bangles. Something tasteful, not too expensive. The jeweller she’d like you to go to is an old friend of hers. Nicolas Grundy in Hatton Garden. She said he’d help you select something.”

“Must I go this morning?” Kate asked.

“I’m afraid so. Why? Don’t you feel up to it?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly fit, but I had one or two things to do.”

She didn’t add that one of them was to put that telephone call through to the number in Rome—urgently. She was indeed learning to be circumspect, not even trusting kind, pedestrian Miss Squires.

“Can’t they wait? You’ll be back by midday. Mrs. Mossop wants you to take the things along to her when you’ve chosen them. I’ll give you her address.” Miss Squires smiled placatingly. “We’re sending you because you have the best taste of anyone on our staff.”

“Very well,” said Kate reluctantly. “I’ll go.”

“Good girl. Oh, and by the way, Mrs. Dix asked me to see if you had Francesca’s doll with you in your bag.”

“Yes, I have. Why? Do you want to see it?”

“I couldn’t care less about it. But the child treasures it, doesn’t she? Mrs. Dix thinks it ought to be sent off at once. She told me to see about it.”

Kate kept her bag firmly shut.

“Sorry, Miss Squires. This happens to be my pigeon. Francesca does treasure the doll, so I don’t intend to risk her not getting it. I have to be quite sure where she is.”

Miss Squires frowned in bewilderment. “But didn’t Mrs. Dix explain to you that the child was with her father?”

“Oh, she explained to me, yes. She may even believe it herself. But I don’t. At least, not yet. I’m waiting to be sure. And in the meantime I’m keeping the doll. Didn’t you ever have something you treasured when you were a child?”

Miss Squires blinked. “Well, yes, of course. With me it was usually cats.”

“And it would have mattered enormously if you lost one, and it would be up to any responsible adult to see that you got it back. Well, I feel like this about Francesca and her doll.” Kate smiled. “It’s not silly, it’s just being decent. Now where is this place I have to go? Is Mrs. Mossop one of the talkative ones, because if so I’d better cancel my lunch date?”

“Oh, there’ll be no need to do that. You’ll be back in plenty of time.” Miss Squires suddenly squeezed Kate’s hand. “You’re a nice person, Kate. Good luck.”

K
ATE DID NOT CARE
either for Mr. Nicolas Grundy or his shop. The latter was small, dark and very old-fashioned, and, one would imagine, barely a step away from bankruptcy. Mr. Grundy himself had beady, black eyes that gave Kate a prolonged, intent stare, a mouth suggesting craftiness, and slick, dark hair flattened over his forehead.

It was a strange place to be selected by a wealthy and no doubt fastidious old woman, but perhaps it had had past glories, and a family connection for Mrs. Mossop. Perhaps Mr. Grundy had much better wares to offer than the slightly tarnished period silver in the wall cases, or the old-fashioned rings and pendants beneath the glass counter.

However, it was still a fine, sunny morning and Kate’s feeling of optimism, despite her strange experience in the house in Egerton Gardens, had returned. So she smiled pleasantly at the beady-eyed gentleman and made known her wishes.

Mr. Grundy immediately nodded with deference and understanding.

“I’ll be delighted to help you. If I may say so, I know Mrs. Mossop’s tastes rather well. She’s a very old customer of mine. Her taste lends itself to the austere. Something simple but good.”

“These are gifts for young girls,” Kate pointed out. “And I’m not to spend more than twenty pounds.”

“Quite, quite. We can select something very nice for that price. What about two identical strings of cultured pearls? Or gold pendants? I have a very charming one set with topazes. That’s a very fashionable stone these days.”

It was true that he had better things than one would have imagined. From hidden drawers he produced turquoise brooches and rings set with amethysts or opals, and a variety of pendants. Kate spent an engrossing fifteen minutes making a choice. Finally, at Mr. Grundy’s suggestion, she had several articles wrapped to take to Bloomsbury where Mrs. Mossop lived, so that the old lady might make the final selection.

Mr. Grundy directed her as to which bus to catch. For all his rather crafty and calculating appearance he had been very courteous and helpful. Kate planned to tell Mrs. Mossop so, and congratulate her on her obscure but competent jeweller.

There was something mysterious about the house of this client. Ten minutes walk from the bus stop, it was large, well-kept and obviously highly respectable. A very youthful maid answered the door and asked Kate to come in. She was taken into a large, well-furnished room overlooking the street, and asked to wait there while the maid took the package of jewellery upstairs. Mrs. Mossop couldn’t come down, she explained, but Kate was to rest and take a glass of sherry.

Rather reluctantly Kate surrendered the package. She didn’t know Mrs. Mossop or the two granddaughters, but it had been fun selecting pieces of jewellery, and she hoped her choice would be approved.

She refused the sherry, because she loathed drinking in the morning, but her refusal seemed to upset the maid, who was very young and nervous.

“It’s poured,” she said anxiously. “And biscuits.”

“Very well, thank you,” Kate said.

The tray with the single glass on it was brought, then the maid and the package of jewellery vanished upstairs.

Kate looked distastefully at the sherry. Good manners had made her accept it, but why should she have to drink something she didn’t want, and which was probably nasty and sweet. She took a sip and her suspicion was confirmed. Sweet and syrupy. The place for that was in the bowl of chrysanthemums on the table.

No time was wasted on that small action. Then Kate sat down and relaxed, thinking with pleasure of the long, cold beer she would have when she met William.

This was a quiet street, with few people about, and only an occasional car passing. A car was parked just opposite. Its driver sat reading a newspaper, as if he were waiting for someone. Kate looked at him, thinking he might have appreciated that glass of sherry more than she had. She was a little drowsy. The strain of the last few days had not quite left her, and Mrs. Mossop was being rather a long time. The quiet of the house and the dilatoriness of her unknown employer lent itself to a five-minute nap. Almost unconsciously Kate closed her eyes.

She opened them a few minutes later and saw the face looking round the door.

A curious, disembodied face, pale and hairless, ancient and evil. It seemed to float in the air for that one horrifying moment, then, as she started up, disappeared.

There was nothing there then but the empty space beyond the partly opened door.

She could have imagined that momentary vision, except that the fear and panic that had swept over her when the lights went out in the Paris night-club now filled her again, the same urgent desire to escape. Still hardly knowing why, she was running for the door.

The jewellery, the pieces to be bought and the pieces to be returned to Mr. Grundy, were still upstairs. But that no longer mattered. There was something evil here. She must get away.

Clutching her bag, telling herself she was a hopeless coward, she hurried across the empty hall and out of the front door.

She hadn’t imagined that face. Almost, out in the sunlight, she thought she had. But its uncanniness, its air of gloating, its strange sexlessness, were too vivid in her mind for imagination.

Had it been the assumedly bedridden Mrs. Mossop, spying? And how was she to explain to Mrs. Dix that she had run away in such foolish panic? How could she describe her intense sense of danger?

At the moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was that she was in the clean, normal air again. She shivered violently as she hurried down the steps.

Then she suppressed a cry as suddenly above her a high, querulous voice called, “Wait! Wait!” She looked up swiftly, but only a shadow moved at an upstairs window, a faint, pale blur that might or might not have been that nightmare face.

Too frightened to feel shame at her panic, Kate hurried on down the street. She was vaguely aware of the small black car which had been parked opposite moving slowly forward and turning. Was someone coming out to pursue her?

Even that little maid, young and rather stupid, had been frightened. She realized that now. Why? What had been going to happen? And why was she so sure it had been going to happen to her?

There was a ten minute walk to the bus stop, a turn to the right, a crossing, and then another turn. These were quiet streets, and perhaps in her haste she was careless. She thought she had looked to her right before crossing, but, still obsessed with her strange, unreasonable panic, she hadn’t noticed any traffic dangerously close, neither the car that drew up with a screech of brakes nor the small black one that swerved suddenly, catching her and sending her flying.

It was too absurd. She wasn’t knocked unconscious. At least, she didn’t think she had been, but when she sat up slowly, a middle-aged man was gathering up the scattered contents of her handbag, and a woman, with a little flowery hat, too youthful for her flushed, middle-aged face, was saying indignantly, “Are you all right, dear? My, that was a lucky escape. That road hog! Don’t try to get up yet. My husband’s got your things. Oh, and your poor nylons! Ruined! Try and see if any bones are broken.”

The voice came from the other side of the Atlantic, and it was kind. Kate wanted to smile, but was aware only of an excruciating pain in her left wrist. She hugged it feebly, and fought a growing dizziness.

This really was too absurd, a bump on the head the other night, and now this, sitting in the gutter nursing an injured wrist!

“What happened?” she asked weakly.

“Why, we were innocently driving across this intersection when that little car literally shot in front of us. It had to swerve to avoid us, and hit you, poor dear.”

“And didn’t stop?”

“No, the bastard,” came, the deep, indignant voice of the man.

“Actually, Elmer, he did. He slowed right down and put his head out. But when he saw us he just hurried on.”

If the driver was who she thought it was, Kate reflected, of course he wouldn’t stop. For she had caught just a phantom glimpse of the Oriental face. Or had that been imagination, too?

“You poor dear, you are hurt. Elmer, we’re going to take her right to the nearest hospital.”

“We certainly will. And here’s all your belongings, honey.” The American’s kind face was floating in a mist. Kate wanted to protest violently at being taken to a hospital, she couldn’t spare the time, she had urgent things to do, but suddenly her mouth was stiff and she couldn’t speak. She was only dimly aware of the man grinning as he held up a vague object.

“We’ve even rescued your kid’s doll.”

She wasn’t badly hurt, the nurse told her. Her wrist had been sprained and was now strapped up, and she had suffered from shock. But she’d be fine by morning. Just rest and not to worry.

Kate didn’t know how much later this was. To her horror she had awoken to find herself undressed and in bed. She was in a hospital ward, and outside, beyond the long windows, it was dark.

She sat up in panic. “I can’t stay here. I have to go home. Why have you let me sleep like this?”

The nurse’s face was young, like the little maid’s in that Bloomsbury house had been, but this face did not hide fear. It was round and pleasant and carefree.

“The doctor gave you a shot of something. You needed it. Now what would you like for your supper?”

“Supper!” Kate exclaimed. “It can’t be that late.”

“It’s six o’clock.”

“But, good heavens, I had a lunch date.”