by Carola Dunn
Eight people seated round two tables was a bit of a squeeze. Carey and Ilkton nobly offered to take the middle places on each side, where the table-legs got in the way of knees. Giggling, Myra sent Simon to one end and posted herself at the other.
“We’ll have to jump up and down to reach the cards in the middle,” she pointed out. “It’ll be easier for us.”
“Are you saying I’m too old to jump up and down?” Roger Knox demanded with mock indignation.
Myra grinned at him. “Actually, I thought it would be beneath your dignity.”
Simon snorted. “I wouldn’t describe Racing Demon as a dignified game under any circumstances.”
“Don’t be pompous, Si.”
“That’s enough, you two,” Ruby sat down between her son’s place and Walter Ilkton’s. “Heaven help me, you sound like a pair of seven-year-olds.”
“Sorry, Aunt Ruby.” Myra sounded neither penitent, nor put out at being chastised in front of her beaux.
Simon looked sulky—if he wasn’t careful, he was going to turn out very like his uncle Norman, in temperament if not in intellectual pretension, Daisy decided. He hesitated, but took his place at the tables.
The rules of the game had to be explained to Walter Ilkton, who had never played before. It wasn’t complicated. Winning depended on concentration, speed, dexterity, and a certain amount of luck.
“I’ve got it,” Ilkton said.
“Let’s have a five-minute practice,” suggested the doctor.
“A couple of rounds should be enough.”
“You haven’t got it, me boyo,” said Carey a trifle maliciously. “There are no rounds. We all play at once.”
“All at once? It sounds like chaos!”
“It is,” said Myra. “That’s what makes it such fun.”
“But chaos with rules,” Ruby said firmly, “or it’s not fun. Mr. Ilkton, I’ll help you for a few minutes’ practice. Is everyone ready? On your marks, get set, go!”
For a few minutes there was complete chaos. Half the players played as if life and death depended on the game while the other half kept an eye on what Ilkton was doing and commented freely, some helpful, some sarcastic.
“Stop!” said Ruby. Carey sneaked one last card onto one of the piles in the middle. She made him take it back, even though they were only playing for practice. “Begin as you mean to continue,” she said severely.
“Have you got the hang of it now, Walter?” Myra asked.
“I think so,” he said, much more cautious now than he had been before.
“We’re not playing for money, so it doesn’t really matter,” she reassured him.
Daisy, sitting opposite Ruby, heard her say in a low voice, “I hope you won’t find it too boring, Mr. Ilkton. Not playing for money, I mean.”
He glanced at the other end of the tables. “If Miss Olney enjoys it, I shall. I normally play bridge for stakes, of course. One does. But I assure you I’m not a confirmed gambler.”
The cards were sorted and restored to their starting configuration. The game commenced. The need to concentrate precluded conversation, so for some time the only sounds were the slap of cards and occasional crows and moans from the players.
Daisy, accustomed to being beaten hollow by her stepdaughter, Belinda, or one of her friends, didn’t expect to win. Her mind wandered, studying the style of the others.
Both Carey and Myra were fast and careless; if a comparatively neat pile of cards became a disorderly heap, one of the two was usually to blame. Ilkton, though handling the cards with the skill of a regular player, was hesitant and spent far too much time in deliberation for a game so unlike bridge. Sybil was quick and neat. Roger Knox was neat but slow, as if his mind, like Daisy’s, was largely elsewhere. Ruby and Simon, somewhat to Daisy’s surprise, both played with speed, neatness, and an almost ferocious concentration. Simon even remained on his feet so as to be able to reach the central piles without bobbing up and down.
Ruby won, through sheer single-minded determination. Daisy wouldn’t previously have considered those traits part of her character. Surely she couldn’t be so determined to have enough money to support her son’s literary ambition that she was willing to sacrifice her husband’s health?
EIGHT
When the game ended at last, Dr. Knox departed and everyone went up to bed. Daisy was tired but wakeful. To her annoyance, she discovered she had left the borrowed books downstairs. She was sure she had been carrying them when she left Sybil’s office, so she must have left them by the phone. Odd that she hadn’t noticed them when she left her sixpences on the telephone table.
She almost decided not to bother with the Westerns. She had taken off her shoes when it dawned on her that leaving the books where anyone might find them was not a good idea. If either Carey or Ilkton came across them, he could hardly fail to note the contrast between the cheap paperbacked Lonesome Creek and the solid cloth-and-board Halfbreed Hero. A modicum of curiosity might lead him to investigate, and to the discovery of Eli Hawke’s secret.
Daisy wouldn’t give a farthing for Carey’s ability to keep a secret. Though Ilkton might be persuaded to keep it under his hat, he’d quite likely mention it to Myra and then the fat would be in the fire—to mix a metaphor.
With a sigh, Daisy decided she ought to go and fetch the books.
She padded on stockinged feet to the door and peered out. The lamp on the landing still dimly illuminated the corridor, but if everyone had come up to bed, all lights were probably extinguished downstairs. Not wanting to carry the heavy brass bedside lamp downstairs and back up again, she lit a candle.
As she stepped out into the passage, the flame wavered. When she cupped her hand round it to shelter it, huge shadows reached across the walls, clutching at her as she moved.
Udolpho, she thought, or The Castle of Otranto. But she was no Catherine Morland, eager to see apparitions in the flickering gloom. She was a rational twentieth-century woman. Unlike the youthful heroine of Northanger Abbey, she based her theories on common sense—even if Alec did usually call them wild speculations.
All the same, she hoped her candle would stay alight.
The stairs creaked eerily beneath her footsteps. Despite the draughts that sneaked through cracks and crannies, the flame survived all the way down to the hall. Coals on the hearth glowed red, to Daisy’s relief. If the candle blew out now it would be easy enough to relight it.
As if in response to the thought, the light flared, winked, and died. Blinded, Daisy stopped on the spot. Gradually her eyes adjusted. First she made out the dying fire’s glow, then she realised the lamp on the landing shed just enough light to make the shadows blacker. The fire looked a long way away. She turned her back on it, gazed at the spot beneath the landing where she knew the telephone stood, and caught a gleam of its polished metal.
Cautiously she moved towards the phone. No unexpected rugs or furniture attempted to trip her. By the time she reached the small table, she could see well enough to be sure no books lay on it. She felt across the surface nonetheless. She found nothing but a small notepad with attached pencil, and the phone itself. The drawer held only a directory.
Two possibilities presented themselves: Either one of the household had seen the same risk as she had and removed the books, or one of the guests had already found them.
In the latter case, there was nothing she could do about it. She turned away, intending to go straight back to bed. But her nocturnal wandering had made her more wakeful than ever, and coming from the darkness under the landing, she could see quite well in the hall. She decided to go to Sybil’s office, to find out whether the two books had been reshelved and if so to reborrow them.
The stone floor chilly beneath her unshod feet, Daisy walked confidently over to the fire and relit her candle. Some vagary of the wind outside lessened the number and strength of draughts on this side of the hall. The candle behaved perfectly as she turned into the east wing.
Coming to the door of the
office, she reached for the handle. The door moved. It had been pushed to but not latched. She opened it.
The beam of an electric torch moved along the rows of Eli Hawke’s works, silhouetting a large, male figure.
“Who…?” Daisy started to enquire, before it dawned on her that the man might be a burglar and she ought to have slipped quietly away to get help.
She stepped backwards as the putative burglar swung round, dazzling her with the torch beam. “Who…?” he echoed. “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher. We sound like a couple of owls.”
“Mr. Ilkton?” Daisy peered, shading her eyes.
“Sorry.” He lowered the beam to the floor. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“Just looking for a little reading material.”
“Funny, I wouldn’t have guessed Westerns were quite your line. I’d have put you down as the Michael Arlen type, that sort of stuff.”
“You’d be quite right, of course. I was looking for our host’s library, though don’t you think it would be a neat compliment to him to be seen reading one of his books?”
“A bit obvious, I’d have thought. Mr. Birtwhistle’s library and study is through that door. But I wouldn’t go in if I were you. His bedroom is just the other side and you might wake him.”
“Ah, thank you for the warning. I knew he was somewhere in this vicinity, hence my creeping about with a torch. You’re right, I won’t intrude next door. I’ll just take a couple of these to put me to sleep.”
“That’s not exactly complimentary!”
“But you won’t give me away, will you, Mrs. Fletcher? You’d have to explain what you—”
“What on earth are you two doing here at this time of night?” Ruby Birtwhistle appeared in the doorway to the study, lantern held high. The draught blew out Daisy’s candle.
Daisy couldn’t make out her expression but she sounded cross, and who could blame her. Daisy just hoped it didn’t look as if she and Walter Ilkton had an assignation.
“For pity’s sake, keep your voices down,” Ruby continued, “and don’t wake Humphrey. He’s just dropped off.” She stepped in and closed the door behind her.
“We’ve been keeping our voices down,” said Daisy. “Sybil lent me a couple of books. I left them by the telephone and someone must have tidied them away. I came to get them to read in bed.”
As she spoke, Daisy moved over to the bookshelves and Ilkton moved aside out of her way. Lonesome Creek and Halfbreed Hero were in their proper places, thank goodness. She was about to retrieve them when she noticed that Ilkton was watching her closely. Did he suspect there was something fishy about Eli Hawke’s authorship?
If she took both books, he might wonder why she chose one of the older, cheap volumes and one of the new. Rather than risk his following her example, making comparisons, and drawing his own conclusions, she had better take just one. It would look odd if she chose one of the rather shabby, faded paper books. She reached for Halfbreed Hero.
“And you, Mr. Ilkton?” asked Ruby.
While his attention was distracted, Daisy slipped Lonesome Creek from the shelf and hid it beneath the larger book. She really wanted to start with one of Humphrey’s so that she could see how Sybil’s style had developed from his.
“I’m merely following Mrs. Fletcher’s example,” Ilkton said blandly. “I’d like to read one of Mr. Birtwhistle’s works.”
“I’m sure Humphrey will be flattered.” Ruby came swiftly to join them at the bookcase. “Why don’t you try his latest, Sunset Canyon?” She took down the last in the row and handed it to Ilkton. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to escort Mrs. Fletcher to her room, as her candle seems to have blown out.”
“Of course.” Accepting his dismissal with a good grace, he went towards the door to the passage. “Shall we, Mrs. Fletcher?”
The door opened before he reached it. In came Simon, frowning. “What the dev … deuce is everyone doing in here? Are we having a midnight feast?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Simon,” said his mother. “Mrs. Fletcher and Mr. Ilkton are just leaving. What do you want? I take it you haven’t decided in a sudden fit of filial piety to read one of your father’s books?”
“I’ve run out of paper. I came to pinch some of Sybil’s.”
“You’re supposed to buy it out of your allowance.”
Ilkton hastily ushered Daisy out and shut the door behind them. “Time we were off!” He shone his torch ahead so that she could walk without hesitation into the hall and up the stairs. “I’m afraid you disapprove of my intrusion into your friend’s office.”
“Well, it was an intrusion, wasn’t it? You’re not trying to pretend you considered it a part of the house open to everyone without invitation.”
“No. I confess I was curious. Not on my own behalf. I’m going to marry Myra, and I want to be quite sure nothing here is going to turn up unexpectedly to affect her adversely. Forewarned is forearmed. You must admit it’s a rum set-up.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Daisy untruthfully. “You’re engaged to Myra, are you?”
“Not officially.”
Daisy knew an evasion when she heard one. “But she hasn’t actually accepted you.”
“I can’t see that it’s actually any of your business.” He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to her. “Why shouldn’t she? I can give her everything she wants: a comfortable home, the latest Paris modes, pearls that don’t come from Woolworths, not to mention diamonds. And a secure position in the best society.”
“It’s none of my business,” Daisy said dryly, noting that he said nothing of love. Did he want her whether she loved him or not?
The best society? She wondered who he was, exactly. Walter Ilkton—she couldn’t place him, but she never had taken much interest in pedigrees, nor in the high jinks of high society, as chronicled by Michael Arlen. Lucy would know. She was almost as knowledgeable as her late Great-Aunt Eva had been about the family trees of the aristocracy. Daisy decided to write to her in the morning.
Not that it was any of her business.
She proceeded to her bedroom door. Ilkton shone his torch on the door-knob. “All right now?”
“Yes, thanks. I left the lamp burning. Next time I go visiting in the wilds of the country, I’ll follow your example and bring an electric torch.”
“Can’t hurt. Good-night, then.”
“Good-night. Enjoy your book.”
He glanced at the book in his hand as if he’d completely forgotten its existence. “Oh. Yes. And you yours.”
As she got ready for bed, Daisy pondered the past half hour.
Ilkton’s snooping was adequately explained by his obsession with Myra. Having convinced himself that she would marry him, he naturally wanted to know what land-mines might await her unwary feet once she became so notable a personage as his wife. He certainly had a high opinion of himself.
Daisy wondered whether he’d even open the book Ruby had thrust into his hands. Suppose he did start reading it: Could it, without comparison to the earlier books, somehow give away the secret of its authorship? At the least, Ruby’s intervention might give him the idea that there was a secret to be discovered.
What had Ruby been doing there? If Humphrey was having difficulty falling asleep that night, instead of his usual difficulty staying awake during the day, surely his wife’s presence was more likely to hinder than help. Unless she was administering some sort of sedative—which reopened the question of whether she had been drugging him to ensure that Sybil had to write his books for him.
She had been uncharacteristically snappish, almost rude, though exactly how one was supposed to behave on finding guests wandering about late at night as if they owned the place, Daisy wasn’t sure. Still, it could be a sign of a guilty conscience.
Ruby had snapped at Simon, too. She hadn’t acted like a doting mother who would poison her husband for her son’s sake. Did she suspect Simon of being responsible for Hum
phrey’s persistent illness?
Simon’s quest for paper, at that time of night, suggested either that his muse had suddenly struck and he intended to burn the midnight oil—literally, in this house—or that he’d needed an excuse for his presence. His age didn’t really rule him out as responsible for his father’s woes, Daisy realised. Who could tell how long Humphrey’s genuine weakness and regular relapses were actually the debilitating after-effects of the serious bout of pneumonia he’d suffered? They must have lasted a year or more to allow time for Sybil’s improvements to be noted and rewarded by increased royalties.
By then, Simon must have been at university for some time and have gained some knowledge of the world. He didn’t appear to have the slightest respect for his father’s writing. He could have hatched a plot to keep Humphrey from picking up his pen again.
Or Humphrey might still be suffering from permanent damage to his system from the original illness.
No nearer an answer to whether Sybil’s fears were real or imaginary, Daisy gave up and went to bed. With her toes on the hot water bottle, she picked up Lonesome Creek. The pulp paper was already browning at the edges. She handled it with care, afraid of tearing a page.
The book started well. A mysterious wounded stranger rode up to the isolated ranch-house hidden by a bluff, on the bank of the eponymous creek, and found only the rancher’s daughter at home. Intrigued, Daisy wanted to know what was going on, but as Sybil had told her, the characters were two-dimensional, hard to care about. It was a description of scenery that made her drowsy, though. It was marvellously vivid, bringing back her memories of the American West, but it went on too long.
And then she woke up, with vague memories of a dream of piloting a biplane through bitterly cold air above Lonesome Creek. She was still sitting up, the lamp was about to flicker out, the hot bottle was barely lukewarm, and the eiderdown had slipped off the bed. She rescued the book before it joined the eiderdown. Try as she might, she couldn’t reach the eiderdown without getting out of bed, so her feet were icy, too, by the time she snuggled down.
