Home through the Dark

by Anthea Fraser

  I washed and undressed in the same mindless haste, climbed into bed, pulled the blankets up to my ears and, thankfully, slept.

  Chapter 4

  IT was nearly ten o’clock when I woke the next morning. For a while I lay luxuriously in the wide bed, going over the party of the night before: Suzanne’s outburst and her husband’s hurried exchange with Stephen Darby. She wouldn’t go away while she thought there was the remotest chance of – what? It could be a hundred things, but it was another small question mark, whether or not it had any bearing on the one that had been puzzling me during the last few days.

  I climbed out of bed at last and drew back the curtains from the side window. Barely six feet away the row of rustling beech trees edged the narrow path which led round to my own back door and the garden. Under the canopy of their branches the gravel was dark with heavy dew.

  I had a leisurely bath followed by a brunch of coffee and scrambled eggs to lay a necessary foundation for Sarah’s drinks. I had eaten little the night before, only a mouthful or so of the chop and a few biscuits at the theatre. At twelve o’clock, with a final appraising look in the long mirror, I picked up my bag and set out for the party. Sarah’s front door stood open and a notice was pinned to the newel post of the staircase just inside: “Come on up!”

  Typically Sarah, I thought with a smile as I complied. I could hear her voice as I reached the top of the stairs. There was a small hall similar to my own and through the open door of the drawing room I could see Sarah herself cheerfully dispensing some suspicious-looking liquid from a glass jug.

  “Ginnie, hello! Come in. Meet Moira Francis from downstairs, and Roger and Michael.”

  I smiled across at the tall, fair-haired woman and the two boys and turned as Andrew Foss came into the room and was introduced in his turn.

  “I believe you have the flat corresponding to ours in the other wing,” Moira Francis said.

  “That’s right, all to myself!”

  “I imagine it would be ideal for one or two, but it’s a bit of a squash for three, especially when two of them are great, clumsy boys!” She looked fondly at her sons. “We’ve divided the bedroom in two, of course. With the second window it adapts very well, and I have the front half.”

  “There are just the three of you?”

  “Yes, my husband died ten years ago, when the boys were small.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said inadequately. More people were coming into the room and Sarah brought them over in turn to meet me – Miss Cavendish, whom I had seen going into her flat when I’d called with Mr. Henry, a small, birdlike woman with grey hair and sharp eyes; the Lily-white Boys, to wit Robin Kershaw and Donald King, immaculate in dove-grey suits with large floppy ties and carefully waved hair; the Colonel and his lady straight from the pages of Somerset Maugham, he red-faced and silver-haired with a neat, military moustache, she clinging to a faded prettiness. I was marvelling at their closeness to prototype when, across Mrs. Bligh’s fragile bent shoulder I saw the last guest enter the room – Sarah’s Mystery Man. And as our eyes met, I bit my lip to hold back a startled exclamation. It was the man who had paid me such marked attention at the hotel. Dutifully Sarah brought him across. She was saying, “I’m not sure if you know anyone here, Mr. Sinclair, but may I start by introducing Colonel and Mrs. Bligh, and Miss Ginnie Durrell.”

  I caught the quick, instantly suppressed flicker of surprise that crossed his face. Had he thought I was someone else? His hand was hard and horny, his clasp firm. “I believe I saw – Miss Durrell last week, at the George,” he said smoothly. “How do you do? Colonel –”

  I moved over to rejoin Moira Francis, who was hemmed in a corner with the photographers, my mind racing to collate this latest development, but before I had made any progress Mr. Sinclair followed me over.

  “I hope my appearance wasn’t too unpleasant a shock,” he murmured in my ear. “Your jaw dropped a good three inches!”

  “I’m sorry. I was just –”

  “Admittedly I had the advantage over you. I overheard you giving your address at the hotel, and when Mrs. Foss invited me round ‘to welcome a new neighbour,’ I knew of course whom to expect.” He paused. “I’m afraid I may have startled you last night, at the window.”

  I flushed, remembering my headlong flight. “Not really, but I was still recovering from feeling my way round from the garage, and to look up and see a figure silhouetted –”

  “My apologies; I was just closing the window.” He lifted one eyebrow in a way that reminded me of Stephen Darby at his most sardonic. “Are you afraid of the dark then, Miss Durrell?” Again the slight hesitation over my name as his eyes went thoughtfully to the hand with which I was holding my glass. I followed their direction and saw to my confusion that there was still a clear, white band round my finger where Carl’s ring had been.

  Defiantly I raised my eyes to his. It was no damn business of his what I chose to call myself. In the meantime his lazy question still hung on the air between us.

  “Not exactly afraid,” I answered crisply, “but I do prefer to be able to see what I’m doing, not to mention what other people are!”

  He gave a short laugh. “Point taken. But if you’re really nervous about parking your car at night, I’d be pleased to do it for you.”

  I looked at him for a moment but his eyes met mine blandly, innocently.

  “That’s very kind,” I said at last, “but I don’t intend to be out late again for a while.” I turned back to the group beside us.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t afford your prices, Donald!” Moira Francis was saying with a smile.

  “But, my dear, I’m sure we could come to an arrangement, especially for a friend. It would be a pleasure. We used to consider ourselves quite exclusive, but the people who have the money nowadays, you just wouldn’t believe!” He turned to his companion. “Did I tell you, duckie, that Mr. Bruce phoned about the proofs? And you’ll never begin to guess where we’re to send them! To the Picardy!”

  My hand jerked out of control and the drink spilled down my dress. I was hardly aware of Mr. Sinclair’s exclamation, though I took the clean handkerchief he handed me and automatically dabbed at my skirt. Robin Kershaw was still marvelling at this piece of news, so it didn’t seem too inappropriate to enquire a little shakily, “The Picardy? What’s that?”

  His eyes, limpid, grey and long-lashed, flickered in my direction. “My dear, the most ghastly place! A sleazy hotel out on the Amesbury road.” He giggled. “The kind of place where most rooms are let by the hour, if you know what I mean. You can imagine the shock it was – the girl whose portrait we took was supposed to be his daughter!”

  My head was spinning. A hotel. Then 127 would be the room number. I remembered Jack’s reply in the hotel garage. “There’s no Picardy Street that I know of, nor anything like it where any friend of yours might be.” No doubt he knew of the Picardy Hotel and its unsavoury reputation but it would not have occurred to him that that was the place I was enquiring about. And the phone call. Could it have been “the Picardy” and “Room” 127? It was possible – he’d been speaking so rapidly and I was straining to grasp the overall information rather than individual words. It was a lead, anyway, the first I’d had. What could I do about it?

  “... Miss Durrell?”

  Hastily I dragged my thoughts back to Mr. Sinclair. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said if you let me have your glass I’ll get it refilled for you.” He was watching me closely, his eyes full of curiosity.

  “Oh, thank you. And for the hanky. I’ll wash it out and let you have it back.”

  “Nonsense.” He took it firmly out of my hand and put it in his pocket. Somehow I managed to make light conversation for another half hour or so until the guests began to leave.

  “Thank you so much, Sarah,” I said sincerely. “I feel much more at home now. You and Andy must come over to me one evening.”

  “We’d love to. See you soon, anyway.” Her eyes darted to
Mr. Sinclair at my side and she gave me a swift, concealed wink. He walked back the length of the house with me to our respective front doors.

  “Don’t forget what I said about parking the car.”

  “Thank you, I won’t. Goodbye, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “The name’s Marcus.” His finger moved along the printed card by his bell. “Marcus Montgomery Sinclair. How about that?”

  I smiled involuntarily. “Sarah thought the initials stood for Mystery Man.”

  “Really? I’d no idea I’d excited such interest!”

  Before I could think of a suitably crushing retort, he had gone. Back in my own fiat I moved restlessly up and down the drawing room. It was no good. I’d have to go along to the Picardy, just to have a look at it. Even such an unsalubrious place should be reasonably innocuous on a Sunday afternoon. I went quickly to the bedroom, collected headscarf and sunglasses with some half-formed idea of disguise, and let myself silently out of the flat. I glanced apprehensively up at

  Marcus’s window but no one appeared. I walked swiftly back the way I had just come and round the corner of the building. Andy and Sarah’s front door still stood open and I could imagine them upstairs washing glasses and ashtrays. The garage door swung up and over and a moment later I was driving out of the square and along Grove Street. A quick glance at my Esso map had given me the number of the Amesbury road.

  After a while I found myself among the dingier suburbs where Mr. Henry had reluctantly taken me last Thursday. The farther I went, the more run-down the houses became. Front doors opening onto the street stood ajar, revealing dark hallways with torn linoleum and occasionally children played on the doorstep. The heat hung like a blanket over the town, a thousand dust motes caught in the rays of sunshine.

  I drew in to a garage at the side of the road to fill up with petrol. “Could you tell me where the Picardy Hotel is?” I asked the attendant offhandedly.

  “Certainly, miss.” There was a leer in his voice which brought the colour to my face. “Half a mile along there, on the right. Opposite what used to be the Roxy Cinema and is now a bingo hall.”

  “Thank you,” I said carefully.

  “Have a good time!”

  With burning cheeks I put my foot down and shot back onto the road, hearing him laugh. I asked for that, I told myself, but it was unavoidable, I’d had to check I was on the right road. And here, after all my wondering, was the Picardy at last, a dreary-looking place with a frontage of dirty windows set into the yellow brickwork. For a moment a strong urge for self-protection almost made me drive past. But I knew I’d never rest until I’d made some enquiries which might shed some light on that cryptic message I’d unwillingly received. As I sat in the car trying to summon up the courage to go in, a coloured man went up the steps with a girl clinging to his arm. I gave them a chance to get clear of the hallway, then I tied the scarf round my head, locked the car and quickly crossed the road.

  It was the smell I noticed first, of stale food, dusty heat and dogs. The hall carpet was threadbare and there was the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner. Behind the desk a pale, untidy woman was reading The News of the World. Cautiously I moved towards her.

  “Yes, dear?” she said without looking up. “Want a room?”

  “I – no, thank you. I was wondering if you could help me.”

  She looked up then. “Not if you’ve come to ask questions, dearie. More than my job’s worth.”

  “Not really, no, but I’m worried about my friend – a gentleman who was here last week.”

  “Oh?” Her little eyes were trying to penetrate my sunglasses.

  “I – think he was in Room 127.”

  “Not 127 again! You the young lady what was looking for him on Friday? Can’t tell you any more than I did then. He went off with his friend and later the other young gentleman came back to pay the bill and collect the cases. I’ve seen nothing of either of them since.”

  “He – didn’t leave any forwarding address?” I persisted, and immediately realized the idiocy of the question.

  “What? Here?” The woman gave a bray of mirthless laughter. “You must be joking! Look, dear, I’m sorry if he’s let you down but I can’t help you and that’s all there is to it.”

  Losing interest, she returned to her paper and after a moment I turned and left her, bumping into another couple in the doorway as I went out.

  Back in the car I went on driving for a while in the same direction, trying to itemize what new information I’d gleaned. There was very little of it but suddenly another picture clicked into focus in my mind, one that I had seen without registering as I made my discomfited exit from the hotel. That blue car which had been parked some way behind my own – surely I’d seen it before? And almost simultaneously came the certainty that it belonged to Marcus Sinclair.

  I jammed my foot down on the brake, made a wide U-turn and drove swiftly back, but the road alongside the Picardy was now deserted. If I had recognized his car, I could be more or less sure that he had recognized mine, and therefore me, despite my attempt at disguise. But what had brought him to this unlikely neighbourhood I could not imagine, unless his low, cultured voice had been the one I’d first heard over the telephone. I had been too disturbed myself to notice his reaction to the mention of the Picardy that morning, but overall the only logical explanation for his presence there was that he had followed me. I felt a little tremor of alarm. Perhaps Sarah was not so wide of the mark in her assessment of him after all.

  For the rest of the drive home I kept a lookout for the blue Triumph but there was no sign of it, nor was Marcus’s car parked outside the Beeches when I reached it.

  I made myself a cup of tea and sat down with it at the kitchen table to assess the position. No doubt my telephone caller had been the “friend” who had left with Room 127 and later returned for his case. But who was the young lady who was anxiously making enquiries last Friday? Not, presumably, the one who should have received my message, because she would have known what had happened to him. There must therefore be two girls and a man connected with the disappearance – if there really had been a disappearance. It was all so bafflingly vague that I seemed to have come to a dead end in the puzzle I had set myself to solve. There was certainly nothing further to be gained by another visit to the Picardy, and as for the tenuous link with the theatre, it could of course have been sheer coincidence that Stephen had been whistling “Roses of Picardy.” The only other possible line to pursue was to go back to square one, the place where it had all started – the estate agents’ office.

  I laid my cup carefully down on the saucer, aware of quickening excitement. They were short-staffed, obviously, or the office would not have been deserted when I called. And, as I had told Sarah, I needed to find a job. Teaching was obviously not open to me at the moment, but I had learned shorthand and typing one year when Carl’s private secretary went down with glandular fever and was away for several months.

  I went quickly into the hall and selected the local Yellow Pages directory from the table under the round window. There were two secretarial bureaus in Westhampton. Surely I could inveigle one of them into offering me a job at Culpepper’s.

  Chapter 5

  THE woman across the desk smiled brightly. “And what kind of secretarial work do you feel would interest you, Miss Durrell?”

  “Actually,” I said firmly, “I’d rather like to work for an estate agent, if there are any jobs available in that line.”

  “Estate agents. I’ll just check.” She lifted a small card index file onto the desk and started to flick through it. “Of course all summer we’ve been desperately short of temps, but now that the holiday season is coming to an end there’s not quite such a large choice on offer. However, I believe we have one or two which might interest you. Freeman and Lethbridge on the High Street are looking for – oh no, it’s a junior they want. And – yes, Culpepper, Simpson and Clark, just a little bit further up the Parade here, are wanting someone for the next three weeks
.”

  I let out my held breath. “That sounds ideal.”

  “Just a moment and I’ll phone them to make sure they’re not fixed up. People aren’t always very reliable about letting us know when they find someone.” She was dialling with her pencil as she spoke. It was clear almost at once that Culpepper’s had not yet filled the vacancy and an appointment was made for me to go round straight away.

  “You’ll see Miss Davidson and Mr. Holding, Miss Durrell. I do hope the job’s to your liking.”

  “Thank you.” I stood up and added awkwardly, “Do I owe you anything if I accept?”

  “No, no, it’s the employer who sees to that. Good luck.” The walnut partitions shone as richly as they had done last Thursday. One telephone was still on the highly polished counter alongside the list of properties for sale. But this time the woman I’d seen through the window before was seated at a desk, and she rose quickly and came towards me.

  “Miss Durrell? I’m Isobel Davidson. I wonder if you could give me a few particulars before I take you in to Mr. Holding?”

  “Of course.” I sat down opposite her and tried to gloss over the fact that although my shorthand and typing had reached good average speeds, I had never actually worked in an office. She prompted me at intervals, making notes in a small, neat hand, and I studied her while she did so, wondering again if she was the intended recipient for the message. She was about thirty-five or six, I guessed, unmarried, and with fair hair scraped severely back into a French pleat. She was tall, slim, smartly dressed and, to judge by the glasses perched on her nose, rather short-sighted. However hard I tried, I could not imagine her within the dubious confines of the Picardy Hotel.

  I glanced across at an empty desk on which stood a covered typewriter. “Is the other girl still on holiday?” I asked casually.

  “No, unfortunately she had a slight accident last week and since she had a week’s holiday in hand it seemed sensible to take it now. I’m due to go myself on Saturday, but it looks doubtful now whether I shall be able to get away. Obviously you couldn’t be left on your own so soon; it all depends on if Miss Derbyshire is well enough to come back on Monday. I’ll take you now to see Mr. Holding – Mr. Alan Holding, that is. His son, Mr. Peter, is also a partner.”