Home through the Dark (15 page)

I became aware that all round me people were now eating lunch, and that the waitress, judging by her expression, did not approve of my long-drawn-out cups of coffee. To pacify her, and avoid having to disrupt my thoughts at that juncture, I ordered an omelette and more coffee.

The obvious place for them to be holding him was the theatre. In all probability, Stephen and Rachel had come straight from him that afternoon when I hid on the staircase.

Excitement began to move in me. All that remained was to discover which of those rooms farther along the passage or under the stage was the one that concealed him, how many keys were in existence and who had charge of them, and the best way, once these obstacles had been overcome, to remove Etienne from the theatre without being seen. As a first step, I would go along to the theatre that afternoon. The more frequently I dropped in, the less notice anyone would take of my presence, and I could begin to inch my way towards the hidden regions at the back of the building.

At last, and to the waitress's obvious if unspoken relief, I left the >café. The afternoon had turned cool and windy. I put the full shopping basket on the back seat of the car and drove quickly to my usual parking place. It was not until I actually reached the theatre that I realized a performance was in progress. The Saturday matinee; I'd forgotten all about it. Not that it mattered. All I had to do today was to re-establish my presence there.

I looked into the kitchenette, but tea was well under way for the approaching interval. That seat across the foyer was where I had sat to wait for Carl. For a moment I was tormented by a wave of longing to run to the nearest phone box and call him, explain my innocence in the whole affair and stop him thinking such unspeakable things about me. I fought it down. Soon, when I had found out all I had to know, I would be able to go to him and present him with the complete picture. After that – but I couldn't think beyond that.

A hum from the auditorium indicated that the curtain had fallen at the end of Act 2 and the audience began to spill out into the foyer. It contained a large proportion of schoolchildren; perhaps
Twelfth Night
was on the local schools' syllabus this year. Glasses of fruit squash were lined up on the counter as an alternative to tea.

“Hello, Ginnie. Can't you keep away?” Liz Payne had appeared smilingly at my side.

“Of course not. Anything I can do?”

“I don't think so. I just came in to hear the general comments. Did it go all right the other night? There was quite a good write-up in the local paper.”

“I thought it was very good, yes.”

She glanced sideways at me. “I hear Mr. Clements has invited Robert to appear in
Richard the Third
with him. Everyone's green with envy!”

“Yes, he's had him in mind for some time.”

“I was glad to see you together on Thursday –” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Our togetherness,” I said crisply, “was purely academic.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Cup of tea?” I thrust one into her hand. “How are things backstage?”

“Much as usual. Unfortunately Suzanne's back in evidence and she's such a bag of nerves, even though she's not in the play, that she infects everyone else.”

A bell sounded and people began to push past us to replace their cups and glasses on the counter.

“I'd better go and hook Joanna into her costume. Are you staying for the next act?”

“I'll probably watch it for a while.”

I had thought there might be a chance of finding my way behind the scenes while Laurence and Stephen were occupied onstage, but it immediately became evident that the girl on duty in the cloakroom had the bend in the passage clearly in view, and might well wonder what I was up to if I disappeared along it, especially since she didn't know me. There was nothing more I could do today, and after watching the play for some time from just inside the auditorium, I slipped out quietly and drove back home. At least between them Suzanne and the theatre had passed a sizable portion of the day for me.

MY thoughts were still revolving round all the new facts I had learned from Suzanne, and when I pushed open the front door of the flat, it was a moment before I fully registered the impact of what met my eyes. Water was lying at least two inches deep all over the hall carpet and from the kitchen a strange, rhythmic grating reached me which, panic-stricken, I immediately associated with the washing machine I had switched on before going out that morning.

Frantically I waded through to survey the chaos in the kitchen. Water was still gushing from the pipe connecting the machine to the wall, while the machine itself jerked and vibrated alarmingly. Closing my mind to the probable condition of the sheets inside it, I splashed across and switched it off. The next priority was obviously the mains water tap, but here my desperate attempts proved useless. It was jammed solid and none of my frantic wrenches moved it one iota. I tore open one drawer after another, searching for a spanner, pliers, any of those mysterious implements with which Carl seemed able to ward off any emergency. There was nothing. I turned flounderingly, the water swirling round my legs, and waded out of the kitchen. The water was seeping out of the open front door onto the gravel, and in that moment Marcus came quickly into view. I had never been more glad to see him.

“Ginnie, what in the name of heaven – ?”

“It's the washing machine. The mains tap is jammed and although the machine's turned off now, the water still keeps coming.”

As I spoke, he was swiftly removing shoes and socks and rolling up his trouser legs. Within seconds he had reached the stubborn tap, wrestled with it, and won. The water stopped with a last mournful drip and we turned together to assess the extent of the damage. I said tremulously, “I don't know where to start!”

“Buckets,” he said crisply, “buckets, mops, and all the cloths you can lay your hands on. Have you a broom? You start to sweep the water out of the front door while I tackle this room. Will it have got in anywhere else, do you think?”

“There's a raised threshold outside the bedroom and drawing room doors. I don't think it's reached that high.”

“Well, don't open the doors, for Pete's sake, till we've got the level down a bit.”

A quick search revealed only one bucket and the washing-up bowl. Marcus handed one to me and the great clear-up got under way. My main concern was the state of the emerald carpet in the hall. It made a sickening, squelshing sound as I walked over it mopping and squeezing, mopping and squeezing. At the end of an hour Marcus had restored the kitchen and bathroom more or less to normal and came to see how I was progressing.

“I think we ought to have that done professionally,” he commented. He glanced at his watch. “It's five o'clock now. No one would come and collect it at this time on a Saturday, but if we roll it up in towels and take it along, they'll do something, surely. Have you any old towels?” I shook my head. “Then get plain white ones. If the dye comes off on them, at least they're easier to replace than the carpet.” He knelt down and felt round the edges just inside the door.

“Thank heaven it's such a small hall. You kneel the other side and we'll roll it up very slowly, keeping level. Move the telephone table, will you?”

Ten minutes later the sodden carpet, protected by towels, was in the boot of his car. Wearily I watched him drive away and turned disconsolately to survey the bare boards of the hall. Only then, with fingers crossed, did I dare to open the doors to the other rooms. To my overwhelming relief, all was well. Except for a damp patch just inside, the carpets in the bedroom and drawing room were dry. I went back into the damp kitchen and automatically started to unpack the basket of groceries I'd dropped on the table when I first came in. Then I stuffed newspaper inside my wringing shoes, vainly hoping they weren't ruined beyond repair, and changed out of my soaked skirt. I had just hung it in the airing cupboard when Marcus came back.

“All right, they'll do it. They seem reasonably optimistic about the result. It may be pricey, but worth it, I imagine. How are the other rooms?”

“All right, thank goodness. Marcus, I can't begin to thank you for all your help.” Especially after my attitude last time we met, I thought with embarrassment.

“Don't mention it. One thing you can do, though. Come up and have dinner with me. You don't want to crash up and down the bare boards here all evening and you look as though you could do with relaxing while someone else does the work.”

In the circumstances I could hardly refuse. He lit the central heating boiler for me to help dry out the damp floor boards and add a little comfort and then I went with him up the stairs to his own flat. Being in the main building, it was a different layout from mine. A small kitchenette was separated from the main sitting room by a breakfast bar and the bedroom and bathroom were at the back. “It suits me admirably,” he remarked, handing me a drink. “I can still watch the telly while I prepare a meal!”

The sitting room was obviously male-orientated. A deep leather sofa stood comfortably on one side of the fireplace, there were dark red easy chairs, an open desk littered with papers and, to one side of the window, a drawing board with plans pinned on it. In the fireplace an electric fire with mock logs flickered cosily, its red shadows reflected on the ceiling.

“Now, the menu tonight is either goulash or coq au vin!” I turned in astonishment. “Good heavens, don't tell me you're a cordon bleu cook!”

He smiled. “People, especially women, seem to imagine that left to themselves men will exist on tinned steak and baked beans. Quite wrong, you know. We usually have one
pièce de resistance
that we bring out for company and for the rest, well, it's simpler to make a big casserole of some sort that will last for most of the week. That's the way I work it, anyhow. There's some of Wednesday's goulash left and I bought a frozen chicken this morning, hence the alternative.”

“The goulash sounds wonderful. I'm most impressed.”

“I once became involved in a culinary discussion with our two artistic friends in Flat Four – it was quite illuminating. They even go so far as a lace tablecloth and candlesticks!”

“That I can believe,” I said drily.

“I have to confess that cork mats and a bottle of plonk are more my style, but they're nice mats, views of old London. Anyway, presumably you're not ready to eat yet; it's only just after six. Finish your drink and I'll pour you another.”

He switched on a lamp beside the fireplace and its soft glow lit the surrounding area, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. “Excuse me a moment while I go and change. These clothes are more than a little damp. There are magazines under the coffee table.”

I bent forward to retrieve a couple, that week's
Punch
and a current edition of
Autocar,
but I didn't open either. I was very tired, mentally and physically, and it was pleasant to lie back in the luxurious depths of the sofa and let my eyes move lazily over the comfortable outlines of the room. If only Marcus had not followed me, had not made that moonlit excursion to the park, I could have relaxed still more.

“A penny for them!” I hadn't noticed his return and his voice made me jump. He had changed into a light-coloured polo neck shirt and slacks and the immediate effect was to make him look younger. I had never seen him in casual clothes before.

“Well? What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing in particular,” I hedged.

“In other words, mind my own business!” He sat down opposite me, settling back in the folds of the chair so that his face was in shadow. “That was the answer I expected, of course, though I haven't given up hope that one day you'll tell me exactly what's going on. Personally I can't decide whether it's diamond smuggling or espionage!”

I said with an effort, “Don't be silly, Marcus.”

“Then at least tell me why you're under constant surveillance from that seat in the park.”

My hands tightened convulsively round the cold glass. “I was hoping,” I said carefully, “that you could tell me.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Only that if you're in the park at dead of night yourself, you should presumably know what other people are doing there.”

There was a silence, punctuated by the steadily ticking grandfather clock in the shadows and a faint hissing from the fire. He said quietly, “You don't miss much, do you?”

“I can't afford to.”

“Then I'll tell you. I went over there to find out what the hell was going on. A torch beam had been moving over the window and I decided the time had come to get to the bottom of it all.”

“And did you?”

“No. Whoever it was vanished into thin air.” There was another long silence before he added, “Do you believe me?”

“I'm not sure.”

He moved impatiently. “I suppose that stupid Foss woman has been filling your head with more nonsense. I have to admit with all due respect that she irritates me profoundly. I don't doubt it was she who told you I was following you?”

I didn't reply but he went on, “Well, I explained about that. Hell, Ginnie, I lead a dull, rather lonely life, and when someone like you appears close at hand, and wrapped in mystery to boot, of course I'm interested, and not a little concerned for your welfare.” He stood up abruptly and poured himself another drink. “So you see,” he went on brittly, “there's no mystery as far as I'm concerned. I just happen to fancy you more than somewhat, and from my angle it's one hell of a drag that you're still so hung-up on that husband of yours. And if that's any of Sarah Foss's damn business, you have my permission to tell her.” He drained his glass and added more calmly, “Sorry, I didn't mean to say that.”