Vanishing Point (10 page)

The church clock struck again. It certainly sounded as if it was right overhead. Frank looked at his watch. A quarter to seven. Mr. Selby would doubtless be at the Holly Tree indulging in darts and the social glass. Mrs. Selby would, however, be at home.

He walked down the lane with Miss Silver. The house, when they arrived at it, could be discerned as a bungalow, and he could definitely smell the hens. There being no barking dog to announce their arrival, he used a knocker with a modern gimcrack feel about it. There was a pattering of footsteps and one of the casement windows on the right was pushed open a little way. A nervous voice said,

“Is there anyone there? Who is it?”

It was Miss Silver who answered.

“Mrs. Selby? May we come in? I think you may know me by sight. My name is Silver, and I am staying with Mrs. Merridew.”

Mrs. Selby sounded relieved.

“Oh, yes—of course—I’ve seen you with her. Oh, yes—Miss Silver.”

She came pattering round to the door and opened it. There was no light in the passage behind her, but at the far end a door stood open to a lighted room.

“You will excuse me for keeping you waiting, Miss Silver— and—and—”

“Mr. Abbott,” said Miss Silver in her most reassuring voice.

Mrs. Selby caught her breath in a nervous manner.

“Miss Silver and Mr. Abbott—you must excuse me—but when Mr. Selby is out I just like to see who is at the door before I open it.”

Miss Silver said, “A most prudent step,” and they all went down the passage to the lighted room.

Everything in it was new. The fact struck upon the eye and made rather the same effect as a painting without light or shade. There was a crimson carpet with a striking and quite hideous pattern resembling green and yellow tadpoles, now thinly scattered, now densely clustered. There was a suite covered in green plushette, curtains of crimson chenille, and two very large blue vases on the mantelpiece. The overhead light streamed down through an inverted bowl of pink glass.

As she closed the door and turned to her visitors Mrs. Selby wore an air of modest pride. She did not share Mr. Selby’s delight in a country life, but this room was a quite undoubted solace. There wasn’t a thing in it that hadn’t been bought new when they came here—nothing old, nothing shabby, nothing used until you were sick and tired of the sight of it. She came forward, a small woman, rather bent, and looking older than the jovial Mr. Selby, but then she had a worrying disposition and the delicate skin which takes on lines before it need. She had on a bright blue skirt and an equally bright pink jumper. Her hair showed hardly any grey.

Miss Silver said in her pleasant voice,

“This is very kind of you, Mrs. Selby. Mr. Abbott and I are making some enquiries with regard to Miss Holiday. I am sure you must be most concerned on her behalf.”

The tears sprang into Mrs. Selby’s faded eyes. She produced a handkerchief with a bunch of flowers embroidered across the corner and dabbed.

“Oh, yes, I am. We can’t think what has happened to her, Mr. Selby and I. We are most distressed. You see, he is out a good deal. Gentlemen do like a bit of society, and he goes up to the Holly Tree for his game of darts most evenings. So then he has always said to me, ‘You have in anyone you like—there’s no need to be moping alone’, and Miss Holiday being so near, only a step up the lane—well, I asked her in, and after a bit she’d come once or twice in the week, and nice for both of us.”

Miss Silver sat primly upright in one corner of the crimson settee. She wore her black cloth coat, but had loosened the warm fur tippet which made it so cozy in a wind. Her hands were encased in black woollen gloves, and her neat pale features shaded by the black felt hat which had now been her second-best for a couple of years. A small bunch of purple stock and mignonette nestled among the loops of ribbon with which it was trimmed.

Frank Abbott had seated himself in a chair on the left of the fire. He spoke now for the first time.

“Did Miss Holiday come and see you last night?”

Mrs. Selby turned her eyes on him. They must have been pretty eyes once, but the colour had gone out of them, and even the few tears she had just shed had reddened the lids.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “she came in about seven and we had a cup of tea together.”

“And did she seem just as usual?”

“Oh, yes, she did—except that—” She broke off, the handkerchief at her eyes again.

“Except what?”

“It wasn’t anything—only—”

He said with quiet pertinacity,

“Only—”

“Well, it wasn’t anything at all, only there had been a few words with Mrs. Bolder up at Crewe House where she goes to oblige.”

“Do you know what the words were about?”

Mrs. Selby became more animated than he had seen her.

“They don’t need to be about anything when it’s Mrs. Bolder,” she said. “Dreadful to have a temper like she has, and all for nothing.”

“Do you know what it was about this time?”

Mrs, Selby shook her head.

“Something to do with making up a fire as far as I could tell, but I tried to turn her thoughts from it.”

“Was she upset?”

“Well, not to say upset-—you really couldn’t say as much as that. Just talking about Mrs. Bolder having such a temper and never knowing what would set it off. And then we had our cup of tea and she started telling me all about that Lady Rowena she used to be companion to, and how she never thought she’d come down to going out to oblige.”

“She was depressed, then?”

Mrs. Selby looked surprised.

“Well no, not depressed. It always cheers her up talking about Lady Rowena. She likes talking about her.”

Miss Silver said,

“Was she quite cheerful when she went away?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Silver.”

“Mrs. Selby, at what time did she leave you?”

“It would be just before nine o’clock. Oh, Miss Silver—you don’t think anything has happened to her, do you? She was quite pleased, and she thought she must be going because of Mrs. Maple not liking her to be out after nine—only the night she’d go into Melbury to the pictures, and rather a fuss about that. And it’s nothing but a step up the lane—oh, I don’t see how anything could have happened to her when it’s such a little way.”

Frank Abbott said cheerfully,

“Well, we don’t know that anything has happened to her, Mrs. Selby, but we must just go on making enquiries. Now, as you were the last person to see her, perhaps you can tell us how she was dressed.”

“Oh, she had on her blue.”

“That wouldn’t be what she was working in up at Crewe House.”

Mrs. Selby looked shocked.

“Oh, no—she wouldn’t come down here in that! This was her blue that she got last year—a very nice shade that went well with her beads.”

“She was wearing a string of beads?”

“Well, yes—she wore them always. Ever such a pretty blue, with bits of gold and silver in them. They came from Venice or somewhere. That Lady Rowena she lived with gave them to her. She thought a lot of them.”

“I suppose she had a coat?”

“Oh yes—a black one.”

“Any hat?”

“Oh no—not to come that little way.”

“But if she had been going any distance, to Melbury or anywhere like that, would she have worn one then?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Abbott. She didn’t hold with all this going about with nothing on your head.”

There did not seem to be anything much more to say, but as they made their way to the front door, Miss Silver remarked on the convenience of living in a bungalow.

“I expect you are glad to be saved the stairs. In an old house they are often so steep. Have you water laid on?”

“Well, not company’s water, Miss Silver. Mr. Selby says we couldn’t expect that really. There’s a very convenient pumping arrangement with a cistern in the roof. It just has to be pumped every so often, and it runs from the taps just the same as if we were on the main.”

“Then you haven’t a well?”

Mrs. Selby said, “Oh, no! I shouldn’t fancy drinking water out of a well—oh, not at all!”

They said good-night and walked away.

When they were at a safe distance Frank Abbott said,

“Did you think they might have a well?”

“It was a possibility. Mrs. Maple has one at the bottom of her garden.”

“How do you know that?”

“Florrie Hunt told me.”

He said, “Do you really think—”

“I do not know. By all accounts Miss Holiday is, or was, a person of very few ideas, extremely nervous in some directions—she could hardly enter a house where there was a man— and a good deal taken up with her own superiority and the fact that she had come down in the world. The quarrel with the cook at Crewe House may have been more important than has been admitted. Or, without being of any importance in itself, it may have weighed on Miss Holiday’s mind. Whilst she was with Mrs. Selby this weight might have been lifted, only to return more heavily when she came out by herself into the dark. There could have been an impulse towards self-destruction. I do not say that there was. It is just one of several possibilities.”

Frank Abbott said,

“I’ll get the Melbury people on to Mrs. Maple’s well tomorrow.”

Rosamond was not at all happy about Jenny. She had it on her mind to speak to her about Craig Lester’s extraordinary story. He said that he had seen Jenny out of her bed and getting over a stile across the road at well after midnight. If he said that, it was true. One part of her mind believed what he said, but the other part just couldn’t. And every time she thought about saying to Jenny, “Craig saw you out in the road last night,” she felt as if she couldn’t bring herself to do it. If Jenny denied the whole thing point-blank, where did they go from there? Jenny lying—hardening herself with lie upon lie—and a wall growing up which neither of them could pass. She had an instinct that it would be like that, and that nothing would ever be quite the same again. If she pushed Jenny too far Jenny would lie. She mustn’t push Jenny into lying. What she must do was to watch and make sure that it didn’t happen again.

At first when they came to Crewe House she had slept in Jenny’s room. Jenny needed attention in the night. But as soon as she could manage for herself she had pushed Rosamond out. The room wasn’t really big enough for two beds. She liked having her own room where she could put on the light if she wanted to read. She didn’t like anyone else’s dreams getting all cluttered up with hers. Rosamond began to wonder now how much of all this nonsense was Jenny wanting to get out of bed and try her walking all on her own and with no one there to see. One thing was certain, she couldn’t move back into Jenny’s room now, and she couldn’t lock her in. She must just make sure that Jenny was asleep before she put her own light out and be ready to wake at the slightest sound. When you are anxious you never go right down into the depths. She must just take care not to go far enough to miss the least, faintest sound from Jenny’s room next door.

Jenny had a new Gloria Gilmore to read, and remained lost in it all the evening. It was like being in another world where none of the things that happened to Jenny Maxwell were real. There was a girl called Colleen O’Hara, and she was having a series of the most thrilling affairs with one young man after another, but you knew that in her heart of hearts she really loved her guardian, who was much too noble to ask her to be his wife, so he just went about being broken-hearted and stern, and too marvellously handsome for anything—only of course with a few grey hairs on his temples because of his secret sorrow. In this enthralling society Jenny could forget just what she wanted to. The trouble was that as soon as you came back into your own world it was all there waiting for you, and no matter how much you kept on saying to yourself that it was just a dream and none of it had ever happened, you didn’t really believe it.

Jenny put off saying good-night as long as she could, but in the end Rosamond stood over her with a cup of hot milk and tucked her up. She didn’t mind hot milk as a rule, but tonight she put up a fight over it and drove a bargain. If Rosamond would have some too, then she would drink hers, but not unless.

“And that’s flat!”

It wasn’t worth struggling about, and Rosamond gave way. She did not see Jenny slip something into the cup she gave her. She had turned to take up her own cup, when a plaintive voice from the bed stopped her.

“This cup’s got all the skin on it.”

“Jenny—it’s only cream!”

Jenny sat up in bed, her nose wrinkled with disgust.

“It’s horrible crawling, slimy skin, and I’ll be sick if I drink it! You give it to me on purpose because you think it’s fattening!

“Oh, Jenny, I don’t!”

“Oh, yes, you do! Change cups with me! I won’t drink this one!”

The exchange made, Jenny drank without further protest. She even flung her arms round Rosamond’s neck and hugged her when she said good-night.

A quarter of an hour later when Rosamond opened the door and stood on the threshold listening nothing could have been more satisfactory than the sound of Jenny’s gentle, regular breathing. She herself felt drowsy beyond anything she could remember. It was all she could do to keep her attention on shutting the door noiselessly, opening her window, and putting out the light. As soon as her head touched the pillow she went down into depths of sleep.

Jenny had not meant to go to sleep at all. It was Rosamond who was to sleep while she herself remained awake to carry out her plan. The gentle, regular breathing to which Rosamond had listened with so much satisfaction was just an act, and she had very nearly spoilt it by laughing in the middle. It had been fun to slip one of her sleeping-tablets into the milk and then get Rosamond to change cups. The tablet was one which had been left from some that Dr. Graham had prescribed when she was having all that pain last year and couldn’t sleep. Rosamond didn’t know that there were any of them left, but she had come across the box the other day, and there were two of them, rattling about inside. Rosamond was going to sleep soundly and she was going to sleep all night.

But Jenny didn’t mean to go to sleep at all. She was going to stay awake, and when everyone else was asleep she was going to go out. Because no matter how often she told herself that what had happened last night was a dream, she couldn’t quite believe it unless she went to the place again and saw that the thing which had frightened her wasn’t there.

A thing which had been taken away wouldn’t be there any longer. Not seeing it tonight wouldn’t mean that it hadn’t been there the night before. She began to think how funny it was that you should argue one way and something inside your mind should answer you back. It gave her the kind of feeling you have when you get out of bed in the dark and you don’t know where the door is, or the window, or how to get back into bed again and put your head under the clothes. Everything in her mind began to drift, until it carried her into a frightening dark place where someone said, “Well, nobody’s going to miss her,” and somebody shone a torch upon wet trodden ground. There was an old sack lying there, and a hand that it didn’t quite cover. She couldn’t see the whole of the hand, only the three middle fingers, and they were bone-white under the beam of the torch. She took a gasping breath and cried out, “It’s a dream—it’s a dream—it’s a dream!” If you say that, you always wake up. No matter how strong the dream is, it’s bound to let go of you if you know it is only a dream.

Jenny woke with her heart beating hard and her hands thrown out. It was a dream—a dream—a dream! And dreams came out of nowhere. She put on the bedside light and looked at her own little clock which Rosamond had given her for Christmas. So she must have been asleep for quite a long time. The curtains were drawn back from the half-open window. She went over to it and looked out. If there wasn’t a light in the room, it wouldn’t seem so dark outside. A feeling of adventure came up in her. She wasn’t sleepy any more. She wanted to be out in the dark, running down the drive, crossing the road, getting over the stile, right away from everyone, where she could dance and nobody could see her.

She dressed quickly—a warm skirt, a thick pullover, and the shoes which she had hardly walked in yet. Rosamond had been afraid that she would find it difficult to get used to them at first, but she didn’t—not a bit. Her feet tingled with liking them— they tingled, and wanted to dance. She opened the door and slipped down the dark passage without a sound. She had Rosamond’s torch, but she didn’t need to switch it on. She let herself out of the side door and turned her face to the wind. It moved softly, and it was full of the smell of growing things. There was no moon, but it wasn’t dark. She could see the black shapes of the trees against a luminous sky.

She walked slowly down the drive lest she should displace a stone or break a dry branch under her feet and be heard by Rosamond or—a much more dreadful thought—Aunt Lydia. She went slowly. There was no sound, and no one waked.

Going over the road was like crossing a river. She waded into it and swam, and climbed out over the stile on the other side and into Mr. Johnson’s field. There was a footpath close along under the hedge, and if everyone was asleep, there wouldn’t be anyone to see her if she made patterns on the ground with the torch and danced to keep them company.

At the corner of the field the path turned away from the road, and two fields farther on there was another stile coming out upon Vicarage Lane. Jenny switched off her torch, crouched down by the hedge, and listened. There wasn’t a sound of anything at all except that soft air moving overhead. This was where she had had her dream last night. She had crawled right up to the stile and looked through. And there had been sounds in the dream—people moving—and the brightness of a torch upon the sack. She hadn’t really seen what was under the sack. She hadn’t seen the fingers of a hand. Not last night—oh, no, not last night. It was only tonight when she was asleep in her bed that the hand had come into the dream.

And now there wasn’t anything at all. That was what she had come here for—to know for certain—to see for herself with her very own eyes that there wasn’t anything here. There hadn’t ever been anything. It had all been nothing but a dream. That was the worst of having a lot of imagination. You had to have it, or you couldn’t make up stories that anyone would want to read. But sometimes the stories made themselves up and came banging into your mind whether you wanted them there or not. This had been a horrid one and she hadn’t wanted it at all. She wanted to push it out and lock the door so that it couldn’t come back. Something lying on the grass at the edge of Vicarage Lane—something that was covered with a sack, and a torch shining down on it. It wasn’t her torch. Two people there in the lane, whispering together. One of them had a torch, and the beam shone down on the sack—

She made herself get up and put on her torch and look over the stile. There wasn’t anybody there. There hadn’t ever been anybody there. She made herself get over the stile and walk along the grass edge. Mrs. Maple’s cottage was behind her on the other side of the lane. It looked like a dark hump breaking the line of the hedge. The Selbys’ bungalow was before her at the end of the lane. After that there was only a footpath. She sent the beam of the torch along the grass to make a little light path for her feet. She walked on this path right up to the Selbys’ gate, and then she turned and went back. There wasn’t anything lying at the edge of the lane. There wasn’t anything to dream about any more. She could go home and get into bed and sleep. She set the round light at the end of the beam skipping and dancing. Everything inside her felt light and happy.

She had almost reached the stile when the dancing light picked up a golden spark. It was like a little gold point pricking up through the pale moony beam. It was there, and it was gone again. She flicked the light to and fro, but she couldn’t find it. She tried again, and she saw part of a little round thing like the half of an orange, or an apple, or the moon before it is full. Only much, much smaller. Just a little round thing pushed down into the grass and the mud at the side of the lane—a little thing no bigger than her thumbnail. She wanted to leave it lying there and get over the stile and run all the way home, but something wouldn’t let her.

She stooped down and picked it up. There was mud on it, but it wasn’t broken. It was a round glass bead, the colour dim in the light of the torch, but she knew very well that it was a bright sky blue and that there were little flakes of gold and silver mixed with the glass. It was one of the gold flakes which had been caught in the beam like a spark. It was dull and dirty now in the palm of her hand, but she had seen it too often not to know what it would look like if it was clean. She had been seeing it for more than two years, day in, day out, with a lot more like it on a string round Miss Holiday’s neck.