Dorothy Eden (23 page)

“She hadn’t time, to say anything except that she wanted to speak to you urgently. Paul, what is it? Another of your female friends?”

“Don’t joke,” he said sharply. “It might have been about Nita.”

But even if it had been about Nita, why should Paul be so upset? Julia couldn’t answer that. All she knew was that the bright happy atmosphere had gone, and that the old tension and fear had returned.

Kate showed it the most because she was always a poor actress, hiding her true feelings with a false effusiveness. She was obviously fighting an overmastering desire to take refuge in her bed. Instead, she chattered continually and almost without sense until, dramatically, the lights went out.

The fire had burnt low, and the room was almost completely dark. Kate gave a quickly suppressed scream, and Paul stood up and felt his way to the door. Somewhere, suddenly, Lily giggled. It was a half-hysterical sound, yet it had pleasurable anticipation in it. What was Lily up to?

Paul snapped off the light switch. A gust of wind struck the house with force, and outside the window came the cracking of a heavy branch.

“That’s what it will be,” said Paul resignedly. “A tree across the line.”

“No, it’s not. Someone is playing a trick on us,” Kate declared in a high-pitched voice.

“Don’t be silly, Mother. You know this happened less than a fortnight ago. We’ll have to cut down half of those trees. The electricians warned me about that.”

Julia threw a log on the fire, and the flames sprang up, partially dispersing the darkness. She could see Kate’s white moony face, and her hands twisted together.

“We can’t be without lights for the wedding,” she quavered.

“Why not?” Paul had come to stand beside Julia. His hand touched her cheek. His voice had a deep, excited quality. “A bride by candlelight. I can think of nothing more enchanting.”

A sudden, long shudder went over Julia. She was aware of Paul looking at her sharply. Then he must have decided that she was trembling with anticipation, for he sat beside her and continued to move his hand over her shoulders and down her arm. But she was remembering the night of her arrival when he had raised the candle to look at her without recognising her. He had denied it afterwards, but she had known she was a stranger to him in that moment. How could she marry a stranger?

What nonsense—she was just overtired and apprehensive and as jumpy as Kate. She would go to bed. Tomorrow night was her wedding eve. She was not likely to sleep much that night. She must get some rest now.

She would take the fluttering candle to her room and she would not be nervous because Timmy slept there in his cot beside her own bed. His baby innocence was the sweetest and most comforting thing in the house.

Kate insisted on being lighted up the stairs, because the dark worried her. “Ever since I was a child,” she chattered, “I imagined those great shadows on the walls would smother me. Look how they move! Oh dear, now I’ll be startling you, too. What’s that?”

The sound was only Georgina calling in her bird’s voice, “Who put the lights out? Was it Harry?”

“It’s the storm,” answered Kate in a falsely cheerful voice. “The line must be down, Paul
says. The telephone’s out of order, too. We’re quite isolated. They say it happens often in the country. Go to sleep, Granny. Don’t worry.”

She clutched Julia’s arm and whispered, “Do you know, I’m quite thankful the telephone isn’t working. Someone has been playing jokes on us, ringing and then not speaking. Twice yesterday it happened. Wrong numbers, I should think. But it could be burglars.”

“Nonsense!” said Julia. She wanted to say, “Did you hear a scream, very far away, like I did?” But poor Kate was too jittery already. One had to keep everything to oneself. Finally she had learned that.

She went to sleep with the sound of the wind, like great wings, beating in her ears. She dreamt that the wings that had a hard, rough, cottony feel were on her face, at first tickling and then smothering her.

She awoke with a start, crying out. Someone moved swiftly away. It was pitch dark.

A voice whispered huskily, “Don’t get a light!”

Then silently the intruder made for the door. As the door opened a faint light, as of someone holding a candle, shone in. Julia thought she heard a faint, frightened giggle. Then she caught a glimpse of the hand resting on the door frame. It was huge and white and unshapely, a grotesque caricature of a hand.

A
T LAST SHE GOT
a match alight and her trembling fingers held it to the wick of the candle. The small flame showed the door closed and no sign of the intruder. Timmy lay sleeping quietly in his cot. Nothing was changed. The practical joker was abroad again, but nothing had happened beyond the horrible, unspeakable fright she had got.

There was no point in rousing the house, she told herself valiantly. Kate would have hysterics and Paul would try to convince her she had dreamed it. She must endure this, too, alone.

After a long time she persuaded herself to get out of bed and go to lock the door. She felt safer, then, and even imagined she might sleep a little if she could get warm again.

But one never, never got warm in this house…

The candle was fluttering in a mess of its own grease and faint daylight creeping in when Lily rattled at the door and called, “Do you want your tea, miss?”

Timmy awoke and gave his little customary murmur and sigh of delight at the new day. Julia climbed out of bed and once more made the journey to the door. As she opened it Lily’s eyes fell on the guttering candle.

“You might set. the place on fire, miss,” she said disapprovingly.

“I had a fright in the night,” Julia said. She remembered that faint giggle she had heard and she looked at Lily’s averted eyes. “Did you hear anyone walking about?”

“No, miss. But the wind was that strong. Perhaps it would be old Mrs. Blaine.”

“Yes,” said Julia thoughtfully. “Once she came in here.”

But she knew all the time it hadn’t been Georgina. The movements of the intruder had been too swift. And there was that ghastly, monstrous hand.

She began to shiver again. Only pride kept her from bursting into tears.

“I don’t know, Lily. I’m frightened of something, and I don’t know what it is.”

For a moment there was a queer look that could have been sympathy on Lily’s face. Then the girl said, “It’s still snowing. I don’t see how you’ll get to the church tomorrow if this keeps on.”

Julia smiled wryly. Lily had a peculiar idea of comfort. But the inverted humour had served its purpose and she had herself in control again. She would not cry in front of Lily.

Later, it was Dove Robinson who had that softer gleam in her eyes that looked like pity. So there were the three of them, the blonde, the red-head and the brunette, all pitying her. For even Nita, once, had looked at her with that softened, sympathetic expression. Three women who loved Paul, one of them possessed a dangerous jealousy, yet all of them pitying the girl who was to get Paul. It didn’t make sense.

Dove had wrapped herself in Tom’s sou’wester and come over to the big house especially to see Julia. In spite of being pale and washed-out after her bout of flu, she was still remarkably attractive, with snow sprinkled on her radiant hair, and her eyes full of that unwanted sympathy.

Julia took her upstairs to her bedroom and shut the door behind them. It was bitterly cold but private. Then she looked at Dove expectantly.

“Should you be out in this weather?”

“Oh, I’m all right now. Just a bit weak. Have you had more of those letters?”

“No,” said Julia slowly, “is that what you came to ask me?”

“I thought you might have had one this morning. I think I know who has been writing them.”

“Who?” Julia queried sharply.

Dove’s eyes narrowed. “Who but the person who’s masquerading under another name? I mean Harry Blaine.”

“Davey?” said Julia reluctantly.

“Tom saw something this morning,” Dove went on, speaking rapidly. “He’d spent the night in the shepherds’ hut up Roundtop, and was coming home just before daylight. He saw someone coming down from this house to Davey’s cottage. He couldn’t be sure who it was. It was dark, and the person was wrapped in an oilskin and hurrying. But what I say is, who would be going down to the cottage except Davey?”

“Wasn’t Davey out with Tom?”

“He had been, but he said he was expecting some important letter, and when the bus couldn’t get through because of the snow he said he’d ride a horse over to Tekapo and pick up the mail. The bus was stranded there last night.”

“If he did that,” said Julia, “he wouldn’t be back for a long time.”

“If
he did,” Dove said significantly. Her sharp green eyes, searched Julia’s face. “Are you telling me the truth when you say nothing happened last night? Because, to be quite honest, you look as if you hadn’t slept at all.”

It was on the tip of Julia’s tongue to talk about the silent intruder, the ghastly white hand. But how did she know she could trust Dove? Might she not be making all that up about Davey to divert suspicion from herself? Davey! No, it was too horrible!

She shook her head valiantly, and had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing disappointment come into Dove’s face. She had made the cold snowy trip down from the cottage for nothing.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I just thought you ought to know I thought you might be able to catch the culprit red-handed.”

White-handed! thought Julia, and the grim humour of that almost made her giggle like Lily.

When Dove had gone she felt that she hadn’t a friend in the whole world. Why hadn’t she trusted Dove? Discussing the thing with someone would have helped. But Dove cast her warm, amorous, green glances on Paul, and that put her on the list of suspects, on the jealous-woman list Her visit could have been a trick.

Had Davey gone to Tekapo to get some important mail, or was that meant to be an attempt at an alibi? The only way to find out was to go down to his cottage. She had determined never to go there again, but now she must.

First, however, she would write to Uncle Jonathan, telling him everything that had happened. Because now that she was so completely alone, unable to talk even to Paul who gave her devious answers and was never entirely honest with her, there ought to be some record of the truth.

She began the letter slowly, gripping the pen tightly because of the way her fingers trembled with the cold.

I want you to know, Uncle Jonathan, that although you may feel you persuaded me to come out here to marry Paul, I would still have done so without your help. I wanted to come. Paul was the first man I ever loved, and I always hoped to marry the first man with whom I fell in love. Perhaps I am just a silly romantic. I can’t tell. For I still don’t know whether I shall ever marry Paul or not.

Harry may stop us.

Did you know that Paul had a brother Harry? He died in Australia several months ago of pneumonia. He was only twenty-six. They say he died. Yet I am sure he is in this house. I have never seen him. Then how can I be sure he is here? There are various ways, the things Georgina says, the voices I have heard, the way Nita behaved, the notes that are put under my door in the night. If there is ever another note I shall go mad. I can’t bear them any more, they are so stupidly demoralising, and there is no longer anyone I can tell about them because I don’t know whom I can trust. The funny thing is that I am sure it is Harry who doesn’t want me to marry Paul. If the snow hadn’t come and shut us in—we may not be able to get to the church tomorrow—something else would have happened. Perhaps something worse.

I am not just being stupid and imaginative. Too many odd things have happened. The worst thing of all is that now I am not sure about Davey. No one seems to know very much about him, not even Paul. Or if Paul does he doesn’t tell me anything. At first I talked a lot to Davey because I was lonely and nervous, and he seemed such a sane sensible person, even if he did despise me and call me the Queen of Sheba. He wasn’t exactly friendly, but I did trust him.

Now, with the things that have happened, I am so afraid that Davey is—

Julia’s hand stopped dead, the nib of her pen stabbing the paper. There was something protruding beneath her door, a folded scrap of paper.

She had heard no sound of a footstep, she hadn’t seen the paper slip under the door. It was just there, blandly innocent, as if it had materialised from thin air.

She stared at it stupidly. Then she made a rush to pick it up and tear it open.

The crude black letters were fainter this time, and a little spidery, as if they had been written by someone sitting in an awkward position. They read,

I don’t want to hurt you but if you attempt to marry Paul tomorrow I shall have to. This, the same as the other letters, is meant for your good. If you weren’t such a nice kid I wouldn’t have tried to spare your feelings.

Julia methodically put the half-finished letter to Uncle Jonathan away in the top drawer of the bureau, and turned the key in the lock. Then she tied a scarf round her head and put on her loose travelling coat and heavy shoes. It wasn’t far to Davey’s cottage, but it was still snowing and she could get very wet.

If anyone were watching and thought she was preparing to leave Heriot Hills they were going to be disappointed. Because this last letter that patronisingly treated her like a child was too much to be endured. Instead of frightening her it had made her angry. Tomorrow, in her wedding dress, she would call this bluff.

She had to hurry now, because if it were Davey who had left the letter he would scarcely be back at the cottage. She would catch him in his wet boots and snowy overcoat.

Kate was in the kitchen with Lily. A warm spicy smell of cooking came from that room. Kate saw Julia, dressed in outdoor things, slip past and called to her.

“My dear child, where are you going in this weather?”

“Only down to—only to feed Davey’s lambs.”

“My dear, do be careful. Don’t fall in a snowdrift. It’s such a dreadful day. Lily and I are in the throes of cooking. The bus didn’t get through, you know. All the food I ordered isn’t likely to arrive, so we’ll just have to whip something up. Fortunately, Lily is a very good cook.”