The Girl In The Cellar (11 page)

Anne sat in the train. The escape feeling was strong on her. She had done it. She had got away. Nothing could stop her. All these well-known feelings surged in her and had their way—for about half an hour.

It was then that she began to think. What was she going to do and where was she going to go? She thought about Jim. Suppose she went to him. Well, suppose she did, and he didn’t believe her. This was a most dreadful thought, and she made herself think about it quietly and steadily. What, after all, did he know about her? Only that she had turned up with his wife’s bag and with an incredible tale of seeing her lying dead in the cellar of a strange house. If she could have given any account of herself, if she could have said where she had come from and what she was doing—if she even knew her own real name—But she didn’t know anything at all except that her Christian name was Anne. Her memory was gone, and she didn’t know if it would ever come back. It might, or it might not—she couldn’t tell. How could she go to Jim? The answer was perfectly plain. If he believed Lilian—and why shouldn’t he believe her—she was lost. Something in her which was proud and independent roused up and took possession of her. Not yet. She must find somewhere where she could be quiet for a little. Jim had left her with his aunts, and she had come away. She wouldn’t go back, no matter what he said or did. And if she wouldn’t go back she must take a little time to consider what she would do.

She put Jim away from her and thought about Miss Silver. Could she go to Miss Silver? She had to think that out very carefully, because if she couldn’t—if she couldn’t—A spasm of terror swept over her. Her hands came together in her lap and clenched there. Could she go to Miss Silver? And as she put the question she knew very well what the answer must be—she couldn’t. The answer came with a terrible distinctness, and not all the shrinking of her flesh and spirit could interfere with its clarity. Miss Silver was working with Jim. She couldn’t, she mustn’t, risk it. She dared not risk it. If she had had her memory clear—if… What was the good of that? The face of the man who had come to her in the garden came up in her memory. It was fearfully distinct. He might say anything, and she couldn’t contradict him of her own knowledge. He could say anything he liked, and she would be helpless. Her mind showed her one thing after another that he might say, and she would know that they couldn’t be true, but she could not prove them untrue—she couldn’t prove anything at all. Then if she couldn’t disprove his lies, what was she to do? Disappear—vanish into the crowds of London. That was the only safe way until her memory came back. And suppose it never did come back? A tremor ran over her. No use to think about the future.

Quite suddenly a picture came up in her mind. It was the picture of a little girl eight or nine years old writing in a copybook. What she wrote was, ‘Manners makyth man’. She had got down about half-way on the page—‘Manners makyth man’, over and over again. The picture was small and clear. Suddenly the child stopped writing, stretched out her right hand, and gave a deep sigh. The picture vanished. But in that moment Anne had recognized herself. It was Aunt Letty who set those copies, and as the words went through her mind she saw Aunt Letty quite plainly, a mountainous creature, quite old, with white hair and a hard hand that was quick to slap.

The whole hadn’t lasted a minute. It left her grasping but encouraged. She had remembered. For the first time the curtain had lifted. It would certainly have been of more use if it had lifted on some nearer scene. But curiously enough that picture of herself as a child of eight and a half or nine was most oddly reassuring. To look back and see herself as a child brought the present, as it were, into focus.

Her hands relaxed, and her mind quietened. She had ten pounds, and she had her freedom. Now that she had started remembering she would go on. There was nothing to be dismayed about. Everything would come right.

It was curious the effect it had on her. She felt hopeful and encouraged. For the rest of the way her mind was full of plans. She must get work. The money Prissy had given her wouldn’t last her for very long. She must get a room, and she must buy a nightgown and a brush and comb. She would have to pay for her room in advance. Oh, and she must have a case of some sort. Quite a cheap one would do—but no one would take you in without any luggage.

She went on planning.

Jim rang up Chantreys about an hour later.

‘I’d like to speak to Anne.’

There was a curious effect. He couldn’t make out what it was. The nearest he got to it was dismay. It was Lilian who had answered. First she didn’t say anything at all, then she said, ‘Anne—’

‘Yes.’

‘Well—’

‘I want to speak to her.’

Lilian didn’t know what to do. She temporised.

‘I don’t know that you can.’

‘Why?’

‘She—she isn’t here.’

‘You mean she’s out?’

‘Well—’

‘Lilian, do you mind telling me what you mean?’

There was a pause. She was greatly tempted to hang up. She could pretend they had been cut off. Her mind, twisting this way and that, boggled at a decision.

‘Jim—something has happened.’

It was a relief to tell him. He would have to be told. Much better to tell the truth—really—

‘What has happened?’

‘She—she’s gone.’

‘Lilian, what do you mean?’

‘She—she’s gone. I couldn’t stop her. I didn’t know she was going.’

‘Do you mean that Anne has gone?’

Lilian’s voice became more and more agitated.

‘Yes—yes. And it’s no use your asking me why, for I don’t know any more about it than you do. When we got up this morning she wasn’t here, that’s all—she just wasn’t here. And it’s no good asking why she went off like that, because I don’t know. No one here knows. I said good-night to her, and she went up to bed, and that’s the last I saw of her—the very last.’

Lilian was quite pleased with herself by now. She had got over the worst of it. Jim couldn’t really say anything. He had deceived her shamefully. She didn’t know whether to say anything about that to him or not. Perhaps better not. What was it that man had said last night—‘Least said, soonest mended.’ Yes, that was what she had got to remember. When you hadn’t said anything you could always put in a word here and there just as it might be convenient. She became aware of Jim’s voice, very hard and cold—‘I’m coming down at once.’ And then the click of the receiver being replaced.

By the time that Jim arrived Lilian was quite persuaded that she could carry everything off just as she wanted to. She was one of those people who can work out a fine plan if there is no one else to call the tune, but with Jim facing her it wasn’t so easy. To begin with, she had never seen him like this before. She had not seen very much of him. He had been brought up by his mother’s family, and on his visits he had been at first the boy and then the rather silent young man. Then he had vanished for three years—they really didn’t know what he had been doing. It was nonsense to think of his embarrassing them, and she certainly wasn’t going to stand it.

And then when he came down everything seemed to have changed. He was a man now, he wasn’t a boy any longer. When he looked at her like this her heart contracted. She couldn’t help it.

She got up, walked to the window, and back again:

‘I don’t know what you think. I’m sure we were all as kind to her as we could be.’

‘Were you? Then why did she go?’

‘Really—how do I know? You can say what you like, but there was something very extraordinary about her. I don’t know, I’m sure—’

He stood in front of the fireplace and looked at her.

‘What don’t you know?’

‘Really, Jim, anyone would think—’

‘What would they think?’

Lilian burst into tears.

‘Anyone would think you—you suspected us! It’s very hard—it’s very hard!’

‘Lilian—do you know why she went?’

‘No, I don’t’

‘Then I must see whether anyone else does.’

And he was gone. It was a relief, but what did he mean to do? She couldn’t think. She blew her nose and went over what she had said. There was nothing the matter. He couldn’t expect her to know anything. He couldn’t think that she did know anything. It would be all right. It must be all right. And if he had gone… Had he gone?

He had not gone.

When he left Lilian’s room he made his way to the back premises. It was in his mind that he would see Thomasina.

Lilian was always concerned with making a smooth tale. He didn’t want smooth tales, he wanted the truth. He thought that he would get it from Thomasina.

He came across her in the pantry and shut the door.

‘Thomasina, I want to ask you about Mrs Fancourt.’

She turned round to him with a teapot in her hand and a fine polishing cloth.

‘Yes, Mr Jim?’

‘I hear she’s gone.’

‘So it would seem.’ The words came without fuss, slowly— he thought with something in the voice. No, he couldn’t get nearer to it than that.

He said, ‘Do you know why she went?’

Thomasina rubbed at the side of the teapot.

‘I might form a guess, sir.’

‘What would be your guess?’

‘I don’t know that I should say.’

‘Yes, you must say.’

She went on rubbing the teapot. Presently she said, ‘It’s not my place to talk of what goes on in the house.’

He leaned forward and took her wrists in a light, steady clasp.

‘I’m not talking about what is your place and what isn’t. I’m talking about my desperate need to know what has happened to Anne.’

She lifted her eyes to his and said steadily, ‘It’s like that, is it?’

‘Yes, it’s like that.’

She turned round and put the teapot down without haste, without fuss. Then when she was facing him again she looked at him and said, ‘She’s good.’

‘Yes, she’s good.’

He had the feeling that they were talking on a different plane now. It was the plane on which you spoke the simple truth and it was received as such. Everything was plain and easy between them. He said, ‘Why did she go?’

‘I don’t know. She went in a hurry.’

‘How do you know that?’

She took her time to answer. Her eyes were on his face.

When she spoke her voice wasn’t quite so calm.

‘I woke up out of my first sleep—I don’t generally wake. It went through my head that there was something to be done and that I hadn’t known what it was. And then sleep came over me again, and I didn’t wake till it was light.’

He heard what she said. It didn’t mean anything—or it meant too much. Which was it? He said, ‘When did you find out that she was gone?’

‘When I went in with her tea. The blind was pulled back like she always had it, and I could see at once that she wasn’t there. Nor her clothes. Her hat and coat were gone as well as the rest. But she’d left her bag.’

‘Was her purse in it?’

Thomasina shook her head.

‘She didn’t have a purse. The notes was in the middle of the bag, and a little loose change in the pocket at the side. I looked to see.’ Her voice was quite calm and decided.

He called out sharply, ‘But if she hadn’t any money with her, how could she go?’

‘I don’t know.’ There was something in her voice—something.

He said, ‘Thomasina, if there is anything at all, you must tell me—you must.’

She looked at him full.

‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth—I don’t know anything. But the back door was open this morning. It wasn’t Mattie or me who left it open.’

‘Why would she go out the back way?’

‘Seems to me it would be because she didn’t want to be heard.’

‘Yes. But what made her—what made her?’

Thomasina had her thoughts, but she kept them close. Getting no answer, Jim sought one of himself.

‘Something must have happened. That time you woke up—when would it be?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t generally wake before the middle of the night.’

‘That would be between twelve and one?’

She nodded. ‘But it’s nothing to go by.’

‘What could have happened to make her go off like that? She went in a hurry—because she forgot her bag. How could she have forgotten it?’

Thomasina’s eyes met his.

‘I don’t know.’

He turned from her and stood for a moment with his face averted. Then he swung round on her again.

‘There must have been something to make her go off like that.’

Thomasina said slowly, ‘Perhaps she remembered something.’

Jim went straight back to Miss Silver.

‘No one knows anything about her. She has simply vanished,’ he said.

Miss Silver picked up her knitting and sat in silence for a minute or two. Then she looked up at him standing on her hearthrug and said, ‘It would be better if you sat down, Mr Fancourt.’

‘I don’t feel as if I could.’

‘Nevertheless it will be better… Thank you. What do you think has happened?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve thought the whole way up on the train. It seems to me there are only two ways of it. Either she went off herself, or she was taken.’

‘That is reasonable.’

‘If she went off herself, why did she leave her purse?’

‘She could have been in a very great hurry’

‘What hurry?’

‘That we do not know. But you say that yesterday when you went down something had happened.’

‘Yes, that man had come down and found her in the garden. He had threatened her. But she didn’t know him, she didn’t know him at all. She had never seen him before. What he said was a complete mystery to her.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said they’d got to have a talk. He said they wouldn’t want to have it in public. He frightened her. She turned quite faint when he said it. He laughed at her and said that she knew what he might say, and she said she didn’t know—she didn’t know anything. She said, “I think that’s what frightened me. If I could have remembered, I wouldn’t have been so frightened. It’s not knowing, not being able to see. It’s like waking up in the night and not knowing where you are.” ’ He repeated the words, and they brought her close to him. He wasn’t in here with Miss Silver. He was out on the windy side of the hill. His arm was round her. He felt her tremble against him.

Miss Silver knitted. She knew very well where he was. She let him be there. Presently he began to speak again.

‘After a little she went on—telling me what he said. I don’t know whether he mistook her for somebody else, but what he said was, “Remember, we know who you are.” Then he said he’d got some orders for her. She wasn’t to tell anyone she’d seen him, or what he had said. And when she got her orders she was to do just what she was told, and at once. Then he said, “You’d better,” and turned round and went away.’

Miss Silver looked up.

‘She did not know him at all?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I see—’ She paused for thought.

Jim’s voice came in.

‘I can’t understand it—any of it. You know how it is. You’re near someone—very near. You know they’re speaking the truth. And when I say you know, I mean you really do know. There’s no guess work about it—there’s only one mind between you. Well, it was like that.’ He sat back in his chair.

Miss Silver inclined her head gently. She said, ‘I see.’

He went on.

‘And then all of a sudden there’s a complete break—you can’t get in touch with them any more. It’s plain hell. What happened—that’s what I keep on trying to get at. What could possibly have happened?’

Miss Silver knitted, in silence for a minute or two. Then she said, ‘It seems to me that there are two alternatives. One is that Anne has recovered her memory. We do not know what that memory may have shown her.’

‘Do you think that?’

‘I do not know. It is evident that something of an extremely disturbing nature occurred. Will you tell me just what happened between you?’

He told her.

She said, ‘The other alternative is that something happened after you left—something that made her decide to get away. Can you think of anything that she may possibly have learned?’

He said, ‘She went in a great hurry.’

He reminded her about the abandoned bag.

‘Then she had no money with her?’

‘None. As far as we know.’

There was another silence. Then Miss Silver said, ‘What sort of woman is your aunt?’

‘Lilian?’

‘If that is her name.’

‘There are two of them, Lilian and Harriet. Harriet is the younger. She is entirely taken up with local good works.’

‘The letter which was in Anne’s handbag was signed Lilian. What kind of woman is she?’

Jim stared.

‘I’ve never seen very much of either of them. State visits at intervals—you know the kind of thing. She’s not a brain. She is just a woman living in the country.’

In Miss Silver’s mind was a clear recollection of something which her friend at Haleycott had said about Lilian Fancourt—‘One of those women who haven’t got very much, but what they’ve got they stick to.’

‘And, if I may ask you—what is the position with regard to the house at Haleycott?’

Jim said slowly, ‘My grandfather left it to me, but—I wouldn’t have turned them out. They’d lived there always. They were the second family. It wouldn’t have been right to turn them out.’

‘Did they know that?’

‘I suppose they knew what my grandfather’s will was. Look here, Miss Silver, you can’t think—’

She fixed her eyes upon his face.

‘I think that no avenue must be unexplored.’

He got up from his chair. It was as if he pushed the whole thing away.

‘Look here, we can’t go into that. If Lilian wanted to do anything, what could she do? Besides, she isn’t like that. She’s a fussy, silly woman. I don’t mind telling you a little of her goes a long way with me. But when all’s said and done, what could she do?’

‘Mr Fancourt, did this man who came see her?’

‘See Lilian? Yes, he did. But I don’t know that he asked for her. Thomasina wasn’t sure whether he said Mrs Fancourt or Miss Fancourt.’

‘And was he with her long?’

‘Thomasina didn’t know. She went back to her pantry. She left him with Lilian.’

They went on talking, and got nowhere.