Room Beneath the Stairs (20 page)

The wooden doors swung open, making a swooshing sound as they swung back. A hearty young stevedore in jeans and windbreaker moved briskly over to the bar and pounded on it with his fist. Valerie leaped up and went to serve him. She smiled, asked him his pleasure, drew up a mug of beer. They had a joshing exchange—the stevedore jovial and rather coarse, Valerie not too friendly, not too cold; and after a moment he took his beer and sauntered over to a corner table. Valerie came back and sat down. She was in control of herself now, distant, a bit bored.

“You'd better leave now, Mrs. Brandon. I've told you all I know.”

“But you haven't,” I protested.

“Look, I don't know what the problem is, but—”

“Do you know anything about a child?” I asked abruptly.

The question caught her off guard. She looked puzzled.

“A child?”

“At the big house.”

“There's no child there. What are you talking about?”

Calmly, my voice emotionless, I told her about the cry in the night, about the sobbing that had followed soon after. I told her about finding the room beneath the stairs; I described the enormous teddy bear, the barred window. As I spoke, her face turned ashen. Her eyes widened. She drew back against the chair, her lovely face a study in horror.

“My God,” she whispered. “My God—”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“So that's what they're—” She broke off, stunned.

“You know something.”

“Yes. I can't believe—”

“Valerie, you've got to help me.”

“Yes, yes. I know. I understand now. I see what—but you must get away before—Don't you see—”

She cut herself short. She stood up, staring past me, outside. She gripped the back of her chair tightly. I turned around. Over the top of the door I could see the tan and brown Rolls pulling up in front of the pub. I stood up too.

“He must have seen me. He followed me—”

“Don't tell him you—”

“I won't say anything. Valerie, you've got to—”

“Another girl takes over at six. I—I'll meet you. Can you get away from the house?” She spoke rapid-fire, her eyes never leaving the door.

“I couldn't possibly come back without their knowing.”

“I'll come there. They mustn't know. The woods. I'll meet you there after six. Six fifteen, six thirty, as soon as I can get there. My God, they're—Go out and meet him. Don't let him come in here.”

I stepped out through the swinging doors just as Burke was getting out of the car. I smiled pleasantly. He came around the car and stood in front of me. My nerves were jangling, but I gave him another smile, and there was only a slight tremor in my voice.

“How thoughtful of you, Burke. You must have seen me on the road.”

He nodded grimly, his black eyes watching me.

“I thought I'd come down and do a little shopping. I didn't find anything I fancied, so I stepped into the pub for a—an orange squash. How did you know where I was?”

“I stopped the car and asked.”

“Someone said they'd seen me going into the pub? Oh dear, I hope my reputation survives—”

“I'll drive you back to the house, Mrs. Brandon.”

“Oh—well, thank you.”

He opened the door for me. I got into the back seat. Burke climbed in and started the motor. I hadn't fooled him. Not a bit. He must have seen me dashing behind the boulder after all. The car wound up the hillside, taking the curves with heavy grace, and pulled up in front of the house. Burke got out and came around to open the door for me. His face was solemn, his manner grim. He seemed to be contemplating some weighty problem. I didn't like that expression on his face. Not at all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I was in my sitting room, staring out at the sun-spangled waves, when Judy came up the staircase and entered, looking pert in her uniform, cheeks a rosy pink. Her curls were tousled, her blue eyes snapping with irritation. She sighed wearily and brushed a curl from her temple.

“Is something wrong?” I inquired.

“It's the old lady! On a tear today, she is. Hasn't given me a minute's peace! Do this, do that, fetch my shawl, bring me the mail, run get another pot of coffee, the dogs want walkin' again. And me with one or two
other
things to do besides! She wants to see you.”

“Oh?”

“Fetch Miss Carolyn and make it snappy, she says. I told her, I said, ‘What do you think I am, a greyhound?' and her reply—well, it isn't worth repeatin', but I was outraged! ‘I'll have you know I'm a respectable girl,' I told her, ‘and you have no right to speak to me that way.' She cackled with delight. Just loves to get a rise out of me, she does. One of these days I'll get fed up with it, and then we'll
see!
”

“Have my husband and his cousin returned yet?” I asked.

“Not yet, ma'am, but Burke left to go after 'em a few minutes ago. There's another one! He's been skulking about like someone bent on murder ever since he brought you back from the village. Gives me the shivers, that man does.”

“Judy,” I said lightly, “do you know anything about the—the room in the basement? It's just beneath the stairs.”

She shook her head. “Never been down there, ma'am, and it's not very likely I ever
will
. That's where the noises come from, you know.”

“Noises?” My voice was ever so casual.

“Didn't I tell you about 'em? Sounds like a child cryin'. Mrs. Porter says it's my imagination, and Mister Evan told me it was the wind blowing in through a crack. Gave me an awful fright first time I heard it. I'm high-strung, you see, sensitive. Threatened to give my notice, I did, but Mister Evan talked me out of it. I reckon it
is
the wind, but all the same I've no desire to see the basement. Flat refuse to go down there.”

“Have the other servants heard the noises?”

“Not likely. Stella's a dear, but she's practically stone deaf, and Cook nips at night. Brandy. Has several slugs before she goes to bed. It'd take an earthquake to wake
her
up.”

“I see.”

“Keep my bedroom door locked at night, I do. I'm not ashamed to say so. The old lady keeps giving me those wretched thrillers. Knows I'm high-strung, does it out of spite.”

“Have you heard the noises recently?”

“Not for quite a while. I guess the wind has to be blowing in just the right way. Well, I'd better be getting back to work.
Still
haven't done Mrs. Porter's room. Haven't had the opportunity, what with her languishing about on the chaise longue with a damp cloth over 'er eyes ‘n' all. I think she's recovered now, so maybe I can do my dustin'.”

The dogs barked noisily when I knocked on the door to Carlotta's room. Bolts and locks clicked. The door opened just a crack. Carlotta peered out cautiously, then took my hand and pulled me inside. It seemed there were even more locks than before. It took her almost two minutes to fasten them all. The room was as cluttered as ever. Several bolts of violently colored cloth were scattered about, fully unfurled, draped carelessly over the furniture; and cups, saucers, toast and various pots of exotic jelly crowded the coffee table in front of the sofa. The spaniels romped through a veritable sea of scandal magazines and tabloid newspapers that littered the floor.

“The strain's beginning to show,” she said crisply. “You're bearing up nicely, bravely, but the strain is showing. Faint shadows under those eyes, a slight pallor on the cheeks. You've got guts, dear. Stamina! I admire that.
I
knew you wouldn't go running back to London the first rattle out of the box.”

“Indeed?”

“Don't be coy, dear. I feel things, you see.” She led me to the sofa, swept aside several books and a bolt of brilliant silk and sat me down. “Be very still. Don't move. Attune yourself. Vibrations. Can you feel them? Yes, you're beginning to feel. This house is crackling with tension, and it's mounting, mounting. See what I mean?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Of course you are!” she cried, making an impatient gesture. “You're sensitive to these things, too. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on you. She looks dreamy and absentminded, I said to myself, but that bone structure, the shape of that jaw—she'll bear up, I said. She'll give them a run for their money, all right!”

Carlotta nodded emphatically and looked at me with luminous blue eyes, her head cocked to one side. Tall, bony, with her ravaged face, painted lips and artificial glossy blonde curls, she might have been a campy female impersonator in her billowing crimson caftan and silver bangle bracelets. The three spaniels leaped and cavorted about her feet, hoping for attention or, more likely, a midday snack. She made another dramatic gesture. Bracelets jangling, she kicked a tabloid out of her way and went over to a tall Chinese chest, pulling out drawers and rummaging through them as she talked.

“You were prowling around last night,” she said. “This morning, too. Most unwise, dear, but quite admirable. Determined to get to the bottom of things, aren't you? Don't blame you. Don't blame you a bit. You must be very careful, though. Yes. Wish I could help, but I really don't see how I—What
am
I looking for?” She pulled out an ivory fan, examined it with distaste, dropped it on the floor. “I saw you this morning. Saw Evan and that girl, too. I have a keen pair of binoculars. Come in most handy. I saw you slip off after they left in the car this afternoon. I knew exactly where you were going, of course. I'm worried about you, dear.”

“Why?”

“Oh, my, I can't find it. And you must have it. By all means. Well, it's not here, at any rate.”

“Why are you worried?”

“Did I say that?”

“Carlotta—”

“You must try to understand, dear.”

“Understand
what?
” I was totally frustrated.

She came over to the sofa and sat down beside me. Her voice was light and conversational.

“I don't remember, you see. I blocked it out of my mind, and now it's all dark. It's there, but the darkness hides it. I'm frightened. I keep my door bolted, but I can't remember why. Nightmares. Sometimes I wake up. I hear things. Last night. I was frightened, so frightened, but it wouldn't materialize—”

“Perhaps I'd better go,” I said quietly.

“Terrified of me? Crazy old woman. What was it Hamlet said? ‘I'm mad but—' Can't remember the quotation. Never was good at quotes. Anyway, he told his friends he was mad but not actually, just pretending. I've pretended
so long!
I'm happy, you see. This way I can survive. Life doesn't
have
to be a nightmare.”

She was silent for a moment, sitting very still, and in repose, without the glow of radiant vitality, without flamboyant gestures, she looked much older, a lonely, pathetic old woman with her ridiculous blonde hair and incredible costume. The lined face sagged. The eyes were sad, empty, yet there was nobility in the tilt of her chin, the set of her mouth. Carlotta, I thought, must have many such moments when, alone, she feels no need to act, to play the dotty eccentric. Absentmindedly she reached for a knife, dipped it into a pot of jelly and spread the jelly over a piece of toast. Still staring vacantly, she cut the toast into tiny pieces and began feeding them to the spaniels.

“Everything was so lovely once,” she said. “My husband and I, we had such a glorious life together. He took me all over the world. We had fascinating friends, parties. Life was full of sunshine, brilliant, brilliant, and then the clouds came—” Albert snatched the last piece from her fingers, and she stared at her long, wrinkled old hands. “I had to make my own sunshine then, dear. Can you understand what I'm saying?”

“I think so,” I said, deeply moved.

“I've forgotten so much. It's best to forget. I don't want to remember. I'm so afraid the darkness will go. When it does, when I'm no longer able to pretend—”

Eyes sad, mouth set, she was silent for a few more seconds, and then she frowned and leaped up, back in character. The crimson caftan billowed. Silver bracelets clattered. She started searching again, pulling out drawers, tearing through their contents, impatient, speaking in that rapid, vivacious, confused style.

“It's here somewhere. I know. I saw it, and I said I must give it to Carolyn. She may need it. I'm very concerned, dear. I like you. Is it in this drawer? No. A tin of chocolate biscuits! How long have
they
been here? Disraeli adores them. Beads, so many beads. My jewels used to be genuine; diamonds, a fabulous ruby, pearls, so many pearls, but the doctors—so expensive, so many specialists, so many tests. The business was declining. Helen's dull, dull husband hadn't revived it yet, so I had to sell my jewels. We did everything, but I'm afraid it was useless. Helen made her decision, and that poor little girl—her body so horribly mutilated. Damn! I
know
it's here somewhere—”

Little girl mutilated.… I shuddered at the image, but Carlotta merely gazed at me with a bemused expression.

“What am I looking for, dear?”

“I have no idea.”

“It was very important. Something to do with you. Your safety. You're the catalyst, dear. For years and years they managed, Helen so determined, Evan unhappy, forced to go along with her, poor Grey not understanding any of it, and then you arrived, and the status quo exploded in their faces! The minute Grey's telegram came, everything was thrown into confusion. Dear, dotty Carlotta didn't know anything about it, they thought. Ha! All the time he was gone, I had my finger on the pulse. I felt the vibrations. I knew! Evan's grim expression. Helen's nerves. Judy kept me informed. She's a joy, that girl; saucy and impudent, yes, but devoted. When she finally traps that fellow in the village, I'm going to give them a whopping chunk of money for a wedding present. I was looking for something. What was it? Oh, yes.…”