Seven Dead

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

“Well, fourteen or fifteen. I forget.”

  “You weren’t fourteen when that picture of you was painted, were you?”

  “Picture? Oh, in the dining-room at home? Yes, you’ve seen that, haven’t you? There’s something I still don’t quite understand. Oh, well, never mind, I’m sure it doesn’t really matter.”

  “What is it?”

  “No, nothing. That picture. I was twelve.”

  “Then it was your father who commissioned it?”

  “No, he painted it.”

  “Oh! He was an artist?”

  “Only an amateur. I remember he used to tell me he couldn’t paint for nuts. But he liked that picture. Another thing he told me was that it was the best thing he had ever done, and that really we’d both painted it, I was such a good sitter… We used to have great fun…”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Who is it? Entrez,” called Dora.

  The door opened, and Marie stood silhouetted against a faint light in the passage.

  “Ze tray,” she said, “et les drapeaux.”

  Hazeldean cursed her silently for her interruption, although he made use of it.

  “I suppose no one’s called to see me yet?” he asked as the maid crossed to the window and pulled the curtains.

  It occurred to him that Bob Blythe should be arriving about now with his bag.

  “Non, m’sieur,” the maid answered.

  “Please let me know the moment any one comes. Comprenez?”

  “Mais oui!”

  “Is Madame Paula back yet?”

  “Oui, m’sieur.”

  “Comment elle portez vous?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How is she?”

  “Ah! Je comprens! I ’ave not see ’er. She ees—lock in ’er room. Pierre me dit she is back and il faut zat she is not disturb.”

  She was leaving with the tray when Dora asked:

  “Et Monsieur Fenner? A-t-il retourné?”

  “Mais non, ma’m’selle. I fetch ze lamp.”

  When the door had closed and they were alone again, Hazeldean looked at Dora thoughtfully.

  “Miss Fenner,” he said, “please tell me something.”

  “Of course, if I can,” she responded.

  “You can. What was it you said you didn’t understand just now—after I’d begun asking about the picture?”

  She hesitated for a moment, then answered:

  “Please don’t mind—but I was wondering why you asked me all those questions about myself—and my movements yesterday.”

  “I—see,” murmured Hazeldean slowly. “And you don’t know?”

  “But I don’t mind. Really and truly! I’m sure you had a reason. And—and also for not telling me about Dr. Jones when I was talking about him.”

  Hazeldean got up, turned and stared towards the little clock on the mantelpiece. He was not especially interested in the clock, although time was beginning to have some significance, but he wanted to think for a few moments without Dora’s inquiring eyes upon him.

  “What’s the matter?” came her voice, behind him.

  “I’m just—working things out,” he said. He turned round and faced her again. Each was a faint outline to the other, and would remain so till Marie returned with the lamp. “What did your uncle tell you?”

  “What you told him.”

  “About—?”

  “Dr. Jones.”

  “And, of course,” said Hazeldean, after a little silence, “you couldn’t understand the connection between all my questions and Dr. Jones?”

  “No. Though—then—I did understand why you had left with Madame Paula.”

  “Let me see whether you understood that right.”

  “Wasn’t it because you wanted to tell her alone? The room was just an excuse. That was why I decided afterwards that you mightn’t really be staying on here—and—and why I was so glad when you said you were.”

  He nodded.

  “All very good reasoning,” he smiled, “whether you were right or wrong.”

  “Then wasn’t I—?”

  “Wait a moment, please. Now there’s something I want you to tell me that I don’t quite understand. Your last question to Marie.”

  “You mean about my uncle?”

  “Yes. You asked whether he’d come back yet, too. Did you expect him back here to-night?”

  She looked astonished.

  “Isn’t he coming back?” she exclaimed.

  Chapter XIV

  Marie

  From beyond the parlour door came the sound of footsteps, and yellow light glowed and augmented in the crack. Before the door opened, thoughts raced through Hazeldean’s mind in disorderly procession, tripping over each other’s heels:

  “He didn’t tell her. He didn’t tell her about the seven dead people at Haven House. She’s no knowledge of this. She’s sitting here, and she doesn’t know. Why hasn’t Bob turned up yet? I’ll have to tell her. Shouldn’t he be here? She thinks I called to give the news of Dr. Jones’s accident. Why did Fenner let her think that? Why did he let her think he was going to return to-night? What did he tell Madame Paula? Where’s the silk merchant? I suppose it was his face at the window. Marie is walking very quickly with the lamp. Still, she always does. Pierre. What about Pierre? He speaks English. Madame Paula’s back, and in her room. We’re not to disturb her. So Dora’s father painted that picture. And they had fun. Does she have any fun with her uncle? South Africa. Aeroplane. Jones crashed. Dead cat. What was that about the dead cat? Why didn’t Fenner tell her about seven dead people?…”

  The door was open. Lamp-light entered the room. It re-developed objects that had faded, made shadows as it moved across the carpet, picked out the hands of Marie, who was grasping the lamp-pedestal. Marie’s face, above the lamp-shade, looked like a little orange mist.

  No one spoke. Was there any reason, in this fragment of ordinary domestic routine, why one should? Hazeldean studied the little orange mist, moving above the moving shadows. There was disturbance in it. It was not a serene mist. Why was Marie disturbed? Well, of course she was disturbed! Her master had been killed, and her mistress was locked in her room. Wasn’t that enough to disturb anybody? But why was she more disturbed than she had been before—than when she had drawn the curtains and taken away the tray? Yes, and what was that scratch on the clearly illuminated right hand? The back of the hand. Had it been there before? Had Marie been a long time bringing in the lamp?

  The scratch vanished as the lamp was placed on the little table where the tray had been and the hand was withdrawn.

  “Have you had an accident?” asked Hazeldean.

  “Pardon?” answered the maid. “Qu’est-ce c’est—accident?”

  “Le meme en Français, n’est-ce pas? Accident?”

  “Ah! Accident!” repeated Marie, while Hazeldean thought: “This is Pierre’s trick—she understood the first time! ‘Mais non!’”

  “Votre main?” he insisted.

  She looked at her hand.

  “Oh, cela! C’est rien!” Avoiding Hazeldean’s sceptical eye, she transferred her gaze to Dora and explained, “I break ze cup.”

  The next instant she had gone.

  “Something’s the matter, isn’t it?” said Dora.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied.

  “Aren’t you? I am. You’ll have to trust me in the end, you know.”

  “Trust you? Of course I trust you!”

  “I mean—with anything I don’t yet know. I suppose you’re thinking I can’t stand it?”

  “I’m sure you’ll stand anything you have to,” he answered, while her eyes searched his.

  “Then please tell me why my uncle told me he was returning to-night, when you know that he wasn’t?”

  “I’ll tell you
that, Miss Fenner, when I know it myself. Will you stay here for a few minutes till I come back?”

  “You want to ask Marie some more questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could ring for her.”

  “I’d rather go after her.”

  “Mr. Hazeldean,” said Dora, “you’ve seen me faint. That won’t happen again. But do you want to hear me scream?” Then she smiled a little wearily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Go after Marie.”

  He had been hovering near the door. Now he left the door and went to her. She looked up at him from her chair with a pathetic attempt to conceal her apprehension.

  “Listen, Miss Fenner,” he said. “If I’m not handling this as well as I ought to—if I’m bungling a bit—I know you’ll forgive me. But I do understand what you’re going through, and if you screamed, I wouldn’t blame you in the least! Only you’re not going to scream. I am going to trust you shortly with something you don’t know—that will end your indecision. But until just now I thought you already knew it. I thought your uncle had told you—”

  “You mean, there was something besides Dr. Jones’s accident?”

  “Of course. Something that will explain all my questions to you. As a matter of fact—” He hesitated, then went on: “As a matter of fact, I didn’t bring the news about Dr. Jones at all. I didn’t know it. It was your uncle who brought that. I’m sure, when we’ve got to the bottom of this, we’ll find that he had some good reason for giving you a wrong impression.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t think that!” she retorted, with a sudden shrewdness that surprised him.

  “Why don’t I?” he asked.

  “Because, if you thought it was a good reason, you’d leave him to work it out. Wouldn’t you? But now you’re going to tell me what he wouldn’t!”

  “Your point,” he smiled. “Just the same, I’m not going to blame your uncle for anything until I’ve got my facts—and perhaps it would be a good idea if you didn’t, either.”

  “Perhaps,” she replied, and then surprised him again by adding, with the nearest approach to venom of which he imagined she was capable: “And perhaps not!… Well, please go now. I’ll wait here, I promise. And the sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back, and—and tell me.”

  Then he left her.

  Along the passage he heard whispering. When he got round the angle from beyond which the whispering had sounded, he saw no one. Another angle and a few stairs took him into the front hall. Marie was standing by a chair, intently dusting it.

  “Do you do your dusting so late in the day?” asked Hazeldean.

  She turned swiftly, but had no reply.

  “And with your mouchoir?” he added. Still nothing came into an apparently blank mind. “How did you really get that scratch?”

  He pointed to her injured hand.

  “Ze cup,” she answered, parrot-fashion.

  “Merci. And maintenant, s’il vous plait, la vérité?”

  “Pardon!”

  Her indignation was unconvincing.

  “Oui, Marie. La vérité, toute la vérité, et rien que la vérité! Si ce n’est pas juste, vous me comprenez!”

  “C’est juste,” she muttered, no longer attempting the indignation. She glanced towards a curtain. The curtain led to the passage along which Madame Paula had conducted him on their way to the attic.

  “Well? Will you tell it to me, or shall I ask Pierre—or Madame Paula?”

  “Madame Paula!” exclaimed Marie. “She is lock in ’er chambre!”

  “So I understand. But Pierre is not lock in his chambre.”

  “’E will not tell eet to you!”

  The next instant she looked startled as she realised the implication of her remark.

  “Then there is something to tell?” he insisted. “And Pierre knows what it is.”

  “’E will not tell.”

  “Then I shall have to ask Madame Paula—”

  “Mais oui! Ca sera bien simple! Pierre will not stop you, oh, no!”

  The words came in a sudden fierce flurry, and now her indignation was genuine enough. Only it was not directed this time against Hazeldean.

  “I see,” he murmured.

  “Quoi donc?”

  “You got your scratch from Pierre. Well, you can at least tell me about that.” She glanced again towards the curtained passage. “Attendez, Marie. You and Pierre were whispering—parlering—as I came along just now. Then Pierre left you quickly—through that curtain, eh?—and you pretended to be busy dusting a chair with your mouchoir. Do you comprener what I’m saying?”

  She nodded sullenly.

  “Well, am I right?”

  “Oui, m’sieur.”

  She had become submissive as well as sullen. Hazeldean realised that he had won a psychological battle, and he made the most of it.

  “Why did Pierre go away so quickly?”

  “He hear you coming.”

  “Yes, but why should that trouble him?”

  “I do not know zat.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Il me demande—’e ask me what ’appen.”

  “In the parlour? Miss Fenner’s room?”

  “Oui, m’sieur.”

  “And you told him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Nothing particular happened, did it?”

  “I say, ‘Ces questions, pourquoi?’”

  “You weren’t on good terms with him?”

  “Good term? Je ne comprends pas.”

  “Vous ne l’aimez pas?”

  “Aujourd’hui, non!”

  Her tone was emphatic.

  “Because of your quarrel?”

  She looked at him, then followed his gaze down to her scratched hand.

  “Oui.”

  “What was the quarrel about? Pourquoi quarrelez-vous?”

  “Eet is about Madame Paula.”

  “Well?”

  “I am—je suis désolé. Triste. La pauvre!” She frowned, as though not quite understanding herself. “She is not toujours so good to me, non, mais—domage! Aujourd’hui! Aujourd’hui! So I go to ’er door; but Pierre is zere, and ’e say, ‘Non!’ ‘Per’aps she need somesing,’ I say. ‘Ze lamp.’ But ’e say, ‘Allez, allez, she is not to be disturb, I ’ave ze ordaire, allez!’ And when I spik encore, mon Dieu, ’e go red and ’e say, ‘Taisez-vous, taisez-vous!’ To ’old ze tongue!”

  She paused, breathlessly. Her slow, unwilling mind had suddenly accelerated in a tide of anger. Hazeldean took advantage of the pause to ask:

  “Was this when you went for the lamp for Miss Fenner?”

  “Oui,” answered Marie. “It make me sink of ze lamp for Madame, aussi.”

  “Did you have to obey Pierre?”

  “Mais non! And I tell ’im! But when I go to ze door ’e get in my way, and when I slap ’is face, oui, ’e bite me; zen I bite ’im, and we ’ave, qu’est-ce que c’est?—le fisticuff!”

  “And Pierre won?” asked Hazeldean, unable to suppress a smile. But Marie frowned as she nodded. “Thank you, Marie. Thank you very much. Well, if I want to see Madame Paula, I don’t suppose Pierre will try any fisticuffs on me. I think it was very nice of you to try to do something for Madame Paula. You like thinking of others, don’t you?” Marie looked a little puzzled, though whether at the words or the compliment, he was not sure. “You like helping people?”

  “Mais oui, m’sieur,” she replied, divided between pleasure and suspicion. Now that her outburst was over, her personal anxiety seemed to be hovering back.

  “Would you like to help Mademoiselle Fenner?”

  The maid stared at him hard, then suddenly smiled rather mystically. “Ah, la pauvre!” she murmured, and tapped her forehead.

  “Who the devil told—qui a dit ce
la?” he demanded.

  Now Marie’s heavy eyebrows shot up.

  “N’est-ce vrai?” she asked.

  “Of course it’s not vrai!” he retorted. “Je pense que c’est vrai de autre—des autres—oh, blazes! Anyhow, voulez-vous aller to Mademoiselle Fenner, and stay avec elle jusque je retourne? Dites-elle que j’ai le demandé.”

  The maid’s eyebrows remained up, with fresh astonishment.

  “Marie,” said Hazeldean, “êtes-vous satisfé avec toutes les choses dans ce maison?”

  “Cette,” murmured Marie. “Non!”

  “Moi aussi non. Ainsi, voulez-vous?”

  “Oui! Oui! Je comprends!”

  “Merci! Et maintenant, s’il-vous plait. Vitement!”

  She turned at once and left him. Relieved that Dora would now have someone with her should trouble occur during the next few minutes, he moved towards the curtain, then paused.

  “Oh, Marie!” he called softly over his shoulder just before she disappeared. “Qu’est-ce que c’est le nombre de la chambre de Madame Paula?”

  “Numero Deux,” she replied. “Prenez garde!”

  “I mean to pren beaucoup de garde,” he smiled, and went through the curtain.

  Chapter XV

  Numero Deux

  Pierre was standing outside Numero Deux when Hazeldean approached the door, and he gave no sign of any intention to move. Even when Hazeldean stopped, the old man remained motionless, apparently staring into space.

  “S’il vous plait?” said Hazeldean.

  Pierre’s only response was to shorten his focus vaguely and to raise his shaggy eyebrows.

  “I spoke distinctly,” remarked Hazeldean, “and I spoke in French. But you’re understanding me just as well this time, aren’t you?”

  “Pardon?” frowned the old man.

  “You’re wasting time,” retorted Hazeldean. “You and I have several things to clear up in due course, but we’ll clear up one of them now. Why have you been pretending not to understand English?”

  Doggedly Pierre continued the pretence.

  “And—while we’re at it—why are you guarding that door so solicitously when you know, as well as I do, that Madame Paula is in the dining-room with a policeman?”

  Pierre opened his mouth, then closed it quickly, but not quite quickly enough. The little ruse had succeeded.