Flowers Stained With Moonlight (6 page)

There was something shocking in Sylvia’s words and attitude, although I would be hard put to explain exactly what – some indifference, some detachment that ill-suited her position as bereaved widow, allowing her to speak thus
of the dead. The inspector looked more and more like a Cheshire cat who has had cream.

‘This is all most interesting, Mrs Granger,’ he said silkily. ‘Now, come – surely you must have some idea of what bothered Mr Granger so, and made him angry. Can you not think what it might be?’

She hesitated, torn between the conflicting desires of obeying her mother’s injunctions, yielding to the inspector’s charismatic pressure, and surely influenced also by the idea that refusing to speak would tell against her, whereas speaking too much might lead to the same result …

‘I’ve really no idea,’ she said finally. ‘I never dreamt of asking him. I thought he was just a … a jealous husband, you know, as many men are. He was not young and perhaps he was worried … about me, worried that I should, oh, I don’t know. Fall in love, or something. Meet some young, dashing handsome man and run off with him, for instance. But that’s all such nonsense, isn’t it?’

‘Is it? Did you never meet any nice, pleasing young men? Not even in Paris?’

‘Not in Paris or anywhere,’ she replied coldly. ‘“Nice, pleasing young men” do not interest me.’

‘Well, that’s very virtuous, to be sure. And surprising, too, for a lovely young woman like you. The contrary would be most natural and understandable, I assure you. Suppose you tell me more about this trip to Paris. You did not travel alone, I suppose?’

‘Of course not. I travelled with my friend Camilla Wright, who is here now. We meant to go for six weeks, but
then we enjoyed ourselves so much that we wanted to stay on, but as I said, my husband came and fetched me back.’

‘Ah. And Miss Wright remained in Paris?’

‘No, she didn’t want to remain alone. She bought a ticket and returned to England just after.’

‘And what did you and Miss Wright do in Paris which was so very interesting and amusing that you didn’t want to return on the date you had planned?’

‘Oh, nothing! We were free, that’s all – free and far from everything! We went out, to theatres and restaurants and dances. We met interesting families and practised our French. We had café au lait and croissants for breakfast on the Rue de Rivoli. We had no household duties. We just enjoyed ourselves!’

‘You just enjoyed yourself – far from your elderly, severe and jealous husband.’

The inspector’s remark cast a pall over Sylvia’s conversation, which had become cheerful, almost frivolous. After an uncomfortable silence, she spoke again, but now her tone was somewhat pinched.

‘If you are trying to dig up some secret enmity between my husband and myself, for which I wished to kill him, you are barking up the wrong tree,’ she said. I thought, and surely the inspector thought also, that Sylvia’s personality was more complex than the innocent, sulky child she so easily played at being. ‘There was no conflict between my husband and myself,’ she went on. ‘When he came over to Paris to fetch me, there was no quarrel, as I quite simply acceded to his request. If I sometimes felt that he and his servants seemed to be observing
me, I believed that it was because he was worried, not because he suspected me, and I tried my best to reassure him.’

‘Quite so, quite so,’ said the inspector in a tone of irony, exchanging glances with the sergeant. ‘Well, Mrs Granger, we shall return to the subject when we have learnt more. For the moment, I will bid you good day.’ I believe that according to his lights, he had succeeded in what he had set out to do, namely to surprise Sylvia out of her initial pose and to jerk her into making some unplanned statements. Seeing his drift, she had now recovered control, and he no doubt thought that he had obtained as much as he needed for one day, and that continuation in the same direction would only encourage her to further harden her present mask. He must certainly have hoped that his threats would contribute to ripen the grain of fear he had sown within her. He arose, and opened the door for her courteously. They took leave of each other in low tones, wasting no words, and I found myself alone.

After a few moments, I returned to the parlour, and found the three ladies together, talking about quite other things. Mrs Bryce-Fortescue asked no questions, of course. I gave her a complete account of all that had occurred later on in the evening, and she exclaimed with anger and annoyance when she heard all that Sylvia had said. ‘Drat the girl!’ she cried. ‘Could she not have the sense to hide George’s trip to Paris, or at the very least the fact that he was extremely angry at her not returning?’

I wondered very much if Sylvia would mention the interview during the afternoon, but she volunteered nothing. I suppose that if she spoke about it at all, it would be to Camilla.
I dearly wished to know if she would do so, and determined to keep my eye on her carefully for the rest of the day. But as it turned out, there was nothing to keep my eye on, for we remained sociably together, talking and working, until supper, and at supper Mrs Bryce-Fortescue persuaded Sylvia to take a sleeping draught, telling her that she looked quite worn out, as indeed she did. As a result, Sylvia retired before any of us, and I talked with Mrs Bryce-Fortescue as Camilla went out for a turn in the gloaming. I went to bed quite early, and heard Camilla come up into her room and go to bed. I admit that I opened my secret door and listened to hear if the two girls would join each other for a nocturnal talk, but they did not; Sylvia was no doubt deeply asleep. Perhaps they will talk when she awakens; they may not, as Sylvia seems a very introverted type of person, but if they do, I feel I simply must know about it! Which explains why I am up already, well before the arrival of my morning cup of tea (although not so early that the birds have not yet begun their day), sitting in my narrow bed with the cosy quilt drawn all around me, writing on my knees, with my ears pricked up like an eager hound’s for any sound from next door. How dreadful – I sound like some pointy-nosed old maid, desperately curious about her neighbours’ activities! Ah well, one cannot be a detective (and how much, how sincerely I hope that I
am
a detective, however amateur, and am not merely playing at being a detective) without a dose of natural curiosity. If you do not think me very bad, Dora dear, then it must be all right.

Your loving sister

Vanessa

My darling twin,

I am writing to you by the light of a candle in my room, preparatory to going to nest under my quilt, which has become one of my dearest friends within this household. Another, believe it or not, is – but no. Let me tell you all the news in order.

To begin with, Sylvia did not wake while I was writing to you yesterday morning; she slept late, and I kept close to either her or Camilla till midday. After luncheon, the two girls once again declared their intention of going for a ramble around the lake until tea, but Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, forestalling my desires out of politeness, or perhaps because they corresponded to her own purposes, turned to me with great cheerfulness and said,

‘How lovely for Vanessa! She has not had a chance to see the grounds yet, and the lake is one of the most delightful spots. Have you a pair of rubber boots, dear? It’s safest to wear them about the lake. I’ll find some for you.’

The girls made no protest, and perhaps I only imagined a slight sulkiness in Sylvia’s mood at first, as the three of us went off together. Camilla behaved most naturally, chatting to me and asking a great many questions about my life and activities. I had to quickly supply some details corresponding to the story Mrs Bryce-Fortescue and I had invented together, but the conversation soon centred about the fascinating subject of my schoolteaching, so that there was no need to dissimulate. I waxed enthusiastic, and both
Sylvia and Camilla were deeply interested in every tidbit. Sylvia’s mood lightened perceptibly as she listened, and she sighed a little wistfully.

‘How exciting it must be to live all alone, in one’s very own little rooms, and work for one’s living! Can you imagine it, Camilla? You see,’ she added, turning to me with a look of real friendliness, ‘I grew up here in this big house, and I married two years ago, and went to live in another house, an even bigger one – daughter and wife of a country squire, that’s the only life I’ve ever known. Not that George was really a country squire,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘But he meant to be.’

‘And what has your life been like?’ I asked, turning to Camilla. ‘Are you also from the country?’

‘Worse even than Sylvia’s,’ she laughed. ‘I grew up in my family’s castle, Severingham. You can call it a country house if you like, with its two-hundred-odd rooms. It is a splendid place, but not one where a girl can learn anything about town civilisation or independent work! I was raised to be a chatelaine, but I shall never be a chatelaine after all, for when my father dies Severingham will pass to a male cousin, and out I shall go.’ She laughed, but it was easy enough to detect the trace of bitterness in her voice.

‘Well,’ said Sylvia gaily, ‘we always say that if Camilla ever needs to make a living, she could probably manage it by sewing. She’s a marvellous seamstress – she made this dress for me! It’s better than what Mother’s seamstress does.’

I admired her dress, which really was a lovely creation in black silk – with, of all things, a rose pink lining which
was not visible until Sylvia lifted up the hem of her skirt to show it to me. A single, large pink silk rose gathered up the skirt on one side.

‘You see, I’ve put on the pink rose today,’ she said, showing it to Camilla and turning to me. ‘I have a black one, too, as this is a mourning dress … but …’

‘It is really lovely!’ I said reassuringly. ‘Did you make your own dress, too, Camilla?’

Camilla’s dress was of a much simpler cut, in dark blue.

‘No. I like making clothes for other people, but for myself, I hate it,’ said Camilla. ‘I made myself a riding habit once. But it’s much easier and more fun to do it for someone else. Easier to modify the pattern when you’re doing the fitting onto another person – and also, you get the pleasure of seeing what you’ve made while it’s being worn. Yes, I am good at sewing. It’s a silly talent to have, isn’t it? I’d much rather be good at something else. But my mother discovered this early on, and then I had to have lessons in London with a professional.’

‘Is that how you and Sylvia met?’ I asked. This time it was Sylvia who answered.

‘Oh, no! I’ve never taken any lessons of any kind at all,’ she said lightly. ‘We met through friends. Remember Mr Clemming?’ she added, turning to Camilla and smiling. ‘He’s dead now, and his wife lives in Paris. We saw her last winter. Mrs Clemming’s parents used to be close friends with Mother’s parents, and Mrs Clemming remained friends with Mother although they saw each other quite rarely. But they wrote; I think they mainly wrote about us children! The
Clemmings had a daughter the same age as me. When Mrs Clemming was young, her parents used to invite Mother’s parents and Mother to their London house for the season, in fact that’s where Mother met Father. Then Mrs Clemming inherited the house and lived there with her husband, and they invited me there when I was eighteen, to come out. I spent two months going to balls and parties. I didn’t enjoy it much. I didn’t like Mrs Clemming so much then; I think her husband made her life difficult. She’s really become a much, much nicer person now that she lives in Paris and does what she likes – and doesn’t have to worry about marrying off Helen!’

‘You can’t imagine how jealous Mrs Clemming used to be of Sylvia,’ said Camilla a little truculently. ‘Jealous for her own daughter, I mean. I think she invited Sylvia like a poor little country cousin, as a foil for Helen. I can understand it, because Sylvia is pale and fragile, and Helen was a great strong healthy girl with a loud voice and red cheeks. But everywhere they went, everybody was always more interested in Sylvia. Yes, it’s true, Syl – don’t glare at me! I can’t help it if that helpless look of yours drives people – men – mad! All right, I’m just teasing you. But Mrs Clemming wasn’t always very nice to you.’

‘No, it’s true,’ admitted Sylvia. ‘She seemed tired of having me after just a couple of months, and as I was just as tired of her, I came home.’

‘I can’t imagine living in London during the season,’ I mused. ‘It’s strange to me that you should view my work as something exciting – though indeed, it is in its own way – but it doesn’t have much glamour compared to London parties!’

‘London parties for eighteen-year-old girls are stupid!’ exclaimed Sylvia animatedly. ‘Perhaps later, when people grow up, they can meet and dance and talk and eat together in a happy, amusing way, like Mrs Clemming does now. But not when you’re eighteen – then, all a girl is supposed to do is listen to the advice of her elders on which are the most eligible young bachelors, and spend the evening angling to have a dance or a word with them. Oh, I had no talent for it! I hated them all. I was bored silly, while Helen was always busy. Thank goodness, I met Camilla at one of those parties. Then we arranged to meet again and became friends … best friends. I was such a failure in every other way! I didn’t find a husband there and I wasn’t even interested!’

‘Yet just two years later, you were married,’ I remarked.

We had reached the lake as we spoke, and were following a path along the shore. The sun shone through the merest wisps of clouds, the path was bordered by great bunches of tall grasses among which grew wild flowers of all descriptions, delicate-petalled on long, fragile stems. Bees buzzed happily amongst them, and as we crossed an occasional mud-patch, a small frog was to be seen hopping away hastily towards the water, its tiny body stretching out longer than one would have believed possible. The lake shimmered beyond us, flat and greenish-grey, its glassy surface barely rippled by the almost imperceptible breeze. The air was mild, and the mood was generally uplifted and communicative; otherwise, I think that my remark might have risked sending Sylvia scurrying back into her protective shell of silence. Her expression darkened, but Camilla picked a spray of cornflowers and pulling Sylvia
close to her, she tucked them into her hair. Smiling down at her – Sylvia is of normal height, but Camilla is quite tall and very gracious – she said,

‘Oh, don’t let’s talk about marriage now!’

‘No, don’t let’s!’ agreed Sylvia, touching the flowers and allowing herself to be cajoled. ‘Vanessa, do be careful whom you marry!’

‘I shall be,’ I laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I am already engaged.’ I do not know why I mentioned it, for there was certainly no need and perhaps my maiden state was even a kind of encouragement for Sylvia’s confidences. But mentioning Arthur suddenly seemed to bring him closer to me, and goodness knows how I missed him.

‘Engaged! Oh! What is he like?’ said Sylvia with a mixture of interest and vexation.

‘Oh …’ I reflected for a moment without speaking. I found it most difficult to describe Arthur.

‘Big? Small? Old? Young? Foolish? Intelligent? Strong? Weak?’ Camilla said jokingly.

‘In a few words: thoughtful, serious, dreamy and—’ I meant to say tender, but felt too shy ‘—and kind. He is six years older than I am. We have been engaged for four years already, but must wait to be married until he has a better position.’

‘Four years! Then you became engaged at twenty, like I did! Ah, how I should have loved four more years of freedom!’ cried Sylvia.

‘Was it really necessary for you to marry immediately?’

‘George and Mother wanted it,’ she answered simply. ‘As for me …’

‘Sylvia,’ said Camilla, almost warningly, I thought. And most artfully, she turned the conversation onto other topics, and recounted a thousand anecdotes of her childhood and her travels on the continent, which enthralled us until we had finished the full tour of the lake and returned, hot and slightly muddy, to the house.

We spent an uneventful evening all together, but as soon as bedtime approached, I began once again to itch with the desire to know if Sylvia would tell Camilla, in confidence, about the previous day’s interrogation. The three of us came up together, and separated into our rooms with a cordial goodnight. I prepared myself for bed and slipped under the eiderdown, but did not blow out my candle, for I was determined to see if Sylvia did not mean to talk with her friend in private. I dozed off in spite of the candle, which burnt out, but so tense was I that some time later I jumped awake, and immediately became aware of a tiny noise in the corridor, then the softest tapping, almost petting, at the door next to mine. I heard movements in the next room, and Camilla opened her door. There was faint whispering. Then I seemed to hear both girls slip away into Sylvia’s room, and a faint click as they shut themselves inside. From my room I could no longer hear the slightest sound, but quick as a wink, I rushed across to my secret door, moved the table, slid the carefully oiled bolt, pushed it open and silently stepped out. Hugging the wall as I had done earlier, I stole silently past the door leading from Camilla’s room into the strange large chamber in which I now found myself, and reached Sylvia’s. A light shone from underneath it, and
as the crack under the door actually measured a good half an inch in height, I lay down and applied my eye to it.

I could see only feet; Sylvia was sitting on her bed, and Camilla occupied the dainty chintz-covered armchair. But I could hear them well enough; they spoke in low tones, but did not whisper. To my surprise, however, their conversation did not at first turn upon the subject I had expected.

‘You’re mad,’ Camilla was saying in an anxious whisper. ‘Burn it, Sylvia!’

‘I can’t, I won’t!’ she answered stubbornly. ‘No one can find it – no one, Camilla. I’ve hidden it in a box with a key. A secret box, in fact. And I’ve hidden the key. No one can find it, ever. And no one would think to look there anyway.’

‘A secret box – what secret box?’

‘That,’ said Sylvia, with some gesture I could not see. ‘It has a secret compartment at the bottom. The jeweller showed me how to use it; it needs a special, very tiny key which I keep in an extra-secret place – you can’t even see the keyhole if you don’t know where it is. Oh, Camilla, if George never found it, no one ever will – there can’t be anybody, not even the police, more suspicious than George! I know he looked over my jewellery many a time, to see if I had any pieces he didn’t know about.’

‘My God, and you left it there?’

‘Well, yes, I did. I know it was a risk – I think I actually liked the risk! Part of me was afraid, but – some other part of me really would have liked him to find it! Can you understand that? Anyway, he never did.’

‘You’re out of your mind – it’s too dangerous! Burn it, Sylvia, please!’ begged Camilla in a voice of distress.

‘I can’t – I love it. It’s too beautiful. You don’t realise what it means to me. Especially when I’m alone. No one will ever find it, believe me. Don’t think about it any more, Camilla. I can’t think why you should worry about it when there’s something so incredibly much more frightening, and you haven’t even given me time to tell you about it! It’s the police … they say they have a witness who saw me running through the woods just before George died!’

‘No!’ cried Camilla – ‘Oh, no! Oh, Sylvia, you fool, don’t tell me – don’t tell me it’s true! You really went out that afternoon?’

‘No, no, I didn’t. Of course not! You know I didn’t. Why should I lie to you?’

‘I don’t know. Out of fear? And perhaps you would be right. Sylvia – is it true?’

‘No, it isn’t! I didn’t go out at all, I tell you! Camilla – don’t you believe me? Don’t you believe me? You don’t think I’m lying to you, do you? It’s that witness who’s lying. But what shall I do? I’m afraid, Camilla, I’m afraid.’

‘No, I know you wouldn’t lie to me. At least, I believe so, I hope so, I want it to be so. But you’re so elusive, Sylvia. What’s truth to you? If you didn’t go out, how can someone claim they saw you? It’s impossible. Surely the statement can’t be proved or used. What did you answer the police when they told you?’

‘What could I say? I just told them that it was impossible, since I hadn’t left my room.’

There was a moment of silence. Camilla rose and crossed over to the bed. I could not see her gesture, but she leant close to her friend.

‘Oh, Sylvia, tell me, tell me the truth. Look at me. Did you leave your room? It’s so important! Tell me!’

‘No, I didn’t. I told you, Camilla. You can believe me.’