Down Under

by Patricia Wentworth

  Light—light shining down, very faint, but getting brighter. And not only light, but sound—the sound of footsteps somewhere overhead, coming nearer. The stair ran up some dozen steps and divided, going away to right and left of a wide landing. The light came from the left. Someone was coming along a corridor towards the stair, someone who was carrying a light, and who almost certainly intended coming down into the hall. The light was like candle-light, very faint and flickering. It served to show him where he was—too far from the half open drawing-room door to get back to safety there. He retreated along the side of the staircase as the footsteps began to descend.

  Every properly constituted stair has a cupboard under it—but of course the door might be on the other side. He had begun to think that his luck had petered out, when his hand found the knob it was feeling for. A door swung in, and Oliver followed it, praying inwardly that the place wasn’t a receptacle for empty bottles or old fire-irons. It seemed to be quite empty. He left the door ajar, and waited for the steps and the candle-light to go past overhead.

  That was just where they were now, right over his head, only instead of passing they stood still, and there came to him through the chink which he had left the most undoubted sound of a sob. And then Florrie’s voice whispering, “I don’t want to—oh, I don’t want to.”

  It surely wasn’t Florrie with the candle. He had only just time to feel surprised, when another voice said, “Come along now, there’s a duck—Auntie’ll be waiting tea.”

  Oliver pricked up his ears, because he knew this voice very well. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was Fanny Garstnet. That is to say, she had been Fanny Garstnet, and as he didn’t know her married name, he thought of her as Fanny Garstnet still. She had rather a nice voice, round and full, with none of Mabel’s finnicky accent. Well, here was Fanny trying to pacify her little half-sister, and to judge by the bump he had just heard, Florrie had sat herself down on the stair and was refusing to budge.

  “Oh, Florrie, you promised you’d be a good girl.”

  He heard another of those sobs.

  “If I’m good, you’ll go away.”

  “Oh, Florrie!”

  Florrie drummed with her heels on the stair.

  “When I’m good, I don’t get nothin’. I cried and cried and cried, and then you came. You wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t. If I’m good, you’ll go away again.” Then, with a change of voice, “Oh, Fanny, I want you.”

  From the sounds above him Oliver thought that Fanny had sat down on the stair and taken Florrie on her lap. It sounded as if she were rocking her to and fro.

  “Flo darling, I can’t stay. I’m—wanted.”

  “Who wants you? I want you too. Is it—Miss Rose Anne?”

  The name came in a whisper. The stair creaked. Fanny Garstnet said in a hurry,

  “Florrie, whatever put such a thing in your head? You mustn’t say things like that.”

  She made a movement to get up, but Florrie began to sob again.

  “If you go away, I’ll cry, an’ I’ll go on cryin’ all day, an’ all night, an’ all of next day till you come back again, so I will.”

  “Oh, come along with you and have your tea! There’s Ernie waiting for his, and me waiting for mine, and Auntie waiting for hers.”

  Florrie gave another sob.

  “I don’t care about Auntie—I don’t care about whether she gets any tea.”

  “Well, if that isn’t naughty!” said Fanny, but he heard the sound of a kiss. And then quite suddenly there was a torrent of sobs, and Florrie’s voice gasping out,

  “Don’t let her—open—the black hole an’—put me in! Oh, Fanny, don’t let her!”

  Fanny was kissing the child and petting her.

  “Why, duck, of course she wouldn’t. Whatever made you think of such a thing?”

  But Florrie’s sobs increased.

  “Oh, Fanny—she said it—she did. I cried—in the night—like I told you—an’ she came—an’ I said it was acause of the black hole—what I saw—up home—an’ I thought they’d put Miss Rose Anne in it—an’ she said if I didn’t hold my noise—I’d find there was a—black hole here too—an’ if I ever said a word—about Miss Rose Anne—they’d put me in it—oh, Fanny!”

  Horror touched Oliver’s heart with ice. The broken words and their possible meaning came into his mind and froze there. A black hole—a grave—Rose Anne—hidden away—buried.… The dreadful word murder spoke itself in the cold places of thought.

  Then Fanny Garstnet’s kind, comfortable voice:

  “Honey duck, hush! What are you talking about? Miss Rose Anne isn’t in any black hole.”

  “Oh, Fanny—but she is! I seed the hole! That’s what—frightened me—only—I wouldn’t—never say. Whisper an’ I’ll—tell you—” Her voice went away and he lost it. That is, he lost the words. The faint sound of sobbing breath went on, and every now and then he heard Fanny say,

  “No, lovey,” and, “You didn’t,” and then again, “Oh lord, Florrie, don’t you say such things!”

  Oliver stood in the dark and listened. He knew now why he had come to this house. It was to hear a death sentence—not his, but Rose Anne’s. And faintly among his frozen thoughts there rang the tune which had been ringing there for hours: “Last night as I lay on my pillow … I dreamed that my Bonnie was dead—”

  Overhead Florrie’s frightened murmurings rose again into words.

  “She said—she’d put me—in it—Oh, Fanny, she did!”

  “Well, she won’t,” said Fanny Garstnet with decision. “What an idea, to be sure! Now look here, honey duck, can you keep a secret?”

  Florrie gave a great sob.

  “Yes—I can.”

  There was the sound of a kiss.

  “You always was a close little thing. If I tell you something, will you promise you won’t tell no one at all—never? Cross your heart?”

  “Cross my heart, I won’t, Fanny.”

  “Well then, come close and I’ll whisper.”

  Oliver pushed back the cupboard door and leaned out. He’d got to hear what Fanny Garstnet was whispering now—he’d got to hear it. He heard her say close to Florrie’s ear,

  “So you see it’s nothing to be frightened of—only a door. Why, Ernie and I come through it regular. We come through it today. It’s nothing to be frightened of, honey duck, only you mustn’t say a word, not ever.”

  Florrie gave a deep satisfied sigh.

  “You’re sure it’s not a hole?”

  “Ssh—ssh! Don’t you talk about it—ever! Mind!”

  “Cross my heart, I won’t,” said Florrie. She gave another sigh. Then, in a voice that was suddenly brisk and interested, “Will there be currant buns for tea?”

  Oliver heard Fanny laugh.

  “Well, his mother does make them for Ernie, but he’ll eat them all if we don’t hurry. Ernie’s terrible hard on buns.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  The steps died away and the light faded. Oliver came out of his cupboard and leaned against the wall of the stair. His mind, which had been cold with horror, was suddenly alive and alert again, with every thought centred on what he had just heard Fanny Garstnet say.

  He went over it word by word. Florrie had seen something that frightened her at Hillick St Agnes, and that was why she had been sent away. She had seen what she called a black hole. Perhaps this was the original fright which had started the screaming fits that only Rose Anne could pacify. Perhaps there had been more than one occasion when she had seen something which she wasn’t meant to see. She described it as a black hole. She associated it with Rose Anne. And she was dithering with terror because Mrs Edwards—he supposed that “Auntie” was Mrs Edwards—had threatened her with the same thing here. And then Fanny—he did his best to recall exactly what it was that Fanny had said.… She was trying to comfort Florrie, and she said, “It’s nothing to be frightened of—only a door.” And she was speaking about Florrie’s black hole. There was nothing else she could have bee
n speaking about. And it wasn’t a hole at all—it was a door. A door—where? Florrie’s original fright had been at Hillick St Agnes, and the black hole that had frightened her—the black hole which was really a door—must be in the Angel, because Florrie had said “Up home.” But then Fanny said, “Ernie and I come through it regular. We come through it today.” Ernie and Fanny were here at Oakham Place, and Mrs Edwards, who was “Auntie” and seemed to be Ernie’s mother, had threatened Florrie with a black hole here. It must be this black hole which was the door through which Ernie and Fanny came “regular.”

  Ernie … One of Mr Smith’s ravelled threads came suddenly to his hand, because Ernie was short for Ernest, and Amos Rennard’s nephew, the young motor mechanic who had disappeared between Boulogne and Folkestone, was Ernest Rennard, and he was a widowed mother’s son. Another thread fell into place beside the first. Mr Smith had suggested that Matthew Garstnet’s sister-in-law Mrs Edwards was really not so much his sister-in-law as his sister Mrs Amos Rennard’s sister-in-law, widow of the Old Fox’s brother Joseph and mother of the disappearing Ernest. This would make her “Auntie” to Fanny and Florrie Garstnet in a family as clannish as the Rennards were supposed to be. Had Mr Smith mesmerised him with all these threads which kept leading to the Rennards? Or was it true that it was the Rennards who had carried off Rose Anne? He didn’t know. He only knew that something had brought him to this house, and that behind reason and argument lay the deep instinct that here there was a clue to what had become of her. Florrie’s black hole—Fanny’s door—must be found. A hole—into what? A door—leading where? He was here to discover these things, and it came to him that two men had died on this trail already, and that Mr Smith had not been speaking lightly when he had said, “I expect you to do all that any man can do who is willing to take his life in his hands.” It seemed ridiculous to think of extreme and imminent danger in a house tenanted by a couple of women and a child, but he had a stronger conviction of it than he had ever had before in his life. Ernie—to be sure there was Ernie, the young motor mechanic with a passion for currant buns. He did not sound at all sinister, but the sense of danger persisted and increased. He arrived at the certainty that he would need all his resource and all his courage if he was to find Rose Anne.

  He moved across the hall very cautiously in the direction in which the light had disappeared.

  There was a door in the far corner, difficult to find because the walls were panelled and the door felt like any other panel until his hand encountered the knob. He need not have been so careful about opening it, as there was a baize swing-door on the other side of it, horrid and damp to the touch and the stuff peeling off. What sort of place was this, and what except hard necessity would drive any mother to send a delicate, nervous child here? He guessed at some strong compulsion, and wondered the less that Mrs Garstnet should have betrayed Rose Anne.

  He came through the baize door into a flagged passage. This was one of those houses with a perfect warren of small rooms, cupboards, and what are usually described as offices. He looked into one in which a very old smell of apples still lingered, and another which was vaguely haunted by an aroma of boot-blacking, and presently he located the kitchen. A line of light showed under the door, and there was quite a cheerful buzz of conversation. There was the sound of a young man’s hearty laughter and Fanny’s voice chiming in. A pleasant time was being had by all over Mrs Joseph Rennard’s currant buns—if she was Mrs Joseph Rennard, and not plain Mrs Edwards entertaining son and daughter-in-law in all innocence. Anything less sinister than this family tea-party could hardly be imagined.

  Oliver laid his ear to the crack of the door and heard the hearty young man say,

  “Well, Mother, your buns just about take the cake, and I can’t say fairer than that—can I, Florrie?”

  “Please I’d like another,” said Florrie with her mouth full.

  Then there was more talk of buns, Ernie counting up how many Florrie had eaten, and Fanny saying it was a shame. And then he heard Mrs Edwards’ voice for the first time, and it was a voice which matched with the damp, gloomy house, and not with the cheerful family tea—a dreary voice and hard behind its dreariness. Yet the words were what any mother might have said.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go back, Ernie.

  Ernie went on being hearty.

  “Well, I’m not going till I finish my tea anyway.”

  Oliver cast about in his mind for a plan. If Ernie and Fanny, who might be Ernest and Fanny Rennard, were going back as soon as they had had their tea, it was imperative that he should know how they went. If it was through the door which had frightened Florrie, and which she described as a black hole, then he must without fail follow them. Because he was more and more sure that Rose Anne had been taken through such a door. From behind it had come her piteous message written between the lines of a dictated letter.

  He retreated into the apple-room and waited for what would happen next. With the door a little ajar he could watch the line of light from the kitchen and hear the voices come and go, though he could only catch a word here and there. The black hole wouldn’t be in the kitchen, he felt quite sure about that. It was much more likely to be in one of the cellars, and wherever it was, Florrie would be got out of the way before it was used. He had found a flight of steps leading to the cellar floor at the end of the flagged passage. He could do nothing now but listen and wait.

  He had to wait for nearly an hour before the kitchen door opened. He was a witness of an affectionate farewell between Ernie and an austere middle-aged woman with iron grey hair and a mouth like a trap. He looked for a scar on the cheek, but the light was behind her and he couldn’t be sure. Ernie certainly did not get his looks from her. He was a very large young man with a pleasant freckled face and hair of a particularly cheerful shade of red. Oliver stopped believing in a Mrs Edwards. Ernie’s hair finished that. Here was an authentic Rennard, and, if he was any judge, a thoroughly good chap. He and Fanny looked as pleasant a young couple as you could find.

  The farewells broke off in a hurry because Florrie began to cry. Fanny gave her a hug and was hurried off.

  “You take her back into the kitchen, Mother,” said Ernie. “Florrie, you go and look behind the cushion in my chair and see if you don’t find a box of chocolates there. Come on, Fan! Good-bye, Mother.”

  And then the kitchen door was banged on Florrie’s sobs and the young Rennards went off down the passage to the light of a good strong electric lamp. It dangled from Ernie’s left hand and made bright patches and very dark shadows as it swung. Oliver let them get away down the steps before he followed. He had taken his shoes off, and carried them knotted together by the laces, so he was counting on being able to move as quickly as he liked without making any noise. Stone has its advantages. It doesn’t creak.

  He reached the bottom of the steps, and was in a sort of hall from which a passage ran away to the right. He saw the passage because the light flashed round and showed it, but everywhere else it was dark, and when the flash was gone he lost the passage too. He ought to have followed closer. What if he had missed them—lost his chance of getting through to Rose Anne? He blundered into the mouth of the passage, started to run along it, and discovered by bumping into the wall that there was a sharp-angled turn. He bruised a shoulder, saw the light again, and the shadow of Ernie’s hand, huge and black, reaching back towards him on a stretch of lighted wall, and he heard Fanny say,

  “Oh, Ernie, I do hate to leave her, poor little thing—she does take on so.”

  If they had looked round at that moment, they must have seen him. The light flickered across his eyes and then swung off and left the passage between them dark again. They were about twenty feet away. Difficult to judge distance in a place like this, but he didn’t think it was more than that. Whatever it was, he must risk getting nearer. He began to edge forward an inch at a time and kept his eyes on Ernie and the lamp. Wherever the Rennards were going to, they were not in any particular hurry. They
talked about Florrie, and about Mother, who was Ernie’s mother and a problem, and about Mabel, who thought a lot too much of herself, and presently they kissed each other and said wasn’t it nice to get a bit of a time off.

  “You know, Ernie”—Fanny had her head on his shoulder and spoke with a good deal of wistfulness—“you know, Ernie, I do think it would be downright heaven to have a little place of our own—a nice little garridge business. And I could run a tea-room, you know. That would be fun—wouldn’t it? And all this—I don’t see any end to it, and what’s the good of it anyway? I tell you it frightens me.”

  Ernie put his arms round her. He didn’t seem to have anything to say. The two red heads leaned together, while the light made a pool on the floor and the silence of this underground place came into its own again.

  Oliver was just wondering whether he dared go a little nearer, when Ernie’s head came up with a jerk.

  “Well, we must go,” he said, “or there’ll be trouble.”

  Oliver heard Fanny sigh.

  “Do you think they’ll ever let us go—really?”

  “I dunno, Fan. Best not think about it. Here, hold the light.” He pushed it into her hand and she held it up. A square yard of wall was brightly lit.

  Ernie seemed to be counting. Oliver heard him mutter under his breath, “Three up—two along—one down. Here goes.” And he saw him push with both hands against the squared stones in front of him. There was a click, and a piece of the wall slid out of sight. It looked exactly as if Ernie’s big hands had stove it in. And what was left was a black irregular hole—Florrie’s black hole. Oliver wasn’t surprised that it had frightened her. The thing had a strangeness, because the wall had been so solid, and then all in a moment there was the hole. These things came to him, not as consecutive thoughts, but as part of an impression compounded of hope, shock, excitement.