Home through the Dark (19 page)

“What the devil are you doing here?”

I drew a steadying breath. “I might ask you the same thing.” Was my expression as undeniably guilty as hers?

She said rapidly, “I brought along Stephen's costume which I'd washed and ironed.” Her eyes flicked to the soapy plate still in her hand. “I found these in his dressing room. He probably had a snack here at lunch time. They've already started preliminary rehearsals for the next show.” She paused and, confidence returning, demanded accusingly, “How did you get in?”

“I borrowed the caretaker's key. Kitty arranged it.” Thankfully I knew that could all be checked.

“I didn't notice the door open.”

“I probably pulled it to after me. I've come to set out the cups for the early coffee. I'm helping tonight but I can't get here before seven-thirty.”

She stared at me without speaking and I knew she was trying to assess the truth of what I said and at the same time to discover whether or not I had believed her quite plausible lie. It took quite an effort to break away from her gaze and start with trembling fingers to lay out the cups and saucers, fill the kettle and urn and pour the milk into the pan. I didn't look in her direction again, and after a moment I heard her turn back to the sink and go on with the dishes.

“Did Miss Davidson have a good holiday?” I asked casually, when I felt able to control my voice. I thought she was not going to reply, but after a moment she said briefly, “God knows.” I didn't attempt any further conversation. When I had finished my self-allotted task, I meekly said goodbye and left her. I locked the door behind me, since she would let herself out the same way she had come in, and returned the key to Bert. Suppose it occurred to her to check what time I'd arrived at the theatre? Would Bert have registered it? He had only to mention a time some fifteen minutes before Rachel and I had come face to face in the kitchen for all her dormant suspicions to rise again like a swarm of hornets. I did not care to contemplate what she and Stephen might do then.

As soon as I reached the Beeches, I went and rang Marcus's bell. He took a quick look at my flushed face and pulled me into the hallway. “What's happened?”

“I was wondering if you'd like to come and see
Twelfth Night
this evening,” I said jerkily.

“Of course I'll come, but why particularly this evening? You wouldn't let me go with you before.”

“I think I'd feel safer if you were there. There are some rather dark alleyways to negotiate to get back to the car.”

“And that's all the explanation you'll give me?”

“I'm afraid so, for the moment.”

He sighed. “What time do you want to go?”

“About seven-thirty. I'm on duty and I said I couldn't get there earlier. I needed an excuse to be there around six –”

“And someone saw you.” It was more statement than question.

“Yes.”

“Then you finally admit that you're in danger?”

“I might be,” I conceded.

“And I'm to be there as a kind of general insurance without having the slightest idea which direction the danger might come from?”

“I'm sorry, Marcus,” I said helplessly, “I know I've no right to ask you –”

“On the contrary,” he broke in brusquely, “as you well know, you've every right. It's just this continual lack of trust that rankles. However, I suppose you must play it your own way. I'll collect you just before seven-thirty and you can give me the rest of my sealed orders then.”

We arrived at the theatre as the last bell was sounding in the foyer. There was no difficulty in Marcus's obtaining a single seat and I left him to join the girl on duty in the kitchen.

During the first act Stephen came to the kitchen, ostensibly to borrow some milk for the coffee backstage. “Well, well, Mrs. Clements! We meet again! I sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be simpler for you to take lodgings here.”

I met his eye squarely. “Why, do you take in lodgers?”

A tremor crossed his face but he recovered quickly and gave a short laugh. “We could always make an exception, I suppose. Sister Rachel tells me you are no longer working partners.”

“I was only engaged by Culpepper's for three weeks.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see my fellow helper gazing at Stephen with silent adoration. Admittedly he was a handsome figure in doublet and hose; she could hardly be blamed for not appreciating that he might also be dangerous.

“And have you found other gainful employment?”

“Yes, I'm working at the George,” I answered crisply, “and if I may say so, you'd better be getting backstage or you'll miss your entrance at the beginning of Act Two.”

He smiled. “Dear Ginnie, you know the play better than I do, don't you? All right, I'll go. No doubt we'll meet again.” Was there a threat hidden beneath that smile? A little chill touched me, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

“He's gorgeous, isn't he?” Linda said with a sigh. “I could listen to him talk all day!”

It was undeniably an attractive voice. I remembered the first words I had heard it say: “He never knew what hit him.”

There were other faces I knew beside Marcus's among the coffee queue that evening. Moira Francis and the boys were there. “Hello, Miss Durrell! The Beeches is well represented tonight – we've just seen Mr. Sinclair. I didn't know this was one of your hobbies!”

I smiled steadily, filling their cups. “I've always loved anything to do with the theatre. Are you enjoying the play?”

“Oh, very much. Roger's doing it for O-levels, but it's a sheer treat for me. Viola's excellent, isn't she?”

They moved away and a little later Marcus took his turn. “All well?” he asked in a low voice.

“So far, so good.”

“I'll wait for you at the foot of the stairs after the show.”

The bells sounded, the cups were collected, washed and set out ready for the next interval. Perhaps it had been unwise to challenge Stephen about lodgers; he might take it as proof that I knew something. I was very thankful to know that I had Marcus's company on the way home.

I'm not sure at what stage I reached my decision, but it was all fully resolved by the time that Marcus pulled my hand through his arm and hurried me along the poorly lighted alleyway to his car. I settled back against the cushions with a sigh of relief. It seemed to have been going on forever, this fearful hurrying from the theatre to the car and the almost tangible sense of relief when I reached it in safety. All at once I felt that I could bear it no longer.

“By the way,” Marcus remarked as he started up the engine, “I'm almost sure I've identified my assailant of the other night.”

I looked at him quickly. “Stephen Darby?”

“So you knew all the time.”

“I suspected. Marcus, I have to go to London tomorrow. I'm not sure what time I'll get back.”

The car swerved fractionally. “To see Carl?”

“Yes. I have no choice now but to tell him the whole story. I need his help.”

“Mine is not enough?” There was a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“It's not that,” I said gently, “but you see he knows ninety percent of it already. I only have to fill in the details. He'll know what should be done.”

“When will you go?”

“In the morning. I have the weekend free of the George.

The trouble is I might not be able to contact Carl straightaway. I doubt if he'll be spending much time alone at the flat. It might be evening before I can track him down.”

“In other words,” Marcus said unevenly, “you'll be away overnight.”

“It's possible. I'll take some things in case I need them. There's a hotel just round the corner from the flat. I'll book there.”

He made no comment and a moment later we turned off Grove Street into the square. Silently he waited while I collected my night things and came with me to his own door.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

“A pleasure,” he said briefly.

I hesitated. “Marcus, don't look like that. It'll be all right.”

He moved restlessly. “I'm probably being melodramatic, but I have a feeling this is really goodbye.”

“But I should be back tomorrow – Sunday at the latest.”

“Perhaps. I'll probably sleep at your flat anyway, to keep an eye on things. Also, if they should phone they'll think you're still there if I pick up the receiver.”

“I'll ring and let you know when to expect me.”

“All right. I hope things work out the way you want them.” He bent down suddenly and brushed his lips against mine. Then he gave me a little push into the hall and closed the door from the outside. Slowly, buffeted with conflicting emotions, I went up the stairs into the warmly welcoming flat.

By ten o'clock the next morning I was driving back along the road where, four long weeks ago, Etienne Lefevre had bumped into my car and started the whole thing rolling. It was one o'clock as I crossed Chelsea Bridge and turned along the embankment. I had intended to go straight to the Kingston Hotel for lunch, but instead I found myself turning into the familiar forecourt of the block of luxury flats which had been home to me until the last month. I still had the key in my bag but I had no intention of using it.

There was no sign of the porter; he was probably at lunch. I took the lift up to the third floor and walked along the thickly carpeted corridor to the square landing outside Number 5. With a feeling of sick expectancy I rang the bell. I think I knew immediately that no one was home. There's a certain quality attached to the sound of a doorbell ringing in an empty house. Nevertheless I waited for a few minutes before disconsolately retracing my steps to the lift. There was no way of knowing where Carl now spent his Saturdays. He might even be away for the weekend. The sudden thought brought panic in its wake. I knew that I would not dare to return to Westhampton without seeing him.

All I could do was wait. I drove round the corner, booked a room at the Kingston in the name of Miss Durrell, left my case in it and forced myself to eat some lunch.

During the afternoon, which I spent wandering up and down the King's Road, I phoned the flat at roughly hourly intervals. I had decided that if Carl should answer, I would hang up without speaking and go straight round to the flat. The eventuality did not arise. By five o'clock it was obvious that I should indeed be spending the night in London. If he hadn't returned to the flat by bedtime, I should have to wait till Sunday evening, when he would surely come home.

At six o'clock, back in the small hotel room, I phoned Marcus to report my lack of progress and intention of remaining overnight. I felt curiously disembodied, poised between two different worlds, and it was a comfort to hear his voice. I went down to dinner and pushed some food round and round my plate. Surely Carl would be home the next time I tried to phone. But he wasn't. I went back upstairs, lay on the bed and tried to concentrate on the television. At the Little Theatre, preparations would be under way for the party after the show. I wondered if Suzanne would be there.

Eight o'clock, nine o'clock, ten. And still the telephone shrilled unanswered at Berkley Court. At last, unable to bear the confines of the room any longer, I caught up my coat and bag and went out to the car. I drove round the corner and along the road to the flats, turned into the courtyard and parked right at the far end. By counting the number of windows from the end of the building, I could work out which was the sitting-room window of our own flat. It was still in darkness. I wrapped my coat about me, turned up the collar and settled back to listen to the car radio. I resolved to stay where I was until midnight. After that I would give up and go back to the hotel.

They came just before eleven. I jerked upright as the giant headlamps raked carelessly over the huddled shapes of the parked cars and two Bentleys slid simultaneously to a halt in the position Carl always used. I felt cold and sick. I had counted on his returning alone. It would be impossible to speak to him if he was with, say, Leonie Pratt. A laughing, noisy crowd had now spilled out of both cars and moved in a body towards the lighted doorway. I could make out Carl's tall figure, and the short, dumpy shape of Greg Baxter. The others I wasn't sure about from this distance. I went on staring mindlessly after them long after the last one disappeared into the warm hallway. Now what? Should I after all return to the hotel and come back in the morning? There was no point in waiting for the crowd to go, it could well be two or three o'clock.

Light blossomed in the long windows I had pinpointed. I sat numbly staring up at them, watching the occasional splash of colour pass behind the glass. How well I knew those ghastly parties; how I had hated them.

Time crawled by. A voice on the radio said, “The time is eleven-thirty. Here are the news headlines.” I leaned forward and switched it off and in the same instant made up my mind. If I went back to the hotel now, keyed up as I was to speak to Carl, I stood no chance of sleep. Nor had I any intention of shivering out here any longer like an outcast. Before I could change my mind, I got out and locked the car, wrapped my coat tightly about me and set off across the forecourt.

The hall was warm, soothing to my wind-chilled face. A porter I didn't know looked up from the desk. “Mr. Clements,” I said, and added quickly, “It's all right; he's expecting me.” He nodded, knowing of the crowd already upstairs, and I made my way unchallenged to the lift and the third floor. I could hear the music as I walked along the corridor. It was a source of never-ending wonder to me that no one ever complained. Perhaps no one slept in this place before two o'clock in the morning.

I stopped at the smoothly polished door and put my finger firmly on the bell.

IT was Buntie Maynard who opened the door, glass in one hand, cigarette holder in the other. For a moment she gazed at me almost without recognition, then she gave a little shriek and called over her shoulder, “Carl! Come and see who we've got here!”