Dorothy Eden (74 page)

Brigit opened her eyes slowly to find the bedclothing disarranged and the quilt slipped to the floor. Also, her legs were aching and tingling.

Instantly, realizing what had happened, she was wide awake. In her dream she had walked, and her legs, obeying the fantasy in her mind, had disturbed the bedclothing. They had moved again!

Cautiously she tested them. They were heavy and tired, but they did move a little, didn’t they? Excitedly she rang the bell and waited impatiently for someone to answer it.

It was Mrs Hatchett who came and stood within the door, rotund and comfortable.

‘Can I get you anything, madam?’

‘I want you to help me get out of bed,’ Brigit said excitedly. ‘I can walk really. I’ll show you.’

Mrs Hatchett shook her head.

‘Now, now, madam! Do you think you should be trying to get out of bed?’

‘Of course. I’ve been out. I was out the other day, only no one would believe me. If you won’t help me, ask my aunt to come.’

‘She’s lying down with a bad head, madam. And Prissie took the children out a couple of hours ago, so there’s no one else to help you. If you really insist, madam, but I’m sure I don’t think
—
’

Brigit, however, was no longer listening to Mrs Hatchett’s qualms. An icy terror had seized her.

‘Mrs Hatchett, what did you say about Prissie and the children? I told them not to go out. Surely she hasn’t disobeyed me!’

‘Well, I saw them going, madam. Nicky in his new coat, bless his heart. I thought they’d have been back by now. It’s getting dark.’

‘Mrs Hatchett!’ Brigit was sitting up, clinging to the bedpost. ‘Help me, please! Now I’ve got to walk somehow. Please! Because I think my children are in danger. Deadly danger! Oh, God, help me quickly. Let me get to them before anything happens.’

But it was no use. She could only stand and collapse. Again and again, with Mrs Hatchett patiently holding her upright, she tried to walk. Once she took three steps. Mrs Hatchett exclaimed in wonder and delight. ‘Well now, love, so you could do it all the time. And none of us would believe you. Well now, isn’t this going to be good news for your husband. Easy now. Take it quietly.’

But again her legs, weak and trembling, collapsed ignominiously beneath her. She was too anxious. The mist outside seemed to keep coming into the room, and swirling in it were shapes and sounds, the funny man Sarah had seen in the square (had he a white-and-black look?), the croaking voice from the chimney saying,
‘I am you and you are me,’
and Prissie’s small white three-cornered face—now she knew what it made her think of, that other face that had leaned over her in the house in Hammersmith, the face that was Prissie and yet not Prissie, the face with the brilliant taunting eyes and lank long black hair…

And then, strangest of all, Fergus’s face swam before her. It was thin and tired, and yet it seemed to be alight with joy.

‘Why, Biddy darling, you’re walking!’

Why should he look so pleased that she was walking? It was much too late to be pleased. Prissie had thieved all the pleasure for herself. House, portraits, works of art, children, husband, all were Prissie’s…

Someone was shouting something at her, trying to rouse her.

‘Brigit, where did you go that day? Tell me!’ Momentarily Fergus’s voice was clear and urgent in her ears.

‘But you wouldn’t believe me,’ she said in a drugged way.

‘Never mind whether I believed you or not. Where did you go?’

‘15 Pelham Road, Hammersmith,’ she said in her far-off voice. ‘Why do you want to go there?’

‘Because I think Prissie might be there.’

Oh—Prissie. Always Prissie. Now she could not arouse herself to say anything more at all.

O
UTSIDE THE DOOR NICKY COULD
hear the voices, Prissie’s and the man’s. Prissie was saying in a low angry voice:

‘I tell you there was nothing between Fergus and me. I hate him! I hate him as much as I hate her. Why would I do as you told me and bring the children here if I was in love with him?’

‘You wouldn’t do that at first.’

‘Because I was angry with you then. Guy shouldn’t have died. That was your fault. You killed him.’

‘He killed himself.’ The man’s voice was contemptuous. ‘He had no guts.’

‘And no money either!’ Prissie began to laugh in a high-pitched way. The famous Templar family is bankrupt. Isn’t it a joke?’

‘I don’t believe it,’ the man said harshly.

‘I’m afraid it’s true. The great and mighty Saunders wouldn’t shed tears over anything but lack of money.’

‘It can’t be true.’ The man’s voice had a desperate note. ‘We’ve got the kids, haven’t we? They’ll pay for them.’

‘With what?’ Prissie asked wearily. ‘Fake gold plate? I tell you I brought them here to satisfy you, and to give her the fright of her life, but after that—’

‘You don’t really intend to give them up. Do you?’ The man’s voice was both wheedling and cunning.

‘Why should I? They should be mine!’

‘Because they are Templars or the children of that good-looking airman?’

Prissie’s voice broke on an angry sob. ‘Shut up, will you? You’ve got them here, haven’t you? That’s what you wanted. You say you can get blood out of a stone. Well, try.’

‘They’ll find the money somewhere, for the kids,’ the man said confidently.

But now Prissie was pleading with him. ‘No, Jacques. Just let me take them away somewhere quietly. They should be mine. I feel as if they are. And Clementine would like it. Anyway, it’s too dangerous to do anything more. Because Fergus has that letter of mine. He’ll have guessed everything.’

‘What do you mean?’ The man’s voice was alarmed.

‘He stole it out of my locket—I don’t know when.’

‘You little fool! What did you want to carry it about with you for?’

‘Because I liked having it. I liked making up stories about it. And don’t you dare call me a fool! It’s you who is a fool standing there wasting time talking when we should be arranging to get away. How safe do you think we are here, now she’s been to this house? It’ll only be until Fergus gets home and then she’ll tell him—’

But at that point Nicky could contain himself no longer. Oblivious of the fact of how he frightened Sarah he began banging on the door and screaming.

‘Let me out!’ he called. ‘Let me out! Let me out!’ Then all at once he was silent, because his voice had been so much the echo of another voice, that of Nurse Ellen from the bottom of the dark hole.

But there was no hole here. It was all right! It was all right!

The door opened abruptly, and Prissie, and the small dark man with the pale face stood there.

Prissie said sharply. ‘Nicky, what a noise to make. Now you’ve made Sarah cry, too. There’s nothing to cry about. We’re going for a nice ride on a train. Clementine is coming, too. I’ll call her and she can come and play with you until we’re ready.’

Nicky shrank back, the tears growing cold on his cheeks.

‘Not Clementine!’ he whispered. ‘No! Please!’

‘Why, how silly you are, Nicky. You must grow to love Clementine.’

Frantically Nicky thought of some way to delay this final catastrophe. His eyes chanced to rest on Prissie’s locket, and he exclaimed:

‘Daddy hasn’t got your letter at all. I have.’

Prissie looked puzzled. ‘What letter?’

‘The one out of your locket. I took it and tore it up.’

Prissie’s face grew still. She sank into a chair.

‘Nicky! Are you telling the truth?’

Nicky nodded, frightened now, his bravado deserting him.

‘I tore it into little bits. You made me sweep it up.’

Then Fergus—doesn’t know—after all.’ Her voice was halting, desolate. ‘I needn’t have run away. I could have made him—love me—’ Suddenly she sprang up, galvanized into action. ‘Oh, I’m going back. He won’t be home yet. Come, children, get your coats on—’

But the man’s hand was gripping her wrist. His face was dark, threatening, sinister.

‘Not so fast, my darling. We’ll talk this over first. Shut the kids in and come downstairs.’

Before he could shut the door, however, there were racing footsteps on the stairs, a flash of tartan skirt and two thin black plaits. And there was Clementine, her triangular face full of evil glee.

‘Oh, goody, I’ve come to play with Nicky. Aren’t you pleased to see me, Nicky? Aren’t you pleased?’

She was so quick, he could never escape her. Before he could even put his arms behind his back her cruel fingers had seized and pinched.

He couldn’t help it. All his self-control deserted him. He shut his eyes and opened his mouth and gave a long high-pitched scream. It came to an end only for want of breath, and as its sound died from his ears he heard his father saying:

‘Good heavens, Nicky, are you being murdered?’

He opened his eyes and thought it was a dream. But Sarah was rushing forward crying delightedly, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ and there, surely enough, was the tall beloved form of his father, smiling reassuringly, although his blue eyes glinted with something that was not laughter.

He swung Sarah into his arms and took Nicky’s hand. Then he said pleasantly:

‘No one heard my knock so I just came up. I thought it sounded like trouble. Well, Prissie, so this is your aunt.’

He turned with mock politeness to the dark man, whose face had gone thin and bitter and uneasy. Prissie, the colour suddenly flaming in her cheeks, said quickly:

‘This is my husband, Jacques Clare.’

Fergus gave a slight bow, but he did not hold out his hand. His eyes turned to the child with the skinny plaits and glittering black eyes and little tight malicious mouth.

‘And this—allow me to guess—is Clementine?’

‘My daughter,’ said Prissie, putting her arm possessively round the child.

‘Well, well,’ said Fergus. ‘The little girl who likes toads. I think, Nicky, you might have overlooked the fact that she is, presumably, a lady, and fought her. One should be taught manners young.’ He turned to Prissie, still with that glint in his eye. ‘I suppose you are aware, Prissie, that my wife is extremely worried about the children, especially when she asked you not to take them out. Apparently there have been mysterious threats over the telephone.’

‘They were quite safe here,’ Prissie broke in swiftly. ‘Weren’t they, Jacques? That’s why I brought them.’

‘Quite safe,’ Jacques said suavely. ‘And Clementine likes someone to play with.’

‘And things, too, apparently,’ Fergus said, picking up the Dresden statuette from the mantelpiece.

‘I only borrowed it!’ Prissie said, the colour high in her cheeks again. ‘You had so many beautiful things, and Clementine—’

‘Had a right to some,’ said Fergus softly.

‘My wife has this love for beautiful things,’ the man said, suddenly obsequious. ‘She did only borrow that piece for Clementine to see. Clementine hasn’t had much opportunity—’

Fergus again interrupted in his pleasant voice, ‘But she would have been able to get some of her own when all those letters had brought in some money.’

‘Letters?’ said the man in bewilderment.

‘Come now, Mr Clare, don’t try to be innocent. Do you deny writing blackmail letters consistently for the last week?’

‘Oh, he never did anything like that!’ Prissie exclaimed in a shocked voice. ‘Oh, no, Fergus. I admit I borrowed the statuette, and one or two of the children’s toys—they had so many—and even Nicky’s old coat because he was getting a new one, and it would lengthen beautifully for Clementine. You can’t blame me for wanting things for my daughter. But we did nothing else, Fergus. Nothing criminal.’

Fergus’s golden eyebrows were a bland curve over his eyes. He still spoke pleasantly, though now Nicky sensed the scarcely-controlled anger beneath his politeness.

‘You didn’t by any chance plan to get into my house to create all the mischief you could? You didn’t deliberately cause my wife to have an accident—’

Prissie sprang forward, laying her hands on Fergus’s arm. Her eyes were full of shocked denial.

‘Oh, Fergus! How can you believe such an awful thing!’

‘You didn’t make love to Guy, believing all the time that he was your legitimate brother?’

Nicky was aware of Prissie shaking her head, her face full of confusion and anger and distress. But he could concentrate no longer on Prissie’s feelings for there was something in his pocket he had to show his father. It was tangled up with the coloured silk handkerchiefs. He tugged at it intently.

‘You can’t prove any of these outrageous accusations,’ the dark-haired man was saying angrily to Fergus.

But Nicky had the thing free. He shook it out triumphantly. Now he was no longer afraid of witch dolls in cupboards or croaking voices in the night, or Clementine’s malicious vengeance on him.

‘Look, daddy!’ he cried. ‘This is the scarf that was on the stick. I saw it. Prissie had it. She was coming from behind the fence after mummy had fallen off Polly. I wanted her to play a game with it, but she wouldn’t. She threw the stick away.’

‘It’s a lie!’ Prissie was saying thickly. ‘It’s another of that child’s monstrous lies.’

For one moment Fergus looked at her thoughtfully. It was quite extraordinary, but in that moment Prissie’s youthful attractive animated face had become that of someone else. In its pinched cruel cold anger and craftiness, it was the feminine counterpart of the painted face of pirate Phillip Templar that hung on the staircase in the house in Montpelier Square.

Whatever lies her tongue might still be impelled to tell, her face at last spoke the truth.

Fergus went to the door and beckoned to someone downstairs.

‘Come up, officer,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll get a statement now.’

I
T WAS THE VOICE FROM
the chimney and the voice Nicky said he had heard in the night from the wardrobe that still puzzled Brigit. When she thought of it, with its sinister threat, she was still aware of that cold fear inside herself.

‘How could that have been Prissie or this mysterious husband of hers?’ she asked.

Fergus was sitting on the bed holding her hand. On the rug beside the leaping fire were the children, bathed and in their dressing-gowns, listening to the low murmur of Aunt Annabel’s voice as she told them once again the simple story of the kittens who lost their mittens. Brigit wanted them there as long as possible. For this way all her family was round her, and she felt secure at last.