The Spiral Staircase (22 page)

The sight of the telephone reminded her of the latest casualties, which she had almost forgotten. One fear had again driven out another; and, for the present, she stood chiefly in dread of Nurse Barker.

“I think I’ll ring up Dr. Parry,” she thought, “and tell him what’s happened.”

It was a long time before she got through to him, and when, at last, she heard Dr. Parry’s voice, it sounded gruff and sleepy.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“The Professor’s doped,” replied Helen, “and Miss Warren’s locked in her bedroom.”

As Dr. Parry made no comment, Helen hastened to excuse her action.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have bothered you. But it does seem queer the way they’re all disappearing, one by one… . What do you think?”

“Blowed if I know,” was the reply. “It seems in order. I think Miss Warren is the wisest. Why don’t you follow her good example?”

“Because—you won’t believe me, after all the fuss I made about sleeping in her room-but I don’t like to leave old Lady Warren alone with that nurse.”

“D’you think the nurse rough-handles her?”

“I don’t know. But I do know she has a horrible temper.”

“Then I’ll give you a tip. If it should come to a scrap between those two, put your shirt on the old one.”

Although Mrs. Oates had given her the same warning, Helen was not convinced.

“Thank you for .your advice,” she said. “I’m sorry I bothered you, but you encouraged me to be a nuisance.”

“Here—don’t ring off,” urged the doctor. “I’m wondering what to do about the Professor. Ought I to come over?”

“He looks awful,” declared Helen, making the most of her chance.

“He would. What did Miss Warren do?” “Felt his pulse, and covered him up.” “Good.” Helen could hear his sigh of relief. “That sounds all right: She’s a clever woman. Now, we’ll leave it at this. If I should change my mind regarding the situation I’ll bike over at once. In fact, you’ve only to say one word, and I’ll start now.”

“You’d come for me?” asked Helen.

“For you, only.”

In spite of her exhaustion and loneliness—in spite of the menace of the night—Helen became suddenly surcharged with glorious life.

“Now I know that,” she said, “‘I don’t want you to come. I feel gorgeous. I—”

She rang off at the sound of a footstep on the landing. Nurse Barker was leaning over the balustrade, looking down at her.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“The doctor,” replied Helen. “I rang him up, to tell him about the Professor, but he decided that it was not necessary for him to come over.”

“He would prefer to take us by surprise,” prophesied Nurse Barker. “I don’t trust that young man…. And hadn’t you better go to your alcoholic patient? You’re giving her more rope than I should.”

Filled with sudden misgiving, Helen hurried across the hall. As she opened the door leading to the basement, she kicked in front of her some hard object, which bumped from step to step with an appalling clatter. Running downstairs after it, she picked up, from the mat at the bottom, a small pint milk-can.

“Mrs. Oates,” she cried, as she entered the kitchen, “Who put this at the top of the stairs?”

“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Oates.

In sudden suspicion, Helen looked up at the dresser. To her relief, the bottle was still on the top, and, apparently, untouched.

In spite of this proof of her innocence, Helen fancied she detected a deterioration in Mrs. Oates. The maudlin grin, which robbed her face of its underhung tenacity, hovered around her lips, imparting a muddled expression. As Helen watched her, the lines of a sea-shanty swam into her head.

“What shall we do with a drunken sailor?” “After tonight, I could write a book on this subject,” she thought, with the glib assurance of one who only wrote a letter, as a penance.

It was evident that Mrs. Oates was making stupendous efforts to concentrate on Helen’s tale of Miss Warren’s door-handle, for she kept repeating every point, in the form of a question.

“Oates will want some supper,” was her only comment. Helen took the hint, and picked up a tray.

“I’ll help you get it,” she said. “Get up.”

Placing her hands under Mrs. Oates’ armpits, she gave a strong hoist. But the woman only slipped back again.

“You must let me take it easy for a bit longer,” she advised. “Remember, I’ve a half-bottle inside me. I’ll soon be all right.”

“All right,” said Helen. “I’ll carry on, alone.”

It struck her that it might be a valuable test of her own will-power, to go, alone, into the larder. As she opened the scullery door, and snapped on the switch, every corner of its clean bareness was revealed by the yellow glow. Outside, in the passage, she could hear the loose window banging against its shutter.

The sound was distinctly nerve-racking, for it gave the impression that someone was determined to force an entry. The passage, too, looked a gloomy tunnel, in the dim light. Around the bend, stretched the dark labyrinth of Murder Lane.

Helen knew that she must keep her imagination strictly controlled. She must not think of the horror which had actually taken place within these walls, or wonder if the girl still lingered somewhere in the atmosphere, the dust, or the stones.

Reminding herself that she had policed this stretch herself, and searched thoroughly every potential hiding-place, she entered the larder.

Besides a side of’ bacon and string of onions, its shelves held so many tins and bottles that Helen’s curiosity took charge of the situation. The Summit laid in a heavy store of preserved provisions, so that it was difficult to make a choice.

Her eye was greedier than her stomach, as she piled her tray with tongue, sardines, dainties in aspic, and pots of savory paste.

Balancing it on her hip, she switched off the light at the same time as she kicked open the scullery door. Instantly, there was a loud rattle, as a tin tray crashed down on the stone flags.

Helen frowned thoughtfully, for she did not like the repetition of the trick. Suddenly she was rent with a suspicion which was vaguely alarming. Mrs. Oates could not hear her when she walked soundlessly in bedroom shoes, so she had placed these tins in order to have some warning of her approach..

If it were true, she had something to hide. She was not playing the game. In spite of her load, Helen crashed recklessly into the kitchen.

Mrs. Oates was still in her chair, her back turned to wards Helen, while Nurse Barker stood over her, with folded arms.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Larder,” explained Helen. “Getting some supper for Mr. Oates. We thought we could all do with a snack, just to pass the time. Could you?”

Nurse Barker nodded, while a peculiar smile flickered round her lips, causing Helen to rush into nervous explanations.

“I thought .Mrs. Oates and I would have ours, down here, and I’d carry up yours into your dressingroom. Will that suit you? And what kind of sandwiches would you like?”

“Ask Mrs. Oates which she would prefer,” said Nurse Barker. “I thought you undertook her responsibility.”

Filled with foreboding, Helen slammed down her tray, and rushed around to Mrs. Oates. But, before she could reach her, the woman stretched her arms upon the table, and laid her head on them. “What’s the matter?” cried Helen. “Are you ill?” Mrs. Oates opened one eye, with difficulty.

“I’m that sleepy,” she said, “I-I-”

As her voice died away, Helen shook her shoulder. “Wake up” she cried. “Don’t leave me. You promised.”

A gleam of smothered recollection fought with the guilt in Mrs. Oates’ eyes, and then died out.

“Someone’s-got-me,” she said. “I’m doped.”

Dropping her head again on her arms, she closed her lids and began to breathe heavily.

With a horrible sense of helplessness, Helen watched her sink .into stupefied slumber. Nurse Barker stood by, licking her lips, as though savoring the humor of the situation. Presently Helen broke the silence.

“Can we do anything?”,

“Why not offer her a drink?” asked Nurse Barker derisively. “Stimulant might revive her.”

Helen recognized the advice for a jeer. There was no doubt in her mind as to the cause of the catastrophe. Just as burglars drug a watch-dog, as prelude to robbery, someone had taken advantage of her absence to tamper with Mrs. Oates.

Afraid to tax Nurse Barker with the offence—even while she was sure of her guilt-she tried to keep her suspicion from her face and voice.

“What’s the matter with her?”

Nurse Barker gave a scornful bark.

“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “It’s obvious. She’s drunk as a lord.”

A SUPPER-PARTY

In spite of her shock, Nurse Barker’s words were almost a relief to Helen. Like an explosion inside her head, hey shot away the foul cobwebs of suspicion.

No treachery had been at work. There was only a land slide of Mrs. Oates’ good intentions before the pressure of temptation.

“How could she get at the brandy?” she asked. “I’m sure she was not in a condition to climb on the dresser.” Nurse Barker kicked forward a substantial foot-stool, mounted it, stretched out her arm, and removed the bottle from the top shelf.

“You forget everyone is not a midget like yourself,” she said. “Mrs. Oates is not so tall as I am, but she has a reach like a gorilla.”

Helen bit her lip as she realized how easily she had been duped.

“You must think me a gull,” she said. “But I counted on her promise. All the same, she’s not touched the brandy. The bottle’s still half full.”

Sniffing scornfully, Nurse Barker uncorked the bottle, smelt the cork, and then shook out a few drops on the back of her hand.

“Water,” she remarked. Helen looked reproachfully down at Mrs. Oates, sunken deep in hot and steamy sleep.

“What shall we do with her?” she asked helplessly.

“Leave her where she is.”

“But can’t I put a bandage soaked in vinegar-and-water round her head?” persisted Helen. “She seems so hot and uncomfortable.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” snapped Nurse Barker.

“She has let us down, and we’ve no time for her. She’s nothing but lumber. Get supper. I’ve had no dinner, and I’m sinking. Bring the trai up to my room. We’ll have it there.”

Although the words promised a new partnership, Helen felt like a fag to a new bully.

“What would you like?” she asked eagerly.

“Cold meat, potatoes, pickles, cheese. Don’t stop to cut sandwiches. Make a strong pot of tea. Remember, we’ve got to keep awake.”

“You don’t really think there’s any danger?” asked Helen apprehensively.

Nurse Barker looked at her fixedly..

“I’m in luck to be saddled with you. You’re a fool and a fool is twice as dangerous as a knave. Can you do elementary arithmetic?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, there were nine persons in the house at. dinner-time. Now there are only two. How many have gone?”

“Seven,” gasped Helen, horrified by the shrinkage.

Nurse Barker licked her lips with gloomy relish.

“And do you realize what it means?” she asked. “It means he’s getting very close to you.”

Although Helen was sure that Nurse Barker was playing on her fear, her heart sank as the woman went out of the room. In spite of her malevolent nature, she was some sort of company. One catastrophe after another had so weakened her resistance that she felt terrified at being alone in the basement. Every bang. on the passage window was duplicated by a knock at her heart. Although, down below, the roar of the storm was muted, the garden was nearer. She remembered how the bushes had writhed, like knotted fingers tapping the glass, and how the tentacles of the undergrowth had swayed in mimicry of subaqueous life.

“It’s trying to get in,” she thought. “Suppose there is some secret entrance I overlooked. Anyone could hide between the two staircases and in all the empty rooms.”

Her one wish was to get upstairs as soon as possible. Although she had time to cut her sandwiches, while she waited for the kettle to boil, her appetite for dainties had deserted her.

She hastily prepared her supper-tray, and then returned to her sitting-room to watch the kettle. As she did so, her thoughts jerked disconnectedly, like the limping music of an old barrel-organ.

“I believe Miss Warren was grateful to be locked in… The accident couldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been so careless. She quoted that bit about actions and character, Just to tell me it was my fault… . So, between us, we’re responsible for that part of it… . And no one else.” Although she was comforted by her logic, she shied at the question it raised. Was there some unseen link in the chain, which had precipitated—or influenced—this interplay of character?

She, with her impulsive carelessness—Miss Warren, with her selfishness—and Mrs. Oates, with her craving–had each acted as an independent agent—true to its own type. Yet the board was re-arranged as though they had been pawns, used in someone’s game; whatever the impulse of their moves, they were now placed to suit the unseen player.

The kettle coughed out a gust of steam and the lid rose, with a spill of water. Helen made the tea hurriedly and crabbed up the stairs, shooting nervous glances over her shoulder. At the top she kicked the door behind her.

There were no snores from the bed when she passed through the dim blue room, doing her utmost to subdue the rattle of the china. Inside the, dressingroom Nurse Barker Was lighting a new cigarette from her old stub. She broke into a complaint as Helen put down the tray.

“I’ve nearly broken my fingers trying to turn that key.” She nodded towards the second door. “Disgusting, putting me in a room next to a man’s bedroom, With a connecting-door.”

“It used to be a dressingroom,” explained Helen. “Besides, the Professor is not like that. He won’t pay you a visit tonight.”

She turned away to hide her grin. Besides amusing her, the incident had raised her spirits, for it had laid Mrs. Oates’ hare as dead as stone. The last vestige of her suspicion faded, as she realized that Nurse Barker’s fingers lacked the requisite strength of a thug.

“Shall we open the door, so that you can hear Lady Warren call you?” she asked.’