House Of Storm (11 page)

The engine started with the sputter of backfiring which seemed loud against the exhausted hush the storm had left in its passage. Jim stood back, his solid figure outlined against the lights. The car moved slowly along under her guiding hands, turned around the curve, its lights shining back from dripping wet curtains of foliage, and sending ghostly fingers ahead along the white shell driveway.

She turned from the driveway into the public road again. It was a narrow road, white in the lights of the car, that wound along the coast, joining the village, the string of plantations, the strips of overgrown woods and lush, massed wastelands, like a small ribbon of civilization. She passed the curve around the huge forked oak, which looked poised and animated in the swift glancing of the car lights.

Thick shadows of banana trees on either side of the road almost met as the road turned and twisted. She skirted a spiky growth of palmettoes. Spanish bayonets struck out of the shadows as she turned again, and at last the outline of the coral rock wall that marked the beginning of Beadon Gates showed dimly white at the edge of the road. She passed the narrow wheel-rutted road that led into the sugar house and the cluster of outbuildings. She passed a group of shacks; as she turned in at the big, white gate that led directly to the house, Jebe stirred. He said: “Miss Hermy was a hard woman. Some folks won’t be sorry she’s dead. Take this curve easy, Miss Nonie. Might be slippery.”

She edged the car around a dumb of twisted palm trees. Lights struck a corner of the big house ahead tracing a fine network of shadows upon it from a great clump of bamboos. “Some folks?” she repeated.

“Oh—some folks.”

Some folks. Nonie thought sharply, jolted into logic:
somebody on the island killed her.

Somebody living on that small, extremely limited island, somebody within that little, intensely circumscribed world. That meant literally either one of the small group of landowners, people who were friends, who saw each other constantly, dined together, played bridge together, lived as neighbors in more or less peace and harmony, or one of the larger but equally peaceable group of laborers, field hands, servants and their families scattered about the island who kept to themselves, were interested in their own affairs and lived on and by sugar, as everyone on the island did.

“Do you know of anybody who had a grudge against her, Jebe?”

In the dusk a slight motion on his part had the effect of an uneasy squirm. “Oh, no, Miss Nonie. Only she was a hard woman.… Guess everybody knows that. Shall I take the car around to the garage?”

Directly ahead of them the driveway forked. One lane went back, curving behind the garden to the old stable, now a garage; the other went on until it broadened into the shell-paved oval below the steps, at the end of the veranda. There was a footpath too, leading through hedges to the steps and she brought the car to a stop. “Yes. I’ll get out here.”

Lights were on all over the house and she could see them through the trees, but the shrubs made thick deep shadows around her. Jebe slid over behind the wheel and its rear lamp vanished around the curve toward the garage. There was the long sigh and murmur of the sea and even that, on the land side of the house, seemed distant and muffled.

And she didn’t want to walk up that path to the house.

She discovered it then. It was only a short distance. The light of the house shone ahead; she knew the curves of the path, the steps to the veranda; she could reach the steps by the time she counted ten.

But the thickness of those heavy shadows seemed to gather around her; not far away through the night murder had walked stealthily.

She took a long breath and started toward the steps, holding her long white skirt so she would not stumble, and then suddenly ran, her slippers quick and light upon the path.

That was fear! Suddenly, running between those thick hedges she remembered her uneasiness of that afternoon; she had been brushed then by fear and had denied it!

But there had been no reason for her fear; there was none now; murder had come to Middle Road, not to Beadon Gates.

Well, then, why she thought of fear? Premonition was not a reason; yet had the shadow of that already destined and dreadful thing already fallen on the island? Her slippers tapped the shells. Her flying skirt whispered against the walls of darkness.

Actually at that moment, and in all probability, she was perfectly safe. The dense shadows were tenantless, the thickets harmless, the foliage brushing softly against her shoulder was merely foliage. But her heart was pounding when she reached the veranda steps and the murmur of the waves grew louder. Lights streamed out blankly upon wicker chairs and cushions—all of them the same, nothing changed. She tried not to run across the veranda but Aurelia Beadon heard the scurry of her footsteps and opened the door.

Aurelia’s thick gray hair was in a great braid, over one shoulder, her massive figure was wrapped in a pongee robe, her full dark eyes anxious. “Nonie, my dear! I’ve been so worried! Come in, come in, child … Is she dead?”

“Yes, Aurelia, yes!”

“Jebe said shot.”

“Yes.”

“Accident of course!” Aurelia’s fine dark eyes plunged into her own and seemed to extract the truth and to deny it. “Nonie, surely it was an accident!” she cried in horror.

“They say murder.”

“Murder! Hermione—murder!”

She ought to have told Aurelia more carefully, Nonie thought, with quick compunction, seeing Aurelia’s ashy color.

Nonie put out her hand impulsively. “Aurelia, I’m sorry. You must have known Hermione well.”

For an instant Aurelia stared at her without seeing her. A long wave beat in upon the shore below and washed slowly out again. The lusters of the chandelier twinkled faintly. Then Aurelia seemed to come to herself with a sort of jerk. “Yes, yes, of course. I knew Hermione. I’ve known her for years. I … Nonie, do they know who killed her?”

“No.”

Aurelia’s eyes softened and seemed suddenly aware of her. “You poor child. It’s been a terrible thing. Jebe said you took Dick home. You must go to bed. I’ll give you some hot milk. I’m not going to ask any more questions now.”

But in the hall as Nonie started up the stairs Aurelia stopped her.

“Is there any evidence? Do they suspect anybody?”

Jim. But not because of evidence. “No,” Nonie said. “No.” There was another silence; the banister under Nonie’s hand felt sweaty and chill. The light from the luster-laden chandelier made unexpected hollows around Aurelia’s eyes and the gray sunken lines in her face. She said, finally, “Well, go on to your room, dear. I’ll get your milk.”

Her room was like a haven. The lights were on, the green and white tiles were clean and cool. The bed was turned down, the limp mosquito netting spread outward like a tent. The French windows were open to the languid, storm-weary night. Her white dressing gown lay over the bed, its cord dangling; her red mules stood below it. Again a sort of wonder touched Nonie; nothing in the room was different.

What were they doing at Hermione’s?

She slid out of her thin white dress, rain-soaked and crumpled around the hem. Her sandals were wet, her short dark hair was rain-damp. She was brushing it when Aurelia came, a tray with a thermos bottle and a glass in her hands.

She poured out steaming, frothy milk. “Don’t talk if you don’t feel like it.”

“I want to tell you. I want to tell you everything …” But not quite everything, not why Jim came back.

Sipping the hot milk, she told Aurelia the brief story and Aurelia listened thoughtfully, and at the end sat for a moment looking at Nonie. Finally she rose, went to the French windows and stood there thoughtfully too. A mosquito hummed in some high corner of the room; insects whirled and soared around the bed lamp; down in the garden a myriad small winged creatures of the night chirped and murmured drowsily. Aurelia said over her shoulder, at last, “Hermione was a very difficult woman; probably some workman she quarreled with shot her. It is a terrible thing but it can’t be undone now. I’m sorry it happened just before the wedding. I expect we’d better change some of the plans.”

Nonie caught so quick a breath that the hot milk choked her. She coughed until tears stood in her eyes. Aurelia smiled affectionately down at her. “You’re using your Sunday throat. That’s what they used to say when I was a child. Yes, we’ll have to change the plans. We can’t have a very gay party—we’ll not want that. Hermione … But we’ll have the ceremony in the church just the same. And then I think simply come back here for the wedding lunch.”

“Aurelia …” Nonie began and stopped. Oh, Aurelia, no; there’s to be no wedding. Everything has changed; more than you think; more than anyone dreams.

Aurelia said fondly: “The wedding must take place though on Wednesday as we planned it. My dear, I wonder if I’ve told you how happy it has made me. You’ve made Roy happy, too; he loves you dearly. You have changed his whole life for him. But you’ve changed my life, too.”

She put her hand suddenly, lightly on Nonie’s head and stroked back her hair. “It has seemed rather a waste up to now—my life, I mean. I’ve kept house for Roy. I’ve lived on in the Beadon house where I was born. But I’ve never married; Roy didn’t marry. I’d thought before now to see children in this house. Well, good night my dear. Try to forget as much as you can of this dreadful thing. Think of Roy and of your wedding. It’s only three days now, remember.”

She went to the thermos and poured more milk and brought it back to Nonie whose throat was suddenly dry and miserable. “Is there anything you want?”

Nonie shook her head. Aurelia went to the door. “I’ll sit up for Roy. This is a terrible thing but we’ll not let it or anything interfere with the wedding. Try to sleep. You must be a beautiful bride, you know.” She smiled again and said, “And a very happy wife, my dear,” and went away.

L
ATER, WITH THE MOSQUITO
netting making a dim canopy around her and the buzz and hum of insects in the garden below making a soft little orchestra of sleep, she could not forget Aurelia’s words—a happy wife.

Roy’s happy wife; bringing to Beadon Gates the kind of life, full and happy and content, that Aurelia and Roy desired, that she Nonie had desired, that the rock-built, gracious old house begged for as occupancy. A fire lighted in an empty room, that was a happy and sound marriage. It was the marriage she had wanted—but not with Roy.

It was going to be almost as difficult to tell Aurelia that it was not to be, as to tell Roy.

The French doors were still open upon the velvet dark night and an increasing little cloud of moths were whirling and batting softly around the lamp on the bed table, their wavering shadows large upon the ceiling. She slid a cautious arm through the mosquito netting, turned off the light and slid it back again, tucking in the netting she had displaced. By morning they would all be gone, in a mysterious osmosis, attracted by other if less brilliant lights.

What were they doing at Middle Road? Jim’s home now, her home with him for all the years of their life!

But it was too poignant a glimpse into the future. With almost a superstitious awe she put it aside, locked it up in her heart to be taken out and looked at later—when it was safe to do so; when the things that had to be done, the hazards that had to be conquered, were all safely in the past.

Suppose Jim was charged with murder. Suppose he had to undergo a trial. Her mind raced on before she could stop its runaway course, and she thought: suppose even, at the very worst, he was found guilty.

She pulled up the wild and galloping fear as if it had check reins. But Jim’s safety came first.

Except she must tell Roy—and Aurelia—about the wedding. No wedding on Wednesday.

“I’ll send flowers to the church,” Lydia had said.

How strange it was that all those small things, arrangements, flowers, plans, people invited—a white dress fitted and finished and hanging on a scented hanger, could put themselves together like a resisting army, could assume the character of a millrace sweeping all before it!

She had not thought of Hermione’s death providing a possible excuse for postponement, until Aurelia had obviously considered and dismissed it. She wondered now whether or not that might actually serve as an excuse. The island was small; the circle of friends tight and little; there must be mourning for Hermione.

“I hated her,” Jim had said. And Dick, talking more than he’d have meant to talk, in a bitter self-revealing moment …“I fell in love a long time ago.…” And then “I hate you—but I’m still tied.”

Jim and Dick in their different ways, for different reasons. Were there other people who hated Hermione?

Hatred lead to murder. Hatreds, quarrels, violence. The attempted domination of one will upon another, the thwarting and damage to life of one being upon another … that was what made murder.

But the frankness and honesty of Jim’s hatred would not, in the ultimate regard of the police, in any way mitigate for him. Instead they would say, they could not help saying, here is a man who hated her and said so and was heard to say it.

That he was also her nephew; that he inherited property and a trust fund from her, that he would never have been permitted by Hermione to be anything but a puppet, pulled by strings held in her own hands so long as those hands had life and strength, all this would add to the sum of evidence against him. But the main digit, the heavy weight and balance was hatred.

Violence, passion, hatred. In a queer way self-defense.

So might Dick Fenby have murdered her, to save his own soul, too weak, too sapped of strength by Hermione herself, to save himself in any other way.

But in actual fact Dick could not have murdered her. There was always the sheerly physical question of opportunity when there was murder; and Dick had no opportunity to kill Hermione.

Again with a kind of shock Nonie realized that she was thinking in newspaper terms, in terms of reported trials, which up to then had been mere words and now took on the most important and significant of meanings. One was alibi, of course. And Dick Fenby had an alibi, for Dick was in the car beside her within touch and reach of her hand at the time that shot was fired. So Dick Fenby had not murdered Hermione, even to save himself from the slow and torturous murder that Hermione herself was inflicting.