Sarah thought, “If he turns up here, I shall have to look out for squalls.” And with that they were in the dining-room, and everyone was saying good-morning and beginning to talk about the weather. “No getting out today, I’m afraid.” … “Oh, yes, dreadfully cold”… “I remember in ’94” … “Grimsby says there’s an inch of ice on the roads”… “Not a chance of the Sunday papers, I’m afraid.”…
Sarah realized with a shock that it was Sunday. She had been thinking of Henry going to his office and not being able to get away until the evening, and all the time it was Sunday and he could have got away as early as he liked if it hadn’t been for the ice on the roads.
“Grimsby says it’s very bad indeed,” said Mr. Brown. “He tried to get across the yard to the coal-shed, but he couldn’t keep his feet. He is putting down ashes now, I believe.”
In the light of what Wickham had said, Sarah wondered whether it was fair to blame the ice for the fact that Grimsby found it difficult to keep his feet this morning. She felt rather curious about the Grimsbys, and anxious to see them.
As she was crossing the hall after breakfast she had at least part of her wish. Grimsby came out of a green baize door behind the dining-room and went across to the Reverend Peter’s den with a scuttle of coals. It was a very large scuttle, well piled up, and he carried it as if it had been a basket of eggs. He wasn’t very tall, but he looked as strong as a bull, with an immense chest and long arms, a dark empurpled face, and black hair growing low on his forehead. His looks were not improved by a nose with a badly broken bridge and small, bloodshot eyes. Sarah thought, “He’s dangerous. I wonder what he’s like when he’s drunk.”
He looked at her sideways as he went past. It was the look of a vicious animal—sullen, with a spark of violence. If he had been a dog, there would have been a growl in his throat and his hackles would have been up. Sarah felt she would have been happier if he had been on a chain in the yard.
She went on up the stairs, and saw Wickham in the open doorway of Miss Cattermole’s room. He had a pile of bricks on his arm, and when he saw her he went back a step.
“I’m just taking these away. Will you be wanting them again tonight?”
Sarah said, “Yes please,” and then, “But you oughtn’t to carry them. Make Grimsby do it. After all, it’s his job.”
He actually laughed.
“Have you seen him? I think I make a better chambermaid.”
“You oughtn’t to carry them.”
“This arm’s all right.”
“Are you all right this morning—really?”
He nodded.
Quite suddenly, without the slightest intention and to her own surprise, Sarah said,
“Is it true—you were in prison?”
He balanced the bricks thoughtfully. His colour was much better today. She noticed that, because she was looking to see whether it changed. It didn’t, nor did his voice. He said,
“Oh, yes. Mr. Cattermole told you yesterday in the car, didn’t he? He has made up his mind that you can’t hear through the glass, but of course you can. I heard him telling you.”
It was Sarah whose colour rose in a burning flush.
“Why?” she said.
John Wickham smiled quite pleasantly.
“Why does one rob banks? To get money. Pure case of demand and supply. Unfortunately I didn’t get away with it, so I’m a little disenchanted with the ways of crime. Would you like to reform me?” He laughed and went past her and across the landing.
Tears of pure rage stung in Sarah’s eyes. At least she told herself that there was nothing in her heart but anger. If they were once out of this place she need never speak to him again. That was one thought. There were others.
She began to tidy the room. Miss Cattermole had an unusual talent for untidiness. She could impart a dishevelled air to any room in the least possible space of time. The things she had worn the evening before were strewn up and down the length and breadth of this one. It was certainly not a secretary’s job—and Mr. Cattermole’s secretary at that—to collect these widely diffused garments and dispose of them in drawers and cupboards. But on the other hand, it didn’t seem to be anyone else’s business either, and Joanna certainly wouldn’t do it.
When everything had been put away she went back to her own room. The door which she had left shut was wide open. Wickham was very busy collecting the bricks which she had left piled up beside the hearth. It occurred to her to wonder how long he had been there, and whether he had been waiting for her. She came just inside the door and stood there, expecting him to go.
He came towards her slowly with the bricks piled up on his arm. Without lowering her voice Sarah said,
“You need not trouble—I shan’t want them tonight.”
“Oh, I think you will—and it isn’t any trouble at all.”
Sarah made no answer.
Just before he came level with her he dropped his voice and said,
“You asked me something just now, and I answered you. If I ask you something, will you answer me?”
“I don’t know. What is it?”
“You go down to Craylea when you have a holiday, don’t you? Were you there this week?”
She moved a little farther from the door, and he followed her.
“Suppose I was?”
“When were you there? What day did you come back? Thursday—was it Thursday?”
“Why do you want to know?”
She saw his face change.
“Because I do—because it’s important. Do you want me to ask Mr. Cattermole?”
Sarah felt shaken where she should have been angry. She was so sure she ought to be angry that she achieved a cold, rebuking look as she said,
“I think you are behaving very strangely.”
He took no more notice of that than if she had been a child.
“Did you come back on Thursday?”
“Yes, I did.”
“By way of Cray Bridge?”
“There isn’t any other way.”
“What train?”
A bright sparkle came into Sarah’s eyes. She said, a little too sweetly,
“The 5.17 from Cray Bridge.”
The sparkle met an answering one.
“Sure about that?”
“Quite sure.”
“You left Cray Bridge at 5.17?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then you didn’t leave at 5.17. When did you leave?”
The sparkle died.
She said in an uncertain voice,
“There was a fog.”
“When did you leave Cray Bridge?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’ve got to know, and if you don’t answer me, well, that’s answer enough. I think you didn’t leave until six o’clock.”
She walked away past him to the window and stood there looking out. She heard him come up behind her, but she did not turn. He said very quick and low at her ear,
“Did she give it to you? For God’s sake tell me if she gave it to you! Are you such a fool as to think that you can play a lone hand like this?”
She said in a slow, bewildered voice, “I don’t know what you mean—” because that is what Sarah Marlowe would have said if she really had not known, and that is how she would have said it.
Well, it wasn’t any use, because he came back at her with a contemptuous “You know perfectly well! What have you done with it?”
She found that she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t keep her anger. She couldn’t act well enough to take him in.
He spoke with a fresh urgency.
“Sarah—for God’s sake tell me! It’s not safe—you’re not safe. I tell you I’ve got to know!”
And then, before she could answer, there came Joanna’s voice, calling plaintively from the stairs.
“Sarah—Sarah—where are you? They say the roads are dreadful and we can’t possibly get away. They say it’s dangerous.”
&nbs
p; Wickham turned and went out with his load of bricks. His voice came back to Sarah from the landing,
“No, I’m afraid you can’t go, madam. Mr. Cattermole is quite right—it would be dangerous.”
CHAPTER XXII
The word was to ring in Sarah’s ears through all the long, cold day—dangerous. It was dangerous to stay here, and it would be dangerous to try and get away. One kind of danger or another—what did it matter? She had some fear, but it is hard to rid oneself of the generations who have lived safely. They stand guard about your thought and set danger a long way off. It is something you have heard of, read about—not something that comes into your own life to break it up.
When she had the hall to herself she opened the front door and went out. But when she had taken two steps she knew that if she took another it would bring her down. There was a sheet of ice over everything, and it was ten times more slippery than the common ice of a frozen pond, because ice frozen on water is level, but this followed the contours not only of the ground but of every stick and pebble upon it. There was no place where you could steady your foot. She wanted to turn round and go back, but she couldn’t. One movement out of the straight and she would be down. She would have to step backwards. But as sure as she picked up one foot the other would go from under her.
“My dear Miss Marlowe!” said Mr. Brown. His voice came from behind her, full of concern. “My dear Miss Marlowe!” His hand came out and grasped her above the elbow—a very strong hand.
She took her step back. She was thankful for the support. As Mr. Brown shut the door, he told her just how dangerous this kind of ice could be.
“You mustn’t dream of putting a foot outside until we’ve got some ashes down. Miss Cattermole was telling me that she would be obliged to return to London. I am afraid I disappointed her by saying that it was quite out of the question. The gain is of course mine. Anything which gives me the pleasure of your company for a little longer is certainly a blessing in disguise. We must try and make the time pass as pleasantly as possible. There are books in my den, and of course Mr. Cattermole will be anxious to pursue his investigations. We shall have to wait until the late evening—I have told him that. The manifestations do not ordinarily begin before ten o’clock, but we may look forward, I hope, to an interesting evening. He tells me you are something of a sceptic. Perhaps we shall have the pleasure of converting you.”
What do you say to an enthusiast who wants to convert you? Sarah said nothing, merely smiled and made her way to what she supposed was the drawing-room of the house, a pale intact specimen of Victorian gentility. Vases in symmetrical pairs, a faded floral carpet, stiff sofa and chairs covered in a tapestry which suggested mildew, and on the walls a sky-blue paper with satin stripes now rapidly turning grey, and a fine period collection of photogravures representing the more popular works of Landseer and Millais. There was a Soul’s Awakening over the mantelpiece, flanked by a Monarch of the Glen and a Dignity and Impudence. There were many, many others. A fire had been lighted, but was doing very little to raise the temperature.
Miss Cattermole complained that the atmosphere was inimical.
“We cannot get away from this place. I shall be ill. I am very sensitive to atmosphere. And the cold—”
“Horrible, isn’t it!” said Sarah. “But the fire is really cheering up a bit now.”
“Oh, it’s not that. You’re not sensitive, so of course you don’t feel it. There’s a horrible cold feeling about this house which has nothing to do with the weather. Wilson won’t tell me what happened here, but I know it was something dreadful. He says he wants me to have an open mind, but I wish very much that we had never come near the place.”
It was when she next crossed the hall that Sarah had her first glimpse of Mrs. Grimsby. It was quite literally only a glimpse. The baize door to the kitchen premises stood ajar, not by accident but of design. Four fingers showed on it to the knuckles, and a little higher up a face looked through the gap. The fingers red and steamy as if they had just come out of hot water, the face round, and flat, and white as a well floured scone; untidy grizzled hair; no-coloured eyes—these were the things which Sarah saw before the door swung to. She felt distaste, repulsion, and had to remind herself of Mrs. Grimsby’s virtues as a cook—“And anyhow it’s taken a weight off my mind, because I was feeling dreadful about anyone being married to Grimsby, and now I needn’t.”
The excellent meals provided by Mrs. Grimsby were, in fact, the only bright spots in a cold and tedious day. Sarah searched the bookshelves in vain for anything which she could feel she really wanted to read. There were the complete works of Robert Browning, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Southey. There were a great many books of sermons by divines who had obviously been popular in the early part of Queen Victoria’s reign. There were a number of novels of the same period, published in three volumes of which one usually seemed to be missing. There were a number of biographies of people whose names meant nothing to her. She was reduced at last to a choice between a work of fiction entitled A Sister’s Sacrifice and Vol. I of The Pillars of the House by Charlotte M. Yonge. Actually she found this a most enthralling work. What ingeniously ordered lives this vast Victorian family led. How small a happening could rouse and hold one’s interest. Felix’s birthday tip from his godfather, and the burning question of how much of it should go into the family exchequer, and whether he would be justified in blueing part of it on a picnic—with a wagonette—for the entire family, Papa, Mamma, and ten brothers and sisters. When Papa expired and Mamma had twins the same day, thus bringing the family up to thirteen, and Felix and Wilmet had to support them all, the contest between Miss Yonge’s ingenuity and Sarah’s scepticism became excitingly acute. In the end she gave Charlotte best. It might have been done, she could even believe that it had been done, and though not in sight of the end of Vol. I, she contemplated turning out all the shelves till she tracked down Vol. II.
In the early afternoon the sky darkened and snow began to fall. By the time the curtains were drawn the ice was already covered. She thought, “If it’s not too deep, the snow will help us to get away.” Like an echo there came a restless movement from Joanna, and the words, “If it snows, we ought to be able to get away tomorrow.”
Miss Cattermole had got out her planchette. She was sitting up to a small gimcrack table, her hands poised above the board, a sheet of foolscap laid ready to take a message down. From either side of the mantelpiece a candle in an overloaded Dresden candlestick threw a soft glow upon her and upon the table. She had been sitting like that for a good half hour, but the little heart-shaped board had not moved at all and the paper lay blank beneath it.
Quite suddenly and silently Miss Cattermole began to cry. The tears just brimmed over and rolled down. Then in a faint, despairing voice she said,
“I want to go home. Oh dear, I do so want to go home.”
Sarah did her best to be consoling. The bright thought had suddenly struck her that Henry might after all get down tonight. As soon as the ice was covered the roads would be driveable, and as soon as Henry could come he would. She hadn’t the slightest doubt about that. The glow which this conviction imparted enabled her to be very brisk indeed with Joanna, who presently showed signs of being assuaged and departed upstairs to remove the disfiguring traces of emotion.
She had not been gone more than half a minute, when Wickham came in with logs for the fire. It was an entrance too prompt not to arouse the suspicion that he had been waiting for just such an opportunity. On his knees before the hearth with a log in his hand he would present a most innocently convincing picture of faithful service should anyone open the door. Sarah, in the sofa corner no more than a yard away with The Pillars of the House laid open on her knee, was any girl with any book on a snowy Sunday afternoon.
Without preliminaries he began where he had left off about six hours ago.
“What have you done with it?”
She kept her hand on her book and looked past him into the fire.
/>
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She might not be looking at him, but she knew what kind of a look he had for her—a black, angry one, and a voice edged with anger as he said,
“You’re not a fool—don’t talk like one! And don’t talk to me as if I was one either! No one who knows that you came up from Cray Bridge on Thursday evening can possibly mistake the porter’s description of the girl who was in the waiting-room with Emily Case, even without the initials on the suit-case. It was you to anyone who knows you. Did she give you the packet?”
Sarah’s hand closed so hard upon the book that the edge of it made a long red furrow across her palm. She said in a voice of creditable calm,
“What do you mean? What packet?”
“Four by three, done up in green oiled silk, and you very well know it. She gave it to you, didn’t she? What have you done with it?”
All the colour went out of Sarah’s face, and all the colour went out of her mind. There were left two possibilities, starkly black and white. To say what he had just said, it must either have been John Wickham who had given Emily Case the packet, or else it was John Wickham who had done murder to take it from her, and done it in vain. For a moment she saw these two possibilities as separate ideas. Then with a rush they merged and were one. She said,
Weekend with Death Page 13
