Death at the Deep End

by Patricia Wentworth

  Miss Silver shook her head.

  ‘I do not think I should do that. It might alarm her very much.’

  Something like a shadow went across Jennifer’s face. Her imagination had been pricked. She was thinking of being shut in—alone—in the dark. The scene sprang into view—hands beating on a locked door, shaking a fastened window—a voice sending out terrified screams—and at first they would be loud, and then choking, and then just a horrid whisper. And loud or soft nobody would hear them. She stared at Miss Silver with dilated eyes and said in a shuddering voice,

  ‘No—no—I won’t lock her in. Nobody ought to be locked in—really. It’s wicked!’

  THIRTEEN

  IT WAS THAT evening after the children had gone to bed that the name of Mr Sandrow emerged for the first time. Mr Craddock was not present. His absence did not surprise Miss Silver, since he nearly always went away as soon as a meal was over, and often did not join the family at all. Sometimes Mrs Craddock would load a tray and take it through to the main block where he had his study. The doors, one on each floor, which shut it off from the inhabited wing were kept locked, a precaution rendered necessary by the bombed state of the building. Mrs Craddock would permit Jennifer, Maurice or Miss Silver to come with her as far as the locked door, but as soon as the key was turned and it had swung open she would take the tray and go through alone. The piece of passage disclosed was dark, dusty, and without other furniture than a small rough table upon which she could stand the tray whilst she locked the door behind her. Sometimes she merely put the tray down and returned immediately. Sometimes the door would be locked, and she would be absent for ten minutes or so. Every now and then she would repeat what she had said on the day of Miss Silver’s arrival—‘Mr Craddock is engaged upon a great work. He must not be disturbed.’

  On this particular evening, as the two women sat by the schoolroom fire, the house was still and peaceful. Mrs Craddock was patching Benjy’s shorts, whilst Miss Silver, her knitting laid aside, was engaged in filling up two gaping holes in one of Maurice’s jerseys. There had been a companionable silence for a time, when Mrs Craddock gave a little sigh and said,

  ‘It makes such a difference when there is someone to share the mending.’

  Miss Silver gave her small prim cough.

  ‘Did not Miss Ball or Miss Dally help you with it?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ There was another sigh. ‘They really were not very much help. Miss Dally had no idea—she liked young men and parties. Of course she was quite young, so I suppose it was natural. And Miss Ball—I really was quite glad when she went. She seemed to dislike me, and that is a very uncomfortable feeling.’

  ‘And quite uncalled for, since I am sure you were all kindness to her, as you have been to me.’

  Mrs Craddock sighed again.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Of course it was dull for her. But then there was Mr Sandrow—I have always wondered if anything came of that. But of course he didn’t come again, and she never wrote. …’

  With no more than an absent-minded interest in her voice, Miss Silver said,

  ‘Mr Sandrow?’

  Emily Craddock said, ‘Yes.’ Her fingers smoothed the grey flannel patch, her needle took a stitch and halted. ‘I sometimes wondered whether we ought to have mentioned him, but Mr Craddock said it wasn’t our business. I don’t know how old she was—but not a very young girl—she may have had her own reasons. Mr Craddock thought we had no right to interfere.’

  ‘Had you any reason to suppose that she went away with this Mr Sandrow?’

  Emily looked startled.

  ‘Oh, no—of course not. I only thought— She didn’t write, but then why should she? She was only here for such a short time, and she didn’t like us—there was really no reason. But she didn’t write to her friends either. Someone came down only the other day to make enquiries. She hadn’t any relations, I believe, but there was a friend who was worried at not hearing from her. Only people don’t always write, do they, and she may not have wanted to keep up with her friend. She was a moody sort of girl.’

  ‘The friend was trying to trace her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Someone came down—from the police, I think, only not in uniform. But of course there wasn’t anything we could say.’

  Miss Silver was picking up run-down stitches on Maurice’s left sleeve, using a darning-needle in a very expert manner. She paused for a moment to look at Emily Craddock and say,

  ‘And now you feel that you ought to have spoken of Mr Sandrow?’

  ‘There was so little to say,’ said Emily in a distressed voice. ‘I only saw him once—quite at a distance, and it was getting dark. There was a car at the gate, and I just saw him stop and drive on again. She had been out for the afternoon, you know. We walked up the drive together, and she had that excited way with her, but when I asked her whether her friend wouldn’t have come in she changed and said no, he didn’t like a crowd.’

  ‘How extremely rude.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so. And then she laughed and said quite angrily, “Two is company, isn’t it?” She didn’t say any more, and I didn’t like to. Her tone was really quite rude.’

  ‘But she told you his name?’

  Emily had her startled look.

  ‘No—no—I don’t think she did. I think it must have been someone else—perhaps one of the children.’

  ‘She spoke of him to the children?’

  ‘I think she must have done—because of the name. … Yes, it was Jennifer, because I thought it sounded as if it might be Italian—Sandro, you know. But she said it wasn’t. She said it was R O W.’

  Miss Silver remarked in a meditative voice,

  ‘If Miss Ball was so reserved about her affairs, it seems strange that she should have talked to Jennifer.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. We had a governess when I was twelve, and she told me all about being engaged to a young man who was a missionary in China. When you are in love with someone you do want to talk about them. I think the children may have teased her about his being Italian, and that made her explain that he wasn’t and tell them how the name was really spelt.’

  ‘Did they ever see him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Jennifer did say he was very goodlooking, but I think that was only what Miss Ball had told her. I think Elaine Tremlett saw him once—or perhaps it was Gwyneth. She said he had red hair, which doesn’t sound at all Italian, does it?’

  ‘Did Miss Ball see much of him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. She used to slip out in the evenings—it was one of the things I didn’t like. And people talked.’

  Miss Silver reflected that they had not talked to Detective Inspector Abbott. It became apparent that Emily Craddock had told all she knew about Mr Sandrow. Anna Ball had neither said where he came from nor how long they had known each other. After that momentary outburst in the dark drive she had gone back into her silent antagonism, and a few days later had taken her departure, a good deal to Emily Craddock’s relief.

  ‘I did try to be nice to her,’ she said in her plaintive voice. ‘We didn’t like her, but we did try. We gave her a red hat.’

  ‘A red hat?’

  ‘Mr Craddock thought it would cheer her up,’ said Emily.

  FOURTEEN

  THE MISS TREMLETTS were very proud of their converted stable. By knocking down partitions between the stalls a large living-room had been contrived, with a kitchenette and a bathroom beyond, whilst a staircase ran up with what they considered a most decorative effect to three bedrooms above.

  ‘So nice to have room to give a party,’ as Miss Elaine said. ‘Our cottage at Wyshmere was most picturesque, but so very small and so very dark. Leaded panes, you know—and quite authentic, so it would have been impossible to replace them, but they let in so very little light. And though, of course, candles or even rushlights would be more in character, we cannot help feeling most grateful for the supply of electricity from dear Peveril’s installation.’

  Miss Silver foun
d the room a little too suggestive of a barn. Its plain whitewashed walls did not appeal to her. What she admired was a nice wallpaper with a satin stripe or bunches of flowers. She did not think that the chairs looked as if they would be comfortable. They had angular archaic shapes and were entirely destitute of upholstery. Hand-made rugs strewed the floor. Miss Gwyneth’s loom stood by one of the windows.

  Miss Elaine, small and thin in a pea green smock, and Miss Gwyneth, larger and inclined to billow in a sacklike garment of peacock-blue, were both all that was welcoming and kind. That the welcome was more particularly directed towards Mr Craddock did not at all surprise Miss Silver, since from the first moment of her arrival in Deep End it had been made perfectly plain to her that everything in Harmony revolved round him. The sisters were polite to her and affectionate to ‘dear Emily,’ but their deference, their enthusiasms, their flutterings centred upon Peveril. They fluttered a good deal, assisted by a flowing of scarves and a jingle of beads. With her pea-green smock Miss Elaine wore a necklet of blue and silver beads from Venice and a long string of Chinese amber, whilst Miss Gwyneth’s peacock curves supported a short row of cornelians and two longer strings, one of pink coral and the other filagree silver and amethyst. Miss Elaine had fair, faded hair in a pre-Raphaelite knot on the nape of her neck. Miss Gwyneth wore hers, which was grey and rather sparse, in a long straight bob to the shoulder which gave her an odd resemblance to some French abbé of the eighteenth century.

  Miss Silver’s hand was pressed by Miss Elaine.

  ‘We hope you are going to like being here. We are a friendly Community.’

  It was pressed by Miss Gwyneth.

  ‘It is not the best time of year for the country, but each season has its beauty. Are you a nature-lover?’

  It being her private opinion that the country was a cold and draughty place and only too apt to be lacking in modern conveniences, Miss Silver found it best to make a noncommittal reply. She was able to say with truth that she had spent a good deal of time in country places.

  ‘And if one is interested in one’s work, surroundings are of secondary importance.’

  Miss Elaine said vaguely.

  ‘Ah, yes—the children. They interest you?’

  ‘Extremely.’

  Miss Elaine fidgeted with her amber beads.

  ‘They are a little uncontrolled, but of course as Peveril says, one can only guide, never thwart the expression of the ego. But if you are interested, that is the great thing. And such a privilege to work with him!’

  A little later on it was Miss Gwyneth who, in a louder voice and with greater freedom of gesture, emphasized the privilege alluded to by Miss Elaine.

  ‘I hope you appreciate it, but I am sure you do. Those two girls did not—Miss Ball and Miss Dally. Not the right type at all, either of them—Miss Dally so thoughtless, and Miss Ball so wrapped up in herself. The real teacher must be ready to give—my sister and I feel that so strongly. Now I am sure you— But let me introduce you to Miranda.’

  Miss Silver’s hand was taken and held in a clasp which became oppressive.

  ‘We have met!’ said Miranda in her deepest voice. She drew Miss Silver aside. ‘We will not say where. It is not an auspicious spot. You have not brought the children? Perhaps it is as well. The harmony of a social gathering is so easily disturbed. I find Boys a disturbing element. They are crude and violent. But something might be made of Jennifer. There are points of interest, but she is in revolt against her circumstances. Even against Peveril. Strange! He is very patient, very forebearing. He will not thwart her. But his friends cannot help being indignant on his behalf. Such a marvellous opportunity for the child, and she does not appreciate it! Adolescence? Perhaps! It is a time of ferment and revolt! Very trying for poor Emily. The maternal instinct is strong in her, but she is devoted to Peveril.’

  Under these rather odd phrases Miss Silver discerned a homely desire to gossip about the Craddocks. Encouraging this, she found herself on a comfortless oak settle with Miranda. The subject of Emily’s maternal instinct was pursued. It appeared that she had been in the habit of going upstairs to kiss the children good-night, and that Peveril had put a stop to it as likely to result in a mother-fixation.

  ‘I do not know that I agree. These psychological terms! A little extreme! And Benjy is only four. It is at these times that a mother wins her children’s confidence.’

  It was not in the least necessary for Miss Silver to reply, since Miranda was always ready to go on talking. This was fortunate, because she had no desire to be quoted as disapproving of Mr Craddock. She listened with interest to a description of his aura, and to the assertion that he was intensely psychic.

  ‘Had he given his mind to it he would have been a wonderful medium. But he resists. I have told him so plainly. I have said, “Peveril, you resist,” and he has not denied it. His work lies in other directions—he has told me so. You know, of course, that he is engaged upon a Monumental Work. It was very good of him to come this afternoon. Most gratifying for Gwyneth and Elaine, but they should not expect him to waste his time at social functions. They adore him of course. Gwyneth wove the stuff of that white smock, and Elaine embroidered it with the Signs of the Zodiac. It is very becoming, but I do not know that Emily was pleased. She is no needlewoman, and does not rise above the mending-basket.’

  Miss Silver coughed.

  ‘There is a good deal of mending.’

  Miranda was attired in a long black velvet robe. It was low in the neck, and the hanging sleeves disclosed a pair of strong white arms. Her red hair had been combed and was partially confined by a purple fillet. It threatened to break loose now as she made a vigorous gesture.

  ‘There should not be so much. The children wear nothing but shorts and jerseys. Jennifer should do her own mending. Even Maurice could learn to use a darning-needle. Emily has the slave mentality. She allows herself to be Put On.’ She contrived to invest this homely phrase with a gloomy significance which persisted through an enumeration of other weak points in Emily Craddock’s character.

  ‘She cannot cook.’ Miranda’s tone was tragic. ‘I have tasted lentils there which were not fit for human consumption. I will not say that I have eaten them. That was Impossible! The position was serious—we feared for Peveril’s health. But Mrs Masters now prepares the meals before she leaves. She cannot, of course, do the housework as well, and since it is beyond Emily’s strength, I fear that much of it remains undone. Marriage makes more demands upon women than it did. They should learn to cook and to make use of labour-saving appliances. But when I suggested a vacuum-cleaner, Emily asserted that it would use too much current. Now I happen to know that the electric light installation is an extremely powerful one. I said to her, “Emily, you are being obstructive,” and she could not deny it. She is one of those people who appear to yield but contrive to get their own way. In the matter of the electric current she does not know what she is talking about. I do not believe in concealing my opinion. I told her so.’

  It was at this moment that a door opened at the head of the stairs and Thomasina Elliot appeared. She wore a grey dress which matched her eyes, and she had a most becoming colour in her cheeks. As it happened, she saw Miss Silver before Miss Silver saw her. Since she had known that they would meet, the sight did not surprise her. Her colour deepened a little, but she continued on her way down. She had in fact reached the seventh step, when Miranda exclaimed and Miss Silver looked up. She did not require the information contained in a contralto whisper, but she undoubtedly sustained a shock. Not only was she quite unprepared for the appearance of Thomasina Elliot, but nothing could have given her less pleasure. With commendable self-control she turned to Miranda.

  ‘You said—?’

  ‘Elaine and Gwyneth’s paying guest. They have one sometimes, but not generally so young. They knew this girl’s aunt in Wyshmere.’

  Thomasina had reached the foot of the stairs. She was being introduced to Emily, to Peveril, to the little man in a blue
blouse who was Augustus Remington, to Miranda, to Miss Silver herself.

  ‘This is our young friend, Ina Elliot. We have delightful recollections of her aunt, Mrs Brandon.’

  Miss Silver took her cue. Since Thomasina was being introduced as a stranger, strangers they would be. She said in a reserved tone,

  ‘How do you do, Miss Elliot? Are you making a long stay?’

  Thomasina was not insensitive. She was prepared for disapproval, but she had not known that it would affect her so unpleasantly. She had not felt so much in the wrong since her first year at school. It was most dreadfully undermining. She found herself tripping over her words.

  ‘I d-don’t know. It d-depends.’

  Miss Silver continued to look through her. She said,

  ‘Town is, I think, preferable at this time of year, unless there is work that takes one into the country. But that would not be your case.’

  Thomasina said, ‘N-no.’ She had not stammered since she was ten years old. She was furious with herself and with Miss Silver.

  Miss Elaine struck in.

  ‘We hope that she will stay as long as she can. Such a pleasure. But she must not find it dull. Now I wonder—’ she addressed Miss Silver—‘if you and the children are walking tomorrow, whether she might join you. She is so very fond of children—are you not, my dear?’

  ‘If I shouldn’t be in the way. …’ said Thomasina Elliot.

  There was a pleading note in her voice, but Miss Silver’s look did not soften. She gave a grave assent and turned from Thomasina to meet Augustus Remington, brought up to her by Miss Gwyneth. He was a slender creature, pale and wispy like a plant that has grown in the dark—hair of the colour called lint-white in Scotland, soft and unsubstantial as a baby’s—slender hands, slender feet—rather indeterminate features. He wore blue corduroy trousers and a belted blouse of the same pattern as Mr Craddock’s, but without embroidery. He had a whispering way of talking, and used his hands a good deal.