Dorothy Eden (75 page)

Authors: Eerie Nights in London

‘It was Prissie who did that,’ said Fergus. ‘Her husband is a conjurer and ventriloquist. Naturally he taught a clever little thing like Prissie some of his tricks. She became remarkably adept at ventriloquism, as you and Nicky can now testify. It was a useful trick. It frightened you into thinking you were going to be a permanent cripple, which was what she wanted, and it kept Nicky quiet about things that she didn’t want mentioned. The existence of Clementine, for instance. It pleased her to give her own child outings with yours, and to buy things for her, even to steal from Nicky and Sarah for her. But of course it wouldn’t do for the children to talk. Sarah was too small, but Nicky, with his observant nature, was a constant threat. So when she found he was a nervous child she had a perfect way to silence him.’

‘The children’s voices at the house that day?’ Brigit said.

‘That was Clementine’s birthday party. Another bit of audacity on Prissie’s part. Both Nicky and Sarah were there. Jacques did conjuring tricks, and even began to teach Nicky the one with the handkerchiefs. When you went there and collapsed she and Jacques took you home in a taxi, were able to smuggle you in unnoticed, undressed you, and then cleverly left you lying on the floor so that when you inevitably told your story everyone would think it was a delusion you had, following shock from your fall out of bed. It worked very well. Too well.

‘Nurse Ellen’s fall, also, was engineered. Prissie had discovered the rotting board in the wardrobe and the deep drop. Instead of reporting it she decided it might be useful one day. As it was the day Nurse Ellen proposed to find out the truth about Clementine. She purposely hung the children’s coats at the back of the wardrobe so that Nurse Ellen, being heavy, would step right inside, and of course the floor would collapse. She swears she didn’t mean to leave Nurse Ellen down there to die, but just long enough to give her a good fright. In the same way she says she only pretended to kidnap the children to give you a fright.’

‘But why did she hate me so much?’ Brigit asked in bewilderment. ‘Was it just jealousy? Oh, I know she had fallen in love with you, but surely this extreme vindictive-ness couldn’t have been just from jealousy?’

‘And that,’ said Fergus, ‘is the germ of the story. Darling, this is going to be rather a shock for you.’

Brigit moved her legs slightly, feeling with satisfaction their obedience, and relaxed happily.

‘Nothing can shock me now,’ she murmured.

‘Not even being told that your whole life has been a mistake? That you shouldn’t have been brought up in luxury at all? That you should have been a penniless orphan fighting your own way, relying on the kindness of an old nurse who was no relation at all to see that you were clothed and fed.’

‘That’s Prissie’s story!’ Brigit ejaculated.

‘Precisely.’

‘I am you and you are me,’ Brigit said slowly. That’s what the voice used to say. But, Fergus, tell me, what is this? Am I Prissie?’

‘Thank God, no. Prissie is the daughter of the woman you thought your mother, Marion Templar, and her husband, Gilbert Fulton. The sister of Guy, whom she let kiss and make love to her, for the purpose of worming out of him shameful secrets about the Templar family, so that her husband could practise the pleasant art of blackmail.’

‘Fergus, stop this! Tell me simply the truth!’

‘The truth,’ said Fergus, ‘unfortunately can’t be proved. All Prissie had was a letter written by her old nurse on her deathbed, confessing to a mix-up of babies the night that you and Prissie were born in the same nursing-home. Two women had baby girls within an hour of one another, one woman was Marion Fulton, a daughter of the famous and wealthy Templar family, the other was a little ballet dancer whose husband was dead, and who herself died on giving birth to her baby.’

‘She was my mother!’ Brigit whispered intuitively. ‘I know. Because Sarah dances all the time.’

‘And Prissie,’ said Fergus, ‘if you have noticed, is remarkably like one or two of the portraits on the stairs.’

Brigit was breathing quickly, aware of a wonderful lightness of spirit, as if she had been released from something overpowering.

‘But how did all this happen?’

‘That, we have to take the old nurse’s word for. She says that while caring for the newly-born Templar baby she dropped it. It wasn’t a serious fall, but the head was bruised and bleeding. She panicked. How could she take an injured child into that beautiful autocratic frightening girl? So, on the impulse of the moment, she took in the perfect child, the baby of the dead ballet dancer. And in that moment you became Brigit Templar, and Prissie, with all the Templar greed and ruthlessness, became you. The nurse, suffering from conscience, adopted Prissie and brought her up, and until recently Prissie genuinely thought she was her aunt.’

Fergus stopped a moment to consider Brigit.

‘So you see, my darling, how it hasn’t been easy for either of you, born out of your true environments.’

‘Fergus, do you realize!’ Brigit was crying with joy. ‘Oh, do you realize I’m not a Templar after all. Nicky and Sarah aren’t Templars. We’re nice people. Oh, Fergus!’

‘It didn’t matter,’ said Fergus. ‘I loved you either way. You know that, my little silly. And if you thought I was flirting with Prissie it was merely that I was playing the game she had played with Guy, getting close to her to find out her secrets.’

‘She said everyone had a secret. Fergus, Guy knew?’

‘Guy knew. He found that he had fallen in love with his own sister. Apparently Nicky had taken the letter out of Prissie’s locket, and shown it to Guy, quite innocently. He just never got over the shock, poor devil.’

Brigit reflected sombrely.

‘But why didn’t Prissie tell us all this secret? Why work in such an underhand way?’

‘Because she had no way of proving it. She had sense enough to know that an hysterical letter from an old dying woman wouldn’t stand up in any court of law. So she decided that what you had was legitimately hers and she would take it from you, if she could. At that time she was genuinely an air hostess, but she deliberately got transferred to the same air line as me, and I, heaven forgive me, played into her hands right away by falling for her hints about wanting a quiet home and children to care for. So she got into our house and began playing her pranks, and her devious husband, aiding and abetting her, thought out new variations on the theme of burglary and blackmailing. Prissie discovered Uncle Saunders’s hiding place for the gold angel accidentally when searching for the housekeeping money. Of course she passed that information to her husband. Guy’s trouble she deduced from finding newspaper clippings about the accident in his room, and remembering the fuss over the dented mudguard on the car the day they came down to our place.’

‘The husband might have been a Templar, too,’ Brigit murmured. ‘Oh, Fergus, thank heaven I’m free from that tainted blood. I owe that much to Prissie. I should be grateful. What will happen to her?’

‘She and her husband will serve a prison sentence. Then they’ll come out and think up other easy ways to make money. Having the Templar ingenuity—but that reminds me, the ingenuity has forsaken poor old Uncle Saunders. He’s a tamed lion, adding up his losses. What shall we do with him and Aunt Annabel?’

‘Give them a home with us, of course,’ said Brigit unhesitatingly. ‘And see that Aunt Annabel doesn’t get into trouble with the cats’ club.’

Then Fergus’s arms went round her in that old close passionate way for which she had longed.

‘That remark wouldn’t represent proof in a court of law, but it’s indisputable proof to me. You’re no Templar!’ After a moment he said, ‘What are you thinking, my darling?’

Brigit didn’t answer. She was lost in a happy dream about the girl who had loved to dance, the fair-haired girl, gentle and full of laughter, who had been her mother.

There were suddenly shrieks of laughter from the hearthrug as the black kitten pounced after Aunt Annabel’s ball of wool.

‘And so that’s what happened to those naughty kittens,’ finished Aunt Annabel placidly. ‘Brigit, dear, will there be homeless and starving cats in the country?’

‘Not where we live, Aunt Annabel.’

Aunt Annabel sighed with pleasure, her wispy hair taking on the shine of a halo in the firelight.

‘It must be heaven.’

Fergus looked into Brigit’s eyes.

‘It is heaven,’ he said.

About the Author

Dorothy Eden (1912–1982) was the internationally acclaimed author of more than forty bestselling gothic, romantic suspense, and historical novels. Born in New Zealand, where she attended school and worked as a legal secretary, she moved to London in 1954 and continued to write prolifically. Eden’s novels are known for their suspenseful, spellbinding plots, finely drawn characters, authentic historical detail, and often a hint of spookiness. Her novel of pioneer life in Australia,
The Vines of Yarrabee
, spent four months on the
New York Times
bestseller list. Her gothic historical novels
Ravenscroft
,
Darkwater
, and
Winterwood
are considered by critics and readers alike to be classics of the genre.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Death Is a Red Rose

Listen to Danger

Night of the Letter

First published 1955 by Macdonald and Co Publishers Ltd (under the title
Darling Clementine
)

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

978-1-4804-2975-8

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com