Louise agreed to this at random and at once, and was forthwith given the Palmers’ telephone number.
After all, she reflected, as she dialled this number, I’m only a voice on the telephone; it doesn’t matter if it all sounds terribly silly. They’ll only think I’ve got a wrong number….
‘Hullo. Frances Palmer speaking. Who is it, please?’
The voice was young and self-possessed; and before her self-confidence drained away completely, Louise plunged into her enquiry.
Miss Brandon. Yes, Frances Palmer did know a Miss Brandon – had known her, rather. Yes, Vera Brandon, that was right. There was a hesitancy, a lack of ease, about the previously confident voice. The owner seemed to be searching for words; to be afraid of saying too much, and yet anxious not to close the conversation.
‘Oh. You mean she’s living with you right now? Oh.’ Again the voice hesitated. ‘Listen,’ it went on, hurrying a little. ‘Listen, could you possibly come round here? Now? I – well, it’s rather difficult talking on the telephone, isn’t it? If we could meet, I might be able to tell you – that is, to ask you – I mean, I don’t know you, do I?’ the voice concluded rather lamely.
Louise was reassured. The speaker was not, after all, as self-possessed as she had seemed at first. And she seemed interested – indeed, she had sounded as if she was anxious in just the same way that Louise herself was anxious. A meeting between them might clear up a lot.
It was not until she had agreed to this proposal and had rung off that she began to face the question of how she could walk out of the house at four o’clock in the afternoon with no one to look after the children, no tea ready for them and no idea what to cook for supper when she got back.
She decided to try Edna Larkins. If she was home from work (and, after all, it was Good Friday tomorrow, she might easily be finishing early today) there was a very good chance that she might be lured, knitting and all, from the sofa of her aunt’s front room to be re-deposited on the corresponding sofa of Louise’s front room.
It all worked perfectly. Edna was only too delighted to come once she heard that Louise had a pair of No. 8 needles she could lend her for when she came to the end of the ribbing; and she was soon happily settled on the sofa, with a brand new pair of No. 8 needles and an assurance that Margery would be a great help over getting the tea, won’t you, darling?
‘What?’ said Margery discouragingly; but Louise felt that the moment had come for her to escape without further argument. She always clung hopefully to the theory (based on observation of other people’s children) that her family behaved better when she, their mother, wasn’t there.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
No. 61 Elsworthy Crescent was one of those little red brick houses so smart and clean that you would think it was kept indoors. The front garden was discreetly ablaze with almost unnaturally healthy flowers; and on a tiny patch of closely-clipped grass stood a pram so new and shining that Louise expected to see an equally new baby in it. She was surprised to observe that the child with the clean white frock and the clean pink face was at least as old as Michael. And it wasn’t crying, she noted enviously. Its mother was expecting a visitor, was anxious for a quiet talk with her and it wasn’t crying.
The mistress of all this perfection, in a starched cotton frock and really white sandals, greeted Louise with a sort of guarded warmth, and led her into a white-painted chintzy sitting-room, where the only evidence that a baby belonged to the household was a new fluffy Teddy bear with a red bow round its neck. No nappies. No bits of chewed rusk. Louise sighed, and wondered if she should ask the girl how she did it. But it wouldn’t be any use. These competent mothers never could tell you how they did it. The clean, quiet babies, the unsticky Teddy bears, simply seemed to happen to them.
Frances Palmer, competent though she might be, was clearly worried. No sooner had she produced tea and a plate of nicely browned little cakes, than she began to question Louise. How, she wanted to know, had Louise heard of her? Had Vera Brandon spoken of her? What had she said? Had anything seemed – well – odd in any way?
Louise could not answer any of this very satisfactorily; she could only ask other questions in her turn, and very soon Mrs Palmer was recounting all she knew.
It had all happened, apparently, one day last autumn. There had been a ring at the front door, and when Mrs Palmer answered it, there was this tall, distinguished-looking woman, carrying a little case, and announcing that she had seen Mrs Palmer’s advertisement for a housekeeper.
‘I was utterly mystified, of course,’ continued Frances Palmer, ‘because I’d never advertised for a housekeeper at all. Why should I, with this tiny house, and I’m not working or anything. She had the cutting with her, she said, and she began fishing about for it in her case. Well, I felt I had to ask her in – it was so awkward for her, I mean, standing there on the doorstep trying to look through this case full of papers. So I brought her in, and we had a cup of tea – she still couldn’t find the cutting, by the way, and I told her it must be Elsworthy Avenue she wanted – people are always getting us mixed up with them – though actually I found out afterwards that they hadn’t advertised for a housekeeper, either, and anyway this woman never called there at all. Well, anyway we got talking, and she stayed quite a long time. I got a bit fed up with it, honestly, because of course I’d only expected her to stay for a few minutes, and I’d got a lot to do. I didn’t even get the impression that she was enjoying herself, either. She was sort of making conversation, if you know what I mean – as if – how shall I explain it? – as if she was waiting for something. As if she had to fill in time. She kept glancing about the room – glancing at the clock – glancing at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I don’t know – I began to feel very awkward; and what made it more uncomfortable still was that I had an odd feeling that I recognised her. That I’d seen her before somewhere, only I couldn’t for the life of me think where—’
‘But that’s exactly how we felt,’ burst out Louise impulsively. Briefly she described Mark’s first reaction to seeing Miss Brandon, and also her own qualms about the suitcase. Frances Palmer had gone a little pale.
‘You see what that means, don’t you,’ she said, her voice quivering slightly; and then, recovering herself, she went on: ‘But of course – how silly – I haven’t even told you what happened yet! Well, as I was saying, there she sat, and I kept dropping hints to make her go. I told her we were going out that evening – all sorts of lies – but it was no use, she wouldn’t take any notice. After a bit I simply had to feed Lesley and put her to bed, and then Tom came in wanting his supper; and that did seem to shift her at last. She was full of apologies for having stayed so long, and off she went. I don’t suppose I’d have thought anything more about it, only, later that evening—’
Frances Palmer paused, and offered Louise another cup of the now cooling tea. She seemed to have lost the thread of her story; almost to be deliberately transferring her uneasiness to the problem of the tea: was it hot enough? strong enough? Did Louise want more sugar? Or didn’t she—?
‘Later that evening—?’ Louise prompted gently; and Frances Palmer started, flushed a little, and then continued:
‘It sounds so stupid really,’ she apologised. ‘I mean, Tom was quite sure I was imagining it all, but anyway, this is what I thought I saw. We’d been out, you see – just for a stroll, after supper. We often do, just for half an hour, when we’re sure Lesley is settled. We usually go as far as the canal and then back along the Avenue; but this time, for some reason, I felt anxious about Lesley. I don’t know why; she’d been perfectly well all day and had gone off to sleep as good as gold. But I kept worrying about it, and Tom kept telling me not to be silly; and at last I got so worried that I said I must go back. He was furious about it – he’s Irish, you know, real redheaded Irish, and men like that do flare up easily, don’t they? He said it was crazy to turn back like that; and then when I began hurrying he was crosser still, and wouldn’t try to k
eep up with me. So I got home by myself, and the minute I stepped into the hall I had that feeling – you know – that there was someone in the house. I told myself it was silly, but all the same I was almost too scared to move. I was so frightened I actually took my shoes off and tiptoed around peeping into every room. It was in my bedroom that I saw her, Tom says I didn’t. Tom says I was imagining it all because of my fright, and because it was getting dusk by then and I hadn’t dared turn any lights on. But I know I wasn’t imagining it. She was there. There’s a mirror, you see, a big mirror on the wall facing you as you go in, and I saw her reflection in it. Just her back view, bending over the little table by the bed, but I knew it was her. Something in the way she was standing – I’d have recognised it anywhere. Not only from seeing her that afternoon, you understand, but from having seen her somewhere before. I had that feeling even more strongly then than I’d had it earlier. That’s what frightens me, really. Why do I recognise her? And why do you recognise her—’
‘But wait —’ said Louise. ‘What did she say? Didn’t she explain what she was doing – why she’d come back into your house—?’
Frances Palmer looked rather shamefaced.
‘No – that was the ridiculous part. I ought to have gone in straight away and challenged her. Of course I ought. But I was frightened, you see. I wanted Tom to be with me. I just scuttled down to the front door to look for him, and when he came – it can’t have been more than half a minute later – we went up to the room, and she’d gone! Absolutely gone. That’s what I can’t understand. That’s what makes Tom say it’s all my imagination. You see, she couldn’t have come down the stairs behind me as I stood at the front door. Well, I mean, you’ve seen our tiny hall – she’d have been barely two yards away from me. Of course,’ she added a little wistfully, ‘if only there’d been something missing it wouldn’t have seemed so queer. We looked through my jewel case at once, of course, and at Tom’s silver I’d seen her standing – it’s an old-fashioned silver one, you know, it belonged to Tom’s father. Tom never wears it, he has a wrist watch, but it keeps very good time, and I suppose it’s worth a few pounds. Anyway, she hadn’t taken it. Nothing seemed to have been touched at all.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Louise slowly, ‘she hadn’t time. I mean, if she was going round examining things and making her plans, and then you came in – well, naturally she’d give it up and make a bolt for it.’
‘But how?’ protested the other girl. ‘I know she didn’t come down the stairs. I told you.’
‘Through a window, then,’ suggested Louise, though without much conviction. The chances that a respectable tweed-costumed lady could climb from an upper floor window in a street like this without being observed by the local Mrs Morgans seemed small indeed. Frances Palmer was speaking again:
‘I puzzled about it for ages,’ she said. ‘And for weeks I was scared of coming back into the house by myself. And then, when I’d just about stopped bothering about it, you rang up. You really scared me, you know. When I first heard your voice I thought it was her; but then when you went on talking, I realised the voice was quite different, and I knew it couldn’t be. So then I thought she’d been asking about me – trying to track me down again – or something—’
Frances Palmer’s voice trailed away uncertainly, and Louise hastened to reassure her.
‘No, no. Nothing like that. She’s never mentioned you. It was just that—’ It was Louise’s turn to hesitate. She could hardly confess to this comparative stranger that she had been prying into her tenant’s private diary. ‘I – she left a paper about with some addresses on it,’ she lied feebly.
In spite of her agitation, young Mrs Palmer managed to put up a most courteous show of believing this, and was quickly rewarded with an only slightly edited account of Louise’s own fears and suspicions about Miss Brandon.
‘You know what all this adds up to, don’t you?’ said Frances slowly when Louise had finished. ‘You and I both recognised something about her. And your husband too. It’s too much of a coincidence that we should all of us have met her by chance on some previous occasion. The only explanation is that she must be some public figure. Don’t you see? Someone we’ve all seen photographs of in the papers.’
Louise did not immediately grasp Mrs Palmer’s full meaning.
‘You mean she’s a film star or something?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘Honestly, I don’t think …’
‘No no – nothing like that!’ corrected Mrs Palmer, a trifle impatiently. ‘Other people beside film stars can get their pictures into the papers. Criminals, for example. Murderers.’
Louise swallowed.
‘But that’s nonsense!’ she exclaimed, a little too quickly. ‘I mean,’ she added foolishly, ‘she doesn’t look like a criminal—’
Didn’t she? Who’s fears was she trying to quieten, her own or Mrs Palmer’s?
‘I don’t see that,’ Mrs Palmer was saying. ‘I mean, a murderess who looked like a murderess would have been caught in the first place, wouldn’t she? That’s why she’s still at large. That’s why she can still prowl about in other people’s houses —’ The pretty, capable little face suddenly crumpled: ‘She’s here now! I’m sure she’s here now!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I’m so frightened! Please don’t go! Oh, please stay until Tom gets in.’
Louise was surprised. This sudden collapse into panic seemed out of keeping with all that enviable housewifely competence. Or was housewifely competence a more limited quality than one usually supposed; something that didn’t stand up to much strain? However, there was no time now to dwell on the comfortable corollary to this theory – namely, that domestic incompetence such as Louise’s must necessarily denote other, more sterling qualities – for something must be done, and quickly, to soothe this frightened young woman.
‘There’s nothing for you to be frightened of,’ she pointed out. ‘Whatever brought her to your house last autumn – well, she hasn’t done anything more about it for six months, has she? Why should she suddenly start being interested again now? It’s me she seems to be interested in now. Or my husband. I’m the one who should be frightened, not you.’
Louise observed, a little wryly, the look of relief that spread over her companion’s face at this not very comfortable deduction. But, after all, why should this girl worry overmuch about Louise, who was still, when all was said and done, almost a stranger?
‘I’d better be going,’ she began; but at this all Mrs Palmer’s alarm seemed to revive. ‘Oh – please!’ she exclaimed, ‘not till Tom comes in. Please! I know it’s absurd, but this has brought it all back to me so, you can’t imagine! I’ve got an awful feeling that when I go upstairs I shall find her in my bedroom bending over that table, just the way she was—’
‘But I must go!’ protested Louise. ‘It’s nearly six, and—’
Her companion broke in agitatedly:
‘Oh! I know. I mustn’t keep you. But please – before you go – I wish you’d just come up to the bedroom with me and look. I know it’s all nonsense, of course, but if you’d just do that before you go, then I think I’d feel all right again.’
‘Very well,’ said Louise resignedly; and a minute later she was following her hostess up the neat little staircase with its white painted banisters.
The bedroom had the same clean, dolls’ house prettiness of the rest of the house. The walls were painted pale pink, a pink floral counterpane covered the bed, and clean white curtains hung crisply at the windows. The tidiness of it all could have made Louise weep as she thought of her own bedroom at home. Mark’s second oldest suit thrown over a chair to remind her (so far unsuccessfully) to take it to the cleaner’s. Books and papers on every available surface. And shoes. Where on earth did other women keep their husband’s shoes? In this room, not a shoe was to be seen – nor, indeed, any garment of any sort. All the polished surfaces of the furniture were bare except for a few neatly placed lace mats, and, on the small bedside table, a pair of silver-framed photographs of Mrs
Palmer’s snub-nosed baby and her astonishingly similar snub-nosed husband.
And, of course, the room was empty. No mysterious figures leaned over tables or cowered in wardrobes. To set her hostess’s mind still further at rest, Louise explored the rest of the little house with her. Everything was quiet and in perfect order.
A sudden thought came to Louise.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I think I can see how she got away. While you were at the front door, watching for your husband, she could have slipped into one of the other upstairs rooms; and then, when you and he rushed up to the bedroom – naturally you’d go there first – she could just have walked across this landing here and down the stairs, while you were searching the wardrobe, or something. Or did one of you keep watch on the landing?’
Frances Palmer shook her head helplessly.
‘No – oh no. I stayed right by Tom all the time. I was frightened. I – I suppose – Yes, it could have happened that way. How odd I shouldn’t have thought of it before.’
It seemed odd to Louise, too; but after all, one must make allowances for the girl’s panic at the time. Why, she was looking quite white and strained even now, at the very memory of it Louise cast about for some way of reassuring her.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she remarked, as they made their way to the front door, ‘it’s just occurred to me – there can’t be anything very sinister about the woman’s past – I mean, your idea that she’s a notorious criminal or something. If she was, she’d never have given you her real name. And it is her real name, I know. She teaches at our local grammar school.’
Mrs Palmer looked dully at Louise, her delicate pink and white features looking less young than they had earlier in the afternoon.
The Hours Before Dawn Page 15
