Dorothy Eden (68 page)

She did not want to cry any more, even for Guy, although she was still frightened for him. For in that dazzling instant she knew why she had really come to the Templar family. Deny it as she would she had been in love with Fergus from the first moment of meeting him. Looking at him standing there, tall and lean, his brown face creased with laughter lines, his blue eyes shining, she knew that at last she had found a person worthy of her love. Everything now had a goal.

‘You’re very grand,’ Fergus said admiringly.

Prissie held out her wide skirt.

‘Do you like it? Do you think I’m clever?’ Now her face was glowing with animation, all her fears about Guy resolutely pushed out of her mind.

‘Very clever. But hungry, too, I expect.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Prissie admitted. ‘Guy hasn’t turned up yet. Isn’t he a stinker? After me going to all this trouble, too.’

‘What do you think has happened to him?’ Fergus asked casually.

‘I haven’t the least idea. I don’t know much about his habits except that he’s inclined to drink rather too much at times. I expect he’s got lured somewhere with some friends.’

‘I expect so, too,’ Fergus agreed. ‘Anyway, he’s not at the bottom of the wardrobe.’

Prissie shivered. ‘Don’t talk of that. It was horrible.’

Fergus looked at Prissie’s face. She couldn’t decide whether he was studying it or thinking about something entirely different. Then suddenly he touched her lightly under the chin and said:

‘I’m hungry, too. And all this glamour of yours is too much to waste. Shall we go out and eat?’

They came in to see Brigit before they went. Prissie had flung a silk stole casually over her narrow shoulders. Now her face was solemn and deferential, but she glowed, in the dimly-lit room, like a green jewel. Her hand was lightly on Fergus’s arm.

‘Mrs Gaye, do you mind terribly?’ she asked in her soft eager voice. ‘Poor Fergus hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and as you know rations are short here. We didn’t find the housekeeping money this week. Anyway, I think Mrs Hatchett has gone to bed.’

‘What an excellent idea!’ Brigit exclaimed. Did her voice sound quite spontaneous and sincere? They were so heart-breakingly attractive, the two of them standing there. ‘If Guy comes in I’ll tell him it’s no more than he deserves.’

Fergus came swiftly over to the bed to kiss her. ‘Sleep well, poppet,’ he whispered.

Then they were gone, and all the life had vanished from the room. It was a dead empty place, and she switched off the bedside light so that, in the complete darkness, its emptiness did not matter. Even herself was not there, but just a part of the darkness.

If Fergus no longer loved her it would be pleasant to become one with the peaceful quiet darkness.

But even the darkness was not to remain for her. As her eyes grew used to it shapes became clear, the pitch-black fireplace, the paler shape of the window, the dim form of the mulberry tree. Oh, couldn’t she peacefully disappear, and not linger on half alive, half dead like that tortured tree?

In the morning Guy had still not come home. Now it appeared that he had not been at the office where he worked at any stage the previous day, but they reported a telephone call from him saying that he would be away for a few days. Uncle Saunders was furious. He stood in Brigit’s room, seeming to fill it with his bulk.

The young scoundrel never had any thought for anyone else. Born selfish, that’s what he was. His mother all over. He shall hear about this from me when he turns up again. Putting us to all this worry. Standing up a pretty girl like Prissie, though from what I hear she did all right for herself last night. They didn’t get in until after midnight, the pair of them. Don’t you mind, Brigit? Don’t you think your husband is a bit too handsome to be trusted?’

It was no use being angry with him. Once before she had been angry, and her anger had brought her to this state, a cripple in a trouble-ridden house.

In any case Brigit’s painful difficult courage was foremost in her again. She knew now that, crazy as it may seem, she had to carry out her plan. First in secret she had to practise walking until she was reasonably strong. Then she had to investigate what, to her, seemed the heart of the matter. The mystery of Clementine.

If Fergus was falling in love with Prissie, that could not be due to Clementine, neither could Guy’s disappearance, nor Nurse Ellen’s accident, nor the work of the blackmailer. Reason told her that the nervous state to which her illness had reduced her, and Nicky’s constant state of concealed terror, were giving her this obsession. But her obsession was stronger than reason. It told her that first and foremost the riddle of Clementine had to be solved.

When she was alone after Fergus had left that morning (he went reluctantly, saying that he would telephone from Rome that night—he even held her in a hard desperate embrace as if he really loved her, and hated the way his admiration for Prissie was growing) she cautiously got out of bed and practised her slow tottering steps.

Gradually, as she gained confidence, her spirits rose. It seemed incredible to her that she had been able to refrain from telling Fergus of this miracle—had she been half-afraid he would not welcome it, that it was now going to be much more convenient for him to have a bed-ridden wife?

No, she would not think those bitter thoughts. She would secretly grow strong and well. She would sit before the mirror and assure herself that she had regained her beauty. Then she would fight Prissie proudly on an equal basis.

When Doctor Brown called unexpectedly she found herself observing the same secrecy with him. She answered his questions in monosyllables, yes, she was feeling well in herself, yes, she was sleeping, and no, she did not wish another nurse to be sent at present. She was being cared for very well. Another nurse would upset her plans, wouldn’t she?

And anyway, she had a feeling that it would be disloyal to Nurse Ellen who had cared for her with genuine friendliness as well as skill. Nurse Ellen, Doctor Brown said, was progressing nicely, and had recovered from the shock of her fall.

‘She was luckier than me,’ Brigit could not help observing.

‘Your cases are very dissimilar,’ Doctor Brown answered.

Of course they were dissimilar in everything but that they had been accidents. Odd, unexpected accidents. Not the kind that killed but the kind that crippled.

But those thoughts, too, were strictly not allowed. She had to concentrate on one thing only, and that was to walk.

She got Prissie to unpack her clothes that afternoon. They had been left in the suitcase ever since they had been brought up from the country. They had been meant for her to go home in, but as yet they hadn’t been needed. Her grey alpaca coat, her brogues, a fine wool jumper and skirt, nylon stockings, a yellow tam o’shanter that Fergus liked.

Prissie did as she was asked, but this time she did not attempt to disguise the pity in her eyes.

‘That coat needs pressing,’ she said. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.’

‘It does matter,’ Brigit said in a light pleasant voice. ‘Ask Mrs Hatchett or Lorna to do it.’

‘Why, I’ll do it myself, Mrs Gaye.’ Prissie was obviously humouring an invalid suffering from a chronic ailment.

‘That’s kind of you, Prissie, but it seems to me you’re doing too much already.’

‘Not really. I’d rather be busy today, anyway. It takes my mind off Guy. Where could he have got to? You’re his sister, Mrs Gaye. You ought to know his haunts. Where do you think he is?’

The fear was in Prissie’s eyes again. It had come and gone last night, but today it was there almost all the time. Brigit had not seen her frightened before. She had, at times, had some intense secret excitement, but never fear. For some reason Brigit found this fact increased her own uneasiness.

Had something happened between Prissie and Guy that would drive him away? If he had known about the second blackmail letter that might have led him to seek some hiding place. But he hadn’t known. Aunt Annabel swore he hadn’t.

‘I haven’t any idea, Prissie,’ she answered. ‘Guy didn’t tell me his secrets. Did he tell you them?’

‘None at all.’ Prissie met Brigit’s inquiry with a direct gaze from her frightened dark eyes. ‘I didn’t know he had any. I thought—’ Suddenly her voice trembled with incipient tears. She turned abruptly away.

‘You thought he cared for you,’ Brigit said gently. As usual her treacherously soft heart had taken command and she had forgotten Prissie’s glowing pleasure at Fergus’s company last night. Could she seriously care about Fergus if she could weep for Guy?

‘I hadn’t done anything to hurt him,’ Prissie sobbed. ‘Truly I hadn’t.’

‘No one’s suggesting you had,’ Brigit said. ‘Don’t worry, dear. Guy’s a strange moody person. He’ll walk in any time. There’s nothing wrong at his office, Uncle Saunders says, so there’s no reason for him to disappear.’

‘N-no,’ muttered Prissie. She seemed to brighten as she hung up Brigit’s clothes. ‘There,’ she said, straightening the coat on the hanger. ‘You’ll be wearing these again in no time.’ Her voice indicated that she was once again speaking to a hopeless invalid.

‘In no time at all,’ said Brigit cheerfully. And then, she thought to herself, I’ll find out not only about Clementine and other things, but why Prissie has this guilty fear about Guy’s disappearance. Although of course by then Guy would be back again and would have explained every thing…

While she waited for Fergus’s telephone call that evening another one came for Prissie. Brigit heard her voice low but sharp and clear from the hall.

‘Didn’t I tell you not to ring me here! Please remember that this time!’ The receiver was slammed down and Prissie’s high heels went tapping angrily away. The caller may have been the sick aunt in Putney, but the greater possibility was that an attractive diverse little person like Prissie had other men friends. Indeed, thought Brigit suddenly, that would be exactly what it was. Guy had discovered that she had another friend and was playing a double game, so in disgust and despair he had left her. It would be the tortuous way his mind would work. ‘I’ll teach her a lesson,’ he would say to himself. ‘She’ll think she isn’t going to get the Templar money after all.’

But the thought of losing what she coveted might bring chagrin and disappointment to her eyes, not fear…

Fergus’s call came through at last, and Brigit felt the familiar sensation of pleasure at the sound of his voice. Oh, would she never recover from this foolishness of love. Even the clipped brisk voice Fergus used on the telephone reduced her to this sweet trembling weakness.

‘Guy back?’

‘No, he isn’t.’

‘No news of him?’

‘None at all, but Uncle Saunders said if anything had happened to him we would have heard by now, and if he’s all right he wouldn’t thank us to interfere.’

‘That’s exactly what I think,’ came Fergus’s brisk unemotional voice. ‘Is everything else all right?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘You?’ Did his voice grow warmer, or was it deterred by the knowledge of so many miles of telegraph wire between them?

‘Oh, I’m fine.’

‘Prissie?’

‘She’s upset about Guy.’

‘I know. She was last night. I tried to get it out of her.’

‘Get what out of her?’

‘How much she cared for him, of course.’ (Had that been impersonal or very personal curiosity on Fergus’s part. A picture of them sitting side by side in the restaurant, the waiters deferential as to a pair of lovers, flashed into Brigit’s mind. She could see Prissie laughing up at Fergus. She could almost hear her saying in her light laughing voice, ‘Oh, Guy. He’s sweet, of course…’) ‘She hadn’t much to say,’ Fergus went on. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, darling.’

He was on the verge of hanging up. Brigit longed desperately to keep his voice in her ears.

‘Did you have a good trip?’

‘Reasonable. Darling, this call is a little expensive.’

‘Fergus, hurry home.’

‘I always do.’ His voice deepened to a warmer note. ‘You know I always do.’

After the sound had ceased Brigit still cradled the receiver against her cheek, trying to retain its magic. Prissie, in her red jumper, flashed into the room and said eagerly, ‘Oh, was that Fergus?’ before she could stop herself.

Brigit put the receiver down. ‘Yes. He was asking after you.’

It was useless for Prissie to conceal the light in her face. It came as naturally as a flower opening. Then her lashes drooped.

‘That was nice of him,’ she said primly.

‘He seems to think you care a good deal about Guy,’ Brigit said deliberately.

‘He’s quite right, too. I do. More than he thinks. Oh, why doesn’t that darn fool boy come home!’

The moment of Prissie’s flowering had gone. Had it been for Fergus or Guy? Fergus, undoubtedly. Brigit sighed and moved her toes surreptitiously. She still refused to be defeated.

In her room Prissie wrote, ‘I had to unpack her clothes and hang them up this afternoon. Just a whim, of course. Perhaps she thinks looking at outdoor clothes will bring her nearer to wearing them. What a hope, poor thing. But I wish Guy would come home. I have this awful feeling that something has happened. You know that I’m not in love with him—how could I be? And as for Fergus, you know that, too. Didn’t I tell you?’

A
UNT ANNABEL STOOD JUST
within Brigit’s door. She was trying to conceal something in her hand. She was also trying to smile, but was quite unsuccessful in preventing the trembling of her lips. Her eyes held a look of shocked disbelief.

‘Aunt Annabel, what is it?’ Brigit demanded. ‘Not Guy?’

‘No, not Guy, dear. There’s still no news from him.’

‘Then what—Oh! You’ve got a letter.’

‘It says I stole the money,’ she burst out in a quavering voice. ‘From my cats!’

‘Show me,’ whispered Brigit.

Aunt Annabel came forward slowly with the shameful scrap of paper. This time the message was impertinent and vulgar. It said:

YOU SILLY OLD GEEZER, DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T KNOW WHERE YOU GOT THAT FIFTY POUNDS. YOU ROBBED THE CATS’ HOME AND WHAT WILL THE COMMITTEE SAY WHEN THEY FIND OUT. YOU’D BETTER SEND ME ANOTHER FIFTY POUNDS TO STOP THEIR FINDING OUT. THE SAME WAY AND PRONTO.