Walk with Care (23 page)

The packing-cases were on her right. There was one by itself, and she pulled it aside. She did not need a light, because she could see everything in her mind.

Behind the single packing-case there was a pile of others leaning against the wall. Only between the bottom one and the wall there was a space. Rachel crept into this space and pulled the single packing-case back into position. She was now inside the bottom case of the pile, and even if anyone came into the loft, it was very unlikely that they would find her, since the pile of boxes had a very solid and impenetrable appearance.

She had reached the refuge which she had planned for just such an emergency as this. There had been some old curtains in the loft, and she had spread the floor of the packing-case with them. She sank down and listened, holding her breath. She listened for a long time, but no sounds came. Then, with a suddenness that made all her pulses leap, someone was trying to lift the trap. The heavy fender must have been raised an inch or two, for it fell with a clang. After this had happened two or three times the sounds ceased.

Rachel relaxed. All her limbs were suddenly soft and weak. The tears began to run down her face. She was safe. She lay down amongst the curtains and began to say her evening prayer, but she was asleep before she finished it.

She did not know how long it was before she woke. She felt as if it must be a very long time indeed, because she had been dreaming a long, long dream about Jeremy. She knew no more of the dream than that, for as she waked, it was gone. Only the thought of Jeremy remained. She crawled out from behind the packing-cases and felt her way to the trap-door with the single thought that she must go to Jeremy. She moved the heavy fender and, lifting the trap, kneeled above it, listening. Darkness and silence came up to her out of the house—dead darkness, and dead silence. She descended the ladder and stood at the head of the stair. It was like standing over a black, waterless well.

She came down to the drawing-room floor, and there was no one there. There was no one anywhere in the house. She stood in the hall, and knew what had happened. Phoebe had come to find her and had found her gone. They would know, then, that she had a key, and when they had searched the house they would be afraid because she knew too much, and they would make haste to be gone. There was no one now to stop her if she too made haste to go.

She went to the door and put her hand on the bolt. The door had not been bolted. No, of course it could not be bolted, since Phoebe and Asphodel must have gone out this way. She turned the handle, and a rush of fear chilled her. The door was locked, and the key was gone. She was locked into the empty house.

She leaned against the wall and steadied herself. It meant that she must go through the cellars again. It meant no more than that. It was foolish to tremble and sicken at the thought. She must go to Jeremy, and there lay her way. He must surely be home by now, and she would not have to wake anyone, since she had in her pocket the key that had opened the door when Asphodel had hidden the papers in his room. It had comforted her beyond words to know that she had this key. She slid her fingers down into her pocket now and held it tight, and, still holding it, went down the cellar stair. She did not need a light. She had passed this way so often in the dark.

She came to the empty cellar which joined the cellars of Bernard Mannister's house and felt along the stones of the wall with either hand. When she had found the right stones, she pressed hard and threw all her weight on the right-hand side. A section of the wall pivoted,

CHAPTER XXXVII

MR SMITH HAD BEEN
dining with an old friend. They had spent a very pleasant evening. He let himself into his house at a quarter past eleven, and as he closed the door. Miller came to meet him from the library.

“Mr Ware telephoning, sir—he's just this instant rung off. I told him you might be in at any time.”

“Did he—er—say whether I could ring him up?”

Miller was taking Mr Smith's coat and hat.

“No, sir—he said not, sir. I understood him to say that he was speaking from a call-office.”

Mr Smith nodded and went through to the library. Miller followed him.

“Colonel Garrett rang up an hour ago, sir. He said he would be calling in on his way back from the country. He was very particular about seeing you, sir.”

Mr Smith nodded again. Then he went over to the fire, which displayed a generous bed of rosy embers. He stretched his hands to the glow and said in his pleasant, courteous voice,

“Thank you, Miller. Colonel Garrett will probably like some hot coffee.”

“It is ready, sir.”

The room was very still when Miller had gone out. Ananias slumbered beneath the green baize covering of his cage with his head under his wing. He may have been dreaming of pirates, or of the innocent days of his youth when, free and untamed, he slept or flew in a wild, free forest.

The stillness in the room had lasted for some little time, when it was broken by a characteristically vehement ring at the bell, and upon that there came in Colonel Garrett, stamping his feet, slapping frozen hands together, and expressing himself with violence about the British climate. He threw two logs on the fire, kicked them with a wet heel, and clapped Mr Smith on the shoulder.

“I've got my mare's-nest!” he said. “And
by gum,
it's full of eggs!”

Mr Smith produced a pair of tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses and put them on. Through the lenses he fixed a mild, inquiring gaze on Garrett's face.

“Er—eggs?” he said.

Garrett withdrew his hand, only to bring it down again with a resounding slap.

“Yes, by gum! I don't know who wrote that anonymous letter, but it's done the trick. I've got 'em! I'll eat my hat if I haven't got 'em!”

The door opened and Miller came in with a tray. He had no more than set it down, when the front door bell rang again.

“Who's that?” said Garrett sharply.

“It might be Ware. He rang up whilst I was out.”

Miller went to the door. There was a murmur of voices, and then Miller announced,

“Mr and Mrs Denny—”

He closed the door behind Rosalind and Gilbert Denny, and they advanced together, moving down the long room without any spoken word.

For once at least in her life Rosalind achieved beauty. Her eyes shone and her lips trembled with it. She carried the air, and the colour, and the bloom of it with her. Yet neither of the two men had eyes for her at all. They looked at Gilbert Denny who had come back from the dead.

Garrett's face twisted in a hideous grimace. He stared as if those small, sharp eyes of his were denying their own evidence. And then, with a couple of jerky strides, he had met Gilbert and was wringing him by the hand.

It was in the midst of the ensuing explanations that Ananias woke up. He said “Awk?” once or twice in an inquiring manner, and as no one took any notice of him, he proceeded to scream at the top of his voice, using at haphazard such words as “Help!” “Fire!” “Murder!” and “Police!”

Mr Smith went over to him, removed the baize cover, admonished him, and drifted back again to the hearth, watched by an eye that was piercingly wary and intent.

Gilbert Denny told his story very concisely, but when he had brought it to the point of his disappearance, he paused and addressed himself to Garrett.

“Well, Frank?” he said. “Have you been to Ledlington yet?”

Garrett kicked at the log behind him.

“Just come back,” he grunted.

“And what did you find there?”

“Was the note that sent me off there from you?” said Garrett sharply.

Gilbert Denny nodded.

“I thought seeing might be believing,” he said.

Mr Smith leaned upon the mantelshelf. His dreamy gaze passed from Rosalind lying back in one of the big chairs, over Gilbert Denny standing behind her, and so to Garrett on the hearth. He said gently,

“Would someone be good enough to—er—explain?”

Garrett jerked round on him.

“He sent me down to Ledlington—that is, his anonymous note did. I was to look up the register of births, marriages and deaths under certain dates. I found that Geoffrey Livingstone Deane was born in Ledlington on the twentieth of September eighteen ninety-eight, his father being the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur Deane, vicar of St Leonard's church. I found, under the date of January the first, nineteen hundred, that a daughter was born to the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur and registered as Maud Millicent. I further found, under the marriages for the year nineteen-nineteen, that Maud Millicent Deane was married on the second of July to John Harold Simpson, bachelor. Further, under the deaths, I found that the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur Deane died on the first of September of the same year.
And
—” Garrett brought one hand down on the other with a loud slap—
“and
on the fifth of October nineteen twenty-nine I found
the death of Geoffrey Livingstone Deane”

There was a pause. Ananias said “Awk?” in a tone of subdued inquiry.

After a moment Mr Smith repeated the name:

“Geoffrey—Livingstone—Deane——”

Garrett nodded and thrust again at the fire. He was frowning ferociously. Gilbert Denny, leaning on the back of his wife's chair, watched him with a faint whimsical smile. He had come to a place where he could afford to smile.

“By gum,” said Garrett, “that knocked me! I nosed round and found that Mr Geoffrey Deane always came down to Ledlington for his holiday. He stayed frugally in rooms kept by the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur's retired verger. He was the virtuous, dull person of his dossier. He was Mannister's secretary. He was Maud Millicent Simpson's brother.” He turned on Mr Smith. “Remember I told you Asphodel's real name was Maud Simpson. He was Asphodel's brother. He wasn't ever very strong. He got influenza and died in the verger's lodgings on the fifth of October 'twenty-nine, and he is buried in St Leonard's churchyard.”

“I see—” said Mr Smith.

Rosalind leaned forward with a puzzled air.

“Asphodel?” she said.

“Yes, Asphodel!” said Garrett savagely. “Maud Millicent Asphodel Simpson! Maud Millicent Asphodel
Mannister!”

“What!” said Mr Smith sharply. And then, “Dear me!”

“Simpson died a year or two after the marriage. The verger and his wife were quite chatty, but a little uncertain as to dates. Miss Maud never came back to Ledlington, and they didn't know where she was. She and Mr Geoffrey were as like as two peas to look at, but as different as chalk from cheese in everything else. Not much liked Miss Maud, but a very clever young lady, and such a mimic as never was. There wasn't nobody's voice she couldn't take off so that you'd never know that it wasn't them speaking. I got a lot of good meaty stuff like that from the verger. And then the bright young man I'd sent down to Farrow-in-the-Fold rang up and told me that Maud Millicent Simpson, widow, had married Bernard James Mannister there on the thirteenth of December nineteen twenty-nine—and a damned unlucky thirteen it was for him, I should say.”

Rosalind half turned in her chair. She put up her hand and found Gilbert's. A deep distressed colour burned in her cheeks.

“I went to see her. I went because Mimosa said that you had gone there. She did your voice—just like Frank says. Oh, Gil—it
was
your voice!”

Gilbert's hand closed hard over hers.

“Well, it wasn't me,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone which perhaps covered some emotion. “She's a damned good mimic. What did she make me say?”

“Not to trust Jeremy,” said Rosalind in a whisper. She could have cried with shame. Tears stung her eyelids.

“Yes—that was her game,” said Gilbert. “Jeremy was to be the scapegoat when things began to get a little too hot.”

“Mannister—” said Mr Smith. “She married Mannister—”

As if the name had touched some chord in his memory, Ananias began to intone:

“Walk with care, walk with care.

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.

Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom
—”

His voice became a little louder with each line until the final “boom,” when it dropped to an uncanny whisper.

“No, Ananias!” said Mr Smith. “No!”

“Why don't you wring his neck?” said Garrett. “Yes, she married Mannister—the great booby! I'm guessing a bit, but I expect it was this way. She did come down to Ledlington when her brother died. That's fact. And she fetched away his things. Where I'm guessing is about her relations with Mannister. I think she saw a chance of getting hold of him and went back to him as Geoffrey. From what I heard from Mr and Mrs Verger, she could have done it. There was a nasty scandal the year before she married. She impersonated Geoffrey and drew on his account at the local bank—where, mind you, the clerks all knew him and his signature. It was passed off as a joke, but it made talk. She could write any hand and mimic any voice, and I gather that there was one overwhelming sigh of relief when she married Simpson and left Ledlington for good.”

“And now I'll tell my tale,” said Gilbert Denny. He came round and sat on the arm of Rosalind's chair. “I'm going to cut it as short as I can, and I'll give you the details later, because I rather think we shall have to get a move on. I told you how I faked my death. It was inexcusable, but I was nearly off my head. I had only one idea left, and that was to track down the devil who had been hounding me. I'm not going to tell you how I did it, because it would take too long, but right at the very first I had a stroke of luck. I wanted it!”

A fleeting look like the shadow of past bitterness crossed his face. For a moment all the lines were deepened. He looked ten years older. It passed as Rosalind's hand tightened on his, and his own most charming smile took its place. He went on speaking.

“I had been to see Asphodel, as Rosalind said.”

“Why?” Rosalind's voice was very low.

Gilbert Denny hesitated. He looked at Garrett.

“Some of what I am saying had better not go beyond this room,” he said. “Am I to say it, or would you rather not?”

“Oh, say it—say it!” said Garrett.

“Mumbo-Jumbo,” began Ananias in a whisper.

“No—
no!”
said Mr Smith. Then, courteously to Gilbert, “Pray continue.”

Gilbert Denny continued.

“Mrs Vane, who is a cousin of mine, made repeated efforts to get me to go and see Asphodel. I should have taken no notice if it had not occurred to me to wonder why such an endeavour should have been made. It was—” He stopped for a moment, and then said, “persistent. That made me suspicious. I was being attacked from the dark. I was inclined to be suspicious. I thought I would go and see Asphodel.”

“Well?” said Garrett.

The shadow crossed Gilbert's face again. The darkened room came back, and Asphodel's face, dead white, with the pale red hair, and the voice which had changed into Rosalind's voice, afraid and trembling over the words which spoke of a stolen paper and secrets betrayed. Almost it had persuaded him. Almost? Or, for a nightmare space which he would not willingly remember, had the “almost” been “quite”? He said, with an edge to his quiet voice,

“She is—clever.” And then, “I'd better go on. My stroke of luck was this. After I had swum ashore I picked up the motor-bike Lester had hidden there for me, put on overalls and goggles, and rode away. The bike had a very good head-light. When I had ridden about a mile, the beam picked up Asphodel walking along the middle of the road. I was doing a good forty, and I thought I'd seen a ghost, or a devil—that's more in her line. I was in the state of mind when one sees things. And afterwards I thought I'd make sure, and I sent Lester down to make inquiries. I kept in touch with him. He's a first-class lad. Well, he went down to Talland, and this is what he found out. Asphodel, under the name of Miss Maud Deane, was staying as a p.g. in a cottage owned by an artist of the name of Carew. She'd been in the habit of coming down there for years—in fact it made a very convenient bolt-hole. Carew, who was an invalid and the most unpractical man in the world, had a daughter of eighteen or nineteen, a charming child. Her name is Rachel, and I gather that Jeremy has fallen romantically in love with her. Well, the connection between the Carews and Asphodel is very simple. Carew was a widower. Rachel's old nurse, Phoebe Dart, kept house and ran the show. And before she was Rachel's nurse she was in the service of the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur Deane. Miss Maud had her on a string—Phoebe adored her and would have done anything she told her. It suited the Carews to have a p.g., and it suited Asphodel to have a bolt-hole.”

He turned to Garrett.

“Remember the Vulture
^*
, Frank?”

Garrett uttered an exclamation.

“Yes,” said Gilbert Denny. “You got him. But you didn't get his right hand. Miss Maud Millicent Deane remained to carry on the good work. She specializes in the sort of blackmail they applied to me. She's one of the cleverest forgers who have ever lived, and, as her father's verger said, she can imitate any voice. She can also assume a new personality at will. I have seen her as Asphodel, and as Geoffrey Deane, and as a most charming and convincing old lady. If she hadn't been startled by my head-light at Talland, I should never have been allowed to recognize her then. I don't quite know what I did recognize—the whole outline of the face, and the fixed eyes that made her look as she did when she simulated a state of trance perhaps—I don't know.” He paused for a moment, frowning at the fire, where Garrett's logs were well alight and the flames leaping. After a moment he went on again. “It doesn't take long to tell, but it took a long time to find out. I've only just discovered that Geoffrey Deane died nearly two years ago, and it's only this last week that I got proof of the forgeries. I've been getting into the Tilt Street house at night, and that did the trick. I found out a whole lot of things. I'm a highly accomplished eavesdropper. I think I shall take up burgling as a recreation. All right, Frank, don't frown like that—I'll get on.”