by Heron Carvic
The maid led Miss Seeton to the end of the corridor, turned to the right and a few doors farther on ushered her into a conversion which must have been a source of pride in the late 1870s or ’80s. She rattled the sun-faded velvet drapes across the wooden pole over the French windows while Miss Seeton gazed in awe at the biggest bath that she had ever seen. From the dais on which it stood, its eight-foot length encased in an overall ten-foot span of mahogany dominated the room and any puny human being who had the temerity to enter. Hélène advanced up the steps that led to the platform and turned a tap: it hiccuped, remained quiescent for a space, belched a cloud of steam, hiccuped again and, having cleared its system, suddenly cascaded a torrent of scalding water; the heavy metal waste cylinder, which served late Victorian England in lieu of a plug and chain, dropped into position with a clang and the other tap, on being turned, groaned, dribbled a brackish stream, then spewed forth a cold river in competition with its fellow. Descending, Hélène spread a bath sheet over the room’s only chair, placed a hand towel on the seat, went back to test the water, turned off the taps, sprinkled bath salts from a cut-glass jar, returned, patted the towels and fiddled with the curtains. Miss Seeton waited patiently, recognizing from the symptoms that the Frenchwoman, like the taps, was clearing her system, in her case preparatory to speech. She trusted that neither the preliminaries nor the discourse would take long and allow the water to become cold since, true to the traditions of English comfort, the bathroom was unheated. True to human tradition, Hélène reached the door before she made up her mind, turned and crumpled her apron as an aid to confidence.
“Will madame forgive if one says to her one’s thoughts?”
Miss Seeton indicated that madame would.
“Then madame must understand,” she began apologetically, “that one reads the journals; and that one has known mamselle Deirdre since she was a little girl—that one has become, in effect—comment dit?—nurse and confidante, and by consequence one knows that there was no person with the name of Mamselle Seeton who has taught at the school Highfold. So”—she was tentative, not wishing to cause offense—“it is evident that the visit of madame here at present is—you forgive?—a little deception. Naturally,” she added hurriedly, “one will say nothing—nor my husband neither—and we can only wish madame success and,” she urged, “should madame have need of assistance madame has only to say and one will do one’s possible—and, it goes without saying, my husband will too. Even if it must mean”—her mouth drooped and the apron suffered—“that Monsieur Derrick . . .” Relinquishing the tortured apron, she threw up her hands. “Oh, là là, there is a problem—a bad subject always, even when a little boy. Oh, là là, là là, the histories that one could tell—oh, là là, là là, là là.” Unhappily she là là’d her way out and closed the door.
On her way downstairs Miss Seeton derived comfort from the knowledge that someone else in the household, apart from Deirdre, knew of the school imposture. Two people, in fact, since, presumably, the husband was included. Not only knew, but clearly approved; though the grounds for their approval were rather less clear. She was aware that her name had unfortunately been mentioned in a report of the disturbance outside that casino last week, but that, surely, could hardly be looked on as a recommendation. Then again, quite what assistance that dear old couple could give, or what circumstances could conceivably arise to render it necessary, she failed to see. But it was warming to know that if they did, they would.
The Earl of Kenharding proved to be somewhat older than Miss Seeton had expected. He came forward to greet her, hoped that she had had a good journey and that Deirdre had not driven too fast; he trusted that her room was comfortable and that she had everything she wanted. If not, she had only to say. His manner was reserved, his face tired and drawn, though the reason, Miss Seeton accepted, as she made suitable rejoinders, might well be due to pain, since his left arm was in a plaster cast and carried in a sling. His daughter regarded Miss Seeton’s dress with appreciation, collected a tomato juice upon request and installed her mother and her guest together on the sofa by the fire. Lady Kenharding, a pretty woman beginning to fade but plainly a good deal younger than her husband, looked at Miss Seeton’s glass.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have something else? It seems so . . .” As with most of her remarks, the sentence petered out, giving the impression that her mind was elsewhere and that the effort involved in social conversation was too great for completion of the thought. She started on a new gambit. “Highfold—a good school, I thought, and I’m so pleased to think that Deirdre’s keeping up the connection. Naturally”—the polite falsehood—“I remember meeting you there, but on those parents’ days there was always such a crowd. I used to think . . .” But what her ladyship had thought was not divulged. Once more her mind had retreated into private thought and the batteries would need to be recharged before it reemerged.
At dinner the table was dominated by the empty place set next to Miss Seeton. Lord Kenharding had noted it before the meal was served and had glanced interrogatively at his wife. Receiving no better answer than a slight shake of the head, he had turned to his daughter, but Deirdre, avoiding his eye, had embarked upon a string of school reminiscences. Conversation thereafter limped and Miss Seeton’s chief concern was for the aged Timson as he carried the heavy silver dishes around the table. Hélène was not in evidence—unless the excellent food was evidence in itself. Were the Timsons the only servants here? she wondered.
The atmosphere was a little easier after dinner, when they were grouped for coffee in the drawing room around a crackling log fire. The one concession to modernity, Miss Seeton marked, was an electric percolator.
Lord Kenharding, whose silence at dinner could have been attributed to the difficulty of eating with one hand, made an effort. “You’re coming to the meeting, of course?”
Meeting? Some form of Sunday service, one supposed. But “meeting”? Perhaps the family were Quakers. Didn’t they have “meetings”? A guest, Miss Seeton knew, should always conform. Unless, naturally, one held extreme views. And since one didn’t, one should. “Well . . .” she began.
Deirdre came to her rescue. “Of course she is—that’s the whole point. Besides,” she added quickly to quell any attempted protest, “Miss Seeton’s a great gambler. I’m relying on her for tips.”
“I do wish, Deirdre”—the countess looked troubled—“that you wouldn’t bet. You can’t afford it and it’s such a waste of money. It’s bad enough with Derrick. . . .” She relapsed into thought.
“Where is Derrick?” demanded his sister. “Never known him to miss the races.”
“I know, dear. That’s why I imagined . . .” As usual, Lady Kenharding’s imaginings were left to speculation.
“Also,” continued Deirdre, “any meeting gives him splendid chances for working up a spot of trouble. Never known Derrick to miss that either.”
“That’s enough.” Her father put a stop to the drift. “I’ve told you I won’t have the matter discussed.”
“Why not?” Deirdre was determined that family skeletons should be not only rattled but exposed for Miss Seeton’s benefit. “Everybody else does, and anybody who reads the papers knows—”
“I said that’s enough. Tell me,” he asked Miss Seeton, “have you found trying to teach children to draw rewarding? From what I remember of my daughter’s efforts”—a smile lit his face, making Deirdre’s likeness to him apparent—“if I’d been her teacher I fancy I’d have been found hanging from the nearest picture hook.”
Miss Seeton laughed. “I think that learning to picture things in the mind and to remember them is more important than being able to put those pictures down on paper.”
The reiteration of the word “picture” penetrated the countess’s absorption. “Would you like the television?” she suggested. “We sometimes have it in the evening—and there’s always the news. Actually Timson and Hélène use it more than we do—servants do, I think. In fact,
they always seem to know the worst before . . .” Her voice dwindled, but Miss Seeton, pleading fatigue, made her excuses and retired to her room, saddened to feel that this very pleasant family should be so vexed by one renegade member, this Derrick, who sounded no better than—her usually charitable mind delivered the ultimate opprobrium—no better than a young scamp.
chapter
~5~
DERRICK KENHARDING LOLLED in an armchair. His feelings oscillated between fear and a sense of importance, and the hand in his pocket pressed a spring clip, which reassured him with a penetrating metallic click.
The noise irritated Thatcher. “Stop that. There’s none of your gang here for you to call and your childish signs and passwords are hardly impressive outside your own age group.” The boy reddened, to the older man’s satisfaction. The young punk needed cutting down to size. Give any of these brats a job and they immediately began to see themselves sitting on thrones instead of potties. “You’re quite sure you can get a man into the house without anybody knowing?”
“Told you,” muttered Derrick. “Easy.”
“And he can get out again without trace?”
The boy laughed shortly. “Up to him. Long as he doesn’t drop his handkerchief or leave a note, it’s open and shut.”
Thatcher was in no mood to appreciate other people’s humor. Miss Seeton had escaped from The Gold Fish without the broken hand or wrist that had been planned as an “accident” during the theft of her jewelry and winnings: a mugging that could have worn the aspect of a casual outside job and need not have involved the casino. It exacerbated his frame of mind to know that he might have been in part responsible for the debacle, having been unable to resist informing her that he had met the real Mrs. Herrington-Casey and conveying veiled threats under the guise of sociabilities. She had responded by deliberately delaying the doorman—and Haley, who could only have been feigning drunkenness, had floored both her attackers and only Morden, the driver, had got away. Added to this, the presence of the Yard’s Oracle on the scene must mean that the woman’s visit had been a double bluff—a trap into which he had fallen. Had Thatcher been more widely read, he might have avoided a further pitfall. Acquaintance with the works of Ouida would have warned him that “To vice innocence must always seem only a superior kind of chicanery.” Without this knowledge, from what he had heard and read of Miss Seeton it was plain to him that the police used the wretched woman like a ferret, thrusting her down rabbit holes, then waiting for her to flush their quarry. She had duly put up two of his rabbits, got them caged, and there was a strong chance they’d squeal. They couldn’t implicate him personally, but they would inevitably involve The Gold Fish and its personnel. He realized that it was by now probably too late to stop her making a sketch of his face, if indeed he had been right in his guess that that had been a part of the intent behind her visit to the casino, but this new move of hers . . . He scowled, reflecting on the speed at which the woman worked. No wonder her reputation stood high. This sudden intimacy with Deirdre, even to wangling an invitation to the abbey, could be dangerous. She might, where a more official approach would fail, persuade Lord Kenharding to talk, or else go to work on his wife, playing it for tea and sympathy. Also it could mean—for safety better take it that it did mean—she’d got wind of Monday’s coup at Kempton and was out to drop a spanner in the works. Above all, she’d done the unforgivable—made him look a fool. He’d caught the flash of amusement on the casino proprietor’s face when they’d learned the result of the attempted mugging, sensed the man’s hope that the syndicate’s grip had slipped. No way to keep control of an operation except by wiping out opposition. Miss Seeton’s removal would keep the boys in line.
“You know which room she’s likely to be in?”
“Yeah.” Derrick grinned. “The haunted room. We always put guests there; it’s one of the few bedrooms with central heating.”
“Any difficulty about getting my man into the room?”
Derrick’s grin broadened. “None.” He saw no reason to tell Thatcher just how easy it would be. No reason not to let the other think he was really earning his money. “What,” he asked, “do I say in the morning if she’s a bit beat up?”
“Nothing. Get the man into the house, show him how to get out, show him her room, then get yourself to bed and keep out of it. She won’t be there in the morning, and since you’ve no reason to know she was staying there, you’ve no reason to say a thing.” He rose in dismissal from the chair at the casino proprietor’s desk. “Be outside the kitchen entrance here at ten o’clock. You can lead the way on your motorbike; my man’ll follow by car. But,” he warned, “take it easy. I don’t want either of you booked for speeding.”
Fool, Thatcher apostrophized the departed Derrick. Hadn’t the wit to see that when the woman turned up missing from the abbey in the morning, after a delay while the police made up their minds whether she’d left voluntarily or not, the whole Kenharding family—and Derrick in particular—would be suspect. He’d leave it to Morden to dispose of the body where it wouldn’t be found easily—if at all—and the lack of it would fog the issue and delay the inquiry. Meanwhile—his mouth twisted in a smile—he wished Miss Seeton a very good night and hoped that no ghost would disturb her until her own ghost was ready to retaliate.
• • •
Before Miss Seeton could get into bed—in which she was comforted to see the hump of a hot-water bottle—there was a knock on the door and Deirdre arrived to apologize and explain the reason for tricking her guest into staying on for the Kempton Park races on Monday.
“But I know nothing of racing,” objected Miss Seeton.
“Not to worry; I’ll look after you. The point is I’m certain Derrick will be here—he never misses the races—and you must see the whole family together. I promise I’ll take you home in the evening if you can’t stay on till Tuesday.”
Another objection occurred. “But I understand you work in London. Don’t you have to be back?”
“The boutique?” Deirdre laughed. “My chief use to them is being photographed around in their outfits. When customers ask if something they’ve set their hearts on really suits them, I’m much too apt to tell ’em the truth, but Earl’s Daughter at Local Race Meeting is a cert for most of the glossies.”
“But”—Miss Seeton retreated behind a new line of defense—“I said I’d be back and Martha will be expecting me.”
“You could ring up.”
“She hasn’t got a telephone.”
“Well, surely there must be someone you could ring who could let her know.”
Lady Colveden? No, Miss Seeton decided, Miss Treeves would be best. She lived so much closer and it would be no trouble for her to get in touch with Martha. And so, uncertain quite why she had, Miss Seeton eventually found herself agreeing to stay until after tea on Monday while Deirdre, having overruled objections and demolished defenses, hugged her and wished her good night.
The good-night wishes of Thatcher and Deirdre, duly noted by the powers that be, were observed to the letter if not in the spirit: nothing specific had been said with regard to the morning hours. Shortly after 1:30 A.M., Miss Seeton stirred in her sleep when a cold draft blew across the room. To an accustomed eye objects were discernible as lighter and darker shapes, and although outlines remained indistinct, it was possible to relate position and distance.
A whitish-gray mass materialized by the fireplace, drifted forward into the room, reached the foot of the bed, floated back and vanished. The cold draft remained.
Miss Seeton opened her eyes. Goodness, it had become very chilly. Ought one, perhaps, to shut the window? She weighed the warmth of her body under the bedclothes against the cold wind on her face. Wind. Of course. A wind must have got up since she went to bed. And it was blowing in rather a nasty smell. Damp and rank. The kind of smell—well, to be quite honest, the kind of smell that one associated with graveyards. Such a pity the gardens had been allowed to run to seed so badly. The scales tip
ped in favor of closing the window, which inaugurated further debate. Should one turn on the bedside light? Of course, it would make it easier to see one’s way. But, on the other hand, it would, inevitably, leave one very wide awake. She peered into the gloom. It wasn’t really all that dark. Or rather it was, but even so, the darkness had its own relative shades. Enough, she felt, to see her way. Miss Seeton slipped out of bed, donned her woolen dressing gown and advanced cautiously toward the windows. She put her hand between the curtains, fumbled for the fastening and found—how very odd—that the windows were closed. Hélène must have shut them and then, with Deirdre coming in, one had forgotten to check and open them again. But, in that case, where was the draft coming from? And, equally, the smell? Invisible in gray wool against gray curtains, she stared about the room. A lighter shape—well, no; to be accurate it had no shape—a lighter something wavered beside the fireplace. Oh, yes; she remembered now. Deirdre had mentioned a ghost. The something glided toward the door, Miss Seeton heard the faint sound of the handle turning, there was a movement of air and the something disappeared, followed by a click as the latch reengaged. How very strange. One had always understood that ghosts could pass through doors without the trouble of opening and shutting them. So this—how very naughty—was how Deirdre’s brother got into the house at night. Really very thoughtless. It might easily frighten people. She was on the point of retracing her steps when she stopped, sensing rather than seeing another movement in the room. A thickness of a shadow—or were there two?—crossed from the fireplace to the bed and there was a new smell, which reminded her of hospitals.
