And then she saw the hole in the bed-head. The jerk that had freed her veil had opened a tiny panel. The shield which bore the initials and the lovers’ knot stood out like an open door. A crumpled fold of paper stuck out. Without any conscious volition her hand took hold of it and pulled. The torn-out sheets of Margot’s diary were there under her eyes. Crumpled sheets, and a scrawl in a childish hand. She saw Geoffrey’s name. Her hand stiffened. There was no time, no place for thought, only one dominant impulse-to get away from the place where this poor child had been tricked out of her life.
She folded the sheets without feeling them and pushed them down the front of her blouse. The used handkerchief had fallen on the bed. She picked it up, took it over to the soiled linen-basket, and dropped it in. Then she shut the little panel in the head of the bed and went down to her waiting taxi.
The Alvis was ahead of them, storming down the drive, turning away to the left where they turned to the right.
CHAPTER 37
Ione sat in the train with her eyes shut. She was in a carriage full of people, and every time the train stopped, which it did at every station, someone got out or got in. It was borne in upon her that in her hurry to get away she had caught the slow train by Marbury, which certainly did reach London in the end, but not until it had picked up the inhabitants of a dozen villages bound for Marbury market. If she had not been so blinded by impatience she would have waited for the fast London train which left a quarter of an hour later and arrived a good half hour before the wretched contraption in which she was now being jogged along. Impossible to read the torn-out pages of Margot Trent’s diary under the eyes of all these country people packed round her with their string bags, their baskets, their spreading coats, and the large feet which seemed to take up rather more room than there was.
At Marbury there was an exodus. She was left alone except for an elderly lady who appeared to be deep in a woman’s magazine. The train would not stop again until they were near London. As it gained speed, she slipped her hand inside her blouse and brought out the folded sheets. When she had read them through she went back to the beginning and read them again. She had arrived with a kind of horrified amazement at the last scrawled line, when the elderly lady addressed her.
“If I do not interrupt you-you seem so very much interested-but I was wondering whether you would object to having the window very slightly open at the top.”
Ione gazed at her rather blankly. She had not really seen her before. There had been just an impression of someone drab in the corner. She now saw a long nose, a tight mouth, and a pair of very inquisitive eyes. She made haste to say,
“Oh, the window-no, of course-please do anything you like about it.”
“Just a couple of inches then. I cannot consider it hygienic to travel in a compartment to which no air is admitted. My invariable rule at home is two inches at the top and two inches at the bottom for every window in the house.”
It sounded frightfully bleak. Not feeling called upon to make any comment, Ione re-folded the sheets of Margot’s diary and put them away in her handbag. What was she going to do with them? What could she do? She must have time to think.
She was not to have it. Those inquisitive eyes had followed her every movement. The rather high, precise voice addressed her again.
“Allow me to introduce myself-Miss Wotherspoon- 21 Marling Road, Marbury. A very pleasant locality-quiet, and yet close to a shopping centre. Perhaps I may know your name?”
Short of being rude to a chance-met stranger, a lapse for which Cousin Eleanor’s training had completely unfitted her, she must give her name with as good a grace as she could contrive.
Miss Wotherspoon remarked that it was Scotch, had some general observations to make on that country, and came back to her starting point.
“I do hope that I have not disturbed you. I always think conversation makes a journey pass more pleasantly. But you did seem so much interested in what you were reading. Not a private letter of course, or I should not be remarking upon it. More like the pages from a child’s exercise-book-very untidy writing. And of course a child of that age could hardly produce what would be of interest to a grown-up person.”
Ione said nothing.
But Miss Wotherspoon had not done. She gave a small hard laugh, and proceeded in a manner which was obviously intended to be arch.
“And you know, that was what made me just a teeny bit curious-a child’s exercise, and your deep interest. You did say Miss Muir, did you not? But perhaps some niece? Or nephew?”
Ione found herself saying,
“Miss Wotherspoon, the child who wrote those pages is dead. And now perhaps you will not mind if I shut my eyes and do not talk any more. I have rather a headache.”
She leaned back into her corner and closed her mind to a number of small ejaculations such as, “Oh, really!”, “I had no idea!”, “I’m sure I wouldn’t for the world!” Cousin Eleanor or no Cousin Eleanor, she could not have endured Miss Wotherspoon’s catechism for another moment. That it would have gone on all the way to town, she had no doubt. And everything else apart, she must think-she must think-she must think.
Just how much legal weight would those scrawled pages carry? Would they be admitted as evidence? She just didn’t know. What came to her more and more clearly was that she couldn’t take the responsibility of knocking about London with them. They might be valueless, or they might be of an absolutely crucial importance. It wasn’t her responsibility to say or to judge. She held on to her bag with both hands and knew what she must do. She couldn’t carry this sort of burden alone, nor did she want to be alone with it any more at all. Something like the cold that glances back from ice sent a shudder through mind and body at the thought of it. She was taking no more responsibility, and following no more lonely paths. As soon as they arrived at the terminus she was going to put those torn-out sheets in a registered envelope and post them to Inspector Abbott at Scotland Yard. And she was going to ring up Jim Severn and ask him to meet her at Louisa’s flat. She felt a most extraordinary sense of relief.
CHAPTER 38
Mrs. Robinson opened the door of her ground floor flat and beamed at Ione. She was one of those large shapeless women who must have been quite ravishingly pretty at seventeen before the apple-blossom colour had deepened to a universal flush and spread with all that spreading fat. She had on a short-sleeved overall, and the skin on the inside of the arm above the elbow was still as white as milk. And her eyes as blue as a baby’s. Straw-coloured hair in a kind of demented haycock completed the picture.
“Miss Muir?” she said in a slow, pleasant voice. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. And a good thing you sent that wire, or I’d have been out as sure as anything. And you needn’t to bother about the key, because the other lady has just gone up with it.”
“The other lady?”
Mrs. Robinson nodded.
“Miss Blunt’s cousin-elderly lady. Said Miss Blunt asked her to meet you here and explain about one or two things she was to look after for her.”
Really Louisa was too inconsequent! “An elderly cousin” sounded like Lucy Heming, and if ever there was a bore and a person you couldn’t get rid of, it was Lucy.
She took herself up in the automatic lift with the feeling that Lucy Heming on the top of Miss Wotherspoon was just about the last straw. She would expect to be provided with cups of tea, and she would cling. Useless optimism to imagine that she would vanish from the scene when Jim Severn walked in.
The door of the flat was ajar. She closed it behind her, slipping up the safety catch so that Jim would not have to ring. Four doors opened upon the little hall-bathroom and kitchenette straight ahead, each of them just a slip, bedroom to the left, and sitting-room to the right. The sitting-room door stood half-way open. It disclosed Louisa’s rather oddly assorted furniture. She was at the moment devoted to peasant arts and crafts, but had not gone so far as to divest herself of inherited Chippendale and Dresden. A tall grey-haired woman in ol
d-fashioned clothes was looking out of the farther window. She turned as Ione came in, and she was not Lucy Heming.
There was a moment of bewilderment. Then, as the dark eyes met hers, Ione knew. A bare right hand came up out of a ramshackle old bag, and it held a revolver. Incredibly, but as it seemed actually, the revolver was pointed at Ione’s head. The grey-haired woman said,
“Stay just where you are and put up your hands, or I shall shoot!”
The voice was, without any disguise, the voice of Jacqueline Delauny. It was all quite unbelievable, but it was happening. You can’t argue with a revolver at point-blank range. Ione put up her hands.
“That’s better!”
“I can’t keep them like this for very long, you know.”
“It won’t be for long-you needn’t worry. Throw your bag over on to that sofa! Not anywhere in my direction now, or this little toy will go off!”
The bag was in her left hand. She threw it on to the sofa, and saw Jacqueline Delauny edge round until she could reach it. The catch was a stiff one, and she could only use the fingers of her left hand, but she got it open, backed with it to her original position, and turned the contents out upon a small table without for a moment changing her steady aim. Purse, compact, handkerchief, shopping-list-she could only afford the swiftest glance, but she knew at once that what she wanted was not there.
“What have you done with them?”
“What have I done with what?”
“As if you didn’t know!” Jacqueline’s voice was deadly.
“Perhaps if you were to tell me-”
“I tell you you know-you know-you know! Pages from that damned diary! You found them!”
“Yes, I found them.”
With the first shock over, thought had steadied. She must play for time. Jacqueline would not shoot her whilst there was something she wanted to find out. She went on in just her ordinary voice.
“How did you know that I had found them?”
Jacqueline’s voice dropped.
“Do you think I didn’t watch you? Every night when you went to bed-every morning when you got up. There’s a very good spy-hole in that room-you’d never notice it was there. They knew how to hide things in those days. And I saw you find the diary. I always knew it was somewhere in the room, but I never thought of there being a hiding-place in the bed. I saw your veil catch and the door fly open. And I couldn’t do anything about it-there wasn’t time. I had to take the long way round to Wraydon, and change into these things, and catch the fast train up. A bit of luck your getting into the slow one. That’s what you did, wasn’t it? But you wouldn’t have given me a second’s thought if you had seen me on the platform like this-now would you? I had it all planned before you found the diary. You had to go because of the money-for Geoffrey.” Her voice changed again. “Where are those papers?”
Something very heavy was passing along the road. There was so much noise that it was useless to speak until it had gone by. As the rumbling died away, Jacqueline laughed and nodded.
“That is when I shall shoot you, my dear Ione-when something like that is passing. And I shall go away and tell Mrs. Robinson how frightened I am about lifts-I walked down the stairs, and there was such a very odd-looking man coming up-I was quite glad when I got past him.”
Ione wasn’t sure-she couldn’t be sure-but she had an odd sense of not being alone any more. She couldn’t say that she had heard a sound from the hall-no one could have heard anything while that great lorry went by. But Jim could have opened the outer door on its safety catch and walked in. He could be standing behind her now in the little hall with no more than the slant of the door between them. It had been half open when she came into the flat, but she had begun to close it before she recognized Jacqueline Delauny. Nobody in the hall could now be seen from where Jacqueline stood.
Into these thoughts there thrust with harsh insistence,
“What have you done with those torn-out leaves?”
Ione allowed her voice to waver.
“Jacqueline, I really can’t go on standing with my hands above my head like this. If you want me to answer your questions you’ll just have to let me sit down.”
There was a small gimcrack chair with a brocade seat about a yard away on the left. Jacqueline considered it. Nothing within throwing distance. She nodded briefly.
“You can sit on that chair-until I’ve finished with you. Keep your hands in your lap, and don’t try anything on, or you’ll be dead before you know what is happening!”
It was a relief to sit down, and she was clear of the door. She didn’t quite know why, but that seemed important. If Jim was there in the hall… She began to wonder why she had thought that he might be there. If he was, then it could be very important indeed. They mustn’t be in the same line of fire. Yes, that was the thing that was eluding her. She must hold on to it. Jacqueline must not be able to hold them both up at once. If she showed any sign of firing at one, the other must be able to rush her. That was it-keep taut, be ready to spring and spoil the aim. And meanwhile time-time-time-
If she could be sure about Jim.
She wasn’t sure. When she had rung him up from the station there had been a kind of leaping gladness in his “Ione!” She had kept her own voice quiet.
“I’m in a call-box on my way to Louisa Blunt’s flat. She’s really gone at last, and I’ve got to measure things up. I suppose you couldn’t-”
“But of course I could! Just give me the address, and I’ll be right along!”
That was the way it had gone. And if “right along” meant what it sounded like, he could have been here by now. But was that the reason why she had thought there was someone in the hall? He could have been there. It mattered so much-but was he?-
It was no more than the faintest of faint hopes.
Out in the hall Jim Severn was standing within touching distance of the partly open sitting-room door. He had walked in whilst the heavy lorry was passing, checked at the sudden rush of noise, and as it died down, heard Jacqueline Delauny laugh and say, “That is when I shall shoot you, my dear Ione-when something like that is passing.” The words were quite incredible, but they froze him where he stood. He listened to Ione saying that she could not go on standing with her hands above her head. He listened to Jacqueline telling her that she might sit. As she moved to do so, he was aware that she was no longer in a direct line between him and Jacqueline. If he couldn’t think of anything better before another of those heavy lorries came by, he could try what a sudden rush would do. The chances were that Jacqueline would swing round, and that meant she would swing away from Ione.
She might not-she might fire first-the revolver might just go off-he might have to take that risk. An agony like cramp took hold upon his mind. He would have to take a chance, and the thing with which he would have to take that chance was Ione’s life.
In this moment, and once and for all, he knew just what it meant to him. He faced it as people do face unescapable danger, and with that the thing that was like cramp let go. He heard the women’s voices and what they said. He would be able to repeat what they said. But it did not take up all his mind. Thoughts and plans came and went there. He thought about standing at the front door and ringing the bell. But Jacqueline had gone too far. She had said what could never be taken back. There would be no way out for her except by shooting, and she would shoot Ione first. No, his original idea of a desperate rush was better than that. Better still, something that could be thrown.
He looked about him. An umbrella-stand-an oak chest-a thin salver of pseudo-oriental brass… With infinite caution he began to move in the direction of the bedroom.
Inside the sitting-room Ione sat with her hands in her lap and thought about time-how it galloped-how it lagged-
Jacqueline’s voice broke in.
“Where are those papers? Have you got them pushed down inside your things? Pull open your shirt and let me see!”
Ione undid the soft white bow at her neck and pulled
the shirt away on either side. Even from across the room it was obvious that no pages from a schoolgirl’s exercise-book were concealed there.
Jacqueline spoke angrily.
“Then where are they?”
Ione was doing up her shirt, tying the bow again.
“They’re not here.”
“What have you done with them?”
“They are in a safe place. You won’t really expect me to tell you where, will you? But I can tell you what is in them if you like.”
Jacqueline stamped her foot.
“You read them?”
“Oh, yes.”
“In the taxi-in the train? There wasn’t time before you left the house! What did you do with them?”
Ione kept her voice level.
“Don’t you want to know what Margot said?”
The foot was stamped again.
“What did she say?”
“That you told her Geoffrey said she could have one of the old ropes from the potting-shed. I don’t wonder you were anxious to find those torn-out pages.”
“Where are they?” The words came quick and panting.
“I told you-in a safe place. If you shoot me, the police will have them.”
Jacqueline came a step nearer-a step-and another step. Under the grey wig and old-fashioned bonnet her eyes flared. Then with an unbelievable effort she controlled herself and took two slow paces back again. Her mind worked on the things which Ione could have done with those pages. Cloakroom at Wraydon-at the terminus-she could have made them up in a packet. Or she could have bought an envelope and posted them-to herself-to Geoffrey. If it was the cloakroom, there would be a ticket-it would be in her bag-she could use it when Ione was dead. She said,
Ladies’ Bane Page 23
