Weekend with Death

by Patricia Wentworth

  “If you would be so kind, Sarah—I think just on the sofa where I was sitting—”

  It was an accustomed errand. Joanna hardly ever managed to move from one room to another without leaving something behind her. Sarah, nearest the door, turned back almost before the request had been made. She was glad of the respite. She went back into the drawing-room, picked up the handkerchief from where it had fallen, and turned with it in her hand.

  John Wickham stood just inside the door. His hand went out behind him and pushed it to. His eyes went from the handkerchief to her face. They smiled into hers. He said,

  “You’re coming—”

  Sarah said nothing then. She crossed the room as if she had not seen him, her eyes wide and fixed, the colour burning in her cheeks, her lips dumb and stiff. He thought she looked as if she were walking in some remote and tragic dream. Not his dream—he had no part in it.

  And then she stopped. He was between her and the door. She wouldn’t touch him. Her hand just stirred and fell again to her side. The stiff lips moved and said from a long way off,

  “Let me pass.”

  “Sarah—what’s happened? You’re coming?”

  “No.”

  “But the handkerchief—”

  “It is Miss Cattermole’s. I’m not coming.” The words had a slow distinctness which was not like natural speech.

  There leapt into his mind the possibility that she had been drugged. He put a hand on her arm and felt her shudder and stiffen against his touch.

  “Sarah—what is it? What’s happened? Look here, I’ve got to get us both out of here tonight. I’ve run it as fine as I dare. There’s a man coming down here tomorrow who’ll know me—he’s the fellow who stabbed me in the train. If he sees me, the game’s up. And there’s nothing to stay for if you’ve got the papers. Bring them down here as soon as they get going with their séance, and I’ll get you away. You’ll come?”

  She said, “No,” snatched at the handle, and got the door open. There was a moment when he kept his hold of her arm. Then his hand dropped and he stood aside.

  Sarah ran from him across the hall.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  It was a dreadful meal. Fortunately, the others talked so much that no one would notice that Sarah Marlowe had nothing to say. Wilson Cattermole had begun the story of his quarrel with the Psychical Research Society, but he had to contend against his sister who was anxious to go over all the messages she had received from her smuggler, and against Mr. Brown who was quite determined to talk about were-wolves. As the Reverend Peter had very much the advantage in the matter of voice, he was able to boom the Cattermoles out of the conversation and reduce it to a monologue.

  Sarah had never heard anyone talk about werewolves before. She still had that picture of a wrecked and blackened house before her eyes. As Mr. Brown talked, she began to see shadows moving in the fire-shot dusk—wolfish shadows, going soft-foot about some dreadful business. What was a were-wolf but a man with a wolf’s savage treachery in his heart? She sat there and listened to the tale of men turned beast. But it wasn’t your body turning into a beast’s body which was the truth behind the tale. It was much more horrible, and quite true, that a man could go on looking like a man and yet have a wolf’s savage, treacherous heart.

  She took some food on her plate and ate a little of it. She refused coffee, because Mr. Brown might, after all, have taken his own way and drugged her cup. She would eat nothing except from the common dish and drink nothing except from the common jug. But if they wanted to drug her they would find a way of doing it. She was one against them all, and she had no chance.

  By degrees the effect of the shock she had received began to wear off. She became less numb, less stiff Painfully the power to think returned, and with the pain courage. She was one against all of them except perhaps Joanna, but she could still put up a fight. What she had overheard gave her an advantage, because she knew their plan. She was to be frightened into letting Wickham rescue her. They would count on her giving him the papers. She could hear his voice now, low and earnest, telling her to bring the papers with her. “Bring the papers, and I’ll get you away.” That had been his burden all along. And she would have brought them and gone with him if the Reverend Peter’s door had had a stronger catch. She had been ready to go with him, as she had been—almost—to trust him with the papers. A little more, and the almost would have been quite. A bitter laughter came up in her, and she remembered that he had told her not to be a fool. Could anyone be more of a fool than Sarah Marlowe who had trusted John Wickham? Why, he hadn’t even taken the trouble to pretend that he was honest. He had come to her a self-confessed thief without shame or remorse. Wolf in wolf’s clothing—and she had trusted him. Why?

  She looked back, and knew that she would have done it again. She had not known that it was possible to feel so much ashamed.

  “Curious how the silver bullet motif crops up in these stories,” said Mr. Brown. “None of the were-beasts can be killed by an ordinary bullet—that is common to all the stories in every country in the world. Sometimes holy water comes into it of course, but the silver bullet is a great favourite. It keeps on cropping up. Sometimes it is a button off a man’s coat or a link off a woman’s chain, and sometimes it is just a silver coin. Silver being white and bright may have something to do with it—the symbolism of good overcoming evil. Or because it was precious and different, and the sorcerer was not provided with a spell against it. Or because the silver coin was often marked with a cross or some other sacred emblem. And starting from this there may have arisen a confusion between the emblem and the silver, resulting in the idea that any silver bullet possessed the efficacy originally attributed to the bullet made from silver bearing the mark of the cross. There is a wide field for speculation in these borderlands of science and superstition, and I have found a peculiar fascination in wandering there.”

  “That,” said Wilson Cattermole, “was precisely my thesis in an article which I wrote—let me see, it must have been fifteen years ago.”

  Sarah went back into her thoughts.

  Now that she could think, she must make up her mind what she was going to do. The night lay before them all. They had a plan, and she had overheard part of it. She must make a plan too. It was rather like a game of hide-and-seek in the dark, because she must move cautiously for fear of blundering into some part of their plan, and they, most fortunately, would not be aware that she had a plan at all. At any moment a foot put wrong would mean disaster.

  These are the occasions when courage either fails outright or rises to face the worst. Sarah’s courage rose. Between now and tomorrow the issue would be decided. Her chance to get away was now, before they could put their plan into action.

  She began to think what she could do. She could carry out part of the plan Wickham had suggested—say she had a headache and slip off to bed. Then instead of meeting him she could get out at the back—the den had a window which looked that way. Quite easy so far, but what next? Well, she would have to make her way to Hedgeley, and so long as they didn’t find out that she was not in the house and come after her with a car, she thought she could do it. It must be all of seven miles and wicked going, but it would not be quite dark because of the snow, and she would have plenty of time—if they didn’t find out that she was gone. That was one way. The drawback was that Wickham would still be about. He might even think she had changed her mind and was going to come with him after all.

  For a moment her mind swung back and showed her, not Sarah Marlowe struggling over an endless icy waste towards a town she might never find, but Sarah Marlowe warm and comfortable in a car, covering those miles easily and safely. What was the good of thinking about things which had never been anything more than a mirage? John Wickham couldn’t make her safe. He was one of the wolf pack, helping to hunt her down.

  The other thing she could do was to fall in with their plan, go to their silly séance, and let them think they had frightened her. Then when the pro
ceedings were over and everyone had gone to bed she could still get out of the window and make for Hedgeley.

  No, it was too late. She couldn’t risk it. This séance had been got up as a cover for something. She was quite sure about that, and she didn’t know what the something was. She only knew that it smelled of danger. She just couldn’t bring herself to risk it.

  It would have to be the first plan.

  As soon as she had made up her mind she felt curiously lightened. The pain left her. She took some more food, because if she had to walk to Hedgeley in this bitter cold, it wouldn’t do to start chilled and empty.

  “I am afraid I have monopolized the conversation.” The Reverend Peter looked about him with an obvious desire to be contradicted. “But you are such good listeners, my dear people, and when I have an absorbing subject and attentive guests I am afraid I have a tendency to let my tongue run on.”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  They had coffee in the drawing-room. Sarah refused her cup, and to her relief the refusal seemed to pass unnoticed. Then there was no plan to drug her tonight. The heat of the room and the relief from her most pressing fear made her feel relaxed and drowsy. Wilson Cattermole got in the story he had tried to tell at dinner. Joanna, unable to secure a wider attention talked about her messages to Sarah in a hurrying undertone.

  When the clock struck nine there was a general move.

  “There may not, of course, be any manifestations so early in the evening.” Mr. Brown stood on the hearthrug with his pipe in his hand. “In fact I cannot guarantee that there will be any manifestations at all, but I think it will give everything the best chance if we repair now to the other wing. I have had a fire lighted, and I propose that we sit quietly by what light it may afford. It is very important that the right vibrations should be set up—there must be the correct psychic atmosphere. We must place ourselves en rapport with whatever it is that is causing the manifestations. There may be a desire to communicate, or there may not. I believe there is. But a desire to communicate is not the only factor. Giving and taking, cause and effect, are parts of a psychic whole. If I may borrow a phrase, it is for us to do what we can to ensure good reception. I propose that we take Miss Cattermole’s planchette, and that we also adopt another method which sometimes gives excellent results by placing a slate and slate-pencil in a convenient position.”

  As he talked, Sarah woke right up. He had the sort of voice which made jargon sound impressive, but she was merely impressed with the fact that he still considered it necessary to impress her. This was a cheering thought. Rather a drop from the psychic whole to planchette and a slate-pencil, but only sceptics like Miss Marlowe worried about that sort of thing. She had an idea that he was inventing his jargon as he went along, and that amused her. It would be fun to catch him out.

  The word convenient rang a little mocking bell in her mind. A slate and slate-pencil—the oldest of all the old cheating tricks! It angered her that he should think it good enough to serve. The only thing actually in doubt was whether the slate would be faked beforehand, or whether the Reverend Peter, or Wickham, or one of the Grimsbys was slick-fingered enough to do the faking there in the dark under her nose.

  For a moment she was quite sorry that she would never know, because she was not going to be at the séance. She was going to be in bed with a headache, and a locked door with a tilted chair jammed against it under the handle. But later, when they were all in bed, she was going to slip out of the very window against which she was standing now and make her way to Hedgeley even if she had to crawl there on her hands and knees. Well, she would have to say her piece and slip away, and once she had got out of this room she need never see any of them again.

  She addressed herself to Wilson Cattermole.

  “Would you mind very much if I didn’t come—if I went to bed?”

  “Bed?” said Wilson. He peered at her in his shortsighted way.

  Sarah said, “Yes.” They were all looking at her now. She added, “I’ve got a headache,” and thought how silly it sounded, because if you are a secretary and have come down to a haunted house with your employer on purpose to take notes of any phenomena there, it isn’t really a very satisfying excuse to say you’ve got a headache and you want to go to bed. It had seemed all right as a plan in her head, but the minute they began to look at her she could see that it was not going to go down well. In fact it wasn’t going to go down at all.

  Wilson became the very image of an agitated ant.

  “But, my dear Miss Sarah, you cannot really intend to desert me—us. I—we have been counting on you not only to take notes of the proceedings—a part for which no one else has the necessary qualifications—but also as an independent witness. There is such a sad spirit of scepticism abroad. You yourself are admittedly tainted with it, but in this case, and if it did not actually hamper the manifestations, that would be all to the good. The evidence of a sceptic in these matters is most valuable. But—dear me, Miss Sarah, you cannot actually mean—no, no, it is quite impossible—you did not really say that you wished to go to bed!”

  Whatever she had said, the possibility of evading the séance, it was obvious, no longer existed. She could of course just swoon, in which case they would probably carry her up to bed and find some means of drugging her. They might very easily call John Wickham in to carry her. Wilson’s brittle arms didn’t look as if they could lift a child. John Wickham—An inward shudder took hold of her. She decided against the swoon and made a virtue of necessity.

  “Oh, Mr. Cattermole, of course not, if you want me. I just had a headache—I’m afraid I was rather forgetting about the séance. I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll come and take notes for you.”

  He eyed her in a bewildered manner.

  “You forgot? But it is what we came down here for. I really fail to understand—”

  Perhaps he wasn’t in it. It was Morgan’s voice she had heard, not his. But he had prevented her letter from reaching Henry Templar. No—that was John Wickham’s story, put up to cover himself. Her letter could have gone into his pocket just as well as into Wilson’s. She had only his word for it that it was Wilson who had kept it back. Then if Wilson Cattermole was innocent of this conspiracy, they were using him as a catspaw—Morgan Cattermole, the Reverend Peter, and Wickham who pretended that he did not even know of Morgan’s existence.

  Wilson ran his fingers through his hair.

  “I really cannot understand how you can possibly have forgotten. Inexplicable—really inexplicable!”

  “I’ll go and get my pad.”

  “And a warm coat,” said the Reverend Peter in a jovial voice. “The fire, I believe, is doing as well as can be expected, but you know what it is with an unused chimney. I hope you and Miss Cattermole will wrap up well.”

  “My fur coat,” said Joanna—she followed Sarah out of the room—“and perhaps bedroom slippers—what do you think, my dear? They are lined with a special vegetarian health fleece, and they are certainly very warm. Of course the fur coat is quite against my principles, but I have had it a long time, and nothing I can do now would restore the minks to life. I haven’t really the slightest idea what a mink is, and whenever I have asked anyone they have always said they hadn’t either. And that does make it a great deal more impersonal, don’t you think, because they may be a very destructive kind of animal, though that would not alter my convictions about wearing fur, and I should never buy another fur coat. So in a way I can’t help hoping that it won’t wear out for a long time. There’s nothing so warm as fur, is there—and I do feel the cold so much, though I don’t think I ever remember quite such bitter weather as this.”

  She was rather breathless when they arrived at the top of the stairs. She took Sarah’s arm and drew her inside the bedroom door.

  “I am not really sure about séances,” she said. “That is to say, I think they are very nice in your own house or in a friend’s house, but when it comes to haunted houses, it is all just a little disturbing, don’t you thin
k?” Her pale eyes gazed rather wildly past Sarah in the unromantic direction of the wash-stand, on which a battered hot water jug stood wrapped against the cold in a bath-towel. “I thought it was very brave of you to say you wanted to go to bed, and if you had, I would have gone too, because there is something about this séance that makes me feel very uncomfortable indeed, and it is not even as if I had my purple velvet—though Nathaniel did say that purple was all poppycock, didn’t he, and of course that is very comforting. You must keep reminding me about that, my dear. Having passed over, he would know, wouldn’t he?”

  She slipped her arms into the fur coat which Sarah was holding for her and shivered a little.

  “It is very warm and comfortable, but do you know, I met a woman—just before you came to us, I think it was—at one of Sybilla Havendale’s parties. She was some kind of foreigner and I can’t remember her name, but she was very psychic, and she said she could distinctly see the spirits of the minks which had been killed to make my coat following me round in a pack. It upset me a good deal, and I’ve only just begun to wear the coat again, but she didn’t tell me what they looked like, and whenever I try to remember her name I can only remember that it sounded very foreign indeed.”

  The words went by Sarah Marlowe like wind blowing. She heard them, and they meant nothing. She said suddenly, in a voice which sounded as if it had been forced out of her,

  “Is your other brother here?”

  Joanna Cattermole turned round, the heavy old-fashioned coat hanging open over her trailing velvet dress, her hair flaring back from a face which had a frightened look.

  “My brother! What do you mean?”

  If Sarah could have taken her words back she would have done so, but they had escaped her. None of the words you speak can ever be as if you had not spoken them. She stiffened herself and said,

  “Not Mr. Cattermole—your other brother. Is Mr. Morgan here?”

  Joanna said, “Morgan—” in a wandering voice. Then she put a hand on Sarah’s arm. “Oh, my dear, what makes you think of that? For do you know what I have been thinking all day—in fact ever since we came down here? You always say you are not psychic, but you must be, for you see we were both thinking about Morgan. I was wishing so very much that he was here, and thinking that if he were, I should not be feeling so uneasy. He always has such high spirits, and he does not believe in manifestations, or haunted houses, or anything like that—you remember how he laughed at my planchette—and just at the moment I feel that that would be very comforting. You see, it is not as if we knew what form the manifestations would take—Mr. Brown has been so very non-committal—and if there is going to be anything violent or unpleasant, I shouldn’t like it at all.”