The Spiral Staircase (18 page)

Whatever his theological disbelief, the Professor was staunch.

“How interesting,” she said politely.

“My sister is of too sensitized nature to mix with the outside world,” went on the Professor, “yet her nerve is of iron. She did valuable work, during the War, at the Front, which took daily toll of her reserves. Yet she never showed any sign of strain, and emerged with a fine record. That is one of the reasons why she insists on a teetotal household—so great is her horror of any kind of bestiality.”

“I think that was fine,” said Helen.

“It was. Especially; as you have already remarked, she suffers from a deficient pituitary gland.”

Helen did not understand his allusion, so she gazed with new respect at Miss Warren, when she came down the staircase. In silence she handed her brother a key, and then walked into the library. Bolt the door after me, please,” said the Professor, “and remain here to let me in again:’

It was dreary waiting in the hall which was now so empty and silent. No sound of youthful voices, or strains of wireless floated from the drawingroom.

“Thank goodness, I’ll soon have the dog,” Helen thought.

Even that consolation was denied her. When—a little Later—heralded by his knock, the Professor was blown inside the lobby, he was alone.

“Rice has made good his threat,” he told her. “I found the padlock on the garage door forced and the dog gone.”

Stripping off his dripping coat, he walked into his study.

Feeling doubly forlorn, Helen ventured to invade Mrs. Oates’ privacy. She knocked several times on the kitchen door without attracting any attention, although the light was shining through the frosted-glass panels.

She was on the point of turning away when she was startled by an unfamiliar thick voice.

“Come in, my dear.”

In spite of the genial invitation, Helen entered the kitchen with a sinking heart-not knowing what she feared.

Mrs. Oates sat slumped back in her chair, like a sack of potatoes, a stupid smile on her red face.

In spite of her inexperience, Helen guessed that the ultimate disaster had befallen her. Her second guard had failed her. Mrs. Oates was drunk.

ONE OVER THE EIGHT

As Helen looked at Mrs. Oates, she felt in the grip of a bad dream.. Everything had changed in the course of a few hours. It was impossible to believe that the kitchen was the same cheery place, where she had drunk her tea.

It was not only comfortless and untidy, but actually darker, for no leaping fire helped to illuminate it. Crumbs and egg-shells were strewn on the bare table. Even the ginger cat had deserted his rug for the peace of the empty drawingroom.

But the change in Mrs. Oates was the worst feature of the transformation. An ugly woman at her best, she had lost the redeeming quality of her expression. The loyalty had been soaked from her eyes and the characteristic lines of her face had melted together in an idiotic grin. When Helen gave her the latest bulletin of news, she received it with such indifference that the girl wondered whether she had actually grasped the fact of the wholesale desertion.

“Women can’t get drunk decently,” she thought.

It struck her that, in this special accomplishment, men remained supreme. Women equalled their records in other fields, but, while a man, in his cups, could be amusing—or even brilliant—a drunken woman only relapsed into bestiality.

Yet, although she was disgusted by Mrs. Oates’ gross red face, she. realized that she was only partially intoxicated. Since the catastrophe was not complete, it might be possible to appeal to her sense of trust, and to pull her round again.

“Have you been drinking my health?” she asked.

Mrs. Oates registered exaggerated innocence.

“Funny, ain’t you? Beer—money I get—I’ll allow you that. But never a drop of tiddley.”

“Odd,” sniffed Helen. “I thought I could smell brandy.” “Must be that nurse, spilling her breath. She’s been poking down here.”

Helen decided to try guile.

“Bad luck,” she sighed. “I could do with a spot myself. Just, to buck me up, after all the upset.”

She watched the conflict in Mrs. Oates’ inflamed face, as native kindliness struggled with greed and caution. In the end, generosity prevailed.

“And so you shall, you poor little squirt,” she declared. Ducking down her head, she dived under her skirt, and drew out a bottle of brandy, which she placed triumphantly on the table.

“Help yourself;’ she said hospitably. “Plenty more where that comes from.”

“Where did you find it?” asked Helen. “In the cellar, when the master went to look at the thermommomm—”

As Mrs. Oates continued to wrestle with the word, with a flicker of her old bulldog tenacity, Helen stretched out her hand for the bottle.

“You’ve drunk nearly half already,” she said. “Hadn’t you better save some for tomorrow?”

“No,” declared Mrs. Oates solemnly. “I can’t taste nips. I must have swallows. I always finish a bottle.”

“But you’ll get drunk, and then Miss Warren will sack you.”

“No, she won’t. I done this before. The master only says she must put temptation out of my way and not give me another chance.”

Helen listened with the dismay of a card-player who has mistaken a small pip for a trump. A valuable trick—fear of the consequences—was lost to her.

It was obvious that Mrs. Oates was callous with regard to the future. The Warren family balanced an occasional lapse against the value of her services.

“Still, put a little by for a rainy day,” she urged, as Mrs. Oates’ fingers closed around the bottle.

“For Oates to find? Not blooming likely. He’ll know I’ve had one over the eight, and he’s always out to block me. No. I’m going to hide it in the only safe place.”

“What rotten luck your husband had to go off,” wailed Helen tactlessly. “Why should it happen tonight, of all nights?”

Mrs. Oates began to laugh shrilly..

“I done that,” she crowed. “I took up the pudding to the bedroom when I knew the nurse was busy with her ladyship, washing down the decks. I just gave the cap of the cylinder a twist as I was setting down the plate.”

“What made you think of it?” gasped Helen.

“You. You said it was her life. But if it hadn’t worked I’d have thought up some other way to get rid of Oates.” The nightmare oppression increased as Helen sat opposite Mrs. Oates and watched her drain her glass. There seemed to be a conspiracy against her; yet when she traced back effect to cause, she could find no evidence of human malice.

There was nothing extraordinary in the fact that Mrs. Oates should have a failing, and it was natural that her husband should try to check her; it therefore followedalso naturally—that she should sharpen. her wits to get him out of her way.

The same logic characterized the events which had been responsible for the clearance of the young people. Stephen Rice was devoted to his dog and resented its banishment, while Simone had behaved in the normal manner of a spoiled neurotic girl, whose desires had been thwarted. The Professor, too, could not have done otherwise, when he authorized Newton to follow his wife.

Of course, there had been unlucky trifles which had been the levers which set the machinery in motion; but the responsibility for them was divided equally among the members of the household.

It was unfortunate that Stephen should have brought home a dog, in the first place, and doubly unfortunate when it clashed with Miss Warren’s prejudice against all animals. The Professor’s lapse was also lamentable, although he could hardly credit Mrs. Oates with the audacity of committing a theft under his nose.

Helen had to admit that she, too, had lent a hand in weaving this extraordinary tissue of consequences. She had influenced Dr. Parry to exaggerate the gravity of Lady Warren’s condition, while her unlucky remark about the oxygen had been the origin of Mrs. Oates’ brain-wave.

Yet, even as she marshalled her arguments, she grew afraid. Something was advancing towards her—some vast slow movement of affairs, which she was powerless to deflect from its course.

Blind chance alone could not be responsible for this string of apparent accidents. Natural things were happening—but with unnatural complicity. The process was altogether too smooth and too regular; they timed too perfectly, as though some brain were directing their operations.

The sight of Mrs. Oates slowly dissolving from a shrewd woman into a sot, stung Helen to desperate action.

“Give me that,” she cried, seizing the bottle. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

She realized her mistake when Mrs. Oates turned on her in a fury.

“Layoff that,” she shouted.

Helen tried to turn her action into a joke as she dodged around the kitchen, pursued by Mrs. Oates.

“Don’t be so silly,” she urged, still hugging the bottle. “Try and pull yourself together.” Red-eyed and panting, Mrs. Oates pent her into a corner, snatched the bottle from her, and then slapped her cheek.

As the girl reeled back under the force of the blow, Mrs Oates gripped her shoulders and practically hurled her out of the kitchen.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish” she muttered as she slammed the door. “You keep out of here.”

Helen was glad to escape, for she realized the need to enlist fresh help. Too timid to appeal to the Professor, she went into the library. Miss Warren, who was hunched together, poring over a book, did not welcome the interruption.

“I hope, Miss Capel, you’ve not .disturbed me for a trifle,” she said.

“No,” Helen told her, “it’s important. Mrs. Oates is drunk.”

Miss Warren clicked with disgust, and then glanced at the clock.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said calmly. “She will sleep it off tonight. Tomorrow she will do her works as usual.”

“But she had not quite passed out,” persisted Helen. “If you were to speak to her now you might stop her.”

“I am certainly not going to argue with a semi-intoxicated woman,” said Miss Warren. “And my brother’s work is far too important to be interrupted. If you are wise, you will not interfere… . This has happened before.”

Miss Warren took up her book again, to indicate that theinterview was over.

Feeling utterly miserable, Helen wandered into the hall. At the sight of the telephone, however, her courage revived. It reminded her that while she had been feeling lonely as though marooned on a desert island, the Summit was still linked with civilization.

“I’ll ring up the Bull,” she decided. “We ought to find out if Simone is safe. And then I’ll ring up Dr. Parry.”

She was conscious of’ sharp Suspense as she took the receiver from the hook. In this gale telephone poles must be crashing down all over the country. So many disasters had piled themselves up, that she quite expected to find that she was cut off.

To her joy, however, she heard the buzz of connection, and an operator’s voice at the Exchange enquiring the number. After a short interval, another voice, speaking with a strong Welsh accent, informed her that he was Mr. Williams, landlord of the Bull.

In answer to her enquiries he told her that Mr. and Mrs. Newton Warren had arrived at the Inn, and were staying the night. He added that Mr. Rice had left, with his dog, immediately after their arrival, presumably to make room for the lady.

“Where did he go?” asked Helen.

“To the Parsonage. He said he knew Parson would put him up, seeing as he’s partial to dogs.”

Feeling that she had family news to offer as her excuse, if she were surprised at the telephone, Helen looked up Dr. Parry’s number in the directory. Presently she heard his voice at the other end of the wire. It sounded tired, and not exactly enthusiastic.

“Don’t tell me the old lady has thrown an attack. Have a heart. I’m only just started on my meal.”

“I want some advice,” Helen told him. “There’s no one else to ask but you.”

But at the end of her story she had not succeeded in convincing even herself of the gravity of the position. Everything sounded petty and stressed; and she was sure that Dr. Parry shared her view.

“Bit of a landslide,” he said, “but there’s nothing you can do. Don’t tackle Mrs. Oates again.”

“Bit I do want to get her sober,” pleaded Helen. “It’s so lonely with no one.”

“Are you afraid?”

“N-no,” replied Helen.

“Because, if you re, I’ll come over at once.”

As he expected, the offer braced Helen to a .refusal. He was hungry, wet, and dog-tired; although he was susceptible, at that moment a fire and his pipe appealed to him more than the brightest’ eyes.

“I know that watch-tower of a house can’t be too cheerful in a gale,” he said. “But say your prayers and it won’t come down. Of course, you’ve had a nasty shock, this evening, and you naturally feel lonely with those people walking out on you. Still, there’s quite a respectable number left. Lock up, and you’ve nothing to fear.”

“Yes,” agreed Helen, starting at a violent crash outside one of the shuttered windows.

“If you went to bed now, and locked your door, could you sleep in this gale?” asked Dr. Parry.

“I ‘don’t think so. My room’s high up, and it’s rocking like a cradle.”

“Then keep up the fire in your sitting-room, and make up a shakedown there. You’ll hardly hear the storm. Before you know it, it’ll be tomorrow morning.”

“And things look so different in the morning,” said. Helen.

It was easy to be brave with Dr. Parry’s cheerful voice ringing in her ears.

“Remember this,” he said. “If you feel afraid, ring me up and I’ll come over.”

With the promise to cheer her, Helen rang off. But as she looked around the hall her confidence died. The house seemed to sway with he gale, and the night to be full of sounds. A great voice roared down the chimney, until she felt she was on the verge of catching actual words. Feeling that any reception was better than loneliness, Helen went down to the kitchen again. To her relief, Mrs. Oates beamed a welcome. Her color had grown a trifle more congested, while the brandy in the bottle had sunk.

“I mustn’t irritate her,” thought Helen, as she sat down and patted Mrs. Oates familiarly on the knee.