‘Fustian, my dear! What kind of contraband could be contained there? Only tea — and scarcely enough of that to be worth anyone’s while in smuggling!’
‘I don’t know what it is,’ persisted Elizabeth, disregarding this scathing interruption, ‘but I know how Mrs. Wood could have put the packet in the guide book — or rather, I can guess. There was a moment when we had our backs turned to her so that we could not have seen what she was doing. And if you remember, Margaret’ — Elizabeth paused impressively — ‘the guide book had fallen on to the floor when the coach stopped so violently. It would be quite close at her hand. She had only to remove the packet from wherever she had it concealed, slip it into the empty pocket at the back of the book, and push the book under the seat, hoping it might be overlooked if a search did take place—’
‘Well, of course,’ admitted Miss Ellis, grudgingly, ‘it could have happened as you say. But it all seems so improbable, to say the least— ’
‘And then,’ went on Elizabeth, ‘when we alighted at Lewes, taking the guide book with us, there was only one thing for her to do. That was to try and recover her packet, if possible before we should happen to find it. So’ — she paused a moment, then continued in a flash of triumph — ‘so she came into my room while I was resting early this morning, but I woke up before she could recover her property. That meant she had to try again later. We made it more difficult by locking our rooms — do you remember, she walked by us just as we were doing so? She must have realised then that her only chance would be to slip in when the maids were doing the cleaning. And that’s exactly what she did — but by then, of course, we’d already removed the packet from the back of the book. There, what do you think of that?’
‘Masterly, my dear. But you are not now constructing a plot for one of your novels, you know. If that packet contains anything but letters, or some other kind of papers, then I am someone other than Margaret Ellis!’
Elizabeth frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘It certainly did not feel like anything else when I handled it. And yet this is an explanation which fits so many of the facts—’
‘I don’t entirely agree,’ demurred Miss Ellis. ‘What about the pedlar and his mention of a letter to Crowle? You haven’t suggested anything to fit that fact, so far. You think now that he has nothing to do with the business, after all?’
‘I don’t know,’ began Elizabeth. ‘There may be some connection ‘
She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Miss Ellis opened it, and saw their chambermaid standing outside.
‘If ye please, ma’am,’ she said, smiling broadly, ‘I’ve found your book.’
She handed A Tour of Sussex to Miss Ellis, who took it and turned to Elizabeth with an amused smile.
‘There you are, you see! Where did you find it?’ she asked, turning back to the abigail.
‘If ye please, ma’am, in the chambermaids’ cupboard where we keeps all the cleaning things. It must have got took there by mistake. I’m that sorry, ma’am, I’m sure.’
Miss Ellis thanked the girl and dismissed her, closing the door.
‘Well, my dear,’ she remarked, her smile widening. ‘You see it was all a fantasy. The book was taken by the maids in error, just as I supposed.’
‘And the letter?’ asked Elizabeth challengingly.
Chapter 9
NIGHT OF TERROR
Tired though she was, Elizabeth found it difficult to sleep that night. For one thing, the weather was oppressive, and her room seemed hot and airless, in spite of the slightly opened window. She tossed and turned in her bed, thinking over the events of the past twenty-four hours.
Strange, to have met Robert Farnham, after six years without either sight or sound of him. She thought of their lightning love affair, and smiled wistfully to herself in the darkness. She had been so young, so ready to fall in love with the first attractive young man who had paid her any attentions; and he, in his quick decisive way, had seemed to single her out at once. She had never known very much about his background. At the time, they were both visiting in the neighbourhood of Tonbridge Wells, and frequently found themselves in social gatherings at the same households. Her aunt had seemed satisfied that he was a young man of good connections and easy means, although she was not personally acquainted with his family. She had smiled on the growing friendship between Mr. Farnham and her niece, confident that Elizabeth’s brother and guardian, Edward, would pursue any necessary inquiries into the young man’s affairs.
But there had been no formal application to Edward Thorne: Elizabeth herself had sent her lover packing.
She could not bring herself to desert Anne. Her maternal feeling for her younger sister had sprung up at the moment their nurse had placed the new-born babe in the three-year-old Elizabeth’s arms. The sudden loss of both their parents, the necessity of sharing a new home with an unsympathetic sister-in-law, only deepened the feeling of responsibility towards Anne which had always been there in some measure. Recently, she had slowly come to accept the fact that her sister, now happily married, needed her care no longer, and that she herself was free to live her own life; but at the time of Robert Farnham’s courtship, Anne’s interests had come first.
It had been useless for Farnham to protest that Anne could share their home when they were married, that everything between the two sisters could remain unchanged. Elizabeth realised that such an arrangement could not be a happy one for any of them. Anne had been too used to claiming a monopoly of her elder sister’s thoughts and interests; she would never take kindly to second place.
Tom between conflicting loyalties, Elizabeth had asked him to wait; but waiting was not in Robert Farnham’s line.
‘If you are uncertain now,’ he had said, bitterly, ‘you will be even less certain next year, and the year after that. No, you must take me now — or never.’
Perhaps, thought Elizabeth, he had hoped to force her hand by that ultimatum. If so, he had misjudged her character. They parted, both hiding deeper hurts than they cared to let the other see; and in a few days he had left the neighbourhood and Elizabeth had returned to her brother’s house. Since then, she had always found an excuse to avoid paying her Aunt Mary a visit, and for some time afterwards had dreaded a letter from Tunbridge Wells for fear it might contain some reference to the young man whom her aunt believed had not ‘come up to scratch, after all.’ Her fears proved groundless, however, for Aunt Mary understood girls too well to remind them of lost lovers.
Did he still remember anything of the past, Elizabeth wondered? And had he recognised her, or not? Surely if he had, he must have made some acknowledgement — a slight bow, a formal ‘Good day’? It was the least civility he could offer. Perhaps she had changed so greatly that he really did not know her again. Margaret said she had not, but Margaret was too partial to be relied upon. Six years was a long time, and no doubt some of her early bloom had gone. At one time, she knew, she had been considered attractive; but it was some years now since anyone had told her so. There had been no suitors to follow Robert Farnham. Elizabeth realised that this had been partly her own fault, for she had failed to respond to any of the few eligible young men whom she had chanced to meet since, and they had soon turned their thoughts in more rewarding directions. It seemed she was destined to become an old maid. She told herself that it was not because she cherished an undying love for Robert Farnham. She had ceased to think of him many years ago. It was more that love seemed to her to be an experience that was over and done with; rather like the measles, she reflected ruefully, which one would not expect to get more than once.
The room suddenly seemed unbearably oppressive. She flung back the coverlet and slid from the bed. Groping her way to the window, she moved aside the curtains and quietly raised the lower sash, thrusting her head out so that she might take in grateful breaths of the cool night air. A cloud-harried moon sailed across the sky, its fitful light falling on the stable clock, which showed the hands creeping towards two. The yard was deserted, t
he horses quiet in their stalls, the whole inn slept. It seemed that she was the only being awake in the whole universe.
Not quite: even as the thought entered her mind, a shadowy figure began to cross the yard from the stables. She watched idly for a moment, then quickly drew in her head as she saw that the figure was moving in the direction of her window. She drew the curtains partly across, and stood behind their masking folds, peering out.
It was not that she expected anything of interest to happen. For all she knew, someone might cross the inn yard at this hour every night, bound on some routine errand. But here was a living creature to share her vigil in an otherwise sleeping world; she felt an urge to retain the tenuous human contact.
The figure came to a halt almost underneath her window. The moon escaped momentarily from a cloak of cloud, its light falling upon a face which Elizabeth knew at once — the crafty face of the pedlar. He looked about him as the stable clock rustily struck two.
A moment later, a second figure glided from the shadows to join him. A cloud began to move across the moon, but not before Elizabeth had time to recognise this new arrival. It was their late travelling companion, Mrs. Wood.
A startled exclamation escaped her, and she quickly clapped her hand over her mouth, afraid that the sound might have betrayed her presence. She soon realised that she need not have worried. The couple began to converse, and although she could just manage to detect the low murmur of their voices, it was impossible to hear anything they were saying.
It never once crossed her mind that she ought not to eavesdrop on their conversation. She had been involved in so many strange events since she left London, that this even stranger nocturnal meeting seemed to be very much her concern. Why were two such unlikely people meeting by stealth at this hour of the night? The answer must have some bearing on those other mysterious incidents. If she could only hear what they were saying, everything might be made clear to her.
The clouds were still shielding the moon, so she ventured to thrust her head out of the window in an effort to hear better. To her disappointment, this made no difference at all, and she soon drew back, fearful of being seen. She remained behind the shelter of the curtains, watching the couple in the stableyard with a growing sense of frustration.
At last, she came to a desperate decision: she would go downstairs, let herself out of the side door of the inn and try to creep near enough to Potts and Mrs. Wood to overhear their conversation.
If she had paused to consider, she would most likely have lost the courage to embark on such a venture, but she did not allow herself time to think. She snatched a pelisse from the closet; buttoned it over her nightgown, and thrust her bare feet into the soft kid sandals she had been wearing earlier.
She hesitated before lighting her bedside candle. A light might be dangerous, for it would advertise her presence; but without it, she could not trust herself to find her way around without stumbling into some article of furniture at the risk of waking the household. She lit the candle, and, softly opening the door, crept out into the passage.
She glided swiftly down the stairs, turning at the foot along the passage which she knew led to the rear quarters of the inn. It did not take her long to reach the side door.
She was not surprised to find that it was neither locked nor bolted: Mrs. Wood must have come out this way. No doubt she had used the service staircase which began quite close to her room, Number Seven, and ended only a few yards from the side door. It would be a quicker route for her than the main staircase, and there would be less danger of disturbing the other residents, as it did not take her past any of their rooms.
Elizabeth set her candle down on the floor so that she could use both hands, then quietly lifted the latch and eased the door open.
The candle flickered in the sudden draught. She turned to shield it, but she was too late. The flame died, leaving a smell of hot tallow. The door, released from her restraining hand, swung back with a creak that seemed deafening in the nocturnal silence. Alarmed, she snatched up the candlestick and stood still, listening.
She heard footsteps approaching from outside.
In a sudden panic, she looked about her for somewhere to hide; but no friendly moon sent a beam of light through the open door to relieve the gloom of the passage, and her eyes had not yet adjusted to the loss of the candle.
As the footsteps drew nearer to the open door, she pressed hard back against the wall of the passage, her heart pounding. A door swung inwards behind her so suddenly that she almost fell into the room beyond. Recovering herself quickly, she groped for the handle on the inside and pushed the door as nearly shut as she dared, fearing to close it completely lest the click of the latch should betray her presence. Still clutching her useless candlestick, she cowered against the wall immediately behind the door. It was the best she could do to conceal herself, and might serve if only the pedlar and Mrs. Wood did not actually enter the room.
Her straining ears heard the footsteps pause on the threshold of the outer door. A low murmur of voices followed, and the footsteps came into the passage, halting outside the room where she crouched, hiding. A beam of light crept through the crack in the door, but Elizabeth was too painfully intent on what was happening outside in the passage to gain any advantage from the slight illumination by taking stock of her surroundings.
The lowered voice of Mrs. Wood came to her clearly. ‘I tell you I left it fastened. Someone has been through since.’
‘Well, there’s no one here, is there?’ It was the pedlar’s voice, insolent in tone. ‘And no one could’ve been out in the yard without me noticing, don’t ye fret.’
‘What about these rooms leading off the passage?’ asked Mrs. Wood sharply. ‘Someone might be hiding in one of them.’
The words made Elizabeth’s blood freeze.
‘That’s soon settled,’ replied Potts. ‘We’ll take a look, shall we? There’s only two on ’em this end. Unless ye’d like me to search in all the kitchen quarters?’
‘Mind your tongue, unless you wish to be reported to your betters! No, I think the two nearest rooms are the most likely.’ ‘And I don’t reckon anyone else has been through that door at all,’ stated Potts, bluntly. ‘But since ye’ll have it so—’
Almost paralysed by fear, Elizabeth waited for her door to be flung open.
But evidently the pair had decided to investigate first the room on the opposite side of the passage, for the light and the low voices moved away. Now that the danger was postponed for a while, Elizabeth’s numbed brain began to work at lightning speed. Would it be any use her making a dash for safety while they were searching the room opposite? In daylight, she might have risked it; but without a light, and not knowing her way about the inn very well, it seemed certain that she would betray her presence. In the end, she remained where she was. This was just as well, for in a very short time, she heard the couple return and once more the crack of light appeared.
Before she could recover from the sudden panic which overcame her, the door of her hideaway was thrust open until it came to rest only an inch or two from her body. Potts advanced a little way over the threshold, and holding a dark lantern high in one hand, looked keenly round the room.
Fortunately, it was so sparsely furnished that it was at once obvious to him that there could be no cover there for even a cat. It appeared to be some kind of storage closet, with shelves against the walls and a wooden table in the centre. Cowering behind the open door, Elizabeth feverishly willed the pedlar not to advance any farther into the room. If he should move so that he could see behind the door, she was completely undone.
After what seemed an age, he drew back into the passage, pulling the door to behind him, without fully closing it.
‘No one there,’ she heard him say, in a low tone. ‘Reckon ye must have left the side door unlatched when ye came through into the yard. Careless, that’s what.’
‘How dare you take that insolent tone with me!’ hissed Mrs. Wood. ‘I did no such th
ing — I’m not quite a fool.’
‘Not done too well, though, so far, have ye?’ Elizabeth, still cowering in terror, could hear the low, mocking tones quite plainly. ‘There’s them as won’t be too pleased to hear as ye’ve lost what they sent me to get, and so I warn ye.’
‘It is not lost, because I know perfectly well where it is, and mean to recover it without delay,’ answered the woman, acidly. ‘I will find a way of letting you know when I’ve done so. Meanwhile, I’m going to my room, and I advise you to go, too. I don’t like the look of things. We can’t find anyone here, but all the same, someone did open that door. I’ll bolt it behind you. Go now, and you’ll hear from me later.’
Potts mumbled something which Elizabeth could not quite catch. Then she heard his footsteps retreating, followed by the subdued click of a latch, and the quiet sound of a door-bolt being eased gently into place.
After that, there followed a few moments of pregnant silence. Elizabeth had her hand to her mouth, pressing her teeth into it so viciously that the marks could still be seen on the following day. It was the only way in which she could stop herself from letting out some unguarded exclamation of fright. Only the door of the room divided her from the woman who still lingered suspiciously outside, unconvinced by the pedlar’s assurance that there was no one in the vicinity. She might push open the door any minute, thought Elizabeth in near panic; she might come right into the room, instead of standing on the threshold as the pedlar had done. If she did, then she would be bound to see its terrified occupant crouching behind the door. And then — but fright had sealed up the flow of Elizabeth’s imagination, and for once her mind could not move beyond the present hazard.
It could have been only a few moments that Mrs. Wood stood hesitating in the passage, but to Elizabeth it seemed like hours. At length, her straining ears detected soft footfalls retreating along the passage, and the pale gleam of light which had shown through the crack in the door vanished, leaving the darkness complete.
Letters For A Spy Page 7
