Home through the Dark Page 8

  It was eight o’clock and I still hadn’t eaten. I opened a tin of soup and drank it standing up in the kitchen. I felt bruised and battered and I was still subject to bouts of violent trembling. The phone sounded again. I let it ring for a while but eventually, as on that fateful occasion at Culpepper’s, I had to answer it.

  Marcus said anxiously, “Are you all right, Ginnie?”

  “I’m all right,” I said.

  “I looked out a few minutes ago and the flat seemed to be in darkness. Try not to worry. He can’t force you to go back.”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to come up here and have a drink with me?”

  “No, thank you. I think I’ll just have a hot bath and go to bed with a couple of aspirins.”

  “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “Some soup, yes.”

  “All right. Sleep well.”

  “Thanks for phoning.”

  Carl was probably in the train back to London by now. I pictured him taking a taxi and letting himself into the empty flat. Had anyone thrown the dead roses away? Strange how my mind kept harking back to them. They were a symbol of the unreal existence we had had together – champagne and roses. And now the roses would be dead, curled up, withered, dry. I thought – I could have gone back with him tonight. He wanted me to. I could have forgotten about the Beeches and the job and all the needling question marks that had surrounded me in Westhampton. For a time at least he would have been careful not to upset me again. We would have resumed the frenetic round of drinks and parties and first nights and beautiful women whose eyes frankly wondered whatever Carl had seen in a mouse like me.

  My teeth fastened in my lip. This evening had left me in no doubt of my feelings for him but it was all so useless, so completely hopeless. My mind shied blisteringly away from the quicksands of what might have been and skidded to a halt in another direction. Whatever had he meant by those last two questions? Had I had my wits about me, I could have retaliated with one of my own: why had he himself come today? “It blew up unexpectedly,” he’d said. What had? I’d assumed he had come to see Robert Harling but the play wasn’t on this week. A little tremor of apprehension crawled over my scalp.

  “I know more than you think,” he had said. Could Carl possibly be connected in some way with all those labyrinthine threads – the Picardy, the man in Room 127? Was it Stephen rather than Robert he had come to see? “A word of warning,” he had said.

  With a numb feeling of disbelief I went round the flat once more, this time to switch off the lights. The hot bath soothed and comforted my body but it couldn’t reach the whirling, clicking computer of my brain which had embarked on a wild, push-button marathon of conjecture. Carl knew Madame Lefevre better than I did. Had the theatre crowd heard of her through him? In any event, there was surely nothing sinister about her. And what possible harm did he imagine I could do, that he felt it necessary to “warn” me?

  Shivering in the soft towel despite the steamy heat of the small room, I resolved bleakly to trust no one, not even Marcus. For if Carl of all people could suddenly emerge as a potential enemy, then the world was indeed upside-down.

  Chapter 7

  I WAS heavy-eyed and emotionally drained the next morning, but like an automaton I drove to Culpepper’s. Miss Derbyshire looked at me across the covered mound of her typewriter. “I hear you’ve been deputizing for me in more ways than one.”

  I stared at her blankly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  She seemed to be trying to gauge the truth of my reply.

  “At the theatre,” she said at last, “helping Kitty.”

  A host of little alarm buzzers sounded in my head. “The girl who usually helps me has sprained her wrist.” That was the only half-memory I had time to pinpoint.

  “You’re Rachel?”

  “I am indeed.”

  I attempted a smile. “It’s a small world.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Of course I didn’t know. How should I?”

  Her eyes were on me, unwinking black buttons. “My brother was most intrigued to learn you’d turned up here, too.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Stephen. Stephen Darby.” When I didn’t, because I couldn’t, speak, she added, “He dropped the ‘shire’ for the stage and changed the ‘e’ to ‘a.’”

  She had slipped on the way to work – that Thursday, obviously, and been taken straight to hospital, unable to contact him. This link between Culpepper’s and the theatre was the one clue I needed to confirm my suspicion that it was Stephen who had phoned. No wonder he had been intrigued to learn I was here; he could surely be in no doubt now that it was I who had received his hurried message. Quite suddenly, it seemed that I had made a dangerous and criminally stupid mistake in coming to work here.

  Back-pedalling desperately, I said with an attempt at lightness, “Well, now that you’re back, I can at least relinquish my theatre duties to you.”

  “I doubt if you’ll get away with that.”

  My eyes skidded to her face. “How do you mean?”

  “From what I hear, you caused quite a stir there last night, sweeping off arm-in-arm with Carl Clements. They won’t let you out of their clutches now that they know you have the ear of the great man.”

  I said numbly, “I haven’t any influence with him.”

  “You’ll never convince them of that. Believe me, you’ll be surprised how popular you are the next time you go there.”

  “Well, I certainly won’t be going as often now,” I said a little wildly. “After all, I was only helping out in your absence.”

  “But I gathered you’d made yourself indispensable, advising them on production and Lord knows what else.”

  Obviously Stephen wouldn’t readily forgive me for that.

  To my untold relief, the bell rang in Mr. Holding’s office and, with a final lingering look at me, Rachel picked up her notebook and went inside.

  The palms of my hands were sticky with sweat. I took a handkerchief out of my bag and wiped them carefully, trying to anchor my whirling thoughts into some semblance of order. It now seemed obvious that Stephen was the “friend” who had come back to collect the luggage from Room 127, and also that it had been Rachel with him at the theatre on Sunday. “Suppose he goes on refusing to eat.” So they must still have him hidden away somewhere, but who he was and why there had been no publicity about his disappearance I couldn’t begin to guess. Briefly I wondered if I should make some kind of a statement to the police, but there was so little I could tell them. There was no shred of evidence to prove that anyone had disappeared at all, and only my own word that I’d intercepted the cryptic message that had started it all.

  After her unwarranted burst of conversation, Rachel, to my relief, retreated into surly silence for the rest of the morning. At twelve-thirty I was preparing to go to lunch when Marcus came in. He nodded to Rachel and turned to me.

  “Hello, Ginnie, how are things?”

  “Fine, thank you.” My eyes willed him not to make any unguarded comment.

  “Are you coming across the road for lunch?”

  “Not today, no, I’ve rather a lot of shopping to do. I’ll have to settle for a sandwich in a snack bar today.”

  “According to the menu in the window they have steak and kidney pie on!”

  I smiled. “The answer’s still no, but I hope you enjoy it.”

  “Oh, well, I tried!” He went over and tapped on Mr. Holding’s door and at his answer, went inside.

  “Quite the little gadabout, aren’t you?” Rachel remarked acidly. “A different man for each day of the week!”

  “A slight exaggeration,” I said lightly, picking up my bag. “I’ll be back at one-thirty.”

  I hadn’t any shopping, but I was in no state to face a tête-à-tête with Marcus. In my present weakened condition I might all too easily find myself confiding in him, which could be dangerous. Since I had effectively cheated myself out of a
proper lunch, I went perforce to the snack bar round the corner, making the most of melamine table tops and plastic pepper pots, though as it happened the ruse was unnecessary, since he was still with Mr. Holding when I returned. Shortly afterwards they came out of the inner room together and as Mr. Holding stopped for a word with Rachel, Marcus leaned over my desk.

  “How about dinner, since you couldn’t make lunch?”

  “I – can’t tonight, I’m afraid.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  I flushed, but before I could think of a reply, Mr. Holding finished with Rachel and stood waiting at the door and Marcus joined him and went out without a backward glance.

  One of the phone calls during the afternoon was, surprisingly, for me. Rachel had answered it, and a sarcastic smile spread over her face as she looked across at me. Without a word she handed me the receiver.

  “Ginnie? Joanna Lacy here. I was wondering if Mr. Clements would like complementary tickets for the first night on Thursday week?”

  “I really don’t know,” I said hesitantly, uncomfortably aware of Rachel’s interest. “I think he might.”

  “Good. Then if you’ll just let me have his address, I’ll see that he gets a couple.”

  That was one trap I was not likely to fall into. “You can always reach him at the Playhouse Theatre.”

  “Oh, thanks. You’ll be coming too, won’t you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Will you be at the rehearsals again this week? I’d rather like to ask you about the interpretation of a few lines in Act Three.”

  Conscious of Rachel’s grin, I said a little shortly, “I’m not a drama coach, Joanna, and I’m sure Laurence wouldn’t like me butting in.”

  She laughed. “Oh, come on, don’t be stuffy! It’s only a very minor point, he probably wouldn’t even notice, but it is open to two interpretations and I’m interested to know what you make of it. After all, you know the play backwards, don’t you? Are you free this evening, by any chance?”

  I knew resignedly that I would have to face them all sometime and probably the sooner it was over, the better – something to do with getting back on the horse after it had thrown you. And I had certainly been thrown last night. It would also back up my refusal of Marcus’s dinner invitation.

  “All right, I’ll look in after work.”

  “I told you you wouldn’t be allowed to stay away,” Rachel said smugly as I put the phone down.

  “Were you at the theatre on Sunday?” I asked suddenly, and had the satisfaction of seeing a guarded look come to her face.

  “Only very briefly. Why?”

  “You weren’t there at lunchtime.”

  “No, I didn’t get back from the parents’ till after three. Those Sunday trains are the very devil.”

  That was probably true. If she had been there only briefly she would barely have had time to discuss essentials with Stephen, which explained why he hadn’t mentioned me and my comment about Madame Lefevre, which had apparently made such an impression on them all. Certainly Rachel had not known yesterday of my connection with the theatre; just as certainly, she knew all the relevant details today.

  Her cynicism had at least prepared me for the open arms which greeted me at the theatre, but the image of Carl was still blazoned on the foyer and my control was rocky, to say the least.

  “Gosh, Ginnie, you should have seen their faces!” Liz Payne said with a laugh. “Talk about dumbfounded! Have you known him long?”

  There seemed little point in persisting in my secrecy. “He’s my husband,” I said flatly.

  Their reactions were simultaneous and I was deluged with their excited questions and exclamations. I said rapidly, “With all due respect, I didn’t come here to discuss Carl Clements. Joanna, if you want me to go over that bit with you –”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry, Ginnie. It’s in the third act.” She gave a warning shake of the head to the others, which I wasn’t supposed to see, and with a tight throat I went with her into a corner and read through the scene, trying to remember the interpretation Carl had put on it three years ago at the Playhouse.

  When we had finished I said casually, “Why did he come here yesterday, anyway?”

  “Who? Oh – I’m not sure. He spoke to Laurence for some time. Something to do with Robert, I gather. Lucky devil! I wish he’d take us all lock, stock and barrel! That would solve a lot of difficulties!”

  “What difficulties?”

  “Oh, money problems, you know the kind of thing.”

  “Is the theatre short of money?” I asked carefully.

  “What theatre isn’t? Well, all right, the Playhouse, presumably! But in the provinces it’s always the same – rents go up, leases run out –”

  Stephen came past and stopped on seeing me. “Well, well, Mrs. Clements!”

  “Ginnie will do,” I said steadily.

  “You must have enjoyed yourself immensely, laughing up your sleeve at us all.”

  “Now look, Stephen,” I began hotly, but he interrupted me.

  “And I believe you’re working at the same place as my sister, yet another coincidence.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I’d no idea who she was till she told me this morning. You don’t look at all alike.” He was, in fact, much more prepossessing than Rachel. He was leaning against the door jamb with arms folded, looking down at me.

  “How long have you been there?”

  I met his eyes calmly. “I started last Monday – just over a week.” It was a forlorn hope, but the fact that I wasn’t officially there on the day of the phone call might give him pause.

  “What made you decide to take that particular job?”

  “My goodness, Steve!” I said lightly. “What an inquisition!”

  His eyes fell. “I’m sorry, but you’re full of surprises, Ginnie. You can’t blame me for wondering how many others you might spring.”

  “My life,” I said flippantly, getting to my feet, “is an open book! I took the job simply because they had a vacancy, it was something I could do, and I needed some cash. Okay?” Carl would have been proud of me, I thought sourly. “If that’s all I can do, Joanna, I’ll go now. There’s a program I want to see on television.”

  “Thanks so much for coming. See you tomorrow?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Try to drop in sometime, it’s exciting when the play begins to fall into shape.” She gave a self-conscious little laugh. “But of course, I don’t have to tell you that!”

  “I doubt if there’s anything any of us can tell Mrs. Clements,” said Stephen.

  I met his eye. “I’ll try not to put you in your place too often,” I said sweetly, and heard Joanna’s amused laugh. None of which, I reflected wryly on my way down the stairs, had endeared me any more to Stephen Darby. However, there was a limit to the amount I would take lying down, and he and his poisonous sister might as well realize that.

  Since it was still early enough to be available for dinner with Marcus, I stopped at a steak house further along Phoenix Street and the blueness of evening was in the air by the time I emerged and drove home.

  Two girls I hadn’t seen before were coming out of the garage next to mine as I swung the door shut. The taller one came over. “Hello, you must be our new neighbour from Number Seven. I’m Stephanie Brigg.”

  “Ginnie Durrell. Did you have a good holiday?”

  “Fabulous, thanks. This is my cousin, Pamela. I hear we missed one of Sarah’s parties.”

  “Yes, it was very enjoyable.”

  “What did you think of our pretty boys?” Pamela asked with a twinkle.

  “The photographers? Too gorgeous for words! I loved their pastel suits.”

  “Not to mention, of course, the carefully casual lock of hair!”

  “Oh, Pam,” Stephanie protested with a laugh.

  “Well, you passed the acid test yourself, anyway,” Pamela went on. “We met old Miss Cavendish this morning and she informed us you seemed a ‘ple
asant gel’!”

  “That’s reassuring!”

  We had reached our front doors by this time and I left them to go up the stairs to their flat above mine. I was glad to have met them, unaccountably relieved that I wasn’t alone stuck out in my little wing any longer. Sarah’s words about the ground floor had stayed with me and to my suddenly apprehensive eyes everywhere looked very accessible.

  I switched on the drawing-room lights and immediately the world outside deepened from blue to black. I went across to draw the curtains. It was still damp and raw after yesterday’s rain and the man on the seat in the park opposite could not have been very comfortable, though he obviously had excellent eyesight to be able to read his paper in that difficult light.

  The television program I had given as my excuse to leave Joanna, scheduled for rather later than I had implied, was about to start. I made a quick round of the flat checking doors and windows, then I settled down for a pleasant hour or two of relaxation. From time to time I could hear the girls moving about in the flat above, and this added to my sense of well-being. I was tired, probably reaction from the emotional upheaval of the previous day, and I was in bed and asleep by soon after ten-thirty.

  At first, I wasn’t sure what had awakened me. I lay still, wrapped in the coils of the dream from which I had been roused, and then the sound came again. It was the doorbell. I sat up slowly, looking at the luminous face of the clock on the bedside table. It was one o’clock. What emergency could have made someone call at this hour? Panic explanations juggled for position in my mind. Tremblingly I slipped on my dressing gown and padded out into the hall. All was quiet.

  I put my mouth against the solid wood of the door. “Who is it?”

  There was no reply. I waited, a fluttering sensation at the base of my throat. There was no window in the flat that gave onto the stretch of gravel by the front door, and I had not the slightest intention of opening it until I knew who was there. For timeless minutes, measured only by my rapid heartbeats, I waited shiveringly in the hall. There was complete silence, not even the sound of retreating footsteps. At last, chilled and thoroughly frightened, I crept back to bed. Only when daylight began to seep into the room was I at last able to snatch a couple of hours’ unbroken sleep before the alarm clock jangled me into full consciousness again.