by Mark McShane
He nodded, and was retreating when a loud bang sounded from below. They both started, and stared fixedly at one another. Then Bill smiled quickly, said, ‘The paper,’ and hurried out.
Myra stood up and moved bouncily to the foot of the bed, pulled a bathrobe off a hanger and put it on, got to the floor and hastily stamped into her slippers and squeezed out of the room.
Bill was sitting on the bottom step, the newspaper held before him. Myra sat on the second step and looked over his shoulder. He said, ‘Down here. Just that bit.’
At the foot of the page were a few lines of type under the heading, Girl Missing. Myra read aloud: ‘The only daughter of Charles Clayton, wealthy chairman of Clayton Industries Ltd., was stated last night to be missing from home. Adriana, aged six, disappeared soon after leaving her school near Barnet. A search party was organized.’
Bill said, ‘I thought there’d be more than that.’
‘There will be. They probably had not realized what had actually happened.’
‘You don’t suppose they’re going to keep it all secret?’
‘No. They just had not thought of an abduction.’
Bill folded the paper and turned to look at his wife. ‘But what else could they think?’
‘Well, perhaps that it was somebody playing a joke.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Or that the man who had taken the car was merely a car thief.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s likely.’
‘It will be in the evening paper. You see.’
‘Well there’s one thing: we know her name now. Adriana. Posh, eh?’
‘Yes.’ She rose and turned and began to climb the stairs. ‘And so to breakfast.’
Bill went into the lounge, saw that the newly made fire was burning properly, and passed through into the kitchen. As he prepared the scrambled eggs for the girl he reflected that if Clayton kept the affair out of the papers the whole point of it would be lost; there’d be no success without publicity. He sighed, but not unhappily, and told himself it was one more thing to worry about.
Myra had a quick wash and went to her room to dress. First she put on her grey wool, then stood on the bed to reach down a white summer frock, which she also donned. From the dresser’s top drawer—the only one that could be opened—she took a large white handkerchief, and carried it to the bathroom. Her hair had not been taken down the night before, and it was only a minute’s work to tuck in the strands that had got loose from the bun. When it was neat she fastened the handkerchief over it—nurse-style.
After examining her over-all appearance she moved closer to the mirror and looked dubiously at the scar high on her brow. It was during the hasty removal of the face veil that the scar had been dug. Diamond-shaped at first, the years had blunted the impression of the sides and left it looking like a four-pointed star. It was a valuable asset to a medium when passed off as a birthmark, and discounting a few minutes it was a birthmark. Myra was proud of it. But now the fact of its distinctiveness gave her pause.
She decided to hide it, and rearranged the handkerchief to come down to just above her eyebrows. It was better, she thought, and looked even more nurse-like.
She went downstairs. In the living-room she unpinned the curtains and opened them. It was a tired grey morning with black waterlogged clouds coming in low from the east. She moved to the fire and briefly dry-washed her hands, close to the flames, before going into the kitchen.
Bill looked around from the stove. ‘Almost ready.’ He grinned. ‘Well, you look perfect. Just the job.’
‘Think so?’
‘Yes, perfect.’ He took a pan off the stove and emptied its lumpy contents into a small dish on a tray. Also on the tray was a mug, and a plate of bread and butter.
Myra crossed to him. ‘All ready?’
‘Almost. Just warming the milk.’
‘Oh, there is no need to warm it.’
‘Poor little mite needs something warm. It must be cold for her in that room. No fire or anything.’
She smiled. ‘That is the general idea—remember? She only has a thin nightgown and no slippers. That will keep her in the blankets.’
‘Still …’ he said. ‘It’s nearly ready.’ He turned up the gas jet. When the first bubble appeared on the milk he filled the mug.
Myra lifted the tray, and preceded by her husband went slowly upstairs. Bill unlocked the bedroom door and after holding it just wide enough for her to pass inside, closed it again quickly.
Myra stood for a moment and blinked through the yellowy fog-like gloom at the bed. The child was sitting up, propped against a pillow, holding the bedding beneath her chin. Their eyes met, and Myra smiled as she crossed the room; the girl’s face remained solemn.
Myra put the tray on the bedside table, and said, ‘Well, good morning, Adriana.’
The child asked, sulkily, ‘Who are you? Where’s my nanny?’
‘All in good time, my dear.’
‘And where’s my daddy?’
Myra sat on the edge of the bed. She could see that the girl’s eyes were puffy and red. She said, ‘You have been crying.’
‘No I haven’t. Where’s my daddy? Who are you? I don’t like you.’
‘Do you want some nice scrambled eggs and hot milk?’
‘No.’
Myra frowned, nonplussed. She’d had little to do with children, and didn’t really like them; she lacked the necessary patience to wade through their tantrums and foolishness, and could never understand why they acted so childishly. She said, ‘If you do not eat this you will go hungry all day.’
‘Good.’
Myra was at a loss. She searched her mind for something else to say.
Adriana said, ‘If you go and fetch my daddy I’ll eat my breakfast.’
Myra picked up the tray and settled it on the girl’s knees. She said, ‘Eat first.’
It looked for a moment as though Adriana would refuse, but then her eyes turned greedily on the food and she lifted the fork, quickly, and began to shovel the eggs into her mouth.
Myra moved back to the foot of the bed and watched in silence. When the child had emptied the dish—leaving the bread untouched—and was drinking the milk, Myra said, ‘I suppose you know you are in a hospital.’
Adriana brightened. ‘Am I?’
‘Yes. It is for infectious complaints. That means the thing you have is catching. That is why you have a room all to yourself.’
‘What’ve I got?’
‘German measles.’
‘Had it.’
‘This is a special type. Double German measles.’
Adriana smiled. ‘Is it very special?’
‘Very. That is why we must keep it almost dark in here. And you will have to stay in bed and be very quiet. You will be here for three days, then, if you have been a good little girl and very, very quiet, you can go home.’
‘And will my daddy bring me choclits and grapes and things?’
‘Finish your milk.’
Adriana drained the glass, and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Myra said, ‘All the little girls who come in here have funny dreams when they are taken sick. The girl in the room next door says she dreamt she left school and was carried away on a big white horse.’
‘I have lovely dreams. Shall I tell you the one I had last night?’
‘No, tell me the one you had when you were taken sick, when you left school.’
Adriana frowned, then nodded. ‘Oh yes. There was a man. And we went to a field. And there was a wooden house and a motor-bike thing. And he wanted me to blow my nose. And that’s all. But it wasn’t a dream.’
‘Was the man big and fat?’
‘Oh yes, very big. Ever so big.’
‘And fat.’
‘Yes, ever so fat. Oh, and his hair was all shiny.’
‘Black and shiny.’
‘Yes.’
‘A big fat man with black hair.’
‘Yes.’
Myra nodded, satisfi
ed. She said, ‘Well now, tell me about your house and your own little room.’
Adriana folded her arms in a businesslike way, and began to talk. She described her house, room, toys, nanny, friends, holidays and last Christmas, all in a way that the listener could only assume must be hyperbolical. But Myra learned the names of Adriana’s friends and favourite toys, which had to be facts regardless.
Finally Myra broke into the flow of talk. She’d given and taken all she wanted, and now she was bored with the child; also the gloom was making her eyes ache. She rose and lifted the tray, and, remembering something else, asked, ‘Did you see anyone in here earlier this morning?’
‘Yes, a man.’
‘What did he look like?’
Adriana frowned, and closed one eye thoughtfully.
Myra said quickly, ‘It does not matter. It is not important.’
‘You talk funny.’
‘What?’
‘You talk funny.’
Myra moved away, then stopped and turned, smiling. ‘That is because I am a foreigner. French. But that is a secret. Promise never to tell anyone?’
‘Oh I do, I promise,’ said Adriana, smiling brightly. ‘I hope I may die and be torn to pieces by wild dogs if I ever tell a living soul.’
Myra went to the door, opened it and slid the tray on to the landing. She straightened and turned. ‘Now, you lie still like a good little girl. I shall return later.’
‘When will my daddy get here?’
‘Your father will not be coming. There are to be no visitors.’
Adriana bounded up and leapt to the foot of the bed. She said, loudly, ‘You told me you’d fetch him if I ate my breakfast.’
‘If you are nice and quiet you can go home in three days.’
Adriana shouted, ‘You said you’d fetch him. You told a lie.’
‘Be quiet.’
‘You’re a liar. You’re an old cow. I hate you.’ She stiffened her arms at her sides, threw back her head and began to wail loudly.
Myra reached the bed in three long strides, swung her arm and slapped the child across the face.
The wailing stopped as Adriana fell over on to her back. She lay still, her mouth open, staring with astonishment at the ceiling.
Myra grabbed her and bundled her quickly under the blankets, and said, holding her firmly by the shoulders. ‘Every time you make a noise you will be beaten. Just remember that.’
The child glared, but said nothing.
Myra realized that the handkerchief had slipped back off her forehead, and turned swiftly away. As she crossed the room she heard Adriana say, softly, ‘French, French, French.’
She went downstairs, tight-lipped with aggravation, and left the tray in the kitchen and passed through into the living-room. Bill was in his chair, reading the newspaper. He asked, ‘O.K.?’
‘She is a spoiled little brat,’ Myra said, pulling the hanky from her head and throwing it on the table. ‘A real daddy’s girl.’
‘Give you any trouble?’
‘A bit. But I soon made her see she could not get away with it.’
‘Well, poor kid’s bound to feel strange, and act up a bit.’
Myra went to her chair and sat holding her hands to the fire. She said, ‘I think she will be quiet enough.’
‘What were you talking about?’
Myra told him what the child had said, and what she had said. Bill listened carefully, and complimented her on the way she’d installed a false description of him and had planted the French secret. They discussed these points at some length, then Myra went into the kitchen to prepare their breakfast. Bill followed and stood in the doorway.
He asked, ‘When will you go to Barnet?’
‘I think I had better set off as soon as we have eaten. It will take some time to get there.’
It was a long, boring journey. Myra went to the West End via the same route she’d taken to post the letter, and after having a coffee got on another Underground train. She had to change once more, and it was almost noon when she finally reached High Barnet. She found a cab, and settled back to enjoy the rarely afforded luxury of a taxi ride. She was a little sorry when they got to their destination.
The cab pulled into the kerb and stopped. There was a high wall of crinkly brick and just ahead a gate of intricately wrought iron. Myra walked to the gate and stood looking through at the tarmac drive that curved off into tall shrubs. She told herself she was quite calm. As she reached for the ring-handle a voice said, ‘Yes?’ and she started nervously.
Beyond the gate, standing to one side, was a heavily built policeman with a thick moustache. He moved forward. ‘Was there something?’
‘Yes. I would like to see Mr. Clayton.’
‘Got an appointment?’
‘Well, no.’
‘I don’t think he’ll see you.’
‘I think he will when he knows my business.’
‘Oh. What’s that?’
‘It is in connexion with something that he is vitally concerned with at this moment.’
‘Oh.’ The policeman seemed uncertain, and looked down at the ground. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right to try. Come on.’ He swung the gate wide. ‘I’ll have to go up with you.’
They walked together along the drive. It curved left then right, then opened out into a wide circle around a dry fountain. Beyond the fountain was the house, a low neo-Tudor affair that wasn’t as large as Myra had expected. The door had square imitation studs, and it opened quickly after the policeman’s knock. A young girl in maid’s uniform, who had obviously been doing a lot of crying, asked what it was. Myra silently held out her card. The maid took it and said please to wait, and closed the door again. The constable and Myra exchanged glances and smiles and cleared their throats, and the constable began to whistle quietly.
The door opened and the maid said, ‘Mr. Clayton will see you, Mrs. Savage.’
Myra smiled again at the policeman and went in. She was led across the polished floor of a large hall that echoed their footsteps, and ushered into a study and left with the message, ‘Mr. Clayton won’t be a minute.’
There were six leather armchairs and several small tables. Three walls were book lined and the other held a long, latticed window, through which she caught a glimpse of the constable as he circled the fountain. Under the window was a radiator, and she went to it and turned her back and put her hands behind.
The door opened and Charles Clayton came in.
The first thing that Myra saw, or sensed, with surprise and a catch of her breath, was that Clayton was metagnomic, that he had the gift, that he possessed supra-normal awareness. She warmed to him instantly, even though she knew, by the impersonal way he looked at her, that he didn’t sense the same thing in her. His gift, she thought, wasn’t that highly developed; and he probably didn’t even know he had it.
Clayton looked to be in his mid-forties. He was only a little above average in height, but he had unusually broad shoulders and a deep chest, and his neck was thick. The large head was topped by wispy black hair that was ruffled untidily. His face was so broad that from the front the ears were all but hidden, and the wide, downturned mouth pulled thick folds in the heavy jowls.
He tugged at the lapels of his prickly tweed jacket, and said, ‘I’m Charles Clayton, Mrs. Savage.’
‘How do you do.’
He took a step forward. ‘Mrs. Savage, I’m a very busy man at the moment, so I’d appreciate it if you’d please state your business without delay.’
Myra said, ‘It is in connexion with your little girl.’
There was a brief, taut silence, during which Clayton’s small dark eyes probed into Myra’s. He said, ‘Please sit down.’
Myra moved to the nearest armchair and lowered herself on to its cold surface. She was about to speak, but Clayton said, ‘Just a moment. Would you mind if I got my wife in to hear this?’
‘Not at all.’
He turned to the door, opened it and shouted, ‘Rita!’
He listened, and shouted again. From somewhere there came a faint answer, and a thud. He came and sat near Myra and brought out a flat and bent packet of cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Do you mind…?’
‘Not at all.’
He lighted up, his movements, Myra noted with pleasure, steady and unhurried. She also noted that his left hand, which ever since he’d entered the room had been hovering around, patting, and sliding in and out of his jacket pocket, was now plunged inside the pocket firmly. She realized, with a quickening of her pulse, that the pocket probably held the ransom letter.
A tall woman came in softly and reached behind her to close the door. She was very blonde, almost white, and the hair hung loosely around her shoulders. Above her blue eyes the lids were puffy, and below them were dark shadows. She was pale, and wore only a touch of makeup, and looked young enough to be Clayton’s daughter.
‘My wife … Mrs. Savage,’ said the man, without rising.
The women nodded at one another, and Mrs. Clayton moved across to an armchair. She sat down, folded her arms and looked at her feet.
In answer to a questioning look from the man, Myra said, ‘Well, you may think I am wasting your time and my own in coming here, for I do not have anything concrete—concrete, that is, to you—that I can tell you. But I had to come, after I saw that piece in the paper this morning. I felt what I had to say might take some of the worry off your minds.’
‘What have you got to say, Mrs. Savage?’
‘Last night I had a dream.’
The woman looked up quickly. Clayton groaned with annoyance and rose to his feet. He said, ‘Half an hour ago I had a man here who’d also read that my daughter was missing, and that I was wealthy. He offered to find her with the aid of a divining rod.’
Mrs. Clayton said, ‘Please, Charlie.’
His pocket bulged as his fist clenched. He sat again, breathed deeply, swallowed and said, ‘All right, Mrs. Savage. Go on.’
Myra said, ‘As you saw on my card, I am a medium. My dreams are not without significance.’
Clayton blew out a stream of smoke. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather a sceptic where things of that sort are concerned. To say the least.’
