Danger in the Dark (6 page)

Daphne was thinking of that—dully, with dreadful, blank weariness, when Dennis came.

She heard the low tap of his fingers, and she knew it was Dennis and went to the door. His face was gray. Rowley was not with him.

He said, whispering:

“It’s done, Daph. I’ve got to talk to you. Before the police come.”

It was then three o’clock.

H
E GAVE A QUICK
look down the dark little passage and came into the room, closing the door.

“No one is about,” he said in a half-whisper. “At least, the house is quiet—everybody’s asleep. God, what a business!”

“What have you done, Dennis?”

“Everything’s all right. At least, I think it is. We’ve fixed it to look all right.” He hesitated. “I’d rather not tell you exactly how, in case—Look here, Daph. We couldn’t talk with Rowley there. I told him anything I could think of to explain our presence in the springhouse. Tell me now—what did happen?”

“Did Rowley find out why we were there?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I got the bag back to my room. Look here, Daph—how long had you been in the springhouse when I came?”

She began to tremble again, and he saw it.

“I’ve got to know, my dear. I can’t do anything to help you unless I know.”

“Yes. Yes.” She sat down on the end of the chaise longue again, looking at the man opposite her but seeing that dark twilight in the springhouse and a black huddle on the floor.

He watched her for a moment, then sat down himself on the little green slipper chair near her and took her hands in his own.

“It’s like this, Daphne. We’ve only got a few moments—every second I stay here is a danger to you. For anything that is done this night, anything at all that anybody has seen or heard, will have tomorrow a—oh, a horrible significance. But we’ve got to see exactly where we stand. There’ll be police, inquiry. You don’t know what it means. I want you to know exactly what to say, to be prepared.”

“Will they say I did it?”

He looked deeply into her eyes for a long moment.

“Not if I can help it,” he said then. “You see, you are bound to be one of the prime objects of police inquiry. If, that is, if—anything goes wrong. If they aren’t satisfied. You were to be married to him. You didn’t love him—”

“But no one knew.”

He looked away at that, frowning.

“There’ll be—well, listen, Daphne. When we were in the library tonight—when I—when I had you in my arms and was trying to make you promise to go away with me—and I—I kissed you, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Well—someone closed the door.”

“Dennis!”

“Yes. I—I hated it, of course. But there was no use telling you about it. I just saw the door move and close. I had closed it myself before we began to talk. I didn’t want anyone coming in, interrupting. I was—I was determined you were not to marry him. I would have killed him first.”

“Yes, you said—” She stopped abruptly and caught her breath and cried in horror, “Dennis, you said that! You
said
—”

“Did I? I suppose so. Well, then that was overheard, too. And I’d just kissed you and said, ‘We’ll meet at the springhouse, then, at midnight or as soon as the house is quiet’—and I looked up and over your little head and the door was closing. Slowly and without a sound.”

“Who
—”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who it was or how long someone had been there. I didn’t go to see, because I didn’t think it mattered. I’d won. I was—I was dizzy with triumph. And with loving you, Daphne. All I could think of was that you were going away with me. You’d promised. I’d have you, in spite of them all.” He dropped her hands and rose suddenly and walked to the little mantel and stood there looking down at her again.

“This is the thing, Daphne: Somebody knew about us. Knew I’d persuaded you to go away with me. The night before your wedding to Ben Brewer. Do you see? And to meet me at the springhouse. Now then, Ben is found murdered at the springhouse—murdered at the very time we were to meet. Murdered. Well, you see, Daphne?”

She nodded, too sunk in horror and—now—something like terror, to speak.

“So you see, falling in with Rowley’s plan was the only thing to do. It offered escape—and besides, there was good sense in what he said. He’s rotten selfish and remarkably cold-blooded.” He paused, thinking of Rowley’s cold-bloodedness. He, Dennis, could do a thing if he had to—but Rowley’d been so extraordinarily calm. He felt dimly that he had underrated this cousin of his. “Now then, my dear—won’t you tell me what actually happened?”

“I didn’t kill him,” she whispered. “Oh no, Dennis—I didn’t. I didn’t want to marry him. I’d never wanted to, but I hadn’t realized what it would be. Not till last night, when it was too late. But I didn’t kill him. Oh, believe me!”

“Don’t shake like that, honey.” He started toward her as if to take her in his arms, checked himself abruptly, said, “Begin at the beginning, Daph. I mean when you left me there in the library tonight. After I’d won and you’d promised to leave with me. Tell me just what happened.”

His dark eyes went swiftly to the clock on the mantel. It emphasized that unspoken, urgent need for haste—for swiftness; for something to be done before an approaching storm.

She was twisting her hands together, looking up at him with a face so white, so set in horror, that Dennis deliberately looked away from her again, making himself listen only, remembering that a life he loved with every breath he drew and every beat of his heart lay actually in his hands that night. Give me wisdom; show me how to save her; what to do—it was like an unuttered prayer; he fumbled for a cigarette, got it out, remembered he’d better not smoke. So small a thing as the scent of tobacco, floating along the corridor of the old house at that time of night, might betray them.

“First, I take it you told Ben you couldn’t marry him?” he said.

Daphne moistened her lips.

“Yes. That is, I—I tried to tell him. He wouldn’t listen.”

“What did he say?”

“He said all brides felt like that. He—he laughed.” She tried to shut out that swift memory of Ben’s face, easy, smiling, flushed a little from the formal parade of wines at dinner, confident of his power. “I insisted, said I didn’t—didn’t love him—that I was sorry—”

“What did he say to that?”

“He said he’d always known I didn’t love him. That it didn’t matter, because he—he’d make me.”

Dennis looked away from her again and thought, The man is dead. No use wanting to kill a dead man, because he’s already dead. Crazy. He subdued that hot, ugly anger and managed to say coolly enough and quietly, remembering that they mustn’t be heard through the thin old door across the room:

“And then?”

Her voice was unsteady. Her eyes tragic and blue as a midnight sky. And he daren’t go and take her in his arms and promise her to take care of her. To love her. To …

“Then he—he held me so I couldn’t move. He’d had enough to drink, so he wasn’t guarded and watchful, as he usually was. And he told me that I’d have to marry him. That I couldn’t get out of it. He knew it was you, Dennis. He—he always knew things. That was why he had such—such strength, power.”

“Did he threaten to get at me?”

“Only—only through me, Dennis. And I don’t know how. But he—he won after all. I could feel myself giving away—it was as if you were farther and farther away from me. As if I could see your face from—some place far distant. Too far to help me. I knew I’d have to go through with the wedding. That I was mad to promise you to go away. That I was carried away—out of my head. That it couldn’t really be done. And then Ben said—he said very slowly, as if he meant it, that I must never try in any way to influence him when I was his wife. He said, ‘I can crush you all. And I will if I choose to do so.’

She looked up at him, trying to make him understand, trying to control her voice as she told him, mindful, through it all, of a pressing need for secrecy. Not to be overheard.

“And then I knew I was caught again. That there was no use trying to get away. That I must marry him.”

Dennis got out a cigarette again and was turning it around and around with hands that shook. He didn’t dare look at her, and at that moment he hated the dead man as he had never known he could hate anything.

“That was what you came to the springhouse to tell me,” he said.

“Yes. I—I told myself I owed that to you. I wanted to—to say good-by forever to you, Dennis.”

“Now, then—you came directly to the springhouse?”

“Yes. I waited till the house was quiet. Then I slipped downstairs and out the front door. I turned the night latch, as I told you, so I could get into the house again.”

“Did you see anybody on the way?”

“No. Not a soul. I was already outside when I realized that I’d not changed my slippers. But it was too late to go back, for I didn’t want Ben to see me, and I—”

“You felt he would be watching?”

“I don’t know, Dennis. I don’t know. And I didn’t see him or have any sense—then—of being followed. I was desperate. I was coming to see you for the last time. Perhaps he was there, perhaps he was watching and following me—I don’t know.”

“When you reached the springhouse what did you do?”

She shut her eyes, trying to remember exactly.

“I stood there for a moment and—and listened, I think. I wondered if you were already there. I couldn’t see anything. Once I thought I heard you—a sort of motion off away from the path, though. As if something had brushed against the shrubs. No, that was when I was on the path. But it was nothing. It was snowing so hard, I thought I’d go into the springhouse—” It was horribly difficult. He knew it and said very gently, “Go on, my dear.”

Her throat ached and hurt. She said, forcing out the words, “So I went into the springhouse. I couldn’t see anything at all: I didn’t have any matches. I didn’t—didn’t like it. It seemed—all at once—as if something were there with me. And I kept smelling a—a rose. That rose.”

“Did you speak—move about?”

“I think I said, ‘Is anyone here?’ There wasn’t any sound, of course. It was just then that—you came, Dennis. That’s all.”

“Then you didn’t know it was Ben?”

“No.”

“Is there any possibility that your talk with Ben was overheard—or that he told anyone of it?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“Well, then,” said Dennis slowly, “I suppose he came to be sure—came because he knew we were to meet there—and someone else—”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Daphne. But whoever it was—left no clue at all.” If he had left a clue, it was gone, now, thought Dennis. He turned the cigarette in his fingers, thinking furiously. How to save her—how to keep the sordid, hideous thing from getting her in its slimy tentacles. She hadn’t wanted to marry the dead man; she had been another sacrifice to the Haviland company, and an unwilling sacrifice; she’d been seen in the arms of another man; she’d been heard promising to meet the other man, to go away with him. To meet him at midnight, to meet him at the springhouse in the snow.

The wedding day only a few hours away. And at midnight, in the springhouse, the prospective husband murdered.

And Rowley finding them there. Well, Rowley couldn’t talk now. They were together in it. So long as Gertrude didn’t get the story out of Rowley. Gertrude—that was a danger point. Gertrude hated him, Dennis. Well, he’d have to face that when it came. Just now …

“Look, Daph. This is what you must do. Don’t question it.

I’m—I’ll take it on my shoulders, and I’m doing, God knows, the best I can do. You’ve got to pull yourself together, my dear, and—and have a story ready. Understand? If it doesn’t seem right to you now, later it will. You are—You’ve had a hideous experience, you can’t think or—or plan for yourself. Will you do as I tell you, Daphne, my darling?”

“I—What, Dennis? Why?”

“Because you are in danger, Daphne. You know you are. I believe your story; I know you couldn’t have killed Ben. But—but I want to keep you out of it altogether; it’s the only safe way. You never know what detectives and inquiries and—well, juries—”

“Juries!”

“—will do,” finished Dennis hurriedly. “Don’t be frightened. Oh, my dear!” He took a long breath and went to bend over her, taking her hands again in his own. “First, you were not out of this house tonight. Understand? No matter what they say, you were not out of your room after twelve.”

But someone knew.

“There was somebody on the stairway,” said Daphne with stiff lips. “Just now. When I came upstairs. And I thought it was you.”

It gave him a really ugly shock. She could see the fright leap into his eyes. He paused as if to steady himself against it.

“What do you mean, Daphne? For God’s sake, what—”

She told him; briefly. “Was it the murderer, Dennis?”

“I don’t know. I can’t—Oh, good God, why did I leave you! But in the house—it seemed so safe—the danger out in the snow and—” He stopped. It was worse, then, than he’d thought. Daphne herself …

“So whoever it was knows I was downstairs,” said Daphne.

“Yes. Yes, I see.” He mustn’t let her know how it frightened him. The old house with all its narrow corridors, hidden closets, sharp and sudden turns when you couldn’t be sure what was waiting for you. Yes, it was worse then he’d thought. He said, “Well—it’s—it’s all right now, Daph.”

The clock on the mantel struck a thin, hoarse little note.

“I must get out of here. Even your light burning so late—if anyone sees it—Now remember, Daphne. When the police come, you know nothing at all of all this. You were not out of your room during the night.”

“But whoever was on the stairway—”

He said grimly, “We’ll have to risk it. No matter what the police say, stick to your story. I’ve tried to fix it so they won’t suspect—if it works, they’ll be decent—won’t hound you to try to trap you.”

“What have you done?”

“Fixed it to look like—Oh, it’s all right, Daph. You’d better act surprised—anyway, remember that. Don’t let anyone know you were out of your room during the night. Don’t let anyone know you quarreled with Ben.”

A sudden thought struck her, and she rose, stumbling on that draggled little yellow train, so he caught her in his arms to steady her and held her, then, tightly.