Patricia Wentworth - Vanishing Point

She tried the handle of the door and found it fast. Her brows met in a frown. She lifted her hand and knocked. After a moment a voice said,

“Who’s there?”

She would hardly have known it for Lucy’s voice, it was so hoarse and strained. She made her own voice smooth.

“It’s Lydia, my dear. Henry was concerned about you. He said you were not well. He was concerned enough to ring me up.”

Lucy Cunningham was startled right out of her fear.

“Henry rang you up!”

“Yes. You can tell how worried he must have been. Let me in-we can’t talk like this.”

She heard Lucy come up to the door and turn the key. A triumphant sense of power took hold of her as she stepped into the room and pushed the door to behind her. She did not stop to latch it. She would not be here for long. What she had to do could be done without delay. She looked at Lucy, still in her afternoon dress, and said in a shocked tone,

“But, my dear, you are not undressed. Do you know how late it is?”

Lucy shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter-I can’t sleep. Did you say Henry rang you up?”

Lydia Crewe nodded.

“He’s terribly worried. I told him I would come over and bring you a sleeping-draught.”

“Henry rang you up?” Incredulity struggled through the flat fatigue of her voice.

“That is what I said.”

“Henry?”

“Would you be glad to know that we have made it up again?”

“Glad? Oh, Lydia!”

The tears began to run down her face. She put out her hands gropingly. Lydia Crewe took them, guided her to the bed, and sat there beside her, speaking to her soothingly.

The sound of this soothing voice reached Miss Silver as she came to the top of the stairs-that and the sound of Lucy Cunningham’s sobs. They made it quite safe to approach the door, which was ajar. Standing there, she heard Miss Crewe say,

“Now, Lucy, there’s nothing to cry about. Henry and I are just where we were, and you ought to be pleased about that. But he is terribly worried about you, so I want you to take this sleeping-draught. What you need is a good night’s rest. Henry can ask Mrs. Hubbard to let you sleep on in the morning, and when you wake up you can tell us how glad you are that we can all be friends again. Of course you and I always were. We never did let anything come between us, did we, and we never will.”

All the time that she was speaking Lucy wept, not loudly, but in an exhausted fashion as if she had come to the end of her strength and could do no more. Lydia and Henry had made it up- Lydia was being kind-there was nothing to worry about any more. But she was too tired to be glad. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep. She was conscious of the removal of Lydia ’s arm and of her getting up and going over to the wash-stand. There was the chink of glass against glass.

And then Lydia was back again, standing in front of her and holding out a tumbler.

“Now, Lucy, drink this. And then we’ll get your clothes off and you can go to sleep.”

Miss Silver pushed the door an inch or two wider. Lucy Cunningham was sitting on the side of the bed, her face wet with tears, her eyes blurred. Standing over her with her back to the door was Lydia Crewe. There was a tumbler in her hand half full. She held it out to Lucy and said in a tone of authority,

“Come now-drink it up!”

Lucy gave a last tired sob and said,

“I don’t-want it, Lydia. Now you’ve come-I shall sleep.”

The tone of authority became harsher.

“You will drink it at once and no nonsense about it! What you need is a good long rest!”

Lucy Cunningham put out her hand half way and took the glass. And saw Miss Maud Silver come into the room with her black cloth coat, her fur tippet, her second-best hat, and her warm woolen gloves. It was such a surprising sight that it shocked her broad awake. The impact of Lydia ’s will was blunted. Her face changed, she drew back her hand.

Miss Silver gave a slight arresting cough and said,

“I think it is extremely wise of you to resist a sedative, Miss Cunningham. Natural sleep is always to be preferred.”

Lydia Crewe turned stiffly round. She had had one shock already. She had surmounted it. Now there was this. In a moment she would be able to think, to plan, to know what she must do. Just now, in this instant of time, she could only stand there and stare.

With a purely instinctive movement Lucy Cunningham leaned sideways behind Miss Crewe’s back and set the tumbler down upon the bedside table. There was no design in what she did. There was a tumbler in her hand, she set it down. Something had brought Miss Silver into her room in the middle of the night. She got to her feet, passing Lydia, standing away from her, because all at once the room was full of fierce currents. She didn’t understand them, but they were there. Lydia who had been kind was not kind any longer. Her voice shook with a sound which Lucy knew and feared beyond anything else.

“What-do-you-want?”

Miss Silver did not appear to be impressed. She said in her usual composed manner,

“I want you to go home, Miss Crewe. I believe that you had better do so. Miss Cunningham should rest.”

Lydia Crewe made a great effort. She controlled the rage that shook her. She controlled her voice to say,

“I found she had dissolved some tablets for a sleeping-draught-they are some she had by her. I was just waiting to see her take them and help her to bed.”

And what must Lucy say, the babbling fool, but “ Lydia, I’ve never had any sleeping-tablets. I don’t like them-I don’t need them. It was you-”

There was a silence. Lydia Crewe gathered her remaining forces. She said,

“Very well, I’ll go. Since you don’t need that draught, we can throw it away.” Then suddenly, sharply, “What have you done with it?… Ah!”

She had not turned in time. Miss Silver had moved between her and the bedside table, and at that her control broke. She made a dreadful sound and reached for Miss Silver’s throat.

Lucy Cunningham screamed at the top of her voice, and in a moment the room was full of people-Frank Abbott, Craig Lester, Nicholas. And at long last Henry Cunningham, his shaking hands to his ears, because now it was Lydia Crewe who was screaming-dreadfully.

Rosamond lay dreaming. She walked in a spring garden with Craig. The dark wood was a thing of the past, she didn’t seem to remember it any more. This was a spring garden. There were apple trees rosy with bloom, there was cherry blossom. The path where they walked was set on either side with daffodils and coloured primroses. There was a blue sky over head, and the sun shone. She woke to darkness and a voice that called her name.

“Rosamond! Wake up!”

It was Craig’s voice. The sweetness of the dream was still round her. She sat up beside Jenny in the wide old-fashioned bed and called softly,

“What is it?”

“It’s Craig. Come over here to the window. I want to speak to you.”

They kissed with the bars between them. He held her.

“Darling, I hate to wake you like this, but we’ve got to push the time on a bit.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you afterwards. Look here, it’s nearly six o’clock. I want you to wake Jenny and get dressed-both of you. If you’ll let me in by the side door, I’ll be getting you some tea. I don’t want to start our married life by starving you. I suppose there’ll be eggs?”

“There ought to be. But, Craig-”

“My sweet, there’s no time for any buts-you’ve just got to do what I say! Put on your dressing-gown and let me in, and I’ll wrestle up some food while you get packed.”

She did what she was told. It might have been part of the dream-darker than the one from which she had come and full of questioning thoughts. They did not pass her lips. There was a sense of urgency, of fear. If Lydia Crewe should wake-she shrank appalled at the threat of what scene would follow and of what the bitter tongue might say. The thoughts came and went. There was no time to dwell on them. The sense of urgency persisted. It was in Craig’s clasp and kiss when the garden door swung open to let him in. It was in the quiet haste with which he sent her back to dress as soon as she had shown him the way to the kitchen.