Corpse Path Cottage

by Margaret Scutt

  ‘Well, it’s some time ago, and Kathryn was never a star. Just character parts. But I tell you what, if you’d like to call back in an hour, I’ll have my secretary look through some old stuff. Might be lucky, might be not. You never can tell.’

  ‘We can do that,’ said the Super, looking at his watch.

  Mr Ross nodded. ‘Give you time to catch your train — for Sandbourne?’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Plenty of time,’ said the Super noncommittally.

  When his two visitors had gone, Mr Ross sat for a few minutes before calling in his secretary. His fleshy face was furrowed with thought. He drummed impatiently on the shining surface of the desk.

  ‘Don’t like it. Don’t like it a bit,’ he said.

  * * *

  ‘Well, sir?’ asked White. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘We’ve found them for you,’ replied Mr Ross, indicating some papers on his desk with a wave of a beringed hand. ‘Got out for a season in Bournemouth. Help yourselves.’

  The two men leaned over the selection of dazzling smiles and thoughtful profiles presented to them. Mr Ross leaned over his desk, uttering helpful comments.

  ‘There’s Kathryn — Nannie, in Dear Octopus. Here again — Mrs Hackett in The Ringer.’

  ‘Never know it was the same woman,’ said White.

  ‘No — she was good that way. Got right into the skin of her part. Seemed to change her entire personality.’ He flipped over the pages. ‘Look at this one. Gild blood and thunder — The Grey Shadow. Bigger part there — the murderess. Hallo. Found something?’

  Mark had stiffened and exclaimed. From the shiny paper beneath his hand, a face he knew looked coldly up at him.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE SUPERINTENDENT AND MARK reached Sandbourne at 8.30 that evening and drove straight to the Bijou Theatre. Mark sat back in his corner of the taxi, scowling upon the crowds of holiday makers who made a coloured pattern in the streets, enjoying to the utmost the sunshine which the season had so lavished upon them. He was very silent, as he had been during the journey from town. White leaned across and touched him on the arm.

  ‘What’s up, Mr Endicott?’

  ‘If you must know,’ said Mark, coming to life and looking at his companion with distaste, ‘I loathe all this. Laura is dead, and you can’t bring her back. Why hound down a woman who has had a raw enough deal already?’

  ‘Why, indeed?’ asked the Super, using sarcasm for the first time in Mark’s memory of him. ‘I’ll tell you why, and I may have mentioned it before. I want the truth.’

  ‘That sounds fine. All the same—’

  ‘Look here, my lad,’ interrupted the Super, speaking as if Mark were an erring constable, and with his voice surprisingly changed from its normal drawl, ‘this won’t wash, you know. I seem to remember that you were pretty glad I was out for the truth when you thought you were in danger. Now you’re more or less clear, you start all this namby-pamby stuff. Do you want an innocent person to be pointed at as a murderer for the rest of his or her life? Whether you like it or not, I’ve got a job to do, and I mean to do it.’

  ‘All right. Sorry. Get on with your job.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m going to. But if you feel so bad about it—’

  ‘I said I was sorry. I’ll go through with it.’

  ‘Good. I know it’s not pleasant, and if it weren’t for the matter of identification, I wouldn’t bother you.’

  The taxi drew up. Surprisingly Pulleyblank advanced from a doorway and fell into conversation with his superior. Mark waited with a creeping sickness at the pit of his stomach. Closing in, the woman was nothing to him, and the curtain lecture in the taxi had been undeniably true, but it could not alter his feelings. And he thought again with a bitter mirth into what strange paths a desire for a cottage in the country had led him.

  Pulleyblank, giving Mark a nod, returned to his doorway. Mark and the Super moved to the stage door. The doorkeeper looked up from a pessimistic study of the evening paper and viewed them without pleasure.

  ‘Whaddya want?’ he asked inhospitably.

  ‘Not you, my lad. We want to see Miss Kathryn Arbuthnot.’

  ‘Then you’re unlucky. She ain’t here.’

  ‘What!’ The Super’s tone made the man look up with faint curiosity. ‘You mean she’s left?’

  ‘I don’t mean no such thing. How could she ha’ left when she ain’t been? No person of that name in the company.’

  ‘All right. Then I’ll see the stage manager, or someone in charge.’

  ‘Oh, you will. And who do you think you are, Lord God Almighty?’

  ‘No. I’m Superintendent White, of the Downshire County Constabulary. Will that make you move yourself?’

  ‘Gaw!’ said the doorkeeper, his jaw dropping. ‘What the ’ell’s up now?’

  ‘You’ll soon know,’ said White ominously, ‘if you keep me dangling here.’

  The man laid down his paper and shambled ahead of them along a stone paved passage between rough cast walls. Turning a corner, they came to a row of cell-like dressing rooms, the first ornamented by a modestly tarnished star. This door opened as they approached, and a very blonde and voluptuous lady in a pink chiffon negligee emerged hastily.

  ‘My God,’ she observed, catching sight of the three men, ‘what’s this, the watch committee?’

  ‘No, miss,’ said the doorkeeper with relish, ‘it’s the police come to see Mr Marjoram or Mr Peters.’

  ‘White slave traffic, or drug smuggling? My dear, how devastating! I only wish I could hear the fun, but I haven’t a moment.’ She gave White a dazzling smile, clutched the folds of pink around her admirable form, and moved off. Over her shoulder she said, ‘If I meet them I’ll send them back.’

  ‘Darling, curse you, for God’s sake! You’re on!’

  An excited gentleman had appeared from nowhere and was dancing in the passage like David before the Ark.

  ‘All right, pet,’ said the blonde soothingly. ‘I’m OK. It’s you they want.’

  She was gone. The gentleman mopped his brow and spoke blasphemously of actresses in general and his leading lady in particular.

  ‘Mr Marjoram, sir,’ said the doorkeeper, advancing.

  Mr Marjoram jumped. ‘Well, Jones, what the devil is it now?’

  ‘Police, sir,’ said Jones with gloomy relish.

  Mr Marjoram turned, caught his first glimpse of the visitors, and gave a very guilty start. He came forward uneasily.

  ‘So sorry. I didn’t see you before. A trifle preoccupied. What can I do for you?’

  ‘We wish to see a member of your company. Miss Kathryn Arbuthnot.’

  Mr Marjoram’s brow cleared. He shook his head.

  ‘Some mistake, old boy. The lady’s not for burning — that’s to say, she’s not with us.’

  ‘Do I understand that you know she is elsewhere?’

  ‘I don’t know a sausage, old boy. Never heard of her.’

  ‘I was given to understand,’ said White heavily, ‘that an actress was sent to you at the beginning of the week by Mr Julian Ross.’

  ‘Oh yes, certainly, but not the one you said. He sent us an Isobel Martin. She’s on now.’

  ‘Isobel Martin?’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t know her, but she’s good. Playing the maid. This is her last performance.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Something personal. Said she had an upsetting phone call. Fortunately Mary Garland, whose place she took, will be well enough to go on tomorrow.’

  ‘Could we see the lady? Now, if possible.’

  Mr Marjoram looked worried. ‘I told you she’s on. This is her big scene.’

  ‘Surely we could stand somewhere without interrupting your play? You see, sir, it’s a matter of identification. If she turns out to be not the person I’m looking for, that will be that.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Mr Marjoram fingered his chin doubtfully. He met the Super’s eye and capitulated. ‘Oh, all right. Can do. Only be quiet, if you
will. This is a very tense scene, and we’ve got a full house.’

  ‘We’ll take care, sir,’ said White soothingly.

  Mark, walking in a dream between dangling ropes and dusty flats, found himself at length looking into a warmly lit oasis of colour — the stage. It was set for a woman’s bedroom, all pink hangings, with shining glass on an elaborate dressing table where, before the triple mirror, sat the rose clad leading lady. Bending over the bed, her back turned to the watching men, was a maid in grey, a coquettish bow in her hair and with organdie strings hanging crisply from her waist. The full house of which Mr Marjoram had boasted was hushed and intent. In their dusty corner the watching men listened too. The blonde, nervously turning a hairbrush in her hands, haggard eyes gazing into the mirror, was speaking.

  ‘Why I go on — why I bother myself to go on living at all when it’s such a mess. Oh God — such an utter vile mess . . .’

  The maid said smoothly, ‘You are tired, madam. You will feel better when you have rested.’

  As she spoke she moved from the bed to stand beside the woman at the dressing table, so that she faced the audience with her profile to the two men. Mark felt an urgent hand on his arm and screwed up his eyes. Black hair instead of grey, colour on lips and cheeks — it was too much to ask.

  ‘I can’t be sure yet,’ he whispered.

  The hand gripped his arm and was withdrawn. White nodded.

  Turning to Marjoram, he breathed, ‘Which side does she come off?’

  ‘Here,’ mouthed Marjoram.

  The maid had begun to move about the stage, picking up a dress and some underwear which lay strewn around. When her face was turned from the other woman, a smile touched her lips, faint but wickedly triumphant. Like a living thing, the sense of tension in the audience grew.

  ‘Rested!’ said the woman in pink. ‘That’s funny. That’s damned funny. You know I can’t sleep anymore.’

  The maid said, ‘But you will tonight, madam. I have some of the tablets which helped you before. I thought you might need them.’

  ‘It won’t be any good. Nothing is any good. What’s that ham line? Something about “I heard a voice cry, sleep no more.”’

  ‘“Macbeth hath murdered sleep, the innocent sleep.”’

  The woman on the stool swung around.

  ‘How strangely you said that! As if — as if you were gloating over me. As if you were glad that I’m suffering like hell.’

  ‘I, madam? Surely not. Your nerves must be playing you tricks.’

  ‘I suppose so. I’m all broken up since Gerald died. Oh God, if only I could sleep! Sleep and forget.’

  The golden head went down amidst the appointments of the dressing table. A low and desolate sobbing moved tender hearts in the packed house. Marjoram, mindful only of the play, nodded his appreciation. He whispered to White, ‘Look at the maid now.’

  The woman in grey had not moved to look at the weeping figure and offered no touch or word of comfort. Instead she gazed over the bowed head into the darkness of the theatre, and on her face the smile grew and grew — a Medusa smile, changing her to something with power to hurt, exultant in that power. She held the pose for a long moment, and when at last she moved a faint ripple stirred the audience, as if it had been unable to breathe until then. Mark wiped his forehead, amazed at his own reaction. The play was poor stuff enough, the dialogue mediocre, the situation threadbare with usage, but something in this woman had lifted it from the depths, to make it, for that instant, living and authentic. He had even forgotten the reason for his presence, forgotten the Super silent and watchful at his side.

  The smile faded slowly, leaving the maid’s face respectful and unremarkable as before. She said, laying a hand on the pink-clad shoulder, ‘Come to bed, madam, I will get the tablets, and you will sleep tonight.’

  The woman raised her head to gaze once more into the mirror. Pushing back her hair with a shaking hand, she said, ‘Very well, Foster. No doubt you’re right. You are always right. How long have you been with me?’

  ‘Six months, madam,’ said the maid smoothly. ‘Since the New Year.’

  ‘The New Year!’ echoed the other. ‘Since Mr Gerald died.’

  ‘Yes, madam. Since Mr Sumner . . . died.’

  The pause before the final word was very marked. A faint but perceptible ripple moved the audience again.

  Her mistress rose wearily but with conscious grace and drifted towards the bed.

  ‘Turn the lights low,’ she said, ‘my head aches.’

  ‘I’ll get the tablets for you, madam,’ said the maid.

  The lights dimmed as she moved to a door on the right. White turned enquiringly to Marjoram, who whispered, ‘OK. No exit. Glass of water and the tablets. Watch.’

  On the stage the woman removed her wrap, revealing a clinging nightgown, also pearly pink. She posed for a moment seductively, then climbed into the bed. The maid came back.

  She moved towards the dressing table, and the spotlight found her. Mark caught his breath. If he had not been sure before, there was now no shadow of a doubt. Some trick of the lighting had wiped colour from face, lips, and hair. Grey, absorbed and passionless, for that moment he saw her as he had seen her moving about her work in the cottage. His heart gave a sickening lurch, and his mouth was dry. He saw not the composed figure on the stage, not Mrs Shergold amazingly transformed, but a hunted creature on whom the jaws of the trap were slowly and remorselessly closing. It was a physical effort to nod to the Super; horrible to see the quick flash of satisfaction in the other man’s eyes before he turned his attention to the stage again.

  The maid put down the tumbler of water she was carrying and came centre stage. With her back to the bed she lifted a small white box and shook some tablets into her hand.

  ‘Be careful with those things. They’re dangerous,’ warned the exhausted voice from the bed.

  ‘I’ll be careful, madam.’ The maid was smiling again.

  She moved deliberately to the dressing table. Her hand, caught in the light, seemed to float above the tumbler. There was a menace about the drooping fingers which made even the Super hold his breath. The hand swooped suddenly and lifted the tumbler. The maid turned to the bed.

  The light moved to the golden head, now raised from the pillows. Another hand took the tumbler and tilted it.

  ‘Ugh! If taste counts for anything this should be good.’

  ‘It is good, madam,’ said the maid.

  The woman handed back the tumbler and lay back. She said drowsily, ‘Strangely enough, I believe that you are right. I feel that I shall sleep tonight.’

  The maid said, in a soft voice which could be heard in the farthest corner of the theatre, ‘I know that you will.’

  ‘You . . . know?’ Drowsiness faded; the voice was puzzled, with an underlying note of fear. ‘You sound very sure about it, I must say.’

  ‘I am sure, madam.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  The maid smiled. ‘Only what I say.’

  The woman in the bed pulled herself up, the quilt falling back and the light shining on her shoulders. Her wide eyes were fixed on the insignificant figure at her side. She said, in a suffocated voice, ‘You haven’t — you can’t have been fooling with those damned tablets.’

  The maid did not speak.

  ‘I told you! I told you they were dangerous. You didn’t — you can’t have given me more than two?’

  There was a pause, in which the only sound was the hurried breathing of the woman on the bed.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the maid at last. ‘Quite a number more.’

  The woman in the bed screamed suddenly. She leaned out, reaching for the telephone which stood beside the bed. The maid gripped her shoulders and threw her back.

  ‘Better save your strength, hadn’t you?’ she mocked. She bent over the other woman, her face transfigured by triumphant hate. Mark forgot where he stood, forgot the stage trappings, forgot Mrs Shergold. If this were acting it was b
eyond anything he had ever seen. He felt that he looked on reality — on a woman who watched another woman die by her hand and gloried in the act. At his side he heard the Super draw a deep breath. Mr Marjoram had ceased to admire and was looking puzzled and slightly apprehensive.

  The woman on the bed sank back amongst her pillows as if all strength had gone from her. She said in a breathless voice, ‘You can’t do this to me. My God! It’s murder!’

  ‘It is indeed, Dawn,’ sneered the maid. ‘How clever of you to discover it.’ Her voice hardened, became edged with fury. She pushed her face close to the other woman, glaring down at her.

  ‘You always were clever, weren’t you, Dawn Allinghan? Clever Dawn, who could always get what she wanted, especially if it belonged to someone else. And yet not clever enough to know why I’ve done this to you.’

  Only a muffled moaning answered her. She leaned over to slap the prostrate woman’s face. It was an honest slap which sounded through the theatre. Mark saw the victim jump and her lips move in soundless remonstrance. Mr Marjoram ran a finger under his collar and looked as if he, too, suffered pain.

  ‘Don’t think you’re going yet, damn you! I’ve things to say to you first. Wake up and listen to me.’

  ‘Why must you torture me? If you’ve killed me, at least let me die in peace.’

  ‘You’ll die, Dawn, never doubt that. But in peace? Why should you expect that? Did Gerald die in peace? Yes — it makes you start, even now, to hear me speak his name — as if I hadn’t a better right to it than you! He was mine, do you hear, mine — until you had to come along and steal him from me.’ The voice broke on a sudden dry sob. She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes, and when she removed them tears shone on her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t beautiful, or clever, or anything like you, and yet he loved me. We loved one another, and we were happy. Until you came along.’ The dreaming voice hardened again. She fairly spat the next words. ‘Then you saw him, didn’t you, and wanted him, and couldn’t bear to think that he had strength to resist you. So you went on until he hadn’t the strength to fight any more. It was horrible the power that you had — like the sorceress who turned men into swine. It is right that I should send you where you can’t use it anymore.’