Daphne du Maurier - Not After Midnight & Other Stories

They had reached a door at the end of the corridor. He led the way through it to a separate wing. There were three rooms and a bathroom. One door had Commander Barry written upon it.

'I'm in here,' he said, throwing open the door, revealing a typical captain's cabin, with a bed, though, not a bunk. The layout was familiar, giving her a sudden poignant nostalgia.

'Guest-rooms next door,' he said. 'Numbers One and Two. Number One has a better view of the lake.'

He advanced into the room and drew aside the curtains. The moon had risen high, and shone down upon the sheet of water beyond the trees. It was very peaceful, very still. There was nothing sinister about Lamb Island now. The situation was reversed, and it was the distant mainland that seemed shrouded, drear.

'Even I should become a recluse if I lived here,' she said, and then, turning from the window, added, 'I mustn't keep you up. Perhaps Michael is waiting to take me back.'

He had switched on the bedside lamp. 'You're not going back. Operation B has been put into effect.'

'What do you mean?'

The single eye was upon her, discomfiting, amused. 'When I was told that a young woman wanted to see me, I decided upon a plan of action. Operation A meant that whoever it was signified nobody of interest, and could be returned to Ballyfane. Operation B meant that the visitor would be my guest, and her luggage fetched from the Kilmore Arms and matters explained to Tim Doherty. He's very discreet.'

She stared at him, her sense of unease returning. 'You didn't give yourself much time to consider. I heard you give orders about Operation B as soon as you came into the room down there.'

'That's right. I'm in the habit of coming to quick decisions. Here is Bob with your things now.'

There was a cough, a quiet knock on the door. The steward came in bearing her luggage. Everything had evidently been put back into her suitcase, all the small litter from her bedroom at the hotel. He also had her maps and her handbag from the car. Nothing had been forgotten.

'Thank you, Bob,' Nick said. 'Miss Blair will ring down for breakfast when she wants it.'

The steward placed her things on a chair, murmured, 'Goodnight, miss,' and withdrew. So that is that, thought Shelagh, and where do we go from here? He was still watching her, the smile of amusement on his face. When in doubt, she told herself, yawn. Be casual. Pretend this sort of thing happens every night of your life. She picked up her bag and found her comb, ran it through her hair, humming a tune under her breath.

'You should never have retired,' she said. 'Such a waste of your organising powers. You ought to be commanding the Mediterranean Fleet. Planning an exercise, or something.'

'That's exactly what I am doing. You'll get your orders when this ship is at action stations. Now I've got some work to do, so I'll leave you. By the way…' he paused, his hand on the door, 'you don't have to lock this, you're perfectly safe.'

'I wouldn't dream of locking it,' she replied. 'As a journalist I'm used to shake-downs in the most unlikely places, and prowling about unknown corridors in the middle of the night.'

Punch-line, she thought. That will teach you. Now disappear and turn all your furniture upside down….

'Ah,' he said, 'so that's your form. It's not a case of you locking your door but of me locking mine. Thanks for the warning.'

She heard him laughing as he went down the corridor. Curtain. Damn. He had had the last word.

She went to her suitcase and threw it open. The few clothes, night-things, make-up, neatly packed. Her handbag untouched. A lucky thing the papers for the hired Austin were all in her stage name. Nothing to connect her with Shelagh Money. The only thing that had been shaken and folded differently was the map and the tourist guide. Well, that didn't matter. She had marked Ballyfane and Lough Torrah with blue pencil, but a journalist would have done that anyway. Something was missing, though- the copper-coloured paper-clip had gone. She shook the tourist guide, but nothing fell out. The envelope was no longer there. The envelope containing the slip of paper with the dates upon it, which she had copied from the file in her father's study.

When Shelagh awoke the sun was streaming into the room. She glanced at her travelling-clock beside the bed. A quarter-past-nine. She had slept soundly for nearly ten hours. She got out of bed and went to the window, drawing the curtains aside. Her room appeared to be at the extreme end of the building. and immediately beyond her window a grass bank sloped towards the trees, and through the trees themselves a narrow clearing led down to the lake. The glimpse she could catch of the lake showed the water to be sparkling blue, the surface that had been so still last evening now turned to wavelets, whipped by a scudding breeze. Nick had told the steward she would ring down for her breakfast, and she picked up the telephone by the bed. Bob's voice came at once.

'Yes, miss. Orange-juice? Coffee? Rolls? Honey?'

'Please…'

Service, she thought. I shouldn't be getting this at the Kilmore Arms. Bob brought the tray to her bedside within four minutes. The morning paper was also upon it, neatly folded.

'The Commander's compliments, miss,' he said. 'He hopes you slept well. If there is anything else you require you have only to tell me.'

I'd like to know if it was Mr Doherty at the Kilmore Arms or Mr O'Reilly from the post office who took the envelope from the tourist guide, she was thinking. Or could it be you, Malvolio? Nobody would have bothered about it if I hadn't scribbled on the envelope, 'N. Barry. Dates possibly significant.'

'I have everything I need, thank you, Bob,' she said.

When she had breakfasted, dressed herself in sweater and jeans, and made up her eyes with rather greater care than she had done the day before, she was ready to face whatever surprises Nick had in store for her. She walked down the corridor, passed through the swing-door and came to the living-room. The door was open, but he was not there. Somehow she had expected to see him at his desk. She went across to it, glancing furtively over her shoulder, and stared at the photograph once again. Nick was much better now than then, she thought. As a young man he must have been irritating, over-pleased with himself, and she had a feeling that his hair had been red. The whole truth was, she supposed, that they had both been in love with her mother, and when her father won this had helped to turn Nick sour. Started the chip. Odd that her mother had not mentioned the fact. She generally preened her feathers about old admirers. Disloyal, Shelagh knew, but what had both men seen in her except that very obvious pretty-pretty face? Far too much lipstick, like they wore in those days. And a bit of a snob, always name-dropping. She and her father used to wink at each other if she did it in front of other people.

A discreet cough warned her that the steward was watching her from the corridor beyond.

'The Commander is in one of the wood clearings, miss, if you were looking for him. I can point you the way.'

'Oh, thank you, Bob.'

They went out together, and he said, 'You'll find the Commander working down on the site about ten minutes' walk away.'

The site… Felling trees, perhaps. She set off through the woods, the foliage thick and green on either side of the path, dense as a miniature forest, without a glimpse of the lake to be seen. If one strayed from the path, she thought, and wandered amongst the trees, one would be lost instantly, striking for the lake and not finding it, moving round and round in circles. The wind sighed in the branches above her head. No birds, no movement, no lapping water near at hand. A person could be buried here in all the undergrowth and never found. Perhaps she should turn back, retrace her steps to the house, tell the steward she preferred to wait indoors for Commander Barry. She hesitated, but it was too late. Michael was advancing through the trees towards her. He carried a spade in his hand.