Dorothy Eden (11 page)

“Dead! Of course she’s dead. How dare you suggest I would lie about the greatest grief in my life! How dare you!” Then the rigidity went out of the old lady’s face and she sank back against the pillows. Her mouth trembled. “Forgive, me, my dear. You young people—so honest—so ruthless…And yet you’re gentle and pretty, like Lucy. I was pretending you were Lucy back…”

Now she was acting again, Cressida knew. Yet she had the strange feeling that she was acting to hide her shock and fear.

“Arabia,” she said gently, “did you take those three months out of Lucy’s diary because you didn’t want any record of the baby?”

“You notice too much!’ the old lady muttered.

“It was because Lucy was not married? But wouldn’t Larry have married her? Or wasn’t it”—Cressida had a sudden illumination—“wasn’t it Larry’s baby?”

“He needn’t have known about it,” Arabia muttered. “If my plan had worked—” She began to twist her hands together in acute distress. Tears gathered in her brilliant eyes. “It was all my fault,” she said. “I persuaded her to take the risk. I”—her voice rose, to that of a tragedienne—“I killed her!”

It made Lucy’s charming room, with its fresh flowers, its carefully preserved relics, a farce; but it also explained why it existed, why Arabia built up the memory of a lovely, innocent young girl, and even why she had so warmly welcomed Cressida into her house. For all these years she had suffered from a dreadful and lonely guilt complex, and this was her way of expiating it. Now everything was clear.

Cressida felt nothing but pity and affection for the old woman who put so gallant a face on life, and endured her nightmares in private. She stooped and put her arms round the frail form and said gently,

“Don’t be sad, Arabia dear. Don’t be sad. It’s all over long ago. And now I’m here. And I’m not frightened of Lucy any more.

“So young to die,” Arabia murmured. She was relaxing already. But as she lifted her eyes, dry now and no longer evasive, Cressida had a curious feeling that her own apprehension had passed to Arabia.

S
O MUCH WAS EXPLAINED
now. It didn’t worry Cressida that Lucy’s story was suddenly a little sordid. It made her a human being, and not full of that innocence and purity that had somehow haunted Cressida. Was she a little sorry that the mystery had been so easily solved, and that even Arabia’s eccentricities, such as mischievously locking her in the other night so that Lucy’s room should have the inmate she wanted—the young innocent pretty girl whom she had destroyed—were now understandable? She didn’t think so. She still wanted to write Lucy’s story, and now she had a flesh-and-blood creature as her subject.

Who was the man who had led her to this pass, the one to whom she had cried despairingly, “Darling, darling, darling…”? It would be Monty, of course, whose name had been erased from her diary. Where was he now? Where was Larry, who, had Lucy recovered, was to have been deceived? What had they told him about her death?

And had Lucy wanted to have the baby? Had she begged and prayed to Arabia to be allowed to have it? The mute evidence of the knitted glove suggested this. Arabia’s remorse, after Lucy’s death, must have been terrible.

Cressida was full of pity for them both, the proud and lonely old woman and the dead girl.

There was still Tom’s letter to be written that evening. But now it required a tremendous effort. Oakshott and the calm unexciting life there seemed so far away. Cressida began by saying the encouraging things expected of her about Tom’s golf handicap, and then suggested that if Mary Madden was finding it too lonely in the house certainly he must call on her occasionally. Mary was a sensible intelligent girl of whom he would thoroughly approve.”

She added that she was enjoying her new job tremendously, and that Mr. Mullins was a poppet. Then suddenly she could find nothing more to say. The latest development about Lucy was not for Tom’s ears. She knew at once that he would neither understand nor approve. He would say, “She looks as if she got what was coming to her, and the old woman too.” It wouldn’t matter to him that two people had broken their hearts—Lucy over her mysterious lover, and Arabia over the death she had inadvertently brought to her treasured daughter. He would tell her impatiently that it wasn’t any of her business, and it was unhealthy to get too interested in it. Perhaps he would be right.

But she had promised Arabia to stay, she wanted to stay. Besides Arabia there was Mr. Mullins and his fascinating shop, and the work that she loved, and as well—she had to admit—the dark, thin, laughing face of Jeremy Winter kept interposing itself in front of her image of Tom. She didn’t want to go home just yet; no, not just yet…

In the morning there was another letter from Tom. It reproached her for not having written again. The least she could do, he pointed out, since she persisted in her rather selfish behaviour, was to write him each day. Things were as usual there. He had taken the liberty of calling at Cressida’s house, to see if everything was in order, and Mary Madden had persuaded him to drink tea with her. She was a sensible, responsible sort of person, as well as being attractive, and at present there was nothing for Cressida to worry about.

Cressida smiled on reading this. Tom, nice simple Tom, thought he was subtly going to make her jealous by oblique references to Mary Madden’s charms. He didn’t know that he was doing precisely what Cressida had suggested he should. If it came to that, Mary and Tom were ideally suited. They were both pleasant and unimaginative, they did not suffer from her wild flights of fancy and her sudden loyalties and enthusiasms.

Did she mind that they would probably become very good friends? Cressida had to admit honestly that she didn’t. She was remembering her sudden disturbing revelation last night when she had known certainly that she was not in love with Tom—at least not in the way that Miss Glory was so improbably with Vincent Moretti, or in the way Lucy had been with her lover to whom she had called in despair. What had happened to them? Had Arabia in her sudden magnificent anger, forbidden him the house, or had he wilfully deserted Lucy in her trouble?

There it was again, Lucy’s story nagging at her, giving her no peace. Idly she picked up the other letter that had come in the morning mail. She opened it, and then she gave a gasp of disbelief.

Printed across the sheet of paper was the draft of a death notice. It read,

Barclay, Cressida Lucy. On 23rd October 1955 at Dragon House, South Kensington, in her twenty-third year. Red roses only.

Underneath this were the scrawled words, “Is this what you were looking for?”

This was too much to tolerate. So it had been Jeremy Winter playing the tricks on her, after all. She might have known, after his unconventional behaviour that first day, that he was not to be trusted, he with his mocking eyes and air of gentle scorn. Oh, this was too much, this horrible macabre joke!

Cressida flung out of her room and hurried purposefully to the basement stairs. She almost knocked over Miss Glory, who was approaching with her morning tea tray.

“Sorry!” she called. “I can’t stop.”

Miss Glory turned a long, mildly interested face to watch her.

“I say, Mr. Winter will hardly be up yet. Not that that would worry me, but—”

“Nor me, either,” Cressida retorted.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and banged unceremoniously at Jeremy’s door. A far-off voice from within called, “Just a moment. Coming now.”

And then Jeremy, clad in a rather gaudy silk dressing-gown, and with Mimosa in his arms, appeared at the door.

“Why, good morning,” he said with pleasure. “Were you going to give me a sitting now? If you’d wait—ah, no, I see I’m mistaken.”

He hadn’t needed to take even that long to realise her anger. She thrust the piece of paper at him, saying icily,

“If this is your idea of a joke, it isn’t mine. I am not amused. I ask you to find out about Lucy for me, and you do this—this unspeakable thing.”

“Why, what is it?” Jeremy asked, looking at the sheet of paper in bewilderment.

“And don’t pretend to be shocked or surprised. You can’t deceive me that way again. I’m just asking you to stop following me about and interfering in what I am doing. I never want to speak to you again.”

“But, Cressida! Listen!”

Cressida was already at the top of the stairs. The next moment she had reached her room, was inside and the door safely shut behind her. Now she couldn’t hear Jeremy Winter’s protests of innocence, for of course he would, as usual, deny all knowledge of this latest outrage. Now, also, she could burst into tears without his intolerably amused eyes on her.

But she was not alone, after all. Miss Glory said, “Excuse me, Miss Barclay. I was just leaving your tea. Is anything the matter?”

Cressida made a desperate effort to control her tears. She looked wildly at Miss Glory’s flat figure, thought that to lay her head on that shoulder would be the equivalent to laying it on a piece of brown cardboard, and realised that she hadn’t any shoulder in the whole world on which to weep.

“Nothing’s wrong, really,” she managed to say. “I expect I was suddenly a bit homesick.”

Miss Glory’s eyes were sceptical.

“I might not be very bright, Miss Barclay, but why rushing down to Mr. Winter’s flat should suddenly make you homesick doesn’t entirely make sense to me.”

“It’s nothing to do with him!” Cressida denied vigorously.

But it was, of course. It was the dismal realisation that she had spurned Tom, her faithful and reliable Tom, partly because he was so stubborn and dull and predictable, but also more than a little because Jeremy’s alert restless image had come between them. And now Jeremy was not to be trusted, and pride forbade her going back to Tom—even if she had wanted to.

“Of course I’m lucky,” Miss Glory observed. “I know when I’m in love and who I’m in love with. When the thing hits me, it hits me, and one might as well try to withstand an H-bomb. But with you I can see it’s different. You don’t really know your own mind.”

“I do know my own mind!” Cressida flared. “But if someone could do a thing like that to you, could you still like them?”

She told Miss Glory what had happened, and had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing first incredulity and then shock on Miss Glory’s long, shallow face.

“That’s not nice,” she said. “My dear, that isn’t nice.”

“Well, didn’t I tell you?” Cressida said weakly.

“But I think you’re blaming the wrong person. That nice young Mr. Winter wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“He was the only one who knew I was looking for Lucy’s death notice.”

“Aren’t you underestimating Arabia?” Miss Glory, was, as a sea captain’s daughter, exercising her right to speak of Arabia as an equal. “She’s a bad woman, if you ask me. A really bad old woman.”

“I don’t agree.” Cressida was instantly hotly loyal to the picturesque old woman who had been so kind to her.

“Of course she is. Hasn’t she been leading you up the garden path about Lucy’s purity and innocence? Goodness, no girl with all those boy friends would be likely to remain as pure as that.”

“She loved Lucy,” Cressida protested. “It would be natural to protect her memory.”

“She does it because it amuses her. She would do anything for amusement, sell her own soul.” The dramatic words in Miss Glory’s flat voice were almost comical. “You mark my words, this is how she’s decided to amuse herself with you. I’ve been her butt for long enough. I know.”

“Last night she was frightened,” Cressida whispered.

“Not her. She was acting. You listen to me, dear. I know her better than you. She’ll feed you with cake and kisses, but she’ll all the time be thinking out some other way to get a laugh out of you. But never mind,” Miss Glory patted Cressida’s hand, “she’s harmless. She wouldn’t actually carry out that notice. And I’m only telling you this because I don’t think you should blame that nice Mr. Winter. Now I must go or someone,” suddenly she was coy, “will be shouting for his morning tea. Don’t you worry, dear. You stay here and ignore these little pranks like I do. They don’t mean a thing.”

They certainly didn’t seem to worry Miss Glory, for a little later Cressida heard shrieks of laughter, and looked out to see Miss Glory, all feet and elbows, attempting to follow Mr. Moretti’s smooth and skilful figure in a crazy rumba. The noise brought Mrs. Stanhope and Dawson to the head of the stairs. Dawson looked for a moment, then shrugged his thin shoulders contemptuously, and hurried off on his way to work. Mrs. Stanhope stood with a fixed smile, whether of amusement or pain Cressida couldn’t decide. But in a moment she was shouldered aside by Arabia, who, in a crimson velvet dressing-gown trimmed lavishly with swansdown, stood at the head of the stairs and shouted encouragement.

She was neither the sad and apprehensive old woman of last night nor the practical joker with an unpleasant sense of the macabre. She was an energetic and enthusiastic figure on the point of joining in the crazy dance herself. Her foot tapped, her long, still graceful body swayed.

“Do you think this place is a night-club!” she called in her rich humorous voice. “Gloriana Becker, do you call that dancing? Your feet are ten inches too long, and you put them down flat. On your toes, woman. Look, I’ll show you.” She came down the stairs, her cheeks flushed, her fine eyes gleaming, and summarily took Mr. Moretti from Miss Glory. Mr. Moretti laughed, his mouth a dark cavern in the smooth colourlessness of his face. He guided Arabia across the marble floor, and she, her wide sleeves flowing back from her thin wrists, her grey head held high, moved with accomplished grace.

Then, laughing with the confidence of the much-admired woman, she turned to the still breathless Miss Glory.

“I almost begin to see what you see in him. He dances like an angel. But you, my dear—must you really wear those boats on your feet, to begin with?”

“They’re the feet I was born with,” Miss Glory retorted haughtily.

“Yes, but even the Almighty must sometimes wish He had a second chance over some of his creations.” Arabia threw back her head and gave her rich chuckle. “Oh, this is fun. I haven’t had so much fun since my second husband, who danced exquisitely, died. Cressida, my dear, I’m sure you dance beautifully.”