The Stratton Story

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “Not a bad beginning. Go on.”

  “Heights above the fourteenth floor, society Mums, Customs officials and men wearing nylon masks over their faces. And going off the high diving board.”

  “Why go off it?”

  “That sneaking fear that if you don’t conquer it, it’ll conquer you. I’ve never believed that, and I shall never instill it into our children—but it was instilled into me, and I can never instill it out again. I might try that method Blanche was telling us about — telling our children what to expect if they don’t read the warning notices.”

  It was a strangely quiet end, she reflected, to a singularly eventful journey. She would remember all her life this small, candle-lit room, this gleaming oval table with crystal and silver set upon it and Julian seated opposite, his eyes on hers.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting Tim,” he remarked.

  “But you don’t like Service people; they make you feel old and they talk a nasty common language.”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes.”

  Julian watching her, saw her becoming more serious. “How much are you going to tell your father about the trip?” she asked.

  “Everything.”

  “Julian—”

  “Well?”

  “Why did she tamper with that warning notice? Haven’t you ever asked her?”

  “No, not straight out. You heard her explanation. I was sure she’d stick to it. But what she wouldn’t tell me, she’ll tell my father. When I said I’d bitten off more than I could chew, it was an understatement. I was the wrong person to bring her out. I hadn’t any authority, any old-friend privileges to count on. My father has. Thank God he’s here.”

  They did not have coffee; Gail did not want any, and Julian decided to have it at the hotel with his father. They parted at the foot of the stairs and he watched her go up to finish her packing. She turned to utter a final word of warning.

  “Don’t let your father talk you out of that dawn start,” she said.

  “Six on the dot,” he promised. He caught her up and held her for a moment. “Darling, I love you. I’ll be back in half an hour to tell you so in more detail.”

  He released her reluctantly and went away.

  Gail paused at Mrs. Westerby’s door, knocked and entered. Mrs. Westerby, a shawl over her dress, was seated on a low sofa before the open window. She said nothing, allowing Gail to take in the full beauty of the scene. The view was of a moonlit lake, mountains, wooded slopes. From here, the hotel was not visible; even the protective fencing was invisible in this light. The lake path could be seen at intervals between the trees and the water was no longer stirred by the breeze, but calm and still. Gail did not believe in ghosts, but she agreed with Mrs. Westerby, looking out at the restful scene, that this was where ghosts might walk—not restlessly, not seeking, but going over ground they had known and loved in life.

  “I never know quite how religious I am,” she heard Mrs. Westerby saying meditatively. “I can never quite reconcile the simplicity of the first message with the hokey-pokey and mumbo-jumbo that came afterwards. It’s only when I’m here, at Chandon, that things fall into place. Everything goes back to the beginning and I feel all right again. Do you believe in anything? So many young people don’t.”

  “I can do without what you called the hokey-pokey. I thought I’d be a Catholic, once; they seemed to have no problems; just swallowed it whole and took it in their stride.”

  “But you changed your mind?”

  “My brother changed my mind. He likes the idea of marching up to God, eventually, and saying ‘Well, here I am, and I did my best; what’s the score?’ ”

  “I think I would like your brother.”

  “Everybody likes my brother. That’s his trouble. Charm’s a terrible thing; you don’t have to worry about anything.”

  “Everything comes to you? Yes, I suppose so. And tomorrow you’ll be with him, and I hope you’ll forget us. That is, I hope you will forget the things which have distressed you on this journey.”

  It was difficult, listening to the quiet, level voice—which for the first time she did not think ugly—for Gail to remember exactly what had distressed her. This large, likable woman sitting so still, hands folded on her lap, her eyes drinking in beauty—this woman had no possible connection with the other, the loud-voiced, shambling creature from whom all who could escape, did so. The journey, she reflected, had kept everything good until the last.

  “I shan’t forget you,” she said, “and it won’t be long before you see me again.”

  She had an impulse to go on without pause and tell her what the future held-and then decided that Julian ought to break the news when he brought his father over from the hotel.

  Mrs. Westerby took her hand and held it for a moment.

  “Goodbye—and thank you, my dear.”

  Gail bent and laid her lips on the soft cheek. Then she went out and closed the door quietly behind her.

  She heard Mrs. Westerby going downstairs some time later. She heard her speaking to the old couple; all three went out together and Mrs. Westerby called up, from outside, to Gail’s window.

  “Julian seems to have gone for a stroll,” she said, “and he forgot to take a key. The servants are going to their quarters, so I shall leave the key on this stone bench beside the front door. If Julian doesn’t see it, will you call down to him?”

  Gail promised that she would. She would not only call down; she would go down.

  “I shall in all probability be back before him,” Mrs Westerby said. “I’m only going to sit for a little while in my favourite spot.”

  Gail stood watching the three figures as they moved away. The servants went to their rooms over the garage; Mrs Westerby, swathed in her shawl, walked slowly up the grassy slope beyond the gardens, paused on the top and then went out of sight beyond the trees bordering the path. She could be seen again farther along, but only for a moment; then Gail knew she had almost reached the semi-circular clearing that formed a kind of throne above the water.

  She closed one half of the window; it was chilly. She cleaned her teeth and finished the last of her packing and looked round the room to see that nothing was left out. Then she switched off the light and walked to the window and stood staring out. Yes, it was beautiful, she acknowledged. It was not even absurd, in this enveloping peace, to imagine Mrs. Westerby out there by the lake with the ghost of the gentle Edward. Perhaps she had already seen him; it would account for the serenity of her mood, for her calm, steady and strangely purposeful gait as she went towards the path by the lake.

  Gail glanced at the sky. Now and then light clouds brushed across the moon, like someone passing a cloth over the surface to make it brighter. She yawned, and turned towards the light switch; she would read until she heard Julian coming back with his father.

  And then she paused and slowly, unwillingly, turned to look out of the window once more.

  Perhaps it was Julian, she told herself, but not hopefully. She knew well enough that it was not Julian. But until the figure came into view again, she would not know for certain . . .

  The figure reappeared, walking slowly, very slowly along the path. Now she knew for certain. It was Mrs Stratton.

  She ought to have known, Gail told herself with rising irritation, that this trip wasn’t going to end on that pretty scene —soft light and gentle ghosts and young girl’s kiss on the withered cheek. How could she and Julian have been as naive as to imagine that the disturbing events of the journey would close in an intimate dinner for two and a dawn departure? And what unlucky chance had directed her eyes to the sight of Mrs Stratton coming to take a little walk beside the lake before going to bed? It would be easy, she knew, to pretend she had seen nothing. All she had to do, she told herself, dragging her coat roughly off its hanger, all she had to do —she kicked off her shoes and put on the moccasins she had put out for the morning—all she had to do was to take a running jump at the bed, pull the covers u
p to her chin, close her eyes and mind her own business and let Edward’s ghost keep the two women from meeting one another.

  For they must meet. She opened the door, switched on the landing light and went down the stairs. Mrs. Westerby was out there—serene and composed; but Mrs. Stratton was out there too, and Julian had stated specifically that no trouble would arise if the two women could be kept apart. This, after all, was the only thing she could do; go out and head Mrs. Stratton off before she reached the look-out and broke in on her sister-in-law’s reverie.

  For the change in the situation, the change from an atmosphere charged with tension to one of peace had come about simply because the two women had separated. The journey was over; one had gone to the hotel and the other had stayed in her cottage, and Julian’s father was here to see to it that they did not meet again until the final discussion as to the disposal of the furniture. But nobody had expected this after-dinner wandering in the moonlight. Why couldn’t people go to bed? Why did women, not in their first youth, take it into their heads to meander along narrow and—if the clouds grew thicker—dangerous paths looking for ghosts?

  Edward’s ghost. Which of them would consider she had first right to Edward’s ghost? Mrs. Westerby. If he wanted to walk for his widow, she would argue, he wouldn’t have chosen this place, where his widow had never before set foot and in which she was an interloper. If Edward was here, it would be because he had come home — to his own. It would be —

  At this point, the clouds obscured the moon and Gail’s fancies came to an abrupt end. She hesitated, and was preparing to go forward cautiously in the blackness towards the shimmer of water she could see through the trees, when to her relief the moon came out again and lit her way.

  She moved fast—she was not as near the path as she had thought and if she did not hurry she would not be in time to intercept Mrs Stratton before she reached the belvedere. She tried to take the last of the slope at a run, only to find herself sliding down the slippery grass. She got up, and to her dismay caught a glimpse of Mrs. Stratton’s dress as she passed behind the next line of trees.

  For the first time since she had seen her from the window, Gail felt a stab of fear. It was one thing to intercept, to suggest turning and walking back to the hotel on this pleasant evening, or talking loudly to give Mrs. Westerby time to retreat if she wished to. But neither of these plans was now possible. If she wanted to keep the two women apart—and something told her it was vital that she should keep them apart—she would have to swerve to the left and come out among the trees to the left of the look-out.

  She did not dare to call. Her heart was beating fast, and her mouth was dry, and she wanted Julian so desperately that she almost cried his name aloud. She felt lost, lonely and unqualified to cope with situations of this kind; she felt that she had been trapped just when she was on the point of escaping.

  She grasped roots, branches, anything that held fast, and pulled herself up the last steep yards. Then she was on level ground. Through the trees she could see, ahead, the figure of Mrs. Westerby standing motionless, gazing out over the lake; behind her, not yet at the curve which would enable her to see the older woman, Mrs. Stratton came with slow steps.

  Gail took a step forward—and then, without the slightest warning, iron arms closed round her from behind. A hand was clamped roughly over her mouth.

  Terror rolled up and engulfed her. Her legs were free; she kicked desperately, and then a trousered leg came round and imprisoned hers, holding her helpless and immovable. She could scarcely breathe; this was like drowning . . . like strangling, she thought desperately.

  And then she realised that she could see.

  And she could hear . . .

  She could see, on either side of her, two men, motionless. One of them she recognised by his likeness to Julian; it must be Julian, then, who held her in this paralysing grip. The two men were not looking at her; they were standing, grim and silent, watching Mrs. Westerby.

  Gail did not know whether Mrs. Westerby had heard Mrs. Stratton’s approach; she did not think so, for the ground was soft and even in this deathly stillness footsteps were almost inaudible. But something must have made her turn.

  For seconds, nobody, nothing moved. Mrs. Stratton’s back was to the watchers, but as her eyes fell on the other woman, Gail knew that she had never before seen so deep a look of loathing on any face as on Mrs Westerby’s, who was facing them.

  She could not tell what Mrs. Stratton would do. If she wished, she could turn and retreat by the way that she had come — but Gail, who had ceased to struggle, ceased to think of herself, knew that it would be like turning her back on a loaded gun that was pointing towards her.

  Mrs. Westerby spoke at last —a harsh, dragging voice.

  “It was in this place,” she said, “that I always wanted to meet you. Here . . . with Edward.” She paused. “I knew you would come. I knew you had to come. Tonight, or tomorrow night, or any night; I knew you would come.”

  Mrs. Stratton said nothing; Gail thought that horror would keep her silent, horror and fear of the naked hatred in the face and the voice of the trembling old woman before her.

  And then Mrs. Westerby spoke again—three words which sounded to Gail like an explosion shattering the night’s calm.

  “You killed him.”

  The words seemed to echo and echo endlessly over the mountains. Killed him . . . killed him . . . killed him . .

  “Of course,” Mrs. Stratton said quietly.

  Gail’s heart gave a lurch. The hand that bruised her mouth was removed. Her legs were freed. The arms that held her loosened. But she did not move, did not, could not utter a sound.

  “I knew.” Mrs. Westerby’s words came between the rasping sounds made by her breathing. “I knew.”

  “You couldn’t know,” Mrs. Stratton corrected her, and her voice was still quiet, still gentle. “You could only guess, my dear Blanche.”

  “It was poison, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dear, dear God . . .” Mrs. Westerby spoke the words softly. “Yes, I knew, or I guessed. But I couldn’t guess why. Why, why, why?”

  “Money, Blanche, money.” There was a gently mocking note in the soft tones. “Money—and the freedom to enjoy it. Not money to pour out, endlessly, keeping an invalid in the comfort in which you had always kept him. I had to look out for myself, you see. I wasn’t going to be left a poor widow. Not a second time.”

  “The . . . the . . . your book,” Mrs. Westerby brought out with difficulty. “You had money . . .”

  “The publishers took too long,” Mrs. Stratton said with no change of tone. “If I had known earlier, perhaps it wouldn’t have been necessary to ... to go so far. But I think Edward would have been a little in the way, Blanche. As ... as you are now.”

  Mrs. Westerby’s face twisted.

  “More poison?”

  “Of course not.” Mrs. Stratton spoke almost tenderly. “You have only to take two . . . perhaps three steps backwards.”

  “I would like to. Oh, I would like to,” Mrs. Westerby said yearningly. “But that would leave you . . .”

  “Exactly. With everything of Edward’s and . . . everything of yours. And I’m sure that Edward would like to know that you could no longer . . . interfere.”

  ‘‘I am stronger than you,” Mrs. Westerby said. “You can’t force me to move.”

  “No, that’s true. But, you see, I came along this path earlier this evening and I . . . shall I show you? I moved this boulder. I have only to push it, and it will be quite, quite impossible for you to do anything but . . . join Edward.”

  And Gail, frozen with horror, saw that even as she spoke the name, the great stone had begun to move. What happened next, she was never afterwards to recall with any clarity; she was never afterwards to see clearly through the fog of terror that had obscured the scene. She knew that all three men had sprung forward. Julian’s sudden movement sent her crashing against a tree, and she saw Mrs. Weste
rby caught and pinned against the stone. She saw, for a sickening instant, the face of bewilderment and fear that Mrs. Stratton turned on the three men. And she saw the look that supplanted the bewilderment and fear, the strange look of acceptance that Mrs. Stratton carried with her as she stepped backwards and reached blindly behind her for the support of the stone . . . the stone that had moved, that was no longer between her and the edge.

  There was no cry as she fell, no scream. There were only the seconds of deathly waiting, and then the sound, scarcely a splash, that was heard as the body hit the water. The dry sobbing that succeeded the sound, Gail realised, when it had gone on for some time, came from herself. Julian’s arms were round her; he was holding her as if he would never let her go, but even when the sobs ceased, her trembling continued.

  From Mrs. Westerby, standing motionless on the edge and staring out across the water, there was no sound whatever.

  Chapter 10

  “I knew,” Mrs. Westerby said slowly. “I knew. I have known for a very long time.”

  “You didn’t know.” Julian’s voice was gentle.

  She gave him a brief, upward glance.

  “I knew,” she said again.

  She paused, and they waited—Julian and his father, and Gail—in the quiet, dimly-lit drawing-room. Outside, along the lake path, figures moved, voices sounded; tragedy had struck and a woman had fallen to her death, and the details were spreading with the rapidity of all such events; two gentlemen, both of the police, though of different countries— England and France—had been walking together after dinner, and had witnessed her fall. What could be done, was being done, but Mrs. Westerby had been brought back to her cottage. There was nothing she could do. Nothing more.

  “Yes, I knew.” Her tone was firmer. “You’re trying to tell me that I guessed, or surmised, or felt that something was terribly wrong. I can only say that I knew—and my knowledge wasn’t based on anything but plain, clear facts. The facts wouldn’t have meant much to anybody but myself, but I could read them clearly enough, and they all pointed to something which I was afraid to look at. My mind, my brain told me what was going on, but I couldn’t, I wouldn’t accept it. It was too horrible, too terrible . . . Even to myself, right up to the end, there was always one piece missing. Why? Day and night, I asked myself that question: Why?” She beat with a clenched fist repeatedly on the palm of her hand. “Why, why, why? Why marry him? If money was her object, why not try for a much richer man? And why wait so long before deciding to ... to make away with him?