Will O’ the Wisp (28 page)

“Who was Eva Baker?” said David. He remembered her vaguely. Erica had not liked her very much.

“Eva Baker was my uncle's granddaughter. He hadn't ever seen her, because she'd always lived in Australia, and she was coming to make her home with him after her mother died. Erica came to his house as Eva Baker, and for six months no one thought anything else. Then Erica began to come to herself, and she told us who she was.”

“Six months?” said David.

“Yes, she was queer in her head, you know. I was nursing her most of the time. I took away the rings so that no one should see them. She used to talk a lot—conversations with you, and with that woman she stayed with in Sydney. She used to say the things over and over like a gramophone record till I got to know them by heart. I thought some man had got her into trouble, poor kid, and I wouldn't let anyone else hear her. Then she came to, and she told us she wasn't Eva at all. She told us she was Mrs. David Fordyce.”

She looked at him accusingly.

“My uncle didn't believe her at first—I'd a work to make him. But after a bit we could all see she was quite sensible in her mind. She wrote to you—I helped her with the letter. That's how I knew what was in it. And uncle wrote. That was the first letter. It was posted the first week in September.”

David nodded.

“Well, then, we waited for you to answer—and you didn't answer.”

“Why didn't you cable?”

“Uncle wouldn't. He was old fashioned and had a horror of telegrams and things like that. I very nearly sent one on my own, but by the time I'd worked myself up to it, it was getting on for time for your answer to come; so I waited.”

“Why didn't you cable when the answer didn't come?”

“She wrote the second letter,” said Heather Down. “I helped her with it, and I registered it for her. And she died two days afterwards—just slipped away in her sleep.”

She began to cry and to rub away the tears with the back of her hand. Then all at once she threw back her head.

“I promised myself then that I'd punish you, and when you didn't answer the second letter, I hated you so that I could hardly bear it. I'd not much use for men anyway—I'd been let down myself when I was no older than Erica; and I thought to myself, ‘I can't punish
him
'—he'd gone away and I didn't even know his right name—‘but if I ever get a chance of punishing David Fordyce, I'll do it, and I'll reckon I'm paying my own account as well as Erica's.'”

“I see,” said David. “Why did you wait so long?”

“I waited because I had to. Needs must when necessity drives. I was in a manicure business—partner with the woman who started it, and I couldn't leave her in the lurch. And I couldn't leave uncle. I was very fond of him, and he was all broken up about Eva and about Erica. When he died, I sold my share of the business and came over here. I hadn't got any plan in my head. I came to look for Erica's Aunt Nellie, and I found her ill and down to her last penny. And she took me for Erica because her head was full of Erica. Well, I didn't mean to deceive her—I wasn't brought up to tell lies, whatever you may think—but I just hadn't the heart to tell her Erica was dead. I thought it would kill her, so I made up my mind I'd let her go on thinking I was her niece until she was a bit stronger. Well, I never did tell her. I nursed her, and I got fond of her. You get awfully fond of people when they've got nobody but you. I got to know pretty soon that she wouldn't let me help her unless she thought I was Erica, and after a bit I just let it go at that. She hadn't anyone, and I hadn't either, so where was the harm?” She looked defiantly at David. “I wasn't thinking about you at all—not till afterwards. I went on hating you like poison, and one day it came to me that I'd got a way to punish you all ready to my hand, because if Aunt Nellie could take me for Erica, I could play it up on you enough to get you all upset. I went over everything Erica had told me and everything I'd heard her say those nights when she'd go over and over all the things she'd ever said to you, or you to her; and I felt certain I could get you so that you wouldn't know what to believe.” She gave a little hard laugh. “I did it too—didn't I? You thought I was Erica. You weren't sure; but you did think so.”

David regarded her with some pity.

“What made you ring me up when you did?”

“I'd been finding out about you—I'd been down to Ford two or three times. The last time I went, everyone in the village was talking about you and Mrs. Rayne. They said she was an old sweetheart, and they were all hoping you'd marry her. It made me wild to hear them. And then, on the top of that, I saw your advertisement asking for news of Erica, and I thought to myself, ‘Now I'll let you have it.'”

She had been flushed and excited, but suddenly the flush died, her voice went flat.

“Funny—isn't it, the way things turn out? I'd thought about punishing you for years, and it came off better than I ever thought it could. I'd lain awake nights and nights planning what I'd say. And when I'd done it all, I just didn't care a bit. I thought if I could pay you out, that I should feel as if I'd got rid of something. But I didn't—I just felt as if the bottom had dropped out of everything and there wasn't anything left for me to do. That's what I felt like. And then I got your letter, and it made me think perhaps I'd made a mistake. I didn't want to believe it.”

“Look here,” said David, “can't we be friends? I'd like to be because of what you did for Erica. Why can't you believe I'm honest? I'd like to be friends with you, and then we could join forces and see what can be done for Miss Smith. Can't we be friends?”

“No, we can't,” said Heather Down. The high, hard colour came back to her cheeks. “And if you're going to come between me and Aunt Nellie—”

“Miss Down!”

“My name's Ida Baker. And what's the good of your talking about being friends? If Aunt Nellie lets you help her when she won't let me, isn't that coming between us? Do you expect me to stop hating you? If you had come out to Cape Town, Erica would have gone away with you and wouldn't have cared if she never saw me again. I used to hate you when I thought about it. And now you want to take Aunt Nellie from me. And you talk about being friends—
friends!
” Her voice rose sharply. “You'd better let me alone, David Fordyce, or I'll do you a mischief yet.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then went out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

CHAPTER XL

David went back to his rooms. The certainty that Heather Down was not Erica had released him from the intolerable burden which he had been carrying. It had been very horrible to think of Erica changed into this bitter, twisted creature; and horrible to feel himself bound by an intimate tie to a woman whose hatred and resentment spoke in every word and look. He had again his gentle, pitiful memories of the child who had been his wife for a fortnight.

He wrote a long letter to the solicitor who had acted for him in Cape Town, repeating Heather Down's statement and asking him to verify it. He wrote also to Miss Smith.

All this time he kept himself from thinking about Folly; and yet all the time it was just as if she were there at the door, clamouring to be let in, calling to him. A sense of uneasiness which was past his own control gained upon him.

He rang up Eleanor, and was told that she was dining out and had just started. Somehow this piece of news immensely increased his uneasiness. At the back of his mind there had been the feeling that Eleanor was there to turn to. Now Eleanor was not there any more.

He walked up and down the room calling himself every sort of fool, but unable to rid himself of the insistent sense that Folly was calling to him. He had been engaged to dine with Frank and Julie, but had put them off. Now he would have been glad to go. Anything was better than to stay here alone, a prey to overstrained imaginings.

The telephone bell rang, and his mood underwent a change. It might be Frank Alderey; and suddenly he felt an extreme disinclination to go out. He took up the receiver impatiently, and heard the voice that had been crying in his ears for an hour—Folly's voice, quick and unsteady.

“David!” The name came to him, and then a confusion of sound and a click.

He called, and got no answer. After several efforts, he got the exchange.

“I've been cut off.”

“What number?”

“I don't know the number. They rang me up.”

After a second attempt he got a short “No reply from the number.”

He left the telephone with his mind clearly made up. It was not for nothing that he had thought he heard Folly calling him; his dislike and distrust of Floss Miller came up like a tide. Folly had called to him, and nothing should keep him from going to her. He blessed the memory that never forgot an address as he hailed a taxi and gave the man the direction which Floss Miller had given him the night they had met at The Luxe.

At the entrance to the block of flats he told the driver to wait and took the lift to the fifth floor. As he stepped out of it, the door in front of him opened. Mrs. Miller in a black and silver coat with a very handsome grey fox collar stood on the threshold.

As he came towards her, she exclaimed and took a half involuntary step backwards, and at the same moment David, with every sense strained to the utmost, heard distinctly the sound of a turning key. He reached the doorway as Mrs. Miller, recovering herself, came forward.

“I'm just going out,” she said.

“So I see,” said David.

He was most keenly aware of everything—the dark cage of the lift behind him on the left; the lighted hall of Mrs. Miller's flat with its pink-shaded drop-light; and away on the right the closed door from which had come the click of the turning key.

He said: “Is Folly in? I wanted to see her.”

Mrs. Miller made another step forward. She was heavily powdered and, under the powder, very heavily flushed; her eyes were rather vacant; the step she had just taken was unsteady. He realized with disgust that she was half drunk already.

He repeated his question sharply:

“Is Folly in? I want to see her.”

“Well, you can't,” said Mrs. Miller. She leaned against the door-post. “You can't see her to-night. And I'm going out. Tell you what, you come along with me and we'll be a nice little family party. I'm dining with Francis Lester—he's a very great friend of mine. You come along with me and we'll be a nice little family party.” Her voice slid thickly over the consonants. She put a hand on David's sleeve and smiled at him. It was a horrible ghost of what had once been an enchanting smile. “Come along,” she said.

“Where's Folly?” said David.

Mrs. Miller stepped out into the hall and pulled at his arm.

“Other fish to fry. You come along with me.”

Then she came back and took hold of the handle to close the door. David stood his ground, half in, half out of the flat.

“I'd like to see her if she's in,” he said. Then he raised his voice and called, “Folly!”

His ear had been straining for any sound from behind the door on the right. Now a sound came in answer to his call, a desperate, broken little sound. He turned his back on Floss Miller, walked to the door, tried the handle, and spoke through the panel:

“Folly, are you there?”

There was no answer.

“Open the door or I shall break the lock! Open it at once!”

Floss Miller's voice called his name:

“Look here, David Fordyce—”

“Open this door!” said David.

The key turned in the lock, and with a wrench David opened the door and took a step into the room.

It was the drawing-room of the flat. There was an overwhelming impression of pink lights, pink cushions, scent, and cigarette smoke. Mr. St. Inigo leaned against a rose-coloured sofa with his hands in his pockets, and on the far side of the room David saw Folly. She was up against the wall with a tall chair in front of her; her hands were clenched on the top of the chair; her face was of an agonized, terrified pallor.

“Don't you know when you're not wanted?” said Mr. St. Inigo.

David took no notice of him. He went to Folly and touched her arm. It was quite rigid. He said, so low that only she could catch the words:

“Has he hurt you?”

She moved her head a very little. The movement said “No.”

David crossed the room again. He addressed St. Inigo:

“Get out of this at once!”

There was something about the pale lounging figure that made David hope that he would not go; he wanted to hit St. Inigo; he wanted to kill him. He held himself in and said:

“Get out!”

St. Inigo began to say something, but before the half of it was said, David's fist took him on the mouth and he went down sprawling.

Mrs. Miller screamed. She stood back against the wall and watched St. Inigo being run out of the flat. The door shut upon him.

“You're strong!” said Floss Miller, as David came back. She spoke in an admiring tone.

“I'm taking Folly away,” said David.

Mrs. Miller shrugged her shoulders.

“What a fuss about nothing!”

David went back into the drawing-room. The room filled him with disgust—the whole place filled him with disgust—Mrs. Miller made him feel physically sick. His mind was bent on getting Folly out of this beastly place. He went over to her and told her so.

“I'm going to take you away. You'd no business to have come here. I'm going to take you back to Eleanor.”

Folly had not moved. Her hands still gripped the back of the chair with so much force that the knuckles showed white on the little straining hands. David unclasped the hands.

“Pull yourself together. Where's your room—where are your things? Can you get them?”