by Dorothy Eden
Half an hour later Alexander opened the door to Grace’s ring. He looked wide-eyed and important.
“Georgy says she wants to see you immediately.”
“Does she? Can she give me time to take my coat off? How are you, Alexander?”
“I’ve been answering the telephone, but Georgy wouldn’t let me talk. She isn’t fair. She says I’m too little to take important messages.”
Grace hung up her coat and ruffled the little boy’s hair affectionately.
“Sounds just like a girl, doesn’t she? Who was the important message from?”
“Willa,” said Alexander.
Grace stared at the innocent face. “Willa!”
Alexander nodded, pouting. “And I wanted to ask her about the elks in the forest.”
Grace raced upstairs.
“Georgy! Georgy, is it true you were just talking to Willa?”
Georgy was lying back on her pillows, flushed and frowning.
“Don’t speak so loudly, Grace. I have a headache.”
“Alexander says Willa was on the telephone just now. Is it true?”
“Yes. I just talked to her. I had to go into Mummy’s and Daddy’s room to answer the telephone, and now I feel dizzy.”
“But what did she say?”
“Just to tell Daddy to come and rescue her. She was tired of the forest and the rain dripping on the roof.”
“The rain dripping on the roof is driving me mad…”
“Georgy, you’re making this up.”
Georgy opened hurt eyes.
“I am not. It was Willa. Ask Alexander.”
“He says you wouldn’t let him talk to her.”
“No, he’s too little. Daddy says he isn’t allowed to take messages; he gets them wrong.”
Grace sat on the side of the bed. She laid her hand on the child’s hot forehead.
“Don’t you think you might, too, when you’re running a temperature? You must have imagined that was Willa. She wouldn’t say such an extraordinary thing. What does your father have to rescue her from?”
“The elks, of course,” said Alexander in the doorway. “She’s frightened of elks. Like I is.”
Georgy lay with closed eyes, saying wearily. “She only said Daddy wasn’t to shoot them because she didn’t like blood. Grace, will you read to us?”
“Georgy—”
“I’m really too sick to talk anymore.”
“If you could get up to answer the telephone, you can manage to answer questions. Or were you having a dream? Fever makes you dream.”
“In the night I had to call for Mummy. I had a nightmare.”
“So Willa wasn’t on the telephone at all?”
“It was a lady,” said Alexander doubtfully.
“But there was nothing about elks in the forest?”
Georgy opened fever-bright eyes.
“It was Alexander who made that up. Willa only said about the rain dripping.”
Grace looked at the window as raindrops spattered against the glass. The driving gray clouds had lowered. It was dark, and time to draw the curtains, to shut out the night, to disperse a sick child’s fancy.
If it were a fancy…
But she had to tell the strange little episode to Peter and Kate, who eventually came in within minutes of each other. She related it half-flippantly, having almost convinced herself that it hadn’t happened. There was a moment of silence, Peter staring, Kate giving an unguarded look as stunned and fearful as the children’s when they talked of their nightmare elks.
“And I was to rescue her!” Peter said, after that moment of surprise or shock or whatever it had been. “What an extraordinary imagination those kids have.”
“I’ll go ask Georgy myself,” Kate exclaimed.
“She’s asleep,” Grace said. “She’s very flushed. I think her temperature may be higher.”
“Send for the doctor,” said Peter impatiently. “You can’t mess around with these things. The child’s obviously delirious.”
There probably was a telephone call,” Grace said reasonably. “But whether it was from Willa is another matter.”
Kate, halfway up the stairs, turned a still face.
“If it was her, she can ring again. Can’t she?”
If she was asking Peter that question, he chose to ignore it.
“Stuff and nonsense. The kids hear too many fairy stories. I suppose I’m to rescue Willa from her wicked seducer on my white charger.”
“Batman would be better, dear. You might as well be up to date.”
Kate’s sad ironical voice lingered in Grace’s ears after she had gone home. She banged on the ceiling to bring Polsen down and once more related the story.
“It’s the bit about the rain that disturbs me. Don’t you remember Willa writing in her diary that the rain on the roof was driving her mad? The children didn’t know that, did they? So why should Georgy talk about rain?”
“Because it is raining and she could hear it. I expect children say the first thing that comes into their heads.”
Grace listened to the prickling of the wind-driven showers on her own windows. The sound was melancholy enough in the city, but in the forest, on the iron roof of one of those claustrophobic cottages, it must be infinitely depressing.
“I can’t help feeling Willa’s in a cottage in the forest. But whether she’s a prisoner—”
“With a telephone?”
“Maybe Gustav left her alone for a few minutes.”
Polsen put back his head and gave his deep tolerant laugh.
“Now who’s being fanciful? And you haven’t even Georgy’s excuse of a high temperature.”
“Polsen, don’t laugh at me. I think it’s almost time Willa was reported as missing. Shouldn’t I go to the police or to the British ambassador at least?”
Polsen stopped laughing.
“Not yet. Even the Swedish police are sentimental enough not to want to pursue an eloping bride. And your ambassador probably knows all he wants to know about it already.”
“What do you mean by not yet?” Grace asked tensely.
“Not till after your party. That may prove to be more enlightening than you expect. Now what about a snaps? Willa’s old potato drink. She said that, too. She didn’t always talk about rain.”
Polsen, as always, was comforting, taking the melodrama out of the situation, but not denying the mystery. He never made her feel foolish, yet succeeded in reducing her fears to the bearable.
All the same, he admitted, it was a pity she hadn’t arrived at the Sinclairs a few minutes earlier and hadn’t spoken to the mysterious caller herself. It could well have been Willa in a spot of bother with her passport or marriage license. Who better to call than Peter Sinclair in that event?
“Which means she’ll call again,” Grace said, reassured at last. She remembered then to tell Polsen about her meeting with Captain Axel Morgensson that morning. She understood now what Willa meant about him. “He has the most penetrating stare. He tries to look inside your head. He would see nothing but a muddle inside mine at present. Polsen, you’re not going? Don’t leave me alone. I rather hate being alone. Listening to that dreary wind. Thinking.”
Polsen gave his slow, gratified smile.
“Actually I was going to suggest you have supper with me. You haven’t seen my studio. You might like to see my paintings. We could talk of something other than Willa, who has had more than her share of attention.”
“Polsen, you don’t have to do that much.”
“Don’t be so diffident. Be like Willa. She would say, ‘And about time, too.’”
“You said we wouldn’t talk about Willa.”
“So I did. I apologize.”
“But if she did make that telephone call, it means she’s alive,” Grace burst out, and then couldn’t think what had made her say such a thing. Of course, Willa was alive. In spite of her irresponsible ways, she was far too vital a person to die.
The top-floor studio, a low-ceil
inged long room warmed by an enormous porcelain stove and in a state of extraordinary untidiness, was full of a strange comfort. Books and paintings, after all, were the best furnishings a room could have, even if piled haphazardly all over the place. There was also an old-fashioned rocking chair, a large faded wool rug, tables and chairs piled with the overflowing books, an easel with a half-finished painting, and a portrait of a child, a towheaded boy, propped on the mantelpiece.
Polsen was watching Grace. His expression was half-pleased, half-anxious.
“You’re not getting an uncontrollable urge to tidy me up?”
“No.”
“You don’t mind the muddle?”
“It’s you, Polsen. Why should I want to alter you? Is that your son?”
“Yes.”
“I saw him with you the other day. I waved, but you didn’t see me.”
“I expect we were discussing some highly important subject.”
“You’re good friends, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“But not good enough to want to live with his mother?”
“No.” His voice had become withdrawn, colder than she had heard it. “That’s a matter of human dignity. I would have expected you to understand.”
“I do. Except that if you and Magnus are so close, perhaps you could put up with a little indignity. I mean, to have more than just Sundays.”
“Some people could,” he said distantly. “Not me.”
She wanted to pursue the subject, probing his wound, testing his reaction to her interest. But before she could ask another question, he said in his usual mild voice, “You’re being female, Grace. That’s all right, but not about this subject. Now you would look nice in my rocking chair. I’ll give you a drink, and then I must begin to cook if we’re to eat tonight.”
A little later he called from the kitchen, “Do you mind the wind up here? It sounds louder than in your place.”
It did sound louder, wild and forlorn like the far-off howl of wolves. Yet now it gave Grace nothing but a feeling of tranquillity. She was beginning to think she might be a little, gently, in love with Polsen. And if she were, that towheaded boy in the portrait would be her enemy.
But perhaps this latest feat of imagination came from weariness and the snaps going to her head. A child could never be an enemy.
“No,” she said. “I don’t mind the wind up here. Perhaps it will begin to snow.”
Chapter 9
THEY ARRIVED TOGETHER, THE two people she had not met, the Baron von Sturpe and Ulrika Backe, sister of Sven. The baroness and Dr. Sven Backe were there, too, of course. They had followed one another, Sven said, the baron’s Mercedes hard on the tail of his little Volvo.
“We could have eaten the Volvo up,” Ebba said in her husky voice. “But we played cat and mouse. Grace, my dear, how nice of you to ask us to your party. You haven’t met my husband. Jacob, this is Miss Grace Asherton. I think English names are delightful, so much prettier than Swedish ones.”
The baron gave a small correct bow. To Grace’s surprise, he was a small, almost elderly man, towered over by his tall wife. He had gray hair, mild eyes, a deprecating smile, and was not definitely the kind who would make an impression on Willa, who liked more flamboyant types. Except perhaps for his title or his money, both of which possessions had probably caught the spectacular Ebba for him.
One would have thought Sven Backe, with his melancholy good looks, would have made a more suitable partner for Ebba, and Ulrika, the square-set, unsmiling sister, could have stood at the baron’s side.
Look at me changing partners already, Grace said to herself. The Swedes were capable of doing that for themselves.
“So you are still enjoying Stockholm,” Sven Backe said, looking at her with dark, nervous eyes. She hadn’t noticed their nervousness the other day in his surgery. Perhaps he didn’t like parties. Perhaps his sister inhibited him. She stood determinedly close to him. Or perhaps she was nervous, too, in her black wool dress cut too high round her short, thick neck. She would realize her lack of elegance beside Ebba in a long silvery dress that shimmered in the candlelight. Her big pale eyes had taken on the same cool silver color.
Polsen had said there must be dozens of candles. They were festive, intimate, kind to women’s complexions; they added warmth to the room. Willa’s parties had always been candlelit.
But the wavering flames seemed to make the faces waver, too, and become most shadowy when one wanted most to read their expressions. Captain Axel Morgensson meeting Ebba, giving her his intense stare. Peter Sinclair greeting Sven Backe too heartily, as if they were old friends, and yet having to be introduced to the dour Ulrika. Polsen being unusually attentive to Kate Sinclair, Winifred Wright talking too fast and too archly to the Baron von Sturpe, who surely was a man on whom archness would be wasted. Axel’s old aunts sitting on Willa’s lush velvet-cushioned couch and smiling and nodding pleasantly as if they heard every word that was being said.
“Great party, Grace,” said Nigel Thompson. “You have as much talent as Willa.”
“Did you used to come to her parties?”
“Sure. So did most people here. You’ve certainly rounded up the old mob.”
“I thought she would like it. It’s time to drink her health. And Gustav’s.”
“The mysterious Gustav.”
“Does no one have a clue who he is? It’s incredible. You all knew Willa.”
Joyce Thompson, Nigel’s wife, had joined them.
“Not that well, Grace. She was a terrible exhibitionist. She always had to make an entrance. People like that hide their real selves, don’t you think? Hide their lovers, too, obviously.”
“But she was bloody good fun,” said Nigel.
Grace put her glass down thoughtfully. An entrance. That was her cue.
She caught Polsen’s eye across the room. He’d deliberately begun blowing out candles until there were only a dozen or so left burning. Then he began going the rounds, filling up everyone’s glass.
“We’re going to drink to Willa and Gustav.”
“But it’s so dark,” exclaimed Miss Anna Morgensson.
“Too dark?” Grace, from the bedroom, heard him saying courteously. “That’s for atmosphere. A tribute to Willa. She liked atmosphere, sensation, mystery.”
“You sound a bit valedictory, old man,” said Nigel Thompson.
Grace, behind the bedroom door, struggling with the slippery silk pajama suit, her fingers trembling too much for speed, heard Peter Sinclair observe, “Yes, she liked mystery a bit too much for the comfort of Her Majesty’s Government. We’re vetting our typists more carefully now. Aren’t we, Winifred?”
“We’re all going to be too staid for words,” Winifred complained. “I’m thinking of applying for a transfer to the Far East.”
The wig wouldn’t fit securely. It would tumble off, like a guillotined head, like a sunflower blasted by frost.
But it would stay on long enough. And the dark butterfly-shaped glasses, and the long cigarette holder, and the tottery high heels, and the dash of Balenciaga perfume.
It was ridiculous, really. Did Willa realize how nineteen thirtyish she had been?
But this was nineteen sixty-nine, bleak, cold, devious, and now was the moment.
She flung open the door, slipped into the darkened living room, and cried gaily. “Voilà!”
Someone screamed. She didn’t know who. She thought it was one of the old ladies, Miss Anna or Miss Katerina. It couldn’t have been the sophisticated self-controlled Ebba, whose face, in the dim light, had a candle-white pallor. Then Winifred Wright began to laugh hysterically and exclaim, “Willa! You damn fool! You’ve scared us all to death.”
“And your husband?” That was Captain Morgensson in his guttural voice. “Is he here, also?”
Grace couldn’t keep it up. She was trembling too violently. She felt terrible, like a skeleton ejected from its dark safe cupboard after too many years. She made a shaky gesture toward
Polsen, and he crossed over to her and with the air of a magician lifted the wig from her head.
“A joke,” he said pleasantly. “A wonderful performance, Grace. Applause for Grace, please!”
Someone began uncertainly to clap, then stopped.
“Take off those damned glasses,” came Peter Sinclair’s voice angrily in Grace’s ear, and at the same time there was a gentle slither of someone subsiding slowly to the floor.
When everyone had stepped back and more candles had been lit, it was discovered that the person who had been overcome was Kate Sinclair.
She was already trying to sit up. Ebba knelt beside her. “A glass of water,” she said. Polsen went to get it, and Grace, somewhat remorsefully pushing her way to Kate’s side, was put aside by Peter who suddenly seemed to realize that it was his wife who had been stricken.
“Joke, Kate,” he said loudly. “Didn’t you hear?”
Kate pushed the hair back from her pallid forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, “the candles were too hot. That’s all.”
She recovered sufficiently to sit in a chair, but presently Peter said he had better take her home. She was probably coming down with the bug the children had. He wiped his own forehead, which was shiny with perspiration.
But everyone looked hot. Even Ebba had spots of color on her high cheekbones, giving her face an attractive look of animation. She was very solicitous of Kate. Grace wouldn’t have thought she possessed such concern. Not for another woman, anyway.
Polsen had opened a window to let a stream of cold night air into the overheated room. Grace thought he would be chagrined that their experiment had been ruined by Kate’s behavior, but he looked as imperturbable as ever. And after all, when she came to think of it, there had been that split-second reaction of surprise and shock. Distinct shock. Kate’s collapse may have come as a welcome diversion. Certainly the tension had gone out of the atmosphere once the lights were switched on and the remaining candles blown out. The room had a smell of candle smoke. The normal party noise was beginning again.
“Grace, that was a horrid joke,” Kate murmured plaintively, as Peter helped her into her coat.
“Why horrid? Didn’t you want to see Willa? Didn’t anyone want to see her?”
