The Shadow In The House

by Maxwell March

  She turned her head, and there was a rustle of silk as a little figure, terrifying in its very smallness, came quietly towards her from the shadows round the doorway at the other end of the room.

  “Awake, my dear?”

  There was a faint element of amusement in the question, and Mary sat up unsteadily.

  “I was drugged,” she said, growing conviction in her tone.

  “My dear … my dear …” The repeated words expressed first astonishment and then reproach. “Dr Beron prescribed a sedative, and I sent it to you.”

  “Dr Beron is——”

  Mary opened her mouth to make the accusation but thought better of it. After all, there was no point in getting the woman in grey into unnecessary trouble. In her own position the more friends she had the better.

  “I’ve come to take you up to bed. I thought you might feel a little shaky.”

  Mrs de Liane’s tone was solicitous, and Mary could see her blue eyes dancing with friendliness only a few feet away from her.

  The girl dragged herself to her feet. She knew instantly that she was in no condition to make any bid for safety at the moment. Her legs and arms felt heavy, and her head was swimming.

  As the old woman led her across the room she talked affably.

  “Dr Beron and my husband have gone to London to investigate the death of that poor girl we heard about this afternoon,” she said. “I do think these motorcars are so dangerous, especially if they’re driven by—well, by wild young people in an excited state. Here we are, my dear. I’ve changed your room. Will you come up here?”

  The bookcase door opened to reveal a narrow flight of steps, and, with the old woman following her, Mary stumbled up a little dimly lit, thickly carpeted staircase for what seemed several flights.

  They came at last into a small hall in which there were but three doors. Slipping past the girl, the old woman threw open the centre one and ushered her into yet another of the magnificent apartments which Baron’s Tye contained.

  It was a fine old bedroom, white-panelled and gilded, lit by a gleaming lustre and containing an ornate Louis Quinze bed, two tapestried settees and a draped dressing table.

  “You’ll be very happy here, my dear. It’s so pretty, isn’t it? This is the best suite in the house. Good night.”

  She touched the girl’s arm lightly, a caressing gesture unbearably distasteful, and turned towards the door, her skirts whispering as she moved.

  Mary looked round her, and her eyes rested upon another door on the other side of the room. Suddenly the significance of the apartment dawned upon her and she swung round, her cheeks blazing and outraged indignation in her eyes.

  “Mrs de Liane, what is this?” she demanded.

  But already the door was closing behind the little old lady, and her only reply was a laugh and the gentle grating of a key in the lock.

  Mary stood where she was, looking out across the room. The other door stood open, and the little room beyond was brightly lit. Because she was too angry to be frightened she made no sound when a shadow fell across the threshold and her husband appeared in the doorway.

  He stood looking at her, a curious smile upon his lips, and for some moments they eyed each other in silence. Then the man laughed shortly.

  “Mother’s too delightfully old-fashioned, don’t you think?” he said. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Seventy-two years old and still romantic. …”

  He did not attempt to move, and his smile did not fade when she continued to stare at him with cold animosity. Instead he went on talking with the same ease and charm which still fascinated her in spite of her anger.

  “All your things have been brought up here. My mother’s maid, Louise—such a dear soul, you’ll like her—has stowed them all away in the cupboards over there by the fireplace. They’re built into the panelling.”

  He paused, and still she did not speak. He laughed again, and the deep creases at the sides of his mouth appeared.

  “Cheer up,” he said. “It’s three times a widow and never a bride—not once. Or am I talking about bridesmaids?”

  Mary was helpless, exhausted, dizzy from the “sedative” which Dr Beron had so thoughtfully prescribed, and now strange emotions which she refused to recognize were trying to take possession of her.

  Suddenly she gave up the unequal struggle, and, throwing herself on her knees by the side of the bed, she buried her face in the coverlet and burst into tears.

  She wept undisturbed and unmolested for some minutes, and then a voice said pleasantly, “Coming over,” and she looked up at the moment that a large white handkerchief landed neatly on the bed in front of her.

  She took it, feeling indescribably foolish in spite of her misery, and rubbed her eyes.

  Richard de Liane regarded her from his stance on the threshold of the smaller room.

  “I do hope you’re not getting worried on my account. I’m not an exacting husband. I’ve never had a wife before, but I’m not going to let it change my beautiful personality.

  “I suppose you’re absolutely livid with me?” he went on. “I don’t blame you. I’m much too lively for a corpse. You mustn’t blame Mother too much, though. Try to think of her as a hard-working woman trying to bring her boys up decently.”

  Mary sprang to her feet.

  “How can you stand there talking such rubbish?” she burst out passionately. “How can you? You—you——”

  “Unspeakable cad?” he suggested. “Or monster? Both nice epithets if spoken with the right spirit. My dear girl, be reasonable. Or don’t be. That’s not a bad idea. Just lie and scream. Nobody can hear you, I am long-suffering, and it’ll do you a power of good.”

  The words had the desired effect upon the girl. They cut through her hysteria and left her dull and quiet in her exasperation. She sat down on the end of the bed.

  “O God,” she said brokenly, “what am I going to do?”

  The man stood looking at her bent head, and for a moment the amusement died out of his eyes and his long, thin lips twisted pityingly. The next instant, however, he was himself again.

  “You probably won’t take my advice,” he said, “but I should make the best of it. I don’t wish to appear vain, but as a husband I might be worse. I might be drunk or offensive or even affectionate, but as it is I’m quite reasonable. I’ve made myself up a little couch in this dressing room. You can have the key of this room. I really don’t see that you’ve got much to grumble at. I should have a good sleep.”

  She raised her head and looked at him.

  “Is that a bet?” she said.

  “Of course it is. I’m sorry I let you in for this instead of the jolly funeral I promised you, but when you get to know Mother better—as you will, my dear girl; don’t run away with the idea that you’re going to shake her off: she’s the kind of acquaintance that sticks—you’ll see how impossible it was for me not to back her up. Anyway, don’t be upset. It’s not worth it. You may even get to like me. You don’t feel that coming on yet, do you?”

  “No I don’t,” said Mary violently. “I loathe you. I can’t tell you what I think of you.”

  “I see,” he said, and grimaced at her, his eyes dancing. “I rather thought that was the case. You’ve got a way of conveying it, you know. Well, I’ll go back to my camp bed. The key’s in the lock of this door.”

  He turned on his heel and had half disappeared when he looked back.

  “Would you mind a personal question? Are you in love with anybody else? It’s sheer inquisitiveness on my part, I know, but you are married to me.”

  Mary thought of Peter. He seemed so far away now that he might have belonged to another world.

  “No,” she said.

  “You hesitated?”

  He was standing in his doorway looking at her, a faintly wistful expression on his face which long afterwards she tried hard to forget.

  “I said No. I mean No. And if you were the last man on earth I would never fall in love with you. Good night.”<
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  He sighed. “I really do believe you mean that,” he said. “However, I still think you’re sweet. Good night.”

  He went into his room and closed the door behind him. The key was sticking out of the lock, as he had said, and she took a childish and unworthy satisfaction in turning it noisily.

  Then she went to bed. She did not sleep for a long time, although the old house was silent as a tomb. Even here the smell of the wet leaves percolated, and on her finger the little gold and diamond ring cut into her soft flesh.

  She cried until she could cry no more, and when her emotion was exhausted a new sense of reality settled down upon her and she saw herself trapped. In her heart she knew that Mrs de Liane had spoken the truth when she described the probable police reactions to any story she might tell them. A husband’s rights were strong, especially when the girl had no relations and no friends.

  There was no sound from the little room. Richard de Liane had evidently taken his own advice and was sleeping soundly, probably with the innocent sleep of a child, she told herself with grim amusement. But she dragged her thoughts away immediately. She did not want to think of Richard de Liane.

  At last she fell into a light sleep herself, tossing and turning in the great bed, her lips moving feverishly and little disjointed phrases escaping her as she relived in dreams the fantastic episodes of the day.

  She awakened with a start to find that it was dawn and that the long curtains were glowing and the room was full of sound. At first she could not understand what it was. The shrill yelping of dogs was broken by excited shouts and the thud of horses’ hooves on the turf.

  She sprang out of bed and hurried over to a window, catching up her dressing gown and throwing it over her shoulders as she went.

  She was pulling aside the curtains when the completely unexpected happened. A door in the panelling whose existence she had never suspected burst open, and Richard, his hair tousled, his eyes dancing with excitement, came hurrying out, tying the girdle of his gown as he ran.

  “It’s the hounds!” he said. “Come on, let’s lean out of the window.”

  “But the door …” The words died on the girl’s lips.

  He laughed and slipped his arm through hers.

  “The back of the cupboard in one room goes into the cupboard in the next,” he said. “I didn’t mention it because I thought you might get needlessly irritated. But I just couldn’t miss the hounds. Come on!”

  He threw up the window sash and she realized at once how impossible escape that way would be. It was a sheer drop of three stories to a gravel path below.

  On the other side of the path was the turf, stretching down towards the river, and across it, in full cry, sped the pack, the field streaming out behind.

  It was an exhilarating sight. In spite of her troubles the girl was excited by it. She leant out, and Richard put his arm over her so that he supported himself on the farther lintel.

  He was shouting with excitement, and one or two of the riders glanced up at him as they passed. One man was having trouble with his horse, a huge thoroughbred bay who danced off the turf onto the gravel as his rider avoided a speeding chestnut.

  Something familiar about him made Mary catch her breath, and at that instant he looked up and she stared down into the face of the last man she expected to see. The man she knew as Peter Muir. Recognition was instantaneous. She saw him glance at the man at her side, and then, as the colour vanished from his face, the bay swerved and dashed off after the hounds, who were fast disappearing in the fold of the valley.

  Mary stepped back into the room. She was white and breathless. Richard looked at her.

  “That fellow recognized you,” he said.

  “Did he?” Mary strove to speak lightly with the urgency of despair. “I don’t think so. I’ve never seen him before.”

  Richard de Liane smiled, and the creases in his cheeks deepened.

  “You’re no wife for a De Liane,” he said. “You’re not even a good liar.”

  The girl’s grey eyes darkened. It did not occur to her that she looked beautiful standing very stiff and straight in her severe man-tailored dressing gown, her red-gold hair in disorder and unexpected colour in her cheeks.

  “I fully realize I don’t come up to the standards of the family,” she said bitterly, “but you all seem to have a degree of perfection in that respect that I should never attempt to imitate.”

  “Splendid.” He was looking at her with admiration in his dancing blue eyes. “Splendid. You’ve got a spot of fire too, have you, Angel? That’s great. I may be able to love you after all.”

  Mary raised her hand. It seemed to be the only retort. The blow caught him squarely on the cheek with much greater force than she had intended. He stepped back, and for a moment she recoiled before the fury in his eyes.

  Almost at once he was himself again, laughing and gently ironical. But there was a new note in his voice when he spoke to her, and she realized with sudden terror just how angry he could become.

  “I should go back to bed,” he said. “They’ll bring you your breakfast.”

  He walked over to the door of the room and, taking a key from the pocket of his dressing gown, calmly let himself out. On the threshold he paused and looked back at her.

  “When did you meet that man before?”

  Mary met his eyes squarely. He really was extraordinarily good-looking—the thought sprang into her mind incongruously—but his anger had increased his arrogance, and there was something primitively satisfactory to her in the sight of the crimson mark which her hand had left on his cheek.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He laughed explosively. “You’re learning, Angel,” he said. “You’re learning fast.”

  And, stepping quietly out of the room, he locked the door behind him.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Ingenuities of Mrs de Liane

  IN A BRIGHT, sunny room whose windows opened onto a terrace overlooking the southern lawn, whose walls were hung with an ancient Chinese paper and whose furniture was graceful Queen Anne walnut, Mrs de Liane sat up among the lace-covered cushions of her enormous four-poster bed and went through her morning’s correspondence.

  She made a delightful picture. Her small figure was wrapped in a white embroidered Chinese shawl, and a little cap of rose-point framed her gentle face.

  She looked a charming person, her small mouth pursed pityingly as she read the contents of the long overnight telegram which had been delivered with her letters.

  Although she was quite alone in the room, and no one, save possibly the fat pigeons perched on the balustrade of the terrace, could have seen her, she did not relax her pose for a moment. She was playing the part of a pathetic, affectionate old lady grieved by the message she had just received.

  She read it over to herself for the second time, murmuring the words aloud.

  “DEAREST MOTHER:

  “I am afraid I have sad news to report. Ted and I arrived at the Imperial Palace to find that the poor girl we had come to see had been taken to a mortuary. I went down there, and both Ted and I were much overcome to find that our hopes were dashed in that no mistake had been made. There is no conceivable doubt but that it is our poor Mary. I am arranging everything, and the authorities are being most kind and helpful. The funeral is fixed for this afternoon, and since we are the only relatives I am letting it be a quiet affair at Leabridge Cemetery. We shall return tomorrow, bringing back her few belongings. I am afraid the poor girl was in low water, for she seemed to have very little money and to have become mixed up with a wild stage set. We both send our love to you.

  “Yours,

  “EDMUND.”

  Mrs de Liane sighed, patted with an ivory hand the three telegraph forms on which the message was printed, and murmured “dear boy” in an audible tone. Then she laid them aside and picked up another letter. Her expression changed as she reread it, and the gentleness faded from her blue eyes, leaving them shrewd
and contemplative.

  “DEAR MRS DE LIANE:

  “Your telegraphed news is indeed surprising, but if as you say your niece is the impulsive young person she certainly appears to be I can understand that you had to agree to the hurried match. I hope you will convey my congratulations to both the young people. I realize that your niece will not want to be bothered by business affairs on her honeymoon, but I am afraid I must remind you that she is also your ward and that a certain amount of responsibility must attach to your position until we have her affair settled. It is now the twenty-fifth and, even allowing for the twenty-four hours grace, I am afraid I must insist that both you and she visit this office before the twenty-seventh. It is a formality that really must be complied with.

  “With kind regards and best wishes for your own health,

  “Yours very sincerely,

  “LEONARD J. LATCHER.”

  Mrs de Liane sat looking at the signature for some moments, and then, stretching out her hand, she took a little silver mirror from the bedside table. She was still contemplating herself with grave eyes which had at least nothing of vanity in their depths, when there was a tap on the door and Richard came in.

  “Hello, Angel, you look wicked,” he said, laughing. “I don’t like you when you eye yourself in the mirror. Oh, I see, a line from old Latcher. … You’re disgraceful, at your age, my dear! You twist that poor respectable old bird round your finger as though he was still a young articled clerk.”

  Mrs de Liane set down the mirror and regarded her youngest son thoughtfully.

  “He’s suspicious, Richard,” she said. “I know he’s suspicious. We must be very, very careful. That girl must be taught her part.”

  Richard’s hand caressed his cheek involuntarily, and he murmured something under his breath.

  “What?” His mother glanced up at him sharply. “Is she going to be difficult?”

  Richard avoided her eyes. “I don’t think so,” he said, and picked up the telegram.

  As he read it through his face changed, and an expression that was half astonishment, half contempt flickered through his eyes.