Dorothy Eden (67 page)

In the morning he was not allowed to go into his mother because she was very tired after the disturbance last night. Also, Prissie said in her laughing voice that always seemed to Nicky to carry a threat beneath the laughter, Nicky was being such a difficult little boy that he only worried his mother, he must learn to be placid and happy like Sarah. So there he was confined to the nursery with the letter in his pocket still unread, and the fear on him that at any moment Prissie might discover that her locket was empty.

He wished desperately that his father were home. When suddenly Guy came into the nursery looking for Prissie it seemed to the frightened little boy that Guy was the next best thing to his father. He approached him timidly with the folded piece of paper.

‘Please, Uncle Guy, will you tell me what this says?’

Guy looked at the paper Nicky held out. It seemed that he drew back for a moment, alarmed, as if the scrappy grubby piece of paper frightened him.

‘Where did you get that?’ he asked sharply.

‘It’s out of Prissie’s locket. Oh, please don’t tell her! It’s about her being a princess, I think, but I can’t read it.’

Guy’s face lightened and he snatched the letter from Nicky.

‘Ah ha! This will be interesting. The little minx, she’s been holding out on me. She with her delusions of grandeur.’ His tone was affectionate and tolerant. He obviously liked Prissie a lot.

‘But you won’t tell her!’ Nicky begged.

‘No, I won’t tell her. At least, we’ll see what this says.’

His voice died away. His face seemed to stiffen, and then to grow very pale. ‘My God!’ His voice had become a thick whisper. Nicky couldn’t hear what he was saying. Was it ‘…can’t be true…’? Nicky wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t ask Guy to repeat it, for Guy suddenly thrust the scrap of paper back at him and turned and went out of the room.

So there was Nicky with the unintelligible writing on the paper and no information at all as to what it said. He muttered, ‘I don’t want to know, anyway. I don’t care what any old letter says,’ and he sat on the floor and began to tear it to pieces. He made the pieces smaller and smaller until they looked like confetti at a wedding. Sarah was enchanted and pounced on the fluttering scraps of paper and flung them about. When Prissie came in with the empty locket dangling innocently round her neck she exclaimed,

‘Oh, you naughty children! Look at that mess all over the floor. Now you can just tidy it up. Run down to Mrs Hatchett and get a broom and shovel. Quickly!’

Curiously, the act of destruction had made Nicky feel better. It was funny that Prissie could be looking at her precious letter scattered all over the floor and not knowing what it was, just thinking it was a page out of some old story book. Of course, some day she would find out that the letter was missing from her locket. But she would think Clementine had taken it. That was it. Clementine!

Nicky ran whooping down the stairs.

It was not Nicky’s sudden noisiness but the search for the housekeeping money that woke Brigit. She was still heavy and tired, and the momentary relief that Aunt Annabel’s shouldering of the burden of the blackmailing letters had given her seemed to have gone. Indeed, all her apprehension was back. Too many strange unpleasant things had happened, she thought. They could not all be coincidence. There was her accident, then the burglary, then the horrible letters from the blackmailer, and nastiest of all, Nurse Ellen’s fall last night. What would be next?

She could not even smile at the sound of the pantomime going on in the adjoining rooms. The search had apparently grown desperate for Prissie was wandering farther afield, while Aunt Annabel called, ‘Not upstairs, dear. That’s out of bounds. Isn’t it, Saunders?’

‘Yes, out of bounds!’ roared Uncle Saunders. ‘I promised not to go out of this territory and I keep my word.’

Prissie’s voice came back pertly, ‘But supposing I don’t trust you!’ and Uncle Saunders gave his great peal of laughter.

‘Quite right, too, my dear. Never trust a Templar.’

Alone in the big bedroom Brigit slowly and carefully moved her legs. Thank goodness they still responded. Later, when the coast was clear, she would get out of bed again and try to walk across the room. She had meant to walk into Fergus’s arms tonight, but now she was not so sure that she would divulge her secret even to him. It was strange how imperative it seemed to her to keep that secret. There was a dim audacious plan forming in her head. If it came to fruition it would be very necessary to keep her mobility a secret.

Was it really true that the floor of the wardrobe had collapsed from dry rot last night? Was it?

‘Oh, Saunders, we give up today,’ came Aunt Annabel’s exasperated voice. ‘Really, we haven’t time—’

‘Then you lose,’ declared Uncle Saunders merrily. ‘That’s the rule. Damme, it’s time I won. I haven’t won for six weeks. And what have you to worry about, my dear? Haven’t you access to the funds of the lame cat society? So what are you worrying about?’

‘Saunders!’

‘Come now, don’t be so shocked. You know as well as I do that honesty has never paid what one would call a thumping dividend. Hi, there, Prissie, you look like the cat that stole the cream. What have you found?’

‘She can’t have found anything, Saunders. That’s out of bounds.’

‘I just thought Mr Templar might have cheated,’ came Prissie’s audacious voice.

‘Well, that’s a nerve, I must say,’ Uncle Saunders, in high good humour, declared. ‘I’ve a good mind to spank your b—h’mm—well, come downstairs, you little minx, and make up your mind to bread and water this week because we’re bankrupt.’

‘It’s too bad for you,’ Prissie said primly, ‘but at least I’m going out to dinner tonight.’

She came lightly down the passage to Brigit’s room. Her cheeks were glowing, her large eyes more brilliant than ever. Was it the thought of going out with Guy that produced that excitement?

‘Have we disturbed you, Mrs Gaye? Honestly, your Uncle Saunders is a character. Do you feel better after that nap? I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.’

‘Thank you,’ said Brigit. Why should Prissie be so full of life today? Didn’t Nurse Ellen’s accident weigh on her at all? Perhaps she was glad it had happened, because then there could be no more awkward questions about Clementine. Clementine! Brigit’s tired mind slid away from that mystery. She concentrated on Prissie’s injunction that she must be bright and cheerful for Fergus. After all she had promised him. No more tears, she had said, even though Nurse Ellen had nearly died, and the blackmailer was at work again. Fergus had to believe that all was serene and happy in the Templar household. He must not despise her family any more than he already did because when would that feeling, like a contagious disease, spread to her?

It began to rain later so that the children could not go out. Brigit lay watching the colourless drops sliding down the window and listening to the intermittent sound of the children and the scampering of Aunt Annabel’s cats. Prissie was in and out all the time, determined not to allow her to brood, so there was no opportunity for her to make her attempt to walk. The carpenter came to mend the floor of the wardrobe, the hospital where Nurse Ellen had been taken reported that the patient was as well as could be expected, Aunt Annabel bobbed in to nod her head mysteriously and say that that little matter they had discussed that morning had been attended to, the day wore on uneventfully towards evening when Fergus would be home.

But all the time the apprehension and gloom deepened in Brigit. She felt as if the cold raindrops were falling in her heart. When, in the half dusk, she dozed and awoke to the sound of the hoarse whispering voice in the chimney she felt no surprise. It was as if she had been waiting for it. Almost, she had known what it would say.

‘You’re not Brigit Gaye. You’re not even Brigit Templar. You’re me!’
And then, with a gusty macabre chuckle, it said,
‘You’re a thief, a thief!’

There was no Nurse Ellen to answer her frantic ringing. She sobbed aloud, and pressed her finger on the bell again and again.

But when at last Aunt Annabel, breathless and distressed, arrived she had regained control of herself. A voice in the chimney. She had imagined it. It had been a nightmare in the daytime. They were always worse.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologized to Aunt Annabel. ‘I woke with a nightmare. I’m as bad as Nicky. Where are the children?’

‘Prissie’s bathing them. They’ll be down to say good night. How cold and gloomy it is in here. No wonder you had a nightmare. I’ll put on the lights and shut out the rain.’

‘Isn’t it early for the children to go to bed?’

‘A little, but Prissie’s going out, you remember? She has to have time to dress. She’s so excited. If Guy is really going to become serious about her we must find out something of her background. There’s this old aunt in Putney. I shall make it my business to call on her. But there! As long as Guy is happy, I won’t let Saunders interfere!’

The bravado in Aunt Annabel’s voice sounded a little tremulous in the gloom. She could face a blackmailer’s threats with aplomb, and yet quail before her loud-voiced husband. Brigit wanted to reassure her, but Renoir, the colour of dusk, swept in with his dignity and insolence, and Aunt Annabel was already happy again, gathering him into her arms and crooning to him.

Then she suddenly muttered into Renoir’s fur, ‘Oh, my darling, have I betrayed you?’ and hurried from the room.

Brigit could find no explanation for that cryptic utterance. She shrugged her shoulders, and all at once found herself inclined to giggle. When Fergus arrived and said, ‘Everything all right?’ she would answer, ‘Well, Nurse Ellen did fall down that awful hole in the wardrobe, and Nicky was chased with a toad by someone called Clementine who doesn’t exist, and a blackmailer has taken our last penny, and Nicky’s witch doll talks to me from the chimney, and Aunt Annabel has betrayed her cats, but otherwise, yes, everything is all right.’

When Fergus did arrive she didn’t burst into tears. At least, thank goodness, she didn’t do that, but she found herself unable to say a single word to him. For his plane had been delayed and he was three hours late. Guy, who was not flying planes but simply coming home from the city, had not arrived at all.

‘B
UT IT WAS ONLY
fog, I tell you,’ Fergus kept saying. He gently undid her clinging fingers. ‘There’s often been fog in the past and you haven’t let it worry you.’

‘It isn’t fog with Guy,’ Brigit said bleakly.

‘What, isn’t Guy home yet? But, darling, surely there’s nothing exceptional about him having a night out?’

‘On any other night, no. But this was the night he was to have gone out with Prissie, if you remember. She’s waiting for him. She’s wearing her new dress. And Guy had been counting the hours until tonight. I know.’

Fergus looked round.

‘Where’s Nurse Ellen?’

‘She had an accident. She broke her ankle.’ Briefly Brigit related the details.

Listening, Fergus’s face seemed to close. It was the first time, Brigit realized, that he had withdrawn from her into thoughts she could not interpret. Was he surprised at Nurse Ellen’s accident? Did he think it had been an accident?

‘Sweetheart!’ he said, feeling for her hand.

But now, in an uncontrollable nervous reaction, she snatched her hand away.

‘Oh, do something, Fergus. Why doesn’t somebody do something?’

Fergus roused himself from whatever thought he had been pursuing.

‘Guy will turn up,’ he said. ‘It’s only ten o’clock. If he isn’t here by morning we can start some inquiries.’

‘Last night we said that about Nurse Ellen,’ Brigit told him sombrely.

‘Well, Guy wouldn’t fall down a hole that he knew about. As a matter of fact I think I’ll take a look at that hole.’

‘You can’t. It’s been covered up. The carpenters were here today. It couldn’t have been left like that with the children. Not that Nicky would go near that wardrobe. He’s terrified of it. He still believes that Clementine lives in it.’

‘Clementine?’

‘Yes, darling Clementine. Now don’t ask me who she is. I only wish I knew. But I’m beginning to be like Nicky and believe in her existence, whatever she is, a real person or just a malicious evil spirit.’

Fergus looked at her a moment, pondering, then he said suddenly. ‘Poor little Prissie. I must go and see if she’s worrying about Guy,’ and left the room.

Was he impatient with her for what he could consider was her increasing neuroticism? Brigit gave a despairing sigh. This was the night that she was to have told Fergus that she was getting better, that she could walk again. They were to have been so happy and jubilant.

But how could she have thought that anyone could be happy in this house?

Prissie, sitting alone in the nursery, was finishing a letter. She had been crying, and there were still the marks of tears on her cheeks. She wore the dress she had made. She looked very slim and small. Her dark straight hair and thin arms were childish. But there was nothing childish in her face, or in her narrow shoulders rising from the glowing green silk. They had a maturity and sophistication that rivalled that in the portrait of Brigit’s mother on the staircase. The tight-waisted full-skirted dress, made with clever success, was full of seduction.

But Prissie was alone, and had only her forlorn letter for company.

‘What
can
have happened to Guy?’ she wrote. ‘I have done nothing, said nothing… I even kissed him although I hated it. His disappearance worries me terribly. I’m frightened.’ She paused a moment, her dark eyes full of anxiety, then determinedly she continued, ‘But I’m sure he’s all right. I refuse to brood about him. Isn’t it a joke about what I found this morning!’

There was a tap at the door. Was it Guy at last? Prissie hastily closed her writing pad and called, ‘Come in.’

It was Fergus who stood in the doorway. He was still in his flying uniform, and he stood straight and tall, his fair hair shining, his eyes resting on Prissie suddenly full of admiration.

Prissie stood up slowly, wiping away the last traces of her tears childishly with the back of her hand.