The Spiral Staircase (6 page)

With a memory of Mrs. Oates’ warning, Helen advanced warily. She looked a small and insignificant person—a pale girl in a blue pinafore dress, which made her fade into her background.

“Come nearer,” commanded Lady Warren.

Helen obeyed, although her eyes wandered to the objects on the bed-table. She wondered which missile the invalid might choose to hurl at her head, and stretched out her hand for the biggest medicine bottle.

“Put that down,” snarled her ladyship faintly. “That’s mine.”

“Oh, I am sorry.” Helen spoke eagerly. “I’m like that. I hate people to touch my things.”

Feeling that there was a link between them, she stood boldly by the bed, and smiled down at the invalid.

“You’re very small,” remarked Lady Warren, at last breaking her silence. “No style. Very unimpressive. I thought my grandson would have shown better taste when he chose a wife.”

As she listened, Helen realized that Simone had refused to enter the blue room, although Newton had urged her to do so.

“He showed excellent taste,” she said. “His wife is marvellous. I’m not her.”

“Then-who are you?” asked Lady Warren.

“The help. Miss Capel.”

A ripple of some strong emotion passed over the old woman’s face, leaving the black crescent eyes fixed and the lips hanging apart.

“She looks afraid,” thought Helen. “But what’s she afraid of? It—it must be me.”

Lady Warren’s next words, however, gave the lie to this exciting possibility. Her voice strengthened.

“Go away,” she shouted, in the bass voice of a man.

Startled by the change, Helen turned and ran from the invalid, expecting every second, to feel the crash of a bottle on her head. But, before she reached the door, she was recalled by a shout.

“You little fool, come back.”

Quivering with expectation at this new turn, Helen crossed to the bed. The old lady began to talk in such a faint, whine, that her words were almost inaudible.

“Get out of the house. Too many trees.”

“Trees?” repeated Helen, as her mind slipped back to the last tree in the plantation.

“Trees,” repeated Lady Warren. “They stretch out their branches and knock at the window. They try to get in… . When it’s dark, they move. Creeping up to the house… . Go away.”

As she listened, Helen felt a sense of kinship with the old woman. It was strange that she, too, had stood at the window, at twilight, and watched the invasion of the misted shrubs. Of course, it was all imagination; but that fact alone indicated a common touch of “Mr. Poke.”

In any case, she wanted to use the trees as a liaison bebtween Lady Warren and herself. It was one of her small failings that, although she liked to succeed in her own line, she liked still better to make a success of someone else’s job. She proceeded to try and make a conquest of Lady Warren.

“How strange,” she said. “I’ve thought exactly the same as you.”

Unfortunately, Lady Warren resented her words as im pertinence.

“I don’t want to hear your thoughts,” Lady Warren whined. “Don’t dare to presume, because I’m helpless… . What’s your name?”

“Helen Capel,” was the dejected reply.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Liar. Nineteen.”

Helen was startled by her acumen, as her employers had always accepted her official age.’ “It’s not exactly a lie,” she explained. “I feel I’m entitled to put on my age, because I’m old in experience. I began to earn my own living when I was fourteen.”

Lady Warren showed no signs of being touched.

“Why?” she asked. “Are you a love-child?”

“Certainly not,” replied Helen indignantly. “My parents were married in church. But they couldn’t provide for me. They were unlucky.”,

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re lucky.”

In spite of her subordinate position, Helen always found the necessary courage to protest when any vital principle of her Creed was assaulted.

“No,” Helen protested. “Life is wonderful. I always wake up, just glad to be alive.”

Lady Warren grunted before she continued her catechism.

“Drink?” she asked.

“No.”

“Any men?”

“No chance—worse luck.”,

Lady Warren did not join in her laugh. Stared at Helen so rigidly that the black slits of her eyes appeared to congeal. Some scheme was being spun amid the cobwebs of her mind.

The clock ticked away the silence and the fire fell in, with a sudden spurt of flame.’

“Shall I put on more coal?” asked Helen, anxious to break the spell.

“No. Give me back my teeth.”

The request was so startling that Helen, positively jumped. But the next second, she realized that Lady Warren was only referring to her denture, which was in an enamel cup, on the bed-table.

She looked away tactfully, while the august invalid fished them out of the disinfectant, with her fingers, and adjustedthem in her gums. “Helen,” she cooed, in a new dove-like voice, “I want you to sleep with me, tonight.”

Helen looked at her, aghast, for the change in her was both grotesque and horrible. The denture forced her lips apart in a stiff artificial grin, which gave her an unhuman resemblance to an old waxwork.

“You were afraid of me, without my teeth,” Lady Warten told her. “But you won’t be afraid now. I want to take care of you, tonight.”

Helen licked her lips nervously.

“But, my lady,” said Helen, “the new nurse will sleep with you tonight.”

“I’d forgotten the new nurse. Another slut. Well, I’ll be ready for her. But you’re to sleep with me. You see, my dear, you’re not safe.”

As she smiled, Helen was suddenly reminded of the grin of a crocodile.

“I couldn’t pass a night alone with her,” she thought, even while she was conscious that her fear was only of her own creation. It was obviously absurd to be afraid of a bedridden old woman.

“I’m afraid I can do nothing without Miss Warren’s instructions,” she said.

“My stepdaughter’s a fool. She doesn’t know what’s going on in this house. Trees always trying to get in… . Come here, Helen.” As Helen stooped over the bed, she felt her hand caught in a strong grip.

“I want you to get me something,” whispered Lady Warren. “It’s in the cupboard at the top of the wardrobe. Get on a chair.”

Helen, who was enjoying the rare flavor of an adventure, decided to humor her.

She climbed on to one of the heavy chairs and stood on her toes, in order to open the door of the cupboard.

She felt a little doubtful of the commission, as she groped with her hand, in the dark recess. It was evident that Lady Warren was using her as a tool, to procure forbidden fruit. With a memory of her inflamed nose, she suspected a hidden bottle of brandy.

“What is it?” she called.

“A little hard thing, wrapped in a silk scarf,” was the disarming reply.

As she spoke, Helen’s fingers closed upon something which answered to the description.

“Is this it?” she asked, springing to the ground.

“Yes.” Lady Warren’s voice was eager. “Bring it to me.”

In the short journey to the bed, Helen was gripped with a sudden fear of the thing she held. Even under its mufflings, its shape was unmistakable. It was a revolver. She remembered Lady Warren’s dead rabbits—and also a husband shot dead by accident.’

“I wonder if it’s loaded,” she thought fearfully. “I can’t even tell which is the dangerous end… . I mustn’t let her have it. Mrs. Oates warned me.”

“Bring it to me,” commanded Lady Warren.

She made no attempt to disguise her excitement. Her fingers shook with eagerness, as she stretched out her hands.

Helen pretended not to hear. With affected carelessness, she laid down the revolver on a small table—at a safe distance from the invalid-before she advanced to the bed.

“Now, you mustn’t get worked up,” she said soothingly.

“It is so bad for your heart.”

Fortunately Lady Warren’s attention was distracted by her words.

“What does the doctor say about me?” she asked.

“He says your vitality is wonderful,” replied Helen.

“Then he’s a fool. I’m a dead woman… . But I’m not going to die till I’m ready.”

Her lids closed, so that her eyes were visible only as a narrow black rim. Her shrivelled face seemed to become a. worn-out garment, and she spoke in the reedy voice of burnt-out forces.

“I’ve a job. Keep putting it off. Weak of me. But it is a job no one likes. Is it?”

Helen guessed immediately that she referred to her will.

“No,” she replied. “Everyone puts it off.”

And then, because she could not resist her interest in the affairs of others, she added a bit of advice.

“But we all of us have to do it. It must be done.”

But Lady Warren was not listening. The eclipse was rapidly passing, for her eyes grew alert as they slanted acrossto the small bundle on the table.

“Bring. it to me,” she said.

“No,” replied Helen. “Better not.”

“Fool. What are you afraid of? It’s only my spectacle case.”

“Yes, I know it is. I’m ever so sorry, my lady, but I’m only a machine. I have to obey Miss Warren’s orders. And she told me I was only to sit and watch.”

It was plain that Lady Warren was not used to opposition. Her eyes blazed, and her fingers hooked to talons, as she clawed her throat.

“Go,” she gasped. “Get-Miss-Warren.”

Helen rushed from the room-almost glad of the attack, since the crisis of the revolver was postponed. As she reached the door, she looked back and saw that Lady Warren had collapsed upon her pillows.’

A second later, the invalid raised her head. There was a stir amid the bedclothes, and two feet, in bed-socks, emerged from under the eiderdown, as Lady Warren slipped out of bed.

ILLUSION

Her heart beating fast with mingled exhilaration and fear, Helen hurried to Miss Warren’s room. For the first time in her life, she was up against unknown possibilities. Unlike the other houses in which she had worked, the Summit provided a background..

It was true that Mrs. Oates had heartlessly plucked the mystery from the last tree in the plantation, so that Helen was forced to accept him as the yokel lover of a rustic beauty; yet there remained material for macabre drama in the savage muffled landscape and the overhanging shadow of murder.

The old woman, too, with her overtures and her gleaming artificial smile, supplied a touch of real horror. She might be only a bedridden invalid, but the fact remained that she was under suspicion of having sent her husband prematurely to heaven or to hell.

Her sting might be drawn, but her desires were still lethal. Helen had, proof of this in the incident of the revolver.

Her thoughts, however, slipped back to practical subjects, when, as she turned the handle of Miss Warren’s room, t once again slipped round in her grasp.

“I really must get at it the instant I have a chance,” she promised herself.

Miss Warren was sitting at her bureau, under the green light. Her eyes were fixed upon her book.

“Well?” she asked wearily, as, Helen entered.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” began Helen, “but Lady War–”

Before she could finish her sentence, Miss Warren was out of her chair, and crossing the room with the ungainly gait of a giraffe.

In her element, Helen followed her to the blue room. Lady Warren was lying as she had left her, with closed eyes and puffing lips. The revolver, wrapped in the silk handkerchief, was still on the kidney table, and the width of the room remote from the bed.

Yet there was some change, Helen, who was observant, noticed the fact, at once, and, in her second survey, traced it to its cause. When she had gone to fetch Miss Warren, the bedclothes were disordered. Now, the sheet was drawn down over the eiderdown, as neatly as though it had been arranged by a hospital nurse.

“Miss Capel,” said Miss Warren, who was bending over the prostrate figure of her step-mother, “fetch the oxygen-cylinder.”

Helen, who was always ready to experiment with. unfamiliar properties, hurried to lug it across to the bed. She thoughtfully unscrewed the top, and managed to get awhiff of air, like a mountain breeze, before she surrendered it to Miss Warren.

Presently, Lady Warren revived under their joint ministrations. To Helen’s awakening suspicions, it was an artistic performance, with calculated gradations of sighs, groans and fluttering lids.

Directly her eyes were open, she glared at Helen.

“Send her away,” she said weakly.

Miss Warren caught Helen’s eye.

“Please go, Miss Capel. I’m sorry.”

Forgetful of her pose, Lady Warren turned on her stepdaughter, like some fish-wife.

“Idiot. Send her packing. Tonight.”

She closed her eyes again, and murmured, “Doctor. I want the doctor.”

“He’ll be here presently,” Miss Warren assured her.

“Why is he always late?” complained the invalid.

“Because he likes to see how you are, the last thing,” explained Miss Warren ungrammatically.

“It’s because he’s a slacker,” snarled Lady Warren. “I must change my doctor… . Blanche. That girl wasn’t Newton’s wife. Why doesn’t she come to see me?”

“You are not strong enough for visitors.” “That’s not it. I know. She’s afraid of me.”

The idea seemed to please Lady Warren, for her face puckered up in a smile. Helen, who was watching, from a safe distance, thought that she looked positively evil. In that moment, she could almost believe in the old story of a murdered husband.

Her eye fell on the nurse’s small single-bed.

“I wouldn’t be that nurse, for all the money in the world,” she shuddered.

Suddenly, Miss Warren became aware that she was still in the room, for she crossed over to her corner.

“I can manage by myself, Miss Capel”

Her tone was so-cold that Helen tried to justify herself.

“I hope you don’t think I did anything to annoy her. She changed all of a sudden. Indeed, she took a fancy to me. Anyway, she kept asking me to sleep with her, tonight.”

Miss Warren’s expression was incredulous, although her words were polite.

“I am sure that you were kind and tactful”