Black Plumes

by Margery Allingham

  Norris was there, very much in evidence. He was whispering to a uniformed police inspector and another man, a tall, gloomy-looking stranger in a spruce tweed suit whose grizzled head wits held sideways in a curious terrier like attitude which she was to come to know very well indeed Directly beneath her a maid hovered nervously, and behind the girl she saw the door to the service corridor was ajar. From her place of vantage she could see the housekeeper listening behind it.

  The whole picture was vaguely ridiculous with its broadened angles and foreshortened figures, like some delightful Gluyas Williams absurdity with a new and terrible difference.

  As she stood looking down there was a clatter on the flags as the police photographers arrived. Their strident, decisive tramp touched a memory in her mind, and her fingers gripped the polished wood.

  Not so long ago she had hung over this same balustrade and had peered down into the Grey darkness, and on that occasion, too, there had been sharp footsteps marching swiftly across the hall. Then it had been a sound which should have been reassuring, and her own mental admonition returned to her: "It's only Robert going out, you fool, It's only Robert going out." Robert going out? Robert going out! In view of the morning's discovery the suggestion was ghastly. Robert had not gone out that night. Robert, poor, ill-tempered, ineffectual Robert had remained in the garden room. At that moment a week ago when she had hung here listening Robert must already have been sitting in the bottom of the big cupboard, his head lolling and his legs twisted horribly beneath him.

  Someone else had gone out. Someone else had walked into the windy darkness with the fine rain whipping at his ankles and folding his garments more closely about him. Someone else... Who?

  There was another movement in the hall below as a new arrival came slowly forward from the porch. The entire company turned towards him, and Frances felt the skin at the back of her neck tighten as she recognized him.

  She never forgot David as she saw him at that moment. It was not that she had never known before that she was in love with him, nor did it seem then or afterward that his appearance had any deep emotional significance. It was simply that he sprang to her mind, a vivid and complete picture which never quite faded again.

  He came quietly into the room, casual and friendly as usual, and stooping a little because of his height and the looseness of his lean figure. He glanced round him with the faintly surprised expression which was half his charm and suddenly glanced up, as if he knew where to find her, and raised his hand in friendly salute.

  Everyone stared at her and she came down hurriedly, aware that she was white and frightened and completely demoralized by the appalling idea which had just come to her. Norris said something to the man with the grizzled hair who came forward to meet her. She had no idea who he was, and even had he introduced himself it is not likely that his name or his exalted rank of divisional detective inspector would have made much impression on her at that moment, but she could not fail to recognize authority in his face nor to see in those small steady eyes that rigorous honesty which is, perhaps because of its corresponding cruelty, the most terrifying quality in the world,

  "If you'll just wait upstairs for a little, Miss Ivory, I'll send for ye in a moment or two," he said, revealing the soft voice and absence of the Orkney Scot. There was no question in the remark; it was an order, given courteously but irrevocably, and the question which had been on her lips died before it was spoken. She nodded and glanced at David Field, but the newcomer was before her.

  "You'll be Mr. Field, won't ye?" he was saying. "One moment, Mr. Field. I'd like a word with ye."

  Frances saw the younger man's eyebrows go up and caught his faint smile before he turned and grimaced at her. It was the most reassuring of gestures, revealing a comforting understanding of her mood. She warmed before it gratefully, but as she turned away the new and horrible suspicion came back to her.

  "I heard him go out before that," she said vehemently to Gabrielle a few moments later as she stood at the end of the bed once more. "It's quite clear in my mind. David went out first that night. I heard the latch click just after I reached the stairhead. Then about ten minutes later than that someone walked sharply down the passage from the garden room and went out of the front door."

  "Yes," said the old Gabrielle placidly. "How deceptive a noise like that is in the night."

  They were alone in the enormous bedroom, the two of them, the youngest and the oldest of the Ivorys, and they stood looking at one another, summing each other up for a long time. Years afterward it occurred to Frances that she grew up at that moment.

  She stepped back from the bed and walked over to the fireplace. Her green woolen dress, which had been tailored as only the southern English do tailor, hugged her slim hips and straight shoulders. The old woman among the pillows under the tapestry triptych watched her, an expression that was purely feminine in her eyes.

  "I had a nineteen-inch waist when I was twenty-five," she said suddenly, and for the first time in their acquaintance her granddaughter followed her line of thought easily and replied to it without looking round.

  "It's my life anyway." she said. "I know what I'm doing. You're wrong about David having designs on my money. He doesn't even want to marry me. The engagement was only a silly stunt to make things easier. I went and bellowed my troubles to him about Lucar. I told you."

  Gabrielle glanced at the slim young back. It was a swift stab with the little Mack eyes, and her husband, Meyricks father, who had loved her and had needed every one of his shrewd wits to keep up with her, would have recognized the symptom and congratulated his granddaughter.

  "You heard the latch click and then afterward, some time afterward, you heard someone else cross the hall and go out?"

  The question was clear and lucid, with a brain behind it. For the time being Gabrielle had returned from the shadows and inexactitudes of age and her voice was as decisive as ever it had been.

  "Yes, I told you. And, Granny, Lucar was in the house that night. I know that because I saw him. I met him when I went down to the garden room."

  "When you went down to the garden room?"

  The interruption was very quiet but it brought the girl swinging round, color surging over her face, staining her throat and the thin flesh over her temples. She told her story hurriedly.

  "I went down to see how David and Robert were getting on together. I met Lucar coming away from the garden room as I went through the hall but I didn't speak to him. He was angry about something and quite Insufferable. I went on down the passage, but the door was shut and I didn't like to go barging in so I I went down into the yard."

  "And looked up through the window?" said the old woman unexpectedly. She was sitting up, with her eyes alive as a monkey's, every resource of her frail body roused to meet the exertion of keeping her mind going. 'Very sensible. Just what I should have done myself. What did you see?"

  Frances regarded her steadily. "Oh. they were just talking, you know," she said deliberately. You saw them both?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "Are you in love?"

  "No, I don't think so. I don't know."

  Gabrielle lay back. Her face was peaceful and she was smiling. Frances was half afraid that the excitement had proved too much for her for she was silent for a long time, but when she spoke again it was evident Thai she was still thinking.

  'They say it's unlucky to marry for love" she remarked. "Someone said that. It's not a bon mot. Some country saying, I think. Very true. Did you see Field again that night?"

  "Yes. He came up to my room to say that we were still engaged and that Robert was going for a walk." "To your bedroom?" "Yes, darling."

  The old Gabrielle stirred her tiny shoulders, and her mouth, which could ever be cruel, twisted into a moue of distaste.

  "Quite like a servant girl," she said.

  Frances regarded her somberly and finally shrugged her own shoulders. It was a little skirmish across a century. The fire stirred and a handful of Grey
ash fell into the grate. The room was quiet for the door was padded with quilted leather, but even in that sanctuary the unusual bustle below stairs was apparent, forcing them to face the situation, impressing them with its breathless urgency.

  "We must cable Meyrick." Frances spoke mainly to herself. "That's the first thing to be done."

  "We must see the police," snapped Mrs. Ivory. "We must find out what they know about it. That's the vital thing. If they want to come up here I'll see them, but you remind them I'm a very old woman."

  The final instruction seemed to amuse her and Frances, glancing at her, wondered how much she comprehended of the horror, of the sick feeling of catastrophe, as she peered down upon the scene through the long telescope of her great age.

  "What happened to Phillida?" she inquired.

  Gabrielle regarded her blankly and once again the girl felt the ground unsteady beneath her feet as she recognized the uncertainty of that fine but fading mind.

  "I left her here with Dorothea, darling," she said gently. "Don't you remember?"

  As she waited for the reply a clatter of voices beneath the window rose up into the room, and the nightmare quality of her own position swept over her. Gabrielle was a terrifying ally.

  "Did you? Perhaps you did." The old woman was not thinking of her words. "I must have got rid of her. I think I did. I told Dorothea to send for a doctor. Phillida's a poor thing. These piteous women without stamina! Fetch me my hand mirror, will you, dear? What's going on out there?"

  The final demand was vigorous enough, and Frances threw up the window sash. She looked down at the narrow path which ran round from the front of the house to the yard at the back under an archway between 38 and the gallery. The window was directly above the service exit, and it was here that the noise originated. Mrs. Sanderson, the housekeeper, was standing on the flags, the wind swaddling her solid figure in a jumbled drapery of apron, petticoat and twisted stockings. In her arms lay a weeping figure in whose neat blue-suited elegance Frances had some difficulty in recognizing Molly, the junior member of the household staff. Molly was crying noisily with her fashionable hat on the back of her head, her face buried in Mrs. Sanderson's bosom. Standing before this inelegant and inexplicable group was a solid young man in the boots of a plainclothes policeman. He held a suitcase in each hand and was using them to shoo the women back into the house.

  "Do it inside." he was saying with the weary cheerfulness of the native Londoner. "Have your cry by the kitchen fire, like Christians. Go along, there's good girls. Take her in, Ma. Take her in, do."

  "No. It's not right for her to stay. Not another minute. She's doing the right thing. I don't care who you are. If you're a policeman you show me your warrant."

  Mrs. Sanderson was using her "tradesmen" voice, refinement wearing thin with exasperation and a touch of genuine fishwife to sharpen the steel.

  "Dear heaven!" said Gabrielle from the bed.

  The comment implied reproach rather than astonishment, and Frances leaned out hastily.

  "Anything I can do?" she demanded.

  The voice from the clouds had the instantaneous effect of all such interruptions. Mrs. Sanderson shut her mouth with ominous resolution and Molly's bellowing ceased abruptly. The plainclothes man put down his suitcases and pulled off his hat.

  "Orders are no one is to leave the house, miss," he said politely.

  "Oh. Oh, I see. All right. Go in, Mrs. Sanderson, will you? And you too, Molly. I don't suppose they'll be long, or you can have your day out tomorrow."

  A pink and blubbery face was raised to her from the shelter of Mrs. Sanderson's cushionly facade.

  "I wasn't going out, miss. I was leaving."

  "Shame," muttered Mrs. Sanderson.

  "Really?" Frances was astounded. All Meyrick's servants were very real personalities in his household, and their comings and goings were of general interest to the entire family, so this casual method of departure was an innovation. However, neither the time nor the place was suitable to a domestic discussion.

  "Oh, I see. Well, leave tomorrow " she said awkwardly. "Anyway, go in now. I'll come down."

  "I wish you would, miss." There was a world of unspoken promise in the housekeeper's voice and she put her arm round Molly, of whom she had never been particularly fond, with considerably more than maternal tenderness.

  Frances shut the window and turned back to the dressing table to take up the mirror. Her mind was preoccupied with the curious little incident, so that she did not see Gabrielle until she leaned across the bed to pass the hand glass to her, and then the sudden change in the old woman's appearance came as a shock. Mrs. Ivory was sitting bolt upright, her figure puppet like in its Shetland wrappings and her face shrunk into a yellow doll's mask. Her eyes were alive. They were bright, like a mouse's eyes, and quite as suspicious.

  "What did she say?"

  "Nothing. It's only that Molly, the little middle maid, appears to be leaving, and a policeman has just turned her back... My dear! Granny! Are you all right? Hadn't you better lie down?"

  Gabrielle closed her eyes. Without their comforting Intelligence she made a terrifying picture.

  "Lie down darling," Frances said firmly. "Lean on my arm and lie back."

  The old woman suffered herself to be settled among her cushions.

  "It's all very tiring." she said at last with a peevishness which was yet reassuring because of its strength. "Where's Dorothea?"

  "I'll get her."

  "No. No, don't." A small hand closed over her wrist with surprising force. "Don't. Stay here." She lay still, gripping the girl's arm. Her face was quite calm, and there was no indication that she was in any pain. Presently it occurred to Frances that the grip was a restraining one rather than any actual need for support.

  "I ought to go down," she said gently. "I'll find Dorothea for you."

  "No." Gabrielle still had her eyes closed. "Frances, have you ever thought that stepsister of yours was... a little funny?"

  It was impossible to mistake her meaning, and the inquiry put so directly and echoing Phillida's own question about Robert caught Frances off her guard.

  "No," she said. "No, darling, of course not."

  "You jumped, my dear." The black eyes were open again and watching her. "Does she talk to you?"

  "No, not very much. She's all right. This has been a terrible shock to her, of course."

  "Naturally." Gabrielle spoke primly and was silent, her lips smiling. "You remind me of your grandfather," she remarked after a long pause. "He could never confide. That mania of Phillida's for doctors, that's unhealthy. She never told you she heard anything, then?"

  "Heard anything?" Even from her mouth the words had a sinister sound, and she glanced at the small figure in the bed with misgiving. "When, darling? On the night Robert was... on the night Robert must have died?"

  "Oh no, before. Long before."

  "Darling, what are you talking about?" In spite of herself a rising note crept into the question and Gabrielle's eyes opened.

  "Forget it, my dear." she said placidly. "I'm so old I imagine things. Listen, there's someone coming across the landing."

  Frances turned her head. The house seemed silent for once that morning, holding its breath perhaps. "I don't think so."

  "Yes, there is. My dear child, I haven't slept in this room for thirty years of my life without getting to know it. Open the door."

  Frances crossed the room in a wave of loneliness. Robert dead, Meyrick away, the police in the house, Phillida collapsing, David Field well, David Field very much involved, and now Gabrielle growing fanciful in her senility. The nightmare was becoming ludicrous in its mounting horror. The heavy quilted door slid Open noiselessly under her hand and Miss Dorset, who had been hesitating on the threshold, jumped guiltily.

  "I didn't like to knock in case she was asleep," she whispered, dragging the startled girl out into the hallway, "I've cabled our branch office at Hong Kong. They'll reach your father, wherever he is. How did
it happen? Do you know?"

  Everything was painfully vivid that day, and Frances saw a complete picture of the woman vignetted in the archway of the landing. In it every detail was extraordinarily clear, and she saw that her sandy Grey hair was poor in its very neatness, while her face was unnaturally sharp, the skin mottled and five wrinkles across her forehead exaggerated. The unusual excitement had tinned her cheek-bones, and there was a forced heartiness about her which undermined her efficiency and made her seem a less reliable person.

  "I'm keeping it from the staff at 39 as long as I can," she hurried on. They’ll be reporters, you know, What would you like done with them?"

  Even at that time, when the publicity side of the disaster was a menace unsuspected by most of them, the question struck Frances as absurd.

  "What does one do with reporters?" she said and felt cheap as the other woman blushed.

  "I can try to send them away," said Miss Dorset defensively, "but sometimes it's as well to issue some sort of statement. There's no one at the gallery who can decide anything. I suppose I'm in command. I can't even get hold of Lucar. He hasn't turned up yet."

  "It's late, isn't it?" Frances was vague. Time had become an unconsidered element and years to have passed during the morning.

  "Nearly half-past twelve. I phoned his house but he left there at nine. I "don't know where he is." Miss Dorset's voice was querulous. "In a way it's better without him, of course, but he ought to know what has happened. Somebody ought to know. I'm coming to the end of my tether, Miss Ivory. I can carry on as long as I've got somebody in authority over me but I'm not used to being alone and..."

  She paused and the suspicious brightness in her pale eyes brought Frances to her senses.

  "Of course you're not. Miss Dorset," she said, laying a hand on the thin arm. "Of course you're not. It's all very dreadful and sudden, but don't worry. We'll get by. You go back and carry on as usual. If you get inquiries about Robert pass them on to me and I'll deal with them. Get hold of Lucar as soon as you can, of course. The police will want to see him."