‘Could I help it if he loved me?’
‘Oh, yes. You could have helped it.’
‘You’re mad, mad! I’m dying, through you. Isn’t that enough for you?’
The other woman said softly, ‘Gerald died, too.’
‘I didn’t kill him! You can’t blame me for that!’
‘No? When you had bewitched him until he had thrown aside everything for you, and then learnt that you had no further use for him? Can’t you understand that’s the one thing unforgivable? Your taking him I could have borne but when you had him, you didn’t want him anymore. How do you think he felt then? You’d sucked him dry of everything, Dawn — he had nothing left. Not even self-respect. So he died. As you are dying now.’
‘No!’ She pulled herself up again, leaning out, clutching at the other woman’s unresponsive arms. ‘I won’t die, I tell you. My God, I can’t die — I’m not ready. I’m afraid to die. Can’t you do something — get me something, anything! You must, you must, you must! Can’t you see what you’re doing? Help me now — only help me. I swear I’ll make it worth your while—’
‘You couldn’t do that, Dawn,’ said the maid.
She pushed the other woman back and stood watching her, all trace of passion fading from her face. Mrs Shergold again, cold, grey, lifeless. The sobbing from the bed changed to heavy breathing; the golden head seemed to settle into the pillows. One arm fell heavily over the side of the bed. The maid bent forward and gazed for a long moment before she spoke.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you — and I — will sleep tonight.’
It was her exit line, spoken as it had been written. But immediately after, she broke with precedent by leaving the stage on the opposite side to the group of men waiting in the wings.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE CURTAIN FELL to a thunder of applause. Under cover of the sound, the Super barked a word not used in polite society, and turned menacingly on Marjoram, who was fairly gibbering with surprise.
‘You told me she would come out here!’
‘So she should, but she’s been altering her lines and now she’s altered her exit. My God,’ wailed Mr Marjoram, wringing his hands, ‘will someone tell me what the hell is going on here?’
His plaint fell on the empty air. White, with Mark at his heels, was already pounding across the stage. The leading lady, rising briskly from her deathbed, fell back with a shriek of mingled mirth and surprise. White tugged viciously at the door through which his quarry had disappeared. The canvas quivered, but the door gave and he shot through, with clamour growing in his wake. A scene shifter appeared in his path and was swept aside by a ham-like hand. Blasphemously enquiring what went on, he regained his balance, to be pushed out of the way yet again by Mark. Blinking, he stood back wondering what might follow, and was therefore no impediment to the progress of Mr Marjoram, the leading lady, a fireman and various bewildered members of the stage staff who had joined in the chase.
‘The crazy gang come to brighten us up a bit. I don’t think,’ said the stage hand, and himself joined the throng.
The pounding feet of the Super had carried him at a surprising speed along the passage to the stage door. The doorkeeper once more lowered his paper and viewed him with displeasure and surprise.
‘You again?’ he said wearily.
‘Which way did she go?’ barked White.
‘She? ’Oo?’
‘Isobel Martin,’ volunteered Mark.
‘Oh, ’er. No ways that I know of.’
‘You mean she hasn’t come out?’
‘Course she hasn’t. She won’t have had time yet to get dressed, will she?’
White stepped into the doorway and beckoned Pulleyblank, who was leaning in a Formbyesque manner on a lamppost on the opposite side of the street. He came to life on seeing the Super and stepped briskly over to him.
‘Anyone come out?’
‘Not a soul,’ said Pulleyblank.
‘And for why?’ demanded the doorkeeper. ‘Because no-one ain’t ready yet to come out. Don’t I keep telling you?’
Like Mr Marjoram, he discovered that his audience was not.
‘Flatfooted potbellied slops,’ he said, and returned to his studies.
‘What is up?’ muttered Pulleyblank to Mark as they raced after his superior. ‘Never saw the old man in such a flap.’
Mark explained hastily. Pulleyblank looked worried.
‘Bit of bad if she’s slipped him. One thing’s dead certain, she didn’t come out of that door. I’ve had my eyes glued to it till they fairly popped.’
Mark did not answer. He was listening to White, who had now made contact with Mr Marjoram, still surrounded by staring and whispering satellites, and was snapping questions at the flustered gentleman.
‘No other way out? You’re sure?’
‘Of course I am. Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’
‘My dear chap, don’t bellow at me!’ Mr Marjoram uttered a distraught bleat. ‘I was only going to say unless she went through the pass door at the side of the stage into the auditorium. But she’d still be in her maid’s dress and makeup, and someone would be bound to notice her. And I personally—’
‘What?’
Mr Marjoram winced. ‘I should think, if you don’t mind my saying so, that you’re making a devil of a stink over nothing. Isobel is probably in her dressing room peacefully taking off her makeup at this moment.’
‘I doubt it,’ said the Super grimly. ‘All the same, we’ll go and see.’
The procession surged forward. Mr Marjoram indicated a door.
‘Thanks,’ said White, raking the gathering with a cold eye. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
He glanced round to see that Mark and Pulleyblank were close behind him, turned the handle gently and opened the door.
They looked into a tiny room, brightly lit and unbearably stuffy. The figure of the maid, still in her stage uniform, was seated at the littered dressing table, her back to the door. She did not move as the three men entered the room. That much was seen by the watching group before the little scene was shut away from them.
Inside the room for one second, the eyes of the two policemen met. Mark, standing a little to one side and with the old distaste for this business swamping him, saw that he was forgotten. This was a police matter, in which he had no part.
The Super cleared his throat loudly and stepped towards the still figure. Unobtrusively Pulleyblank moved in on the other side. Mark tried to look away and could not. His heart was beating unevenly, and his throat was dry. He felt as if he himself were a fugitive, with no space left him in which to turn.
The Super said interrogatively, ‘Isobel Martin? I have some questions to ask you.’
The woman at the table moved for the first time. Turning on her stool she faced them, so that the back of her head, flanked by the watchful faces of the two men, was reflected in the light-framed mirror. She had taken off her dark wig, and her hair was grey and dishevelled. The makeup, too, had been wiped from her face, and it showed under the cruel light plain, faded, and unutterably weary. She looked not at the superintendent but across the room at Mark, and her eyes seemed faintly amused. He swallowed and looked away.
‘I am sorry to seem rude,’ said the woman who had been Mrs Shergold, ‘but I have had an exhausting day, and am very tired. Could your business wait until tomorrow?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Super gravely. ‘I am a police officer, and my questions must be put to you now.’
‘Very well,’ she said wearily. ‘If you must.’
White cleared his throat again. ‘You have been known as Kathryn Arbuthnot?’
‘That was my stage name. I have also, as Mr Endicott will have informed you, used another.’
Her voice was low and expressionless, completely without fear. She rested an elbow on the table and laid her cheek on her hand. The pose was that of a tired child, totally uninterested in what was going on around it, wishing only to be left alone.
Her fatigue was obvious in every line of her thin body. Mark hated himself again.
‘I have to ask you to tell me your movements on the night of 20th July last. The night of the murder of Laura Grey.’
‘It wasn’t murder,’ said Kathryn Arbuthnot gently.
Mark caught his breath. He saw the Super stiffen, and one hand begin a soundless drumming on his thigh.
‘If you wish to make a statement, I will have it taken down and read over to you so that you may sign it. I have—’
The tired voice broke in upon his measured utterance.
‘There is no need. I have been very good.’ She actually gave the ghost of a laugh.
‘I don’t understand,’ said White, rather uneasily.
‘I mean that I’ve saved you the trouble. It’s all written down, here, in my bag. I never meant an innocent person to suffer — there has been suffering enough already. I killed her, but it wasn’t murder. I’m glad she is dead — very glad but I didn’t mean to kill her. I wanted her to live and be hurt much longer.’
There was still no expression in the whispering voice. It was as if a ghost were speaking, looking back on life from a great distance. In that lifetime there had been pain and passion. There was no feeling any more.
‘Hurt,’ said White quickly. Pulleyblank had his notebook out and was writing busily.
‘I wanted to hurt her.’
‘So you had been blackmailing her? Why?’
‘It wasn’t blackmail. I didn’t want money. I didn’t want anything of her except to know that she was suffering, as she had made others suffer. You needn’t bother me anymore. I told you, it’s all written down.’
‘That’s all very well—’
She said, ‘I’m too tired. It’s no use. She’s gone, and there’s nothing left for me to do. I’ve told you, I killed her. It’s all over. I didn’t think you’d find me, but you did. I still can’t think why. But you won’t get me, all the same.’
‘What do you mean?’
The Super leapt into action. He gripped her thin shoulders, forcing her to lift her head. She looked up at him, and there was faint triumph in her shadowed eyes. He stared into her face and saw that her lids were closing.
‘Wake up. My God—’
‘It’s no use,’ she whispered, her voice the merest thread of sound, ‘I took them when I went off stage to get the water. I knew you were coming — anyhow — don’t want to go on . . .’
The whispering voice faded and died. She seemed to settle herself against the broad shoulder of the superintendent as if too comfortably drowsy for further speech. Across her head, the eyes of the two policemen met again.
‘Get a doctor — call an ambulance,’ said White hoarsely. ‘And hurry, for God’s sake. You — Endicott — come and help me.’
But even as he worked and sweated, he knew that nothing would bring her back again.
* * *
It was written down, as she had said. The Super showed Mark the statement the next day, and as he read it he was glad to know that Kathryn Arbuthnot would never stand her trial. And as the story unfolded itself, he heard most clearly the voice of the stage maid who had spoken words of her own as she played her final part. ‘He was mine — you took him away from me and when you had him you didn’t want him anymore.’ Yes, there it was. That said everything. And it spoke no more than the truth of Laura, too — Laura, who would never grasp, and grow weary, and make others suffer again.
The statement began abruptly.
As soon as I discovered where Laura Grey had gone I followed her to God’s Blessing. It had taken me a long time to trace her, but I managed it in the end. Of course I had to wait my chance of getting into the village, but the advertisement for a working housekeeper was just what I needed. I had played that sort of part often enough, and though old Fairfax was a slave driver I had never been afraid of work. I was brought up on a farm, and life wasn’t easy there. I hadn’t thought I should go back to scrubbing and washing again, but I would have done harder things than that to work out my plans. I did not mean to kill her. Living can be so much harder than death. I wanted her to live and suffer and be afraid. My husband, who had loved me, killed himself because of her. I thought it only fair that she should suffer too.
When I saw Mr Endicott on the bus I thought that he had followed her, like me. At one time he was mad about her, I know. He didn’t recognize me, and of course it was years since we met, and then we hardly knew one another. I had a part in a play of his, which didn’t run very long. I was a charwoman in that; I often thought of it when I was cleaning his cottage for him.
I thought, by taking the job when the old man suggested it, I might discover Endicott’s game. I thought he might cause a good deal of trouble between Laura and her husband, but nothing happened. Young Marlowe was no good, either, though the village talked enough. I suppose the husband was like all the other fools and would believe black was white if she told him so. Anyhow, nothing happened. So I had to do it all myself.
When I saw her that afternoon floating across the lawn and looking as innocent as an angel, I found it hard not to shriek out what she was then and there. But I managed to wait. She couldn’t have been feeling as calm as she looked, because she had read my last letter by then. I told her to meet me by Corpse Path copse that evening. She wouldn’t know who had written, of course, but I thought she would be frightened enough to come, and I was right. Old Fairfax and I went back to the house for tea — it would have hurt him to pay for a cup out, of course. When I had cleared away I said I had a headache, so I put his supper ready and went to my room. Getting out was easy enough; I had cleaned the windows that morning and left the ladder outside. The thunder was so loud as I climbed down that once I missed a rung, and nearly fell. I was more careful after that. I wondered if the weather would keep her from coming, but when I crossed the field she was there, waiting.
She looked at me as if she was surprised and moved back to see if I should go by. I said, ‘I think you are waiting for me.’
She said, ‘Is it you who wrote to me?’
I said, ‘Yes, Laura. I wrote the letters.’
She said, ‘But, for God’s sake, why? I don’t even know you.’
I said, ‘It doesn’t matter now who I am. Once I was Gerald Arbuthnot’s wife.’
She said, ‘Kathryn!’
If I had been a ghost she couldn’t have sounded more afraid. I was glad to hear her like that.
She said, ‘You followed me here.’
I said, ‘You thought you were safely hidden. You could never hide from me.’
She said, ‘What do you mean to do?’
I said, ‘One day I am going to tell your husband what kind of woman you are. It may be tomorrow; it may not be for months. But one day I shall tell him.’
I saw her face clearly, in a flash of lightning. She didn’t look pretty then. It was worth the waiting, to see her so brought down. She gasped out that her husband would not believe me, but I only laughed. Then she began to plead, and to offer me money — as if that was what I wanted. The thunder crashed and the rain poured down. I remember it now. At the time I scarcely noticed it.
I leaned forward and shouted in her ear, ‘Now you know, you can go home. I shall be watching and waiting . . .’
It was then that she brought the pistol from her bag. I hadn’t expected that. I remember it struck me that there must be more than I knew for her to be so desperate. I gripped her wrist and tried to get it away, but she was very strong, and she wouldn’t let go. I saw her face, with the hood fallen back. It was streaming with rain. I don’t know who touched the trigger, and I scarcely heard the report because just then the thunder crashed again. She went limp and fell. The revolver was in my hand. I didn’t touch her, but I knew that she was dead.
I left her there and ran towards the gate. The rain seemed to beat me down, and the lightning frightened me. All the same, I was glad of the storm, because I knew it would keep sane people indoors. I was almost at t
he gate when I remembered the revolver.
There was a handkerchief in my pocket. I had taken it from a box in the old man’s bedroom the week before when I had a cold. I knew he wouldn’t miss it because he always used khaki ones, and anyway I meant to wash it and put it back. Now I wiped the revolver and wrapped the handkerchief round it. I knew the bank was full of rabbit holes. I found one and pushed the thing in as far as I could reach.
I didn’t see a soul on my way back. I slipped in through the back door with my shoes in my hand. I rolled them up inside my mackintosh and pushed it into the copper. I crept up to my room and got there just in time. A few minutes after, the old man came to the door to ask if I was all right.
I didn’t sleep much, and I was up before six the next morning. There were things for me to do. I wrapped up the mackintosh and my muddy shoes and put them into my case. I remembered to put the ladder back in the woodshed, and I scrabbled over a footprint on the path. Then I wrote myself a letter, went round to the front of the house and when I saw the mail van go by, I pushed it through the letterbox.
When I took Mr Fairfax up his tea, I showed him the letter. He was sorry I was called away, but he took it all in. I left a few things in my room to look as if I was coming back. When I caught the bus I couldn’t think of one thing I had left undone. I did wish that I had not taken the revolver, because if I had pushed it into Laura’s hand it might have looked like suicide and saved a lot of bother. And, of course, I could have stayed. I just didn’t want to. I didn’t run away because I was afraid, because I didn’t see how the police could possibly pin anything on me. But I’ve just had a phone call, and it seems they have.
I’m not going on. I don’t suppose they would bring it in as anything but manslaughter, but I shan’t wait to see. I don’t want to go on at all. There’s nothing left without him, and it’s time for me to go. I have what I need. I should have used it when Gerald died, but I wanted to find her first. At least, I’ve done that. I should like to know how the police tumbled to me, but it doesn’t matter. I’m going to die, so nothing matters any more. And she has gone first!
Corpse Path Cottage Page 25
