Enemy In The House (15 page)

“This morning!” China rose indignantly, staggered slightly and sat down again. “Well! My refusal certainly didn’t break Neville’s heart!”

“Neville had nothing to do with it. It was Uncle Grappit.”

“What did
you
say?”

“I said I was already married, what else? China, he’s sure the chancery court will appoint him guardian. He says if I won’t consent to his plan to marry me to Neville, he’ll take you and Jamey to London and bring up Jamey himself. We’ve got to stop that.”

“London,” said China. She shut her eyes drowsily for a moment, then struggled up off the bed, went to the mirror and leaned forward to arrange her hair. “London. We’d move in very good society—”

“China, you
can’t
turn Jamey over to him!”

“I’d have a far better chance for a good marriage in London.”

“Suppose Uncle Grappit did murder Mr. Benfit—and now Hester! Would you trust him then?”

China brushed one hand over her face. “Lud, I feel peculiar.”

“Rum,” Amity said shortly.

“Nonsense. A mere sip of spirits. Medicinal. Don’t speak so sharply of Uncle Grappit, dear—such cruel suspicions. Why, that girl, Hester, she invited murder with her silks and her sluttish ways. Still murder is a terrible thing and—” She turned from the mirror. “I know exactly why you took those letters. You wanted to know why she was murdered and who did it and so do I.”

“We’ll have to turn them over to the authorities—if there is any evidence.”

“Perhaps.”

“What do you mean? You wouldn’t protect a murderer—”

“Oh, no,” China said with groggy airiness, “unless—oh,
give
me those letters!”

If, in the package of papers, there was any evidence at all that touched upon or threatened Grappit, China would never actually trust Jamey or herself to him. Certainly not herself, for China’s instinct of self-preservation was strong. Why, Amity thought with a sense of horror, I not only suspect Uncle Grappit of murder, I hope there’ll be evidence in Hester’s letters sufficient to convince China. It was a dreadful wish.

“Hurry. Where are they?” China cried.

Amity drew the papers out from under the pillow and China gave a little gasp and pushed close to her as she untied the blue ribbons. They leaned close to the candle. Amity’s hands trembled when she unfolded the little packet.

“Oh—” China said in a wail of disappointment, for there were two papers folded together, completely, entirely blank.

“Secret writing,” China whispered. “Here—put them near the candle.”

No slightest trace of writing came out under the heat. “Try water—” China said quickly. The thick papers merely dampened.

“Now that,” China said finally, “is very strange. I wonder—” She bit her lip and thought and said at last, “Of course Hester may have been exactly what she said she was. But
somebody
killed her. No doubt about that.”

She gave a little shrug, forgot about her intention to sleep in Amity’s room and went across the hall to her own room. She closed the door and Amity heard the click of a bolt.

I
T WAS INDEED VERY
strange. Perfectly blank papers, tied up, apparently cherished in their blue ribbon. After a while Amity refolded and retied them.

Somebody
killed her, China had said. It was almost impossible to accept a familiar face as a murderer’s face. Yet there was that brooding sister of murder, suspicion, come to take up her stealthy residence in Mallam Penn. She undressed and blew out the candle, and then remembered the click of the bolt from across the corridor, made her way to her own door, found a bolt and slid it in place.

The house was very quiet. She thought of Hester and what McWhinn and his helpers were doing, out in that moonlit, tropical night. She wished she had sensed danger; she wished she had made a more determined effort to break through the wall Hester had stubbornly erected.

By now Simon must have returned to Selene’s cabin. By now, Selene must have found some safe concealment for him. He should never have come to Mallam Penn. His danger was far greater now. And yet—and yet she had seen him and talked to him and perhaps tomorrow she would see him again.

At dawn it began to rain and kept on raining, a straight full downpour which seemed to have no beginning and no end. It was not the rainy season but it rained and kept on raining. Everything dripped, the eaves, the trees, the heavy foliage of the vines. The garden was drenched. Amity’s first thought, listening to the steady drone of the rain, was that it would be difficult to make an excuse to leave the house, difficult to see Simon.

Jamey came disconsolately to roost on Amity’s bed and kick his legs, “Rain,” he said with strong disapproval, and watched her brush her hair. “Aunt Grappit’s hair is funny. Snarly inside.”

“What? Oh—” She thought of Madam Grappit’s coiffure with its great puffs and coils. “Well, yes—perhaps it is.”

“I like smooth hair.”

“Your own hair needs a brush.”

He submitted, wriggling. She said, “Where is Dolcy?”

“Putting those things away. She said the earthquake made everything go all over the room like that. What makes an earthquake?”

“Some rocks, way deep down, slip and shake and—”

“Ouch!” said Jamey. “Where is Hester?”

“Where—why—why she’s gone, Jamey.”

“Why didn’t she take her clothes?”

“I—don’t know. There now, your hair is smooth.”

“Guess what’s a duppy.” Suddenly his eyes were dancing.

“I don’t know. A duppy?”

He made his eyes big and round in fake terror and whispered,
“It’s a ghost.
That’s what Dolcy says.”

“But—you—you don’t know what a ghost is.”

“Yes, I do. It’s a—well, it’s all in white and somebody dead but it stays around and people see it.”

Dolcy shouldn’t be talking to him of ghosts. On the other hand there was a definitely skeptical gleam in his bright gray eyes. She laughed and hugged him and he hugged her so heartily it ruffled her hair up again. Then he dashed away shouting, “Earthquake, earthquake—where’s my lizard, Dolcy?” She heard Dolcy’s soothing voice in the corridor. Presently the servant wrapped him in a shawl, like a giant cocoon, and carried him off to her own cabin. Jamey had a small lizard cuddled carefully in his hand.

Neville and Charles found some dice and settled themselves at a table. Aunt Grappit muttered objections but she was not immune to the fashionable London gambling fever of the times, to which she had been exposed, and soon began to watch, her eyes glittering. Neither Charles nor Neville seemed to put his mind to the game but Neville lost and Charles steadily won. It was at least an example of distracting activity during an enforced interlude of waiting for the officers of the law, and for what must happen when they arrived. Amity could not sit down and count the minutes.

She snared three maids and set about housecleaning. The maids seemed to accept the fact that the house needed a certain tidying after the earthquake; they were good-natured but surprised when Amity insisted on scrubbing, washing and polishing, too.

China saw what was going forward and rapidly disappeared. At noon Grappit returned to the house and told them that McWhinn himself and one of the men had started to Punt Town. “They may not get through but they’ll try.” He frowned at Charles and Neville and said that he disapproved of gambling.

The rain kept on. Selene did not come. McWhinn did not return.

It was dusk when Amity and the maids finished at last with a vigorous round of silver polishing and Amity went to her room. Here Selene waited.

She had lighted a candle. The bed was neatly turned down and the pillows plumped up. A glass vase stood on the dressing table and Selene was arranging a spray of tiny white flowers as delicate and airy as butterflies.

“How—how did you get here?”

“I walked through the lounge.”

“But didn’t anybody see you? Wasn’t that dangerous?”

“Why, no. The two young gentlemen had gone out for exercise. These English,” Selene said, “always walking, rain or shine. I sent Cooky to look and she said no one was there so I came in. I see you’ve been busy.” She gave Amity an approving nod. “The house needed cleaning. The
busha,
this is McWhinn, has his hands full outside. The housemaids have grown a little slack for want of a mistress.”

“Where is he? Is he safe?”

“I’ll take you to see him. Have you a shawl?”

“No—that is—my riding cloak.” She ran to the armoire, I snatched out her red cloak and remembered the December night of her marriage.

She flung the cloak around her shoulders. “You turned down my bed. You brought those flowers.”

“Orchids, some call them, they grow on the trees.” Selene picked up a long black shawl, wet with the rain. “Follow me at a little distance, once we get outside.”

Selene adjusted her shawl so it shaded her face; she then seemed to hump over, grow thicker, walk with an ungraceful trudge. It was a subtle yet remarkable change.

At the door Amity turned back, dived under the pillow and brought out the blue-tied bundle of blank paper.

Selene laughed softly. “A poor hiding place. I wondered what you had there and why. Come—” Selene paused before they entered the lounge; no one was there but nobody would have questioned the trudging figure of still another maid.

Once outside, Amity felt the rain refreshing and cool on her face. Follow me at some distance, Selene had said. Amity fell back. It was a dreary, dripping twilight. Shapes of trees loomed indistinctly out of it. There were lights in the cookhouse. There were flickering red firelights coming from some of the open cabin doors. Several times Amity really doubted whether she were following Selene or a mere shadow leading her through the rain and the wet thickets which brushed stealthy fingers over her face.

“Enter quickly,” Selene whispered suddenly at her side and opened the cabin door.

There was a faint light from the fireplace. Simon was waiting. “Amy!” He took her cloak. She raised both hands to tidy her hair and Simon seeing her limp, dust-streaked dress, looked surprised. “What
have
you been doing?”

“Cleaning the house,” Selene said austerely. “A good thing for a woman to do. Now then, there is not much time.”

She discarded her shawl. She became again slim and very, very beautiful. “Mr. Simon wishes to know first whether or not you have discovered Hester’s real identity.”

“No. I found this—” Amity tugged the ribbon-tied package out of her cloak pocket. “It’s nothing.”

Simon opened it, looked over the blank sheets of paper and gave her a puzzled look. “Where were these?”

“Among Hester’s clothes. There was nothing else.”

“But—” He turned to Selene. “Secret writing?”

Selene took the papers, knelt for a moment close to the fire, and then went to the cupboard. She poured some liquid into a pan and immersed the paper.

She shook drops from it and handed it back to Simon. “This girl, this Hester was a very dangerous woman,” she said.

Simon eyed the wet, blank papers. “I can’t see anything at all!”

Selene said gravely, “There is nothing there.”

“But then why—”

“There is only one reason that occurs to me. It is not a pleasant reason. But if Hester threatened someone, if she had a sound basis for that threat, something which was the truth, there might exist somewhere written evidence of that fact. So if Hester had no such written evidence, she could have rolled up those papers, showed them—rolled up and tied—to the person she threatened and claimed that it was—whatever that evidence is.”

“What threat?” Simon asked tersely.

Selene shook her head. Her face was still very grave. “People have paid for silence since the world began.”

“Who?” Simon said. “Which one of them?”

“How can I say? Perhaps someone who may be rich or have expectations of being rich. Money is the usual motive for this kind of thing. But then there might be another motive. Ambition—revenge—yes, a dangerous woman. And killed because of that.”

There was a little silence. Finally Simon said, “Why would her intended victim believe her without seeing what she claimed to be written proof of something that was so dangerous to him that he had to kill to silence her?”

“I should say, because the murderer knew it to be the truth and believed her. People are credulous when they are frightened.” She looked at Amity. “How did you get the papers?”

“My stepmother actually got them. But then before she could read them she went to sleep and—well, I took them. Then she awoke and knew they were gone. She guessed I had them. She was determined to see them. We looked at them together.”

“So China knows about these,” Simon said thoughtfully. He glanced at Selene, who said, “Yes, she could have changed the original papers, replaced them with blank papers. But I don’t think that happened. She would not have shown interest in these papers if she had already known that they were blank.” She addressed Amity. “Is she likely to tell anyone about them—her brother for instance?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did anyone else search Hester’s effects?”

“No. That is—well, I don’t know.”

“It would be better if you hadn’t seen them,” Selene said in a troubled way.

Simon stared at her for a second. “You mean—Yes, I see. I’m going back to the great house with my wife.”

“And give yourself up!”
Amity cried. “No! You can’t! Why,
I’m
in no danger!”

“Anyone is in danger when there is murder,” Selene said gravely. “But you can’t go to the great house, Mr. Simon.”

“She’s my wife—” Simon began stubbornly and Selene said, “You are very foolish. Your wife has told me you are not a spy. But unless you can prove that—”

“All right,” Simon said. “I’m the bearer of a message—”

“Stop! I don’t want to know any more. I’m in an equivocal position as it is. I have put my duty to Mallam Penn, to your wife first, and it may be very wrong of me. However, it’s done now. I’ll try to help you as far as I can. But if you are found and arrested—Oh, you’d have a trial. The British are just. But unless you could clear yourself I’m afraid the trial would be a short one.”