The Catherine Wheel (10 page)

Eily slipped in on the far side of the big bed and felt warmth and safety close round her. She said, “Thank you, Miss Heron,” on a soft breath, and heard a laugh from the neighbouring pillow.

“Oh, drop the Miss Heron! We’ll be cousins when you marry John Higgins.”

Jane lay there thinking how odd it all was. She knew the moment when Eily fell asleep, but she herself was broad awake. If you scare your first sleep away, it doesn’t readily come back. Her mind went over all the things that had happened since they came to the Catherine-Wheel—the old house, the dark passage to the shore, Al Miller’s drunken laugh, Eily, Luke White nursing a bleeding hand, Jeremy kissing her in the little room half way down the stairs. They came back as thoughts, but the thoughts changed to pictures, and the pictures went with her over the edge of sleep. In the last of them she was out of bed standing at the door of the room. The door was open. She looked into the passage, and it was empty—empty and dark. But there was a light at the end where the stair went down. She went along as far as the landing and looked over the stair. The door of the little room half way down was open and someone was coming out. It was Jeremy. That is what she thought when she saw him. And then she wasn’t sure. His hair was much longer, and he looked so ill. He had on a big loose coat and a high dark stock. His hands were pressed hard against his side, the blood ran between his fingers. It wasn’t Jeremy— it couldn’t be Jeremy. He came out of the room and looked up at her standing there. She knew that he was going to die. She screamed, and the scream waked her.

She was sitting up in the big bed in the dark with her hand at her throat and the scream ringing in her ears. For a moment the dream hung there—Jeremy looking up at her, and the blood running down—and the scream. It was her own scream. Or was it? The dream went back into the place from which it had come, and she wasn’t sure. She remembered Eily. If she had screamed like that, why hadn’t Eily waked?

She stretched out a hand across the bed to feel for Eily, and she wasn’t there. From the time of her waking to that time was a matter of seconds. It takes too long to tell. To live through, it had taken no longer than to lift a hand and let it fall again. In the moment she knew Eily wasn’t there she heard the scream again. It came from somewhere in the house.

Jane was at the door before she knew how she had got there. The passage stretched away dark to the landing—dark and empty. It was just like her dream, except that in her dream she hadn’t known whether it was hot or cold, and now she was so cold that she could hardly get her breath. Her heart thumped and her breath caught in her throat. She must have picked up her dressing-gown, because she had it clutched up against her. She must have caught it up from the foot of the bed without thinking what she did. She huddled it about her shoulders, and heard the house wake round her. A bed-spring creaked, doors opened. Miss Silver came out of her room fastening the cord of her crimson dressing-gown.

Jane ran past her to the head of the stairs and halted. It was just as if she had gone back again into her dream, because the door of the little room half way down was open and Jeremy was coming out. Terror went over her like a cold breath. And then it was gone, and the dream with it. This was Jeremy, very much alive and on the spot, in blue and white pyjamas, with his hair standing on end.

Jane ran down the half flight and caught his arm. She said, “Jeremy!”—or she began saying it and then stuck. With her lips parted and half his name frozen on them, she looked down into the hall. There were three people there. One of them lay sprawling in the middle of the floor. He lay on his face as if he had tripped on the bottom step and pitched forward with his arms spread wide. There was a handkerchief twisted round his left hand. He was in his stocking feet, but he wore dark trousers and a grey linen coat. The rough horn handle of a knife stuck up under his left shoulder. The yellow light of the hanging lamp showed all the grey linen on that side horribly stained. The lamp hung on three brass chains and it had been turned low, but it showed Luke White lying there dead with a knife in his back.

It might have been Florence Duke who had screamed. She stood just past the newel of the stair where the passage went on to the baize door. She was dressed as she had been at dinner. The scarlet dress with its flaring pink and green pattern gave her a most ghastly look. The old make-up put on hours ago stood out from the pallor of her face with shocking effect. She held her hands a little away from her and stared at them. The fingers were red.

Eily was on the bottom step of the stair, crouched down with her face in her hands.

In the moment that it took Jane and Jeremy to see all this Miss Silver passed them. She went straight down into the hall and touched one of those outflung wrists. As she straightened up again, Fogarty Castell came running down, dishevelled past belief, red pyjama jacket open at the neck, plaid dressing-gown flapping. At once the whole frozen scene broke up. His noisy agitation swamped it. Ejaculations, protests, asseverations set the air throbbing.

“My poor Luke! What has he done that this should happen to him? Who is the assassin? And why should it happen to me, in my house—my respectable house? And Mr. Taverner here—and the party—the reunion! What a reunion! We must have a doctor—why does nobody send for a doctor? Perhaps he may be restored—perhaps he may speak—if it is only one word—if it is only the name of the murderer who ruins me by arranging an assassination in my house! My poor Luke— such a waiter—such a hand with a cocktail!” He ran his fingers through his already distracted hair and produced an epitaph in a single word—“Unreplaceable!”

It was at this moment that Geoffrey Taverner made his appearance, an unruffled figure, his grey dressing-gown neatly fastened, his hair immaculate. The horn-rimmed glasses had been removed and left behind in his room. They marked the place at which he had been interrupted in his reading of Three Corpses and a Coffin.

Jacob Taverner followed a step or two behind, overcoated and muffled as if about to take the road, his face puckered up with cold. Or perhaps it wasn’t cold, but something else which gave him that yellow tinge under the tan. He came round the bend of the stair on Geoffrey Taverner’s heels, and heard Miss Silver say,

“He is quite dead, Mr. Castell. The police must be rung up immediately.”

Eily didn’t move. Jacob Taverner stepped past her into the hall. He stood there looking down at the prostrate figure.

“Luke White—eh?” He turned sharply on Miss Silver. “You say he’s dead. How do you know? Not a doctor, are you?”

Miss Silver’s air of authority had left her. She coughed in a deprecating manner and said,

“There is no pulse. And the position of the wound. I may have spoken too decidedly.” She produced a slightly flustered impression. “I was in London during the war. One could scarcely avoid some painful experiences.”

Jacob said, “H’m!” And then, “We ought to get him out of here.”

Miss Silver became very flustered indeed. With all the wish in the world to remain unobtrusively in the background, she really could not acquiesce in the removal of the body. She gave an excellent imitation of something very feminine and clinging.

“Oh, do you think so? Of course you will know best, but I have always understood that nothing should be disturbed until the arrival of the police. So extremely inconvenient, but I have always been under that impression.”

From the half open dining-room door came the raised exasperated voice of Fogarty Castell.

“Yes, I have said it twice—Ledlington police station!… Is that Ledlington police station?…I have an assassination to report…I say an assassination! A man has been stabbed with a knife! He is dead!”

Jacob Taverner crossed over to the dining-room and went in, shutting the door behind him. They could no longer hear what was said.

All this while Florence Duke had not moved at all. Eily still sat with her face in her hands. She was wearing a faded pink dressing-gown over her nightdress, and a pair of old bedroom slippers on her bare feet. Her dark hair was loose upon her shoulders. Jane sat down on the step beside her and put her arm round her. She could feel then that Eily was shuddering. Long tremors went over her like waves coming in on a low tide.

As Jeremy stepped down into the hall he felt a touch on his arm. It might have been accidental, but he thought not. Miss Silver stood just within the open doorway of the lounge. He thought that it was she who had touched him. As she stepped back, he moved forward. The darkness and warmth of the empty room were behind them. The fire still glowed upon the hearth. Whilst in full view of the hall, they were to all intents and purposes alone.

Miss Silver said in a very composed manner,

“Captain Taverner, I am not anxious to put myself forward. You are accustomed to some authority. Will you assert yourself if it is necessary? Nothing should be moved or touched before the arrival of the police, and if it is possible, everyone should come in here and await their arrival.”

He nodded.

“The girls aren’t dressed—none of us are, except Florence Duke. She—” He broke off suddenly.

Miss Silver coughed.

“She has blood on her hands. That does not prove anything, you know. If she found him, she may have attempted to stanch the wound. She has certainly received a severe shock. I think I had better go to her. The police should be here within half an hour. Pray do your best to get everyone into the lounge.”

She crossed the foot of the stairs and came to where Florence Duke stood motionless, her eyes on her reddened hands. She did not move when Miss Silver touched her.

“Mrs. Duke, will you come into the lounge and sit down. The police will be here before long. They will want to see everyone. You have had a shock.”

The arm she was touching jerked under her hand. Florence Duke made a choking sound in her throat. There were no words. Then on a deep, hard-won breath they came, not pouring out, but in her old slow way, like bubbles rising.

“He’s dead—I found him—”

“Yes. The police will want to know anything you can tell them. Come and sit down in the lounge.”

Florence did not move. She went on looking at her hands. She said,

“She was there—that girl Eily—she came from the lounge— she screamed. She said, ‘It’s Luke! He’s dead.’ And I said, ‘You never know your luck.’ ”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Why did you say that?”

Florence moved for the first time—moved and shifted her gaze. The fine dark eyes rested for a moment upon Miss Silver. They had a blank look. She said in that slow way,

“Well, you don’t, do you? Perhaps she doesn’t know hers. Perhaps it will catch up on her. It does sometimes when you’re not expecting it.”

Miss Silver said, “Dear me! Now what did you mean by that?”

Something flickered in the dark eyes. The heavy, monotonous voice said,

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She turned with a jerk and walked into the lounge.

Geoffrey Taverner was lighting the wall-lamps. As the light came on it showed Florence Duke standing over the fire. She had a handkerchief, and she was rubbing her hands and wiping them dry. When she had finished she dropped the handkerchief into the fire, where it presently blazed up and fell away to a light ash.

Jeremy was getting everyone into the lounge and doing it very well.

Jacob Taverner came over from the dining-room with Castell and said that the police were on their way. He looked like a mummied monkey, but his manner was brisk and businesslike. He was very much in command, and was pleased to approve what had been done.

“Quite right, quite right! The police will want to see everyone—they said so. And of course nothing must be touched. But we’re not all here. Who’s missing? I don’t see Mildred— or the Thorpe-Enningtons… Yes, that’s it—Mildred, and the Thorpe-Enningtons, and Annie Castell.”

Fogarty bounded into the conversation. He didn’t exactly run his hands through his hair and tear it out, but he gave the impression that he might do so at any moment.

“Annie?” he said on a piercingly interrogative note. “And what has Annie got to do with it? Does anyone imagine that she rises from her bed in the middle of the night to assassinate the best waiter we have ever had? I am her husband, and I can tell you that when she is in her bed she stays there, and that when she puts on her clothes it takes her three-quarters of an hour.”

“Then she had better start now,” said Jacob drily. “The police will probably want to see her.” He frowned and looked about him. “Someone had better see about the Thorpe-Enningtons and Mildred Taverner. I should have thought they’d have been down. There’s been enough noise to wake the dead.”

There was a gasp from Eily. Jane had got her into one of the big chairs by the fire. She sat on the arm of it herself with her hand on Eily’s shoulder. Eily leaned towards her, her head against Jane’s knee, her face hidden.

Jacob touched Miss Silver on the arm.

“You, madam—I don’t know your name, but you seem to have a head on your shoulders—will you go upstairs with Mr. Castell and see if Miss Taverner and Lady Marian Thorpe-Ennington and her husband are all right. They’d better come down.”

Miss Silver said nothing at all. Even if she had wanted to, Fogarty Castell would have given her very little opportunity. He talked with passion about his house, his reputation, his loss, the purity of his motives, his devotion to the interests of the public and his patron, the excellency of his wife Annie as a cook and her virtue as a woman.

This got them to the Thorpe-Enningtons’ door, where Fogarty tapped and met with no response. When repeated knockings, each louder than the last, had failed to elicit a reply, Miss Silver turned the handle of the door and opened it half way.

If there had been any anxiety, it was immediately dispelled. The deep blended sound of two persons snoring filled the room. There was quite unmistakably a male snore and a female snore. Fogarty Castell threw up his hands.

“What do we do? You can hear? They are asleep—the two of them. As to him, I could have told you it would be ten o’clock in the morning before he was awake. And the Lady Marian—am I to assault her, to wake her up, to shake her by the shoulder? If she is like my wife Annie who is her cousin she will not wake for anything less than that.”

He held a lighted candle. Miss Silver took it from his hand and entered the room.

In the big four-poster bed Freddy Thorpe-Ennington lay with his face to the wall. His fair hair stuck up all over his head. He looked young and defenceless. His mouth was wide open, and he snored in irregular jerks. Lady Marian lay on her back. She looked exactly like a lady on a tomb, with her hands folded on her breast and a long dark plait lying outside the bedclothes and reaching almost to her knee. In the wavering candlelight even the chinstrap added to the medieval effect. She looked beautiful and imposing, and she snored in a deep, harmonious way.

Miss Silver allowed the candlelight to shine upon the closed lids. Except for the fact that it displayed the magnificence of Marian Thorpe-Ennington’s eyelashes, nothing happened.

Miss Silver coughed and retreated.

“I think they may be left until the arrival of the police,” she said in her natural tone. “It can then be decided whether it is necessary to rouse them.”

Fogarty threw up his hands.

“What a gift! If I could sleep like that! What a magnificent woman! What a heart—what lungs—what a digestion! It is worth all the fortunes in the world to be able to put your head on your pillow and not to think again until the morning! My wife Annie is like that too, but for me, I’ll be thinking, and tossing round, and tossing back, and turning everything upside down in my mind a hundred times in the night. And that is how I can tell the police who is the assassin. If I am asleep I do not hear him. But I am awake. I am thinking that the house must be painted outside without fail in the spring, and that the spring is a bad time for the outside painting, because if by some miracle we have a hot summer, the paint will blister. And that if I cannot have the best paint it will not be worth while to have it done, because for bad paint it is not worth the labour expenses. Over and over, and round and round, it goes in my head. And then I hear him go whistling past the end of the house.”

They were in the passage. Miss Silver still held the candle. It illuminated her small prim features, her neat hair, the crochet edging of the warm red dressing-gown. She said,

“Dear me!” And then, “Who was it?”

Castell made an expansive gesture.

“It will be for the police to say. But when they hear that he comes round the house at night whistling under my niece Eily’s window, and always the same tune—” He pursed up his mouth and rendered very melodiously the first two lines of Bishop Heber’s celebrated hymn. “Does he come in the day? He does not! It is in the night that he comes and whistles under Eily’s window—like that. And when I ask my wife Annie she says it is a hymn tune called ‘Greenland’s Rocky Mountains.’ ”

Scholastic tradition was too strong for Miss Silver. She coughed and said,

“Icy.”

Fogarty looked outraged.

“Icy—rocky—it is all one what you call it! I do not sing hymns. It is John Higgins who sings them, and whistles them under Eily’s window. And my poor Luke who is in love with her, wouldn’t he be angry now? Wouldn’t it come to words between them, and maybe fighting? And maybe a knife in the back? And Eily out of her bed and downstairs there in the hall where she had no business to be in the middle of the night!”

Miss Silver coughed again.

“You will have to say all that to the police, Mr. Castell. Do you not think we should knock on Miss Taverner’s door?”

They knocked, and received no reply. This time Miss Silver did not wait to knock again. She opened the door and stepped across the threshold.

The room was of a fair size and sparsely furnished. The bed, a small modern one, stood back against the right-hand wall. It was empty, and so was the room. Mildred Taverner wasn’t there. Her clothes were neatly folded on a chair at the foot of the bed. The room offered no place of concealment. She wasn’t there.

Miss Silver came back into the passage, leaving the door ajar. From where she stood she could see that the bathroom door was open, and that the room itself was dark. She went along past Jane’s door and her own and looked in. There was certainly no one there.

As she stepped back, her eye caught a movement in the corresponding passage on the other side of the landing. Like the one in which they were standing, it was dark. But someone was coming along it towards the light. In a moment Mildred Taverner emerged. Her hair was wild and her manner distracted. She wore a heliotrope dressing-gown.

“Oh, Mr. Castell, what has happened? I woke up, and there was such a noise. I went along to find Geoffrey, but he wasn’t in his room. Is it a fire? Have I time to pack my things?”