The Iron Gates

by Margaret Millar

  “I’m sorry. I thought of calling on you—but then I’m a stranger to you.”

  “Why did you want to call?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I thought I could help, perhaps.

  I met Mrs. Morrow at the hospital. . . .” She knew she was saying all the wrong things and turned to Sands for help. But he had slipped away. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

  She turned back and met Edith’s gaze.

  “I was rude,” Edith said. “The apology should be mine.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “It was your sister who died?”

  “Yes.”

  “We—one of us . . .”

  “Oh, I don’t look at it like that at all,” Janet said in embarrassment. “I just thought I’d—like to see you all.”

  “To judge us?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “You’ve seen us now.” Edith leaned closer and her voice was a whisper. “Tell me, which one of us? Look at us and tell me, which one of us?”

  There was a silence. Then Janet said, with warm deep sympathy, “You poor woman. It must be terrible for you!”

  She no longer felt uncomfortable herself because here was someone who needed comforting.

  “Mr. Sands could be wrong, you know,” she said in her rich voice. “Policemen often are. Very likely it’ll turn out that he’s been far too imaginative, and some day perhaps you’ll all be laughing about how suspicious you were of each other.”

  “If I could think that . . .”

  “Well, I do think it. We’re all inclined to take things too seriously, all except Cora. She was a great laugher. Sometimes when I’m alone at night and feeling mopey I remember some of the jokes she made and get to laughing myself. I haven’t any real friends, you know, there was just Cora.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “I’ve always been too busy to make friends, and now when I could use some I don’t know how to go about it.”

  “I wouldn’t know either,” Edith said. She was astonished to find herself talking so personally and at such an odd time to a total stranger. The wind had whipped a little color to her cheeks, and she felt her rigid neck relaxing and the hard dry lump in her throat dissolving. She had stepped temporarily outside the walls of her own world and was reluctant to go back. They were waiting for her, she knew, but she kept her eyes fixed deliberately on Janet, a stranger, and so one who could be trusted.

  “What do you do?” Edith said. “I mean, suppose you want to have a—a good time, what do you do?”

  “Oh, I dress all up and take myself to dinner,” Janet said, smiling. “And then to a concert or a movie, perhaps.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “There’s no reason why we couldn’t go together some time.”

  “You wouldn’t mind having me along?”

  “I’d like it very much. We could get really silly and buy a bottle of champagne.”

  “Do you ever do that?”

  “Once. I felt very frivolous and giggled through a whole performance of Aida.”

  Champagne, Edith thought, a gay giddy drink, for weddings, for youth, not for two lonely aging women . . .

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she said, without hope. “I guess—they’re waiting for me. I’d better go.”

  “No, wait. I really mean it, about having dinner together. We’ll make it a definite day.”

  “Any day. They’re all the same.”

  “How about next Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday. That would be fine.”

  “I could meet you in the Arcadian Court and we’ll go to see The Doughgirls if you like.”

  She had the uncomfortable feeling that Edith was no longer listening to her, that the two of them had, in a few minutes, gone through the emotional experience of months or years—from antagonism through friendship to mutual boredom.

  “See you Tuesday then,” she said with extra heartiness to compensate for her thoughts. “In the meantime don’t worry too much. We and our troubles aren’t so important as we think.” She laid her hands for an instant on Edith’s arm. “Good-bye and good luck.”

  “Good-bye,” Edith said, and turned and stepped back into her own world.

  Janet’s eyes followed her, full of pity and understanding. The little group beside the grave was waiting for her. When Edith had almost reached them she stumbled and the younger man put out his hand to steady her. Edith shrank away from him and pulled the black veil down over her face.

  It was only a gesture, yet Janet felt ashamed to have witnessed it. She walked quickly back to her car.

  On the way home she began to make further plans for Tuesday. Perhaps the Arcadian Court was too stuffy. They might try Angelo’s if Edith liked spaghetti—or some place down in the village where you saw such queer people, sometimes. . . .

  By the time she got home she had everything planned, but she never saw Edith again.

  12

  “Who was that?” Martin said.

  “A friend of mine,” Edith replied, pressing her lips together tightly behind the veil. “Someone you don’t know.”

  “In brief, none of my business?”

  “Exactly.”

  “All right. I was just trying to be pleasant.”

  He opened the car door and she got in the back seat. She was breathing fast, as if she was excited.

  “You should take it easier, Edith,” Andrew said, and sat down beside her and shut the door. “There’s no hurry. Is there?”

  “No.”

  He raised his voice. “Martin, you might stop and pick up some cigarettes some place.” He spoke easily and naturally, as master of the house setting the tone and pace for a new set of circumstances.

  Edith looked at him gratefully and covered his hand with hers. “That was kind of you, Andrew.”

  He professed not to understand. “What was?”

  “Oh, you know, just being ordinary.”

  He closed his eyes wearily. “I’m always ordinary.”

  “No, I mean . . .”

  “Now don’t be silly, Edith.”

  They fell into a companionable silence while in the front seat Polly and Martin discussed a book he was reviewing.

  At the first drugstore Martin stopped the car and got out to buy the cigarettes. When he came out of the store he was whistling, but as soon as he saw the car he became silent and adjusted his face self-consciously as if he’d just caught sight of himself in a mirror, wearing the wrong expression.

  It was a small thing and no one noticed it but Edith. Behind the veil her eyes glittered. Martin flung her a mocking glance and slid behind the wheel.

  We watch each other, she thought.

  The phrase echoed in her mind. We watch each other. Someone had said that recently. Who was it?

  She remembered with a shock that she herself had written it to Lucille. It was the first time she’d thought of the letter since she’d sent it, and she flushed with shame at her own stupidity. She should never have written it. Where was it now? Destroyed, surely. But suppose it wasn’t destroyed? Suppose it was in the bundle of clothes and things that the hospital had sent back this morning?

  Her mind set up a wild clamor: I must get the letter, Andrew mustn’t see it—no one . . .

  As soon as they arrived home she excused herself with a headache and went upstairs. She had intended to go straight to Lucille’s room to look for the bundle and make sure the letter had been destroyed. But Annie was in the hall, vacuuming the rug.

  When Annie saw her she shut off the motor and the vacuum bag deflated with a drawn-out whine.

  “This isn’t the time to be doing the rugs, is it?” Edith said.

  “Annie looked surprised, and a little sulky. “Maybe not, but I figured I might as well be doing something if you wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.” She was gratified to note that her subtle counter-attack made Edith ill at ease, and she pressed her advantage. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Miss Morrow, I figured you’d look at the food grinder
in the kitchen. It’s not working and Della accuses me of losing one of the parts which I never did.”

  “Some other time—not now.”

  “Well, I just thought, I was just thinking I needed it to make the stuffing for the veal.”

  I’ll teach you, her eyes said, for keeping me away from the funeral of someone who had more class than all the rest of you put together.

  “I just thought it’d be nice,” she said blankly. “You can’t buy food grinders any more.”

  “All right, I’ll see it,” Edith said.

  She passed the door of Lucille’s room without looking at it, and went down the stairs again with Annie following her. She had a sudden wild notion that Annie had opened the bundle from the hospital and seen the letter, that she must be placated.

  “About Mrs. Morrow’s clothes,” she said, and tried to keep the agitation out of her voice.

  “I put them in Dr. Morrow’s room,” Annie said. “Naturally he’ll want to look over it, I figured. I didn’t touch a thing.”

  “I didn’t say you had.”

  “Over here’s the grinder. See? Here’s where the screw’s missing.”

  Edith bent over it. Her body drooped with weariness, it seemed that it would never have the strength to right itself again.

  “It’s so—so complicated,” she whispered.

  “If Mrs. Morrow was here, she’d know about it. She was real handy around the house.”

  “I’m sorry, I . . .”

  “You look real bad, Miss Morrow. Maybe you’d like a cup of tea? You go up and lie down and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. I don’t really have to stuff the veal.”

  Then why didn’t you say so? Edith screamed silently, why didn’t you say so?

  “It’s just as nice not stuffed,” Annie said. “The tea’ll be up in a jiffy.”

  “Thank you,” Edith said, and turned, and dragged herself back up the stairs. There was no use arguing with Annie, and no use getting excited. The letter wasn’t important. It was probably not there anyway, and even if it was, there was nothing in it except a record of her own fears and her own folly.

  I’ll see about it later on, she thought, and lay down on her bed, with one arm shielding her eyes from the light.

  Annie brought the tea in and left again. Edith lay without moving. She could feel her migraine coming on, the beat of the blood on one side of her neck and up along the artery behind the ear. Pretty soon the actual pain would be there, and after that the nausea. She began to massage the side of her neck gently, the way Andrew had told her to do when she felt the first symptom.

  But it was no use. By dinnertime the pain was intense, and immediately after dinner she came back to her room and lay listening to the sounds that filtered through the house, Annie and Della washing up in the kitchen and then going up to their rooms on the third floor. A little later they came down again, whispering, and the back door opened and closed.

  They’re going to a movie, Edith thought and remembered Janet Green and Tuesday, and the funeral, and then the letter again.

  In the darkness she got off the bed and crept to the door and out into the hall. She could hear people talking down in the living room, and she waited until she could distinguish all their voices, Polly’s and Martin’s and Andrew’s, so she would know she was alone upstairs.

  She hesitated, suddenly appalled by her own secretiveness. Why, they were her own family, down there. And she, herself, had every right to go into Andrew’s room and sort out Lucille’s clothes—every right, it was her duty, in fact, she must spare Andrew—there was no need to be afraid.

  But in silence and in secret her slippered feet crossed the hall. It was only when she had switched on a lamp in Andrew’s room that some of her fear left her. For the room was like Andrew himself, it was familiar and comfortable and getting old, but it had worn well. Even the smell was reassuring—polished leather and books and tobacco.

  She glanced toward the smoking stand beside the leather chair and saw that Andrew had left the lid of the humidor off. Automatically she walked over and replaced it. His pipe lay across the ash tray, and an open book straddled one arm of the chair.

  He must have been up all night, she thought. Walking around and smoking and trying to read and then pacing the room again. She felt suddenly overwhelmed with pity for him and her knees sagged against the chair.

  The book slid limply to the floor. It made only a faint noise, yet she went rigid, and a trickle of ice water seemed to ooze down her spine. Her ears moved a little, like an animal’s, waiting for some sound, some signal . . .

  But there was no sound. Hurriedly she bent to pick up the book. It was a diary.

  Funny, I didn’t know Andrew kept a diary, she thought. No, it can’t be his. The writing’s different, very round and big, and the ink’s faded. I mustn’t look at it . . . None of my business . . . I must find my letter. . . .

  She closed the book and put it on the arm of the chair again. She had already turned to walk away before the name on the cover penetrated to her mind.

  Then she became aware that someone was walking along the hall outside. The blood pounded against her ears, and unconsciously she began to rub her neck.

  “What are you doing in here, Edith?” Andrew said, and the door clicked in place behind him.

  Her hand paused. “I—I was looking for Lucille’s clothes.”

  “They’re in the closet. We thought you were asleep.”

  “No—no—I—couldn’t sleep.”

  She saw his eyes go toward the chair and falter.

  “I didn’t read it,” she said. “It fell, I just picked it up. But I didn’t read it.”

  “Don’t talk like a child. What difference would it make if you had read it?” He closed his eyes-for a second. “Mildred never wrote anything that other people couldn’t see.”

  “You read it—last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve kept it all these years?”

  “All these years, yes.”

  Her hand began to move again up and down the cord of her neck. “But I thought—wasn’t it missing after she died? Didn’t the policeman . . . ?”

  “Yes, it was missing. I had it. I didn’t feel justified in handing my wife’s diary over to a policeman. You were the one who told the police that the only things missing after she died were the jewels she had on and her diary?”

  “Yes, I told them, I was the one.”

  “Silly of you, Edith,” he said gently. “Did you think there might be a clue in it?”

  “Perhaps—for a while . . .”

  He picked up the book and handed it to her. “Take it with you,”

  “No, no, I wouldn’t want to read it! It will just upset me. . . . I have this headache.”

  “It won’t upset you. It’s a very ordinary diary, just the little things that happened to her day by day, about, the children, and us.”

  He was still holding the book out to her and now she took it, almost without volition.

  “Don’t show it to the children,” he said. “They’re not old enough yet to get any comfort from the past.”

  “You look tired,” Edith said with a return of her old crispness. “You’d better go to bed.”

  “I’ll sit up and smoke for awhile.”

  “You have to take better care of yourself, Andrew, keep more regular hours. I noticed you didn’t touch your salad tonight.”

  “Don’t nag, Edith.”

  “I wasn’t nagging.”

  “Go to bed yourself.”

  “I would, if I could sleep,” she said gratingly. “You’ll never give me anything to make me sleep.”

  “It’s a bad habit.”

  “It can’t be a habit if you do it once!” She knew that she was getting shrill and tried to stop herself, but too many things had happened to her today—the funeral, Janet, the diary, the migraine—she felt her control slipping away. “Other doctors give sleeping prescriptions! I’m your own sister and I have to lie awake n
ight after night . . .”

  “You’re the type who forms habits too easily,” he said quietly. “But rather than see you hysterical like this I will set aside my better judgment.”

  Even though she was getting her own way she couldn’t stop talking at him. Her voice pursued him into the closet where he kept his medical supplies locked up, and into the bedroom where he poured out a glass of water.

  “Here. Take this. It will begin to work in an hour or so. Now go to bed.”

  He half-pushed her toward the door, glad to be rid of her finally, to be able to enjoy the peace and darkness of his own room.

  At ten o’clock the maids came home, and went, twittering, up to the third floor. Shortly afterward Martin came to bed, and last of all, Polly. She had locked the house and put out the lights, and now she paused in front of Edith’s door and rapped softly.

  “Who is it?”

  “Me. Polly.”

  “Oh. I’m in bed.”

  “I saw your light on.”

  “Well, come in. Don’t shout at me through the door!”

  Edith was sitting up in bed. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had a glaring sightless look. She wore a bed-jacket.

  “I was just sitting here a moment before turning off the light,” she said.

  One of her arms jerked nervously and the sleeve of the bed-jacket slid back and showed an inch or so of the black dress she’d been wearing. She covered it again quickly, but Polly had already seen.

  “Well, I didn’t have anything special to say,” she said, her voice carefully blank. “Guess I’ll turn in. How’s your headache?”

  “Headache? Oh, it’s all right.”

  “Well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Their eyes met for an instant and passed on, like strangers on a dark street.

  The door closed and Edith got out of bed and tore the bed-jacket from her shoulders. She put on a coat and tied a black scarf over her head and picked up the diary from underneath the bedclothes.

  Then, a black shadow, she moved through the house, and went out into the street.

  13

  “Good morning, Mr. Bascombe,” D’arcy said. “Mr: Sands has just come in. I was terribly sorry to hear you’re leaving us.”