Patricia Wentworth - Vanishing Point

Jenny was awake when she got back, and the light was on. There sprang up in her a picture of Lydia Crewe standing at her window to look out and seeing that bright rectangle printed on the path. It was her custom to sleep with windows closed and curtains drawn, but in the picture Lydia stood at the window to watch the light from Rosamond’s room. She might have stood there to listen when Craig spoke from the other side of the bars. Rosamond did not know that Lydia Crewe would never stand at those windows to listen and watch again. She made haste to draw the curtains across her own.

Jenny was stretching and, yawning.

“Darling, it’s the middle of the night. Where have you been?”

Rosamond said soberly,

“It’s after six. Craig wants us to come with him now. Hurry up and get dressed! He’s making tea in the kitchen.”

Jenny stopped yawning to blow her a kiss. Her eyes sparkled, the sleep all gone from them.

“Ooh! Lovely! We mustn’t make any noise, must we? Suppose she heard us and came along snorting out fire and forbidding the bans!”

Rosamond was stepping into her clothes. She said briefly,

“We should go all the same-she couldn’t stop us. But hurry!”

As they turned from the side passage which served their room and Lydia Crewe’s, Jenny looked back. Words came tumbling out of her mouth in a whisper.

“What do you say when you are going away from a place you hate with all your might? It can’t be ‘Good-bye’ because that means ‘Good be with you,’ and it can’t be ‘Farewell.’ It had better be ‘Horrid, horrible place, I hope I shall never, never, NEVER see you again!’ ” She caught at Rosamond’s arm. “Run, before it comes after us and pulls us back!”

Rosamond could feel that the hand was shaking. She steadied her own voice to say,

“I can’t run with two suit-cases. And there’s no need-no one will come after us.”

It was whilst she was saying it that she could feel for the first time that it was true. They crossed the hall. She had left one light burning there. It did very little with the darkness except to show how the shadows clung about the stairway, and how black was the upper landing and the mouth of every passage. Somewhere in the gloom above their heads the ancestral portraits watched them go. It was a relief to pass the baize door at the back of the hall and find bright lights beyond. Craig seemed to have switched on everything as he came to it.

He was fishing eggs out of a boiling saucepan as they came into the kitchen. There was a cloth spread on the table. Cups and saucers, butter and a loaf, stood ready. He called over his shoulder,

“Get out the salt and pepper, and the knives! Oh, and the milk-the kettle is just going to boil!”

It wasn’t romantic, but it was extremely reassuring. When the baize door fell to they had left the haunted shadows behind them. Kitchens don’t have ghosts. Or at least no more alarming ones than the lingering aroma of bygone meals. They ate and washed up what they had used. Mrs. Bolder would miss the eggs and know that the bread and the butter had been cut, but she wouldn’t be able to say that they had left their cups and plates for her to deal with.

It was striking seven when they let themselves out of the side door and walked down the drive to where Craig had left his car. It was a still, cold morning, and the darkness had begun to thin away.

Mrs. Selby woke up. She had heard the clock strike quarter after quarter all through the night, and then quite suddenly she was asleep. Or was she? She didn’t know. The clock had stopped striking. Everything was very still and very cold. She was quite alone-there wasn’t anyone or anything. It was more frightening than the most frightening dream.

Then into the emptiness and silence there came something that must have been a sound. She didn’t know where it came from, but it woke her. She sat up in bed and heard a car come down the lane. It was quite dark in the room. She didn’t care about having windows open and the night air coming in, and she kept her curtains drawn. Horrid and damp the night air was in the country, and she didn’t hold with letting it in. Besides there were bats, and if a bat got into the room she would go crazy. Fred, now, he liked his windows open-said the room got stuffy if they were shut, and he couldn’t sleep. Well, she couldn’t sleep with them open, so he had his own room, and she had hers. It wasn’t what she had thought they would ever come to. Married people ought to sleep together, and that was a fact. But have those windows open on the ground floor, and cats and bats and goodness knows what coming in, she couldn’t and she wouldn’t. There hadn’t been any unpleasantness over it-she would have liked it better if there had been. What she didn’t like was the feeling that Fred was just as well pleased to have it this way. He ought to have been put about and have made a fuss, instead of just smiling to himself and saying, “Have it your own way, my dear.”

She sat up in bed and heard four men get out of the car. She knew that there were four, because she heard them talking, and not troubling to keep their voices down neither. They came up to the door and she heard the buzz of the electric bell. Well, she wasn’t opening doors in her nightgown-Fred would have to go. But she got out of bed and went to the window. With the curtains pulled a little to one side to make a peephole she could see that it wasn’t dark any more, just the grey of the early morning, and the clouds so low that they would be bound to have rain before you could turn round. Funny how you got to notice the weather down here in the country. When they lived in town she never noticed it unless it was snow, or hail, or a thunderstorm, or one of those hot spells when it didn’t seem as if there was enough air to go round.

The electric bell went again. This time the man kept his thumb on it. She could see him now, and the others, standing round the door waiting for someone to come. Policemen! She let the curtain fall and stepped back, cold and shaking. What did the police want, coming here like this before anyone was dressed? Fred would have to go to the door. They would have to wait. She reached for her dressing-gown, clutched it about her shoulders, and went in barefoot to the room at the back where he slept. The draught from the open window met her. He lay facing it with his back to her and the bedclothes huddled up around his ears. She had to pull them away and shake him before he roused, flinging out an arm and grumbling, “What’s the matter?”

“The police, Fred!”

He said, “Nonsense!” And then, sharply, “What do they want?”

“I don’t know. I can’t go to the door like this.”

He gave the bedclothes such a shove that they fell over onto the floor and hung trailing. Someone was banging on the door now. He threw her an angry look and went padding down the passage to open it.

Mrs. Selby stood where she was. She got her arms into her dressing-gown and did up the buttons. There was talk going on, but she couldn’t hear what was said. It would be something about Miss Holiday. She didn’t want to hear what it was. Every time she thought of that poor thing going down the well it made her feel giddy and sick.

There were footsteps in the passage, and Fred came back into the room. He looked as if he might be getting a chill. A raw morning like this he ought to have his clothes on. There was one of the policemen with him. He cleared his throat and said,

“You’d better go back to your room, ma’am. Mr. Selby is going to get dressed.”

And Fred said,

“Yes, my dear. Better get your clothes on, and then you can make us some tea. The police just want to go over the premises again, and as I tell them, I’m sure we’ve no objection. We’ve got nothing to hide.”