Dorothy Eden (11 page)

A
PALE MOON WAS
struggling through the clouds when Alice at last saw the dark bulk of the hotel and the dim road winding down to the cottage. She sighed with weary relief, and continued her trudge through the stormy night. Now that she was within reach of the cottage she was almost inclined to chuckle at her comic plight. She had a blister on each heel, was wet through, and buffeted to the point of exhaustion. She had stumbled along six miles of dark stony roads just because someone had played a practical joke on her. Where was her sense of humour? she wondered.

But humour did not really come into this situation. Instinct told her that the whole thing had been deadly serious. It had something to do with Camilla. She could not forget that whispered voice, ‘Camilla’s here.’ Was Camilla really there? She had to tell Dundas and Felix as quickly as possible and have the thing investigated.

The sky was clearing in patches, and a shoulder of one of the mountains, broad and glistening white, shone against the sky. The wind off the snow was so cold that Alice, for all her exercise, was shivering constantly.

If there had been a light showing in Dundas’s house she would have gone in there and told her story. But the old tall house among the trees was dark and silent. Alice thought of Dundas sleeping warm and undisturbed, and had a sudden longing for his kind serious voice. Felix in all likelihood would burst into loud guffaws and say, ‘Little Alice, can’t you take a joke?’ but Dundas, she knew, would be sympathetic and comforting. He would not think she had behaved like a little frightened fool in running away from the Thorpe house at midnight.

She trudged round the bend of the road and saw the dark trees surrounding the cottage. In ten minutes she would be able to creep into bed herself and sleep until her exhaustion was gone and the things distorted in her tired mind had resumed a normal shape. It must be almost daylight, but there was no light except that of the fleeting moonlight. Wait! Was that a light through the trees in the direction of the cottage? Was there a light in the window?

Alice stood still to look. The wind shook the trees violently back and forth, and as they moved there was the glimpse of a faint yellow light, no more than starlight. Or candlelight. She began to run, stumbling on the uneven road. When she came in sight of the cottage the windows were dark. Of course there had been no light, she told herself in relief. It had been reflected moonlight. All was quiet and undisturbed. In a few minutes she could sleep.

She pushed the gate open, leaning against it because the path down from the cottage was like a funnel through which the wind swept in a great force. The tall ngaio tree at the side of the house bent and cracked. The thinning clouds moved over the moon and parted, and pale light shone down on the doorstep, light just strong enough to show Alice the dark object that lay there.

She bent over it curiously. Then she gave a cry of dismay and went down on her knees to pick up the limp body of Webster, the magpie. His head hung down; his long sharp beak was slightly open. His neck was twisted; he was quite dead.

Wet through and shivering violently, Alice crouched with the bird in her hands trying to think. Someone had killed Webster because he talked. It was her fault, really. She had chattered about the uncanniness of Webster’s language; she had let people think that his unconscious imitation of words and sentences was giving away secrets. About Camilla and some unknown man. Not an unknown man. One of the three D’s. They had all heard her chatter about Webster. ‘He’s like someone’s conscience,’ she had said. Which man had thought Webster was his conscience?

Then, like a miniature record playing over and over, she was suddenly remembering Felix’s voice last night, ‘Confound you! Tell me what you know or I’ll wring your neck!’

The moon was hidden again, the light gone. Alice could scarcely see the bird in her hands. She got slowly to her feet, her legs so weak that she could scarcely stand. She put out her hand to open the door. It was open behind her. She was sure of that, for she turned sharply and almost fell forward into the darkness. Then suddenly, as if obeying a signal, the ngaio tree cracked sharply and there was a frantic beating of leaves, like a wave breaking. That sound was the last thing of which Alice was aware.

H
ER HEAD WAS ACHING
badly and there was a weight on top of it. At first Alice could not exert herself to open her eyes. She moved cautiously and felt the separate ache in each limb. ‘I’ve caught a chill,’ she thought vaguely.

She opened her eyes slowly, narrowing them against the hurting light, and saw a row of white bobbles on a white counterpane. Puzzled, her eyes strayed farther and she saw wallpaper with a faded pink stripe like candy, an old-fashioned dressing-table with long mirror and innumerable drawers, a massive wardrobe. She still could not absorb the information her eyes gave her. She lay staring at the wallpaper for a long time, and it got mixed in her mind with a dress she had once had, a cotton dress that she had worn on a picnic, and she had got it stained with blackberry juice. She began to search for the stain on the wallpaper, and suddenly, as her eyes moved, she saw someone staring at her.

At first she could not identify the face. The heavy features were familiar, and yet they had no connection with the wallpaper and the candy-striped frock belonging to her childhood.

She opened her mouth to speak. The face came nearer. It swam before her blurred vision, and for a reason she knew she should be able to remember but which eluded her she was suddenly shrinking into the pillows, filled with terror.

‘You’re awake, are you?’ came a prosaic voice. ‘I’d better tell Daddy.’

The face cleared, and at last Alice recognized Margaretta’s scowling brows and broad cheekbones.

Her limbs went slack with relief. It was only Margaretta. She was no one of whom to be frightened.

‘Wait!’ she said. She had thought her voice would be strong, but it came out in a kind of croaking whisper. ‘Tell me, what am I doing here?’ The candy-striped wallpaper… It was peculiarly soothing, like a return to her childhood.

‘You’re ill,’ Margaretta told her bluntly. ‘You’ve got slight concussion and a chill, the doctor said. You’ve been talking a bit silly, I must say.’

‘Concussion?’ said Alice perplexedly. So that was why her head ached so badly, why her mind was so muddled. (But what was it that she was frightened about?)

‘A tree fell on you in the storm,’ said Margaretta dispassionately. ‘It’s lucky you weren’t killed. Daddy found you and brought you here. We’ve been wondering what you were doing out in the storm, but you can tell us when you’re better.’ She moved towards the door. ‘I’ll tell Daddy you’re awake.’

What was that dark shadow over her mind? Alice closed her eyes, trying to think. The darkness came down like a blessing. She must have gone sound asleep, for when she opened her eyes again, to her astonishment the whole room was dark save for a silver ribbon of moonlight across the floor.

Her head felt better and clearer, although her body still ached. She lay quietly, not seeking memory but letting things drift idly into her mind. The candy-striped dress had been in her childhood. Since then she had travelled, she had been to school in New Zealand, and, the war over at last, had spent two unhappy summers with her mother dragging round the smart hotels in the South of France and on the Italian lakes. After that she had made her decision, she had left home and contrived to get jobs connected with the theatre. For a while she had been a very inefficient secretary to a theatrical manager, then, nearer to the stage, she had been a dresser. Soon after that Felix had discovered her being Ophelia as she tidied the dressing-room and pressed costumes. Apparently he had listened for quite a long time. She had been overcome with embarrassment—she would never forget looking up and seeing him with his head cocked on one side, his eyes narrowed with interest, his dark hair ruffled—but it had resulted in her being invited to join his company whose keenness and optimism compensated for its lack of money, and to set out on its world tour.

Alice frowned as the fragments drifted into her memory. How had that small one-class rather drab ship that had sailed from Tilbury brought her to this bed in a room with pink-striped wallpaper, and a wardrobe large enough to conceal a body?

A body? Unease stirred in her. What had produced that grim thought? Now her headache was coming back, and she was trying not to think. Just beyond the shadow in her mind was knowledge which she didn’t care to remember. There were birds in it, black heavy birds that weighed down her hands, and rain and wind. And somewhere Felix’s black eyes laughing.

Trying to escape from thought, Alice was abruptly aware of a sound. It came from over her head, and it seemed like slow footsteps going backwards and forwards, muffled footsteps, slightly dragging, as if whoever was walking about did not want to arouse the house.

And suddenly there was one idea of tremendous magnitude in her mind. The door. Was it locked?

Without knowing the reason for her urgency Alice got out of bed and staggered across the floor. The shaft of moonlight swung up and down dizzily. She had to clutch the end of the bed, and then a corner of the massive wardrobe. Somehow she reached the door and turned the handle.

The door failed to open. It was locked.

Curiously, the shock of this discovery brought her back to reality. She remembered everything now. Standing shivering, her heavy head leant against the door, she knew that she was in Dundas’s house, for Margaretta had been with her that afternoon. And there was no necessity for a door to be locked in Dundas’s house. It was in the Thorpe house that Tottie had said, ‘Lock your door,’ and it was there that someone had played that terrifying practical joke on her.

Why was the door locked in Dundas’s house? Who had taken the precaution of locking in someone who was apparently helpless in bed?

In her normal health Alice was sure that she would not have got panicky. But now everything had the proportions of a nightmare. It was intolerable to be locked in a room. She couldn’t stand it. She would go mad.

Frenziedly she began rattling the door handle and calling out. In the midst of her frenzy blackness swept over her in hot waves. She was scarcely aware of the door being opened, and only a little more conscious of tumbling into Dundas’s arms.

‘Alice,’ he was saying in a deeply concerned voice. ‘What is it, my dear ? Did something frighten you? I thought you were sleeping. Margaretta said you had gone into a sound sleep and wouldn’t likely wake till morning.’

Alice clutched him weakly. She could feel that he had a thick wool dressing-gown on. The soft warmth of it was wonderfully comforting. She was so tired and weak that she never wanted to move away from it.

‘Why was the door locked?’ she asked, and began to repeat senselessly, ‘Why was it? Why was it?’

Dundas suddenly picked her up in his arms and carried her over to the bed. His eyes looking down at her had their night-enlarged pupils—it was curious how they made him look a different person at night—but his mouth was kind and gentle.

‘Poor little girl! I’m sorry you got a fright about that. But Margaretta and I thought it was wise, just in case you woke up, you know. We couldn’t risk you getting another chill by running out of the house.’

‘Oh,’ said Alice slowly. Now she was beginning to understand. ‘It was because I left the Thorpes’ in the middle of the night.’

‘Never mind about that now.’ Dundas was gentle and reassuring. ‘We’ll talk about that again. Now I’m going to make you a hot drink and you’re to go back to sleep.’

He went to move away, but Alice clutched at his arm.

‘How long have I been here?’

‘This is Tuesday night. Or rather Wednesday morning.’

‘That’s two days nearly. But that’s terrible!’

Dundas smiled. ‘Is it? I haven’t thought so, except that your illness worried us a good deal.’

‘But what has happened to Camilla in the meantime?’ she cried.

He stiffened, almost imperceptibly.

‘Camilla?’

‘Yes, she’s at the Thorpes’. They’re hiding her there, for some reason. We’ve got to investigate. That’s why I left there in the middle of the night.’

Dundas said in his slow gentle way, ‘Don’t you think you might be imagining that? You’ve had a bad knock. A branch of that ngaio tree caught the side of your head. It’s lucky you weren’t killed.’

Alice’s brain was swimming, but she stuck stubbornly to her story.

‘The tree hadn’t hit me then. I tell you, someone came in my room and whispered, “Camilla’s here”. It might have been Camilla herself. Though I can’t imagine Camilla doing that horrid thing.’

‘What horrid thing?’

Somehow Alice didn’t want to talk about her tied hair. It sounded so silly and childish, no one else would think it sinister. Even Dundas, in his sympathy, would only humour her.

‘Never mind that. That was only incidental. But I know there’s something queer going on at the Thorpes’ and it has to be investigated. It’s something to do with Camilla. Dalton Thorpe was crazy about her, you know. He’s done something to her.’ Alice’s voice was rising hysterically. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s true. Besides, there’s Webster. Someone came that night and killed Webster. They were frightened of what he used to say. Someone with a guilty conscience. Dundas, we’ve got to investigate—’

His hand stroked her hair softly, reassuringly.

‘Of course. Of course we’ll investigate. I found the magpie, too. But I really think he was killed in a fight. He was badly pecked about the head.’

‘His neck was wrung,’ Alice persisted. She remembered so distinctly the wobbling head that no longer had any connection with Webster’s pert precociousness. It was part of her nightmare, that dangling inert head.

‘Perhaps,’ Dundas agreed soothingly. ‘But we won’t talk of it now. It’s two o’clock in the morning and nothing can be done until daylight. So I’m going to bring you this drink and you’re going to sleep. You’ll be surprised how things come back to normal by daylight.’

Alice made one last effort.