Dorothy Eden (5 page)

That, she could have told the practical joker, was one thing she never had, and even a night alone in this room would not give them to her. If it came to that, what was so impossible about spending a night here? The room was comfortable, even luxurious. By daylight she would have no difficulty in attracting anyone’s attention. Miss Glory would be pottering in and out of the garden. Arabia or Mrs. Stanhope would hear her calling. It was only a matter of passing the hours until daylight, and those could best be passed in sleep.

Cressida hesitated only a moment before stretching out on the turned-down bed. She did not get between the sheets. Something—was it the thought of sacrilege?—stopped her from doing that. She lay rather stiffly on the coverlet, and switched off the rosy bedside light.

But then the darkness leapt on her. The silence was so deep it was terrifying. No, it wasn’t completely silence.

There was a creaking sound. Or was there? Had she imagined it? Listen? Was that a faint padding? No—yes, what was that? A faint far-off crying sound. Oh, a cat miaowing. Mimosa, of course. Why was Mimosa prowling about the house? Wasn’t he shut in with his master at night?

Or was it that his master, too, prowled…
What was that?
It sounded like a voice hissing “Usurper!” And then a faint choking sound, as if someone were sobbing.

Cressida sat upright. She was aware of that delicate lingering scent of roses. She felt the silk of the carefully laid-out robe beneath her fingers. Suddenly she sprang off the bed, rigid with distaste.

How could she lie there on Lucy’s bed, which awaited only Lucy who would never come again. Oh, it was not only sad and tragic, it was somehow unpleasant, as if her own warm blood were congealing, and she too was to be petrified into everlasting youth.

She couldn’t stay in this room after all. It was too haunted. Somehow she had to get out, and not by way of the stairs where her tormentor was no doubt waiting to further enjoy her distress. Surely there must be a way over the balcony.

She was not without resourcefulness. She was athletic enough even to shin down a drainpipe, if need be.

But that feat, to her great delight, Cressida found to be unnecessary. For leading down from the side of the balcony was a fire escape. Why hadn’t she thought of looking for that before? This was as easy as could be. Even with her long dressing-gown she had no difficulty in descending the iron rungs to the terrace far below. She was even chuckling with amusement. Whoever had played that humourless joke on her had come off worst, after all.

Or had they? For, safely on the terrace, Cressida found that she could not get back into the house. All the doors were locked, and when she rather timidly tapped on Vincent Moretti’s window, which was the only one to face the garden, there was no answer. Apparently he was not yet home.

But thank goodness there was a crack of light showing from the basement windows. Cressida shrugged resignedly. Once more she had to depend on Jeremy Winter for succour.

A steep flight of stairs led down to the back door. Cressida went down them quickly and banged briskly on the door.

Presently it opened and Jeremy stood there. He was fully dressed, but his black hair was rumpled as if he had been running his hand feverishly through it, and he looked sleepy. Mimosa was twisting voluptuously round his ankles,

Cressida said apologetically, “Yours was the only light showing. That’s why I knocked.”

“Did you indeed?” Jeremy’s dark eyes were losing their sleepy look. They swept over her appraisingly.

“It was the only way I could get in,” Cressida explained.

“And why not the way you got out?”

“That was down the fire escape.” Abruptly Cressida, who was beginning to shiver, lost her politeness and said sharply, “Aren’t you going to let me in? I’ve had enough practical jokes for one night. I suppose it was you who locked me in Lucy’s room, too.”

Suddenly she was remembering Mimosa’s calling on the stairs, and her gaze took in Jeremy’s fully dressed appearance. Why was he still up? It was after two o’clock.

But now she had his interested attention.

“You don’t mean you’ve been locked in that room?”

“And what do you think I would be doing here dressed like this if I hadn’t?”

He gave her tart question serious consideration.

“Actually I don’t know you very well.”

“Oh, don’t be idiotic. You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t be climbing down fire escapes in my dressing-gown from preference.”

“But why should anyone lock you in? The door must have jammed. Look here, I’ll just sprint upstairs and see. Come and sit by my fire. You’re cold.”

Cressida wrapped her arms round herself. “I’m not cold. It’s just that room at night. I shouldn’t have gone up alone. I felt as if someone were walking over my grave.”

But she was talking to herself, for Jeremy had already gone. As she walked into his living-room, brightly lighted, and with his drawing board prominently placed, she could hear his quick footsteps, growing more muffled as he reached the top of the house. In a very short time he was down again.

He looked at Cressida a moment, the expressive eyebrow almost in his hair. Then he said, quite calmly,

“The door wasn’t locked. There isn’t even a key.”

“Oh, but it was! I swear—” She was aware of his completely sceptical gaze. Her quick temper sprang out. “Jeremy Winter, do you stand there thinking I made that excuse to come down the fire escape in my dressing-gown just to see you? Oh no, surely you couldn’t flatter yourself that much.”

“Too bad,” Jeremy murmured.

“I won’t stand it!” Cressida cried. “I expect the truth is that you went up just now and unlocked the door. After all I did hear Mimosa on the stairs when I was in Lucy’s room.”

“Mimosa!” Jeremy said accusingly. “Did you lock the lady in? Naughty creature!”

“Don’t be idiotic!” Cressida was nearly beside herself with anger, and that humiliating lingering fear. “I was locked in that room tonight, and if I hadn’t come down the fire escape I would have had to spend the night there. Somebody pretended not to hear me calling, and then, I suppose, seeing or hearing me go down the fire escape, rushed upstairs to unlock the door and pretend nothing had happened.”

“Sit down,” said Jeremy. “You’re still shivering.”

“No, I won’t sit down. This isn’t a social call. Thank you for letting me in, and now I’ll go.”

Jeremy made no move to go and open the door.

“You’re very attractive when you’re angry. Does Tom think so?”

“Please leave Tom’s name out of this.”

“I can’t very well, because at this moment I’m wondering if you wouldn’t be wise to go home to him after all, pride or no pride.”

Mimosa suddenly rubbed insinuatingly round Cressida’s ankles. Cressida looked down at his broad golden back, and then up at the tall young man in front of her. He was not laughing now. He was looking at her quizzically, even with something like seriousness. She found her anger leaving her.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because here, whatever else you may be, I’m afraid you’re going to be someone come back from the grave. And already, you see, it isn’t particularly healthy.”

“You don’t mean—Arabia?” Cressida was almost whispering. She had a sudden vision of being a prisoner forever in that charming lifeless room, her only visitor the old woman in her outlandish clothes.

Jeremy looked genuinely puzzled. “Actually I can’t believe she would do a crazy thing like that. I know she thoroughly enjoys romancing, and being amusing, and shocking, if possible, but I always thought she was quite sane. Look here, you’d better go to bed and convince yourself you dreamed the thing. I’ll take you upstairs.”

“I didn’t dream it,” Cressida said soberly. “And I don’t intend to go home to Tom either. At least, not yet. Getting locked in either accidentally or on purpose doesn’t frighten me. Lucy’s story is just the kind of thing I have been looking for and I intend to find out more of it. I’m sure there’s more to find out. Who was Monty in her diary, for instance?”

“Just debutante stuff,” Jeremy said.

“Perhaps. But Arabia gets a look in her eye. I don’t think she’s telling me everything. And as for you”—she turned on him suddenly—“what are you doing up at this hour of the night?”

“Working,” said Jeremy mildly. “I do a strip cartoon featuring Mimosa. Like to see it?”

He indicated his drawing-board, and Cressida looked with amusement at the rows of plump cats, walking stiffly on their hind legs, holding animated conversations.

“Mimosa is a bit slow in providing me with a plot sometimes,” Jeremy complained. “He’s a lazy brute.”

Cressida laughed involuntarily. Then suddenly she was remembering again Mimosa’s miaow on the stairs and the furtive sound at the door. Had this all been an elaborate scheme to stimulate a jaded imagination? No, that was foolish… Unless Jeremy had thought it would be amusing to have her come to his door so late at night, knowing she would inevitably come down the fire escape.

“They’re supposed to be funny,” Jeremy observed.

“Oh, they are, too. I like them.”

“Well, don’t scowl like that. Come and I’ll take you to your room. There’s Mimosa gone ahead. He’s skittish enough at two o’clock in the morning.”

Indeed, Mimosa had darted ahead, surprisingly fleet and silent for so large a cat. When they reached Cressida’s door he was there first, and as Jeremy leaned forward to open it, whispering. “Not a sound or your reputation has gone, the house is full of old women,” Mimosa darted into the room.

“Blast that animal!” Jeremy exclaimed.

“Oh, come in and catch him,” Cressida laughed. She switched on the light, and had a sensation of renewed pleasure at the sight of the bright, attractive furnished room. “There he is under the couch. If I go on this side—what are you looking at?”

Jeremy was looking at the table. He was looking at a key—large, old-fashioned and a little rusted. Under it was a sheet of paper and on the paper was printed cryptically:
But the grave has no need of a key.

“Y
OU PUT IT THERE!” CRESSIDA BURST
out.

Jeremy lifted his brows. “You think so?” he said. That was all.

Why had he this way, with his quiet amusement, of making her feel young and foolish, particularly foolish? He annoyed her extremely, and it was unfortunate indeed that she had been so dependent on him.

“Who else could it be? Everyone else is in bed asleep.”

“How do you know? Have you looked?”

“Don’t be absurd! One can’t go unceremoniously into other people’s rooms.”

“Someone has had no qualms about coming unceremoniously into yours.”

Then Jeremy patted her shoulder in a paternal way, and said.

“Don’t worry any more about it tonight. It’s an unpleasant joke, but harmless. Go to bed and get some sleep. All right?”

Cressida nodded reluctantly. She should have been glad to see him go, but that lurking intuitive fear had come back, and suddenly she dreaded being alone.

“At least you know now that I didn’t imagine the door was locked.”

“Your reputation is unblemished, my dear. I’ll do some snooping tomorrow. Now get some sleep or you’ll be useless to me as a model. I’m not accustomed to drawing circles under beautiful eyes.”

She suspected then that he was not so much being impertinent as joking to cheer her up. But when he had gone all her apprehension returned. Someone didn’t like her being in this house. And it was someone who was jealous of Lucy’s memory. Who could it be, after all, but Arabia?

Surprisingly enough, Cressida did sleep soundly for the remainder of the night, and awoke only to the peremptory tap of Miss Glory on her door.

“You still asleep?” she said in her abrupt way. “I thought you might like a cup of tea, as I don’t expect you’ve had time to get in any provisions yet.”

Cressida sat up, welcoming the tall angular woman with the sallow face, dragged-back hair and slightly forbidding manner. She was being very kind, and the abruptness of her voice probably hid shyness.

“Thank you very much,” she was beginning, when a voice down the hall called,

“Where are you, rosebud, my own?”

Miss Glory giggled suddenly and surprisingly. Her brown eyes had grown soft.

“That’s Mr. Moretti. Isn’t he absurd. Rosebud, indeed! He does it because he knows it makes me angry.”

But Miss Glory wasn’t angry. She was faintly blushing.

“Will you be going out this morning, Miss Barclay?”

“Yes, I have to see about a job.”

“Then I’ll do you while you’re out.”

“But I don’t think I can afford to pay—”

Miss Glory jerked her head towards the ceiling. “Say no more. Orders from above. You’re the pet.”

“Oh, but—”

“I shouldn’t worry. Take all you can. You’ll pay in another way, just as I do.” Miss Glory’s voice was cryptic. “Did you sleep well?”

Cressida hesitated. She looked at the sallow, angular face, and instantly dismissed the thought that Miss Glory could have had any interest in prowling about the house at night.

“Yes, thank you,” she said politely. “And thank you very much for the tea.”

“You’re welcome.” The softness momentarily came back into the brown eyes. “It’s nice to see a young face about.”

As the result of Miss Glory’s thoughtful visit, Cressida’s mercurial spirits soared again.
But the grave has no need of a key…
Those words did not belong to this fine morning. They were part of last night’s nightmare, and to be forgotten as a nightmare was on waking. She drank her tea, then sang as she bathed and dressed. The clatter of bottles announced the arrival of the milkman, and she went out to get her milk just as Mrs. Stanhope was saying goodbye to Dawson at the front door. Dawson, the tall gangling boy, stooped to kiss his mother, then saw Cressida and gave her a shy nod, not looking at her.

He was at the awkward stage, Cressida thought, and couldn’t be criticised for his somewhat offhand manners, but she still could find nothing particular to like about him. He had a long, narrow head covered with spiky hair, his skin was pale, and his eyes behind thick glasses were myopic. Poor boy, he hadn’t been endowed with much physical beauty, but obviously his mother doted on him, and obviously also he was a devoted son.