Home through the Dark (2 page)

“But you'll put the police onto him, surely? They could trace him. He's bound to have a dirty great mark along his own door.”

But I didn't want the police's notice any more than my unknown assailant would. “It's not worth it, honestly. No real harm was done.”

“Not this time maybe,” returned my champion darkly, “but he shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. Mrs. Baillie said he didn't even stop to see if you was hurt, and he must have seen you spinning, in his rear-view mirror. Didn't you get a look at him at all?”

“Only an impression of dark hair and sunglasses. Not much help. Really, I'd rather forget the whole thing. Just do what you can to repair the damage, will you? And thank you for bringing her back.” I fumbled in my purse and handed him a pound note, which he made a play of not wanting to take, and by the time his scruples had been honourably set aside and he went on his way, people were beginning to make their way through to the dining room.

I was relieved to be directed to a small table over by the window, from where I could study my fellow diners in relative privacy. The George was obviously principally a businessman's hotel, with only a sprinkling of elderly residents. After an initial glance no one paid me any attention and the slight puffiness round my eyes remained blessedly undetected.

It was eight-fifteen when I finished my meal and the evening stretched emptily ahead of me as, I realized with rising panic, would every other evening from now on. Already it was almost dark outside and my initial idea of a walk through the town was not feasible. I glanced into the large, impersonal lounge just off the hall, and immediately rejected its station waiting-room atmosphere. There was a stand of paperbacks by the reception desk and I was turning it idly when the girl called me across.

“Miss Durrell, I wonder if you'd mind registering now?”

It was only when I had signed my name that I realized I could hardly fill in the address of the Chelsea flat. “I'm just in the process of moving,” I said quickly. “What shall I put, ‘No fixed address'?”

The girl smiled. “That might alarm the other guests! Never mind, just leave that column blank for now. Can you give me any idea of how long you'll be staying?”

“Not at the moment. I shall be going to an estate agent tomorrow to see if they have any furnished flats available. If I can find somewhere suitable, I'll move in right away.” I held up the paperback I had selected to help me pass the evening. “Can I pay you for this? And is there a Residents' Lounge anywhere?”

“Yes – down that passage on your right – it's marked on the door.”

The Residents' Lounge, though smaller, looked no more inviting than the other and I was subjected to slightly disapproving stares from the assorted occupants. A police serial was in full spate on the television. I sat down as inconspicuously as possible and opened my book, but the initial concentration required to awaken interest in it was beyond me. My mind circled repeatedly round Carl and Leonie and belatedly I began to wonder if I had done the right thing in running away. I must certainly have branded myself forever as the stuffy schoolmistress he had probably always suspected. Might it not have been more dignified to have returned to the flat and left to Carl the onus of coming back to face me? But I knew I could not have remained calm and dignified and the whole thing would have degenerated into bitter accusations. Under such circumstances things might have been said which would have endangered our future together just as surely as I had done by leaving without waiting to hear his excuses. After all, what excuses could he possibly have?

The police serial finished and the news came on. More bombs in London – a sudden, aching anxiety for Carl which I quickly crushed. But might not a theatre appear to some warped mind as an ideal place for an explosion? I clenched my teeth and fixed my attention on the announcer. The news tailed off into the weather forecast. The hot weather was expected to continue.

I had picked up my book again when the next words from the television electrified me. “And now on our midweek discussion program we are screening a live interview with Carl Clements.”

For the second time that day my first instinct was flight, but quite suddenly I hadn't even the strength to get to my feet. And already Carl's face was on the screen, so familiar in every contour that I couldn't tear myself away, couldn't believe that the tie between us had been so abruptly broken. I remembered now that he had mentioned the program – could it really have been only this morning, at breakfast? “Come to the theatre with me, Gin, and we'll go on for supper afterwards.” He hated live television, complaining that he always felt under-rehearsed, and I'd been glad that he wanted my support in the studio audience.

Certainly he was not his usual suave self this evening. Twice the interviewer had to repeat a question, once Carl's reply was completely off the mark, and once, at a relatively innocuous question, he very nearly lost his temper. No doubt, I thought with savage satisfaction, he was wondering where I was, whether I would be back at the flat by the time he got home.

“It seems some time since we've seen you on the stage yourself, Mr. Clements, though I know, of course, that you're producing the play at the Playhouse. Are you intending to do less acting in the future and concentrate on producing?”

Carl shifted on his chair, glanced openly at his watch.

“Not at all, no. In fact I shall be appearing in a new production of
Richard the Third
early in December.”

I stopped listening to the exchange, concentrating on Carl's obvious unease. Should I perhaps ring him at the flat later, if only to let him know that I hadn't thrown myself in the river? But there was nothing else to say. By running away I had effectively burned my boats. I had forestalled any attempt of his to put things right and my pride would not now let me make the first move towards reconciliation.

A sudden rush of helpless tears blurred his image and by the time I had collected myself again the interviewer was smoothly bringing the program to a close. At last this horrible, traumatic day was almost over. With the unread paperback clasped like a talisman, I left the room and went swiftly up to bed.

THE next morning, waking in an unfamiliar room I and the rushing back of full consciousness brought a renewed wave of desolation, only slightly mitigated by the sunshine that was flooding into the room. Carl would still be asleep, his hair over his face and one arm flung across my empty side of the bed.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, determining to clamp down on all thoughts of Carl until I had more control of myself. In any case, I told myself severely, turning the bath taps on full, my position was by no means unique and I was better placed than most. There could be few women who had both the financial independence and the complete lack of ties which had made my own immediate withdrawal feasible. There were, incredibly, a few blessings still left to be counted and not the least was that this was a new day and I could do something positive about finding somewhere to live.

Westhampton when I ventured out a couple of hours later lightened my self-pity still further. It was a gracious, well-proportioned town of clean buildings and a leisurely, unhurried atmosphere. I made my way down the narrow High Street, peering into the windows of antique shops and little grocers still old-fashionedly redolent of roasting coffee, and eventually turned the corner which brought me out halfway down the elegant Avenue.

On the opposite side from where I stood, grass and flower beds offered a pleasant walk and the opportunity to sit beside sparkling fountains, while the colonnaded row of buildings behind them consisted apparently of banks, solicitors' offices, and, I hoped, estate agents'.

I crossed the wide road, threaded my way round a fountain, and almost immediately came upon what I was looking for. The legend on the glass read “Culpepper, Simpson and Clark, Auctioneers and Estate Agents.” I pushed open the door and went in. The outer office was deserted and the two glass doors in the handsome walnut partition at the back remained firmly closed. There was a bell on the counter and I rang it, idly running my eye down the lists of properties displayed.

Nobody came. Outside the windows the fountains played and across the road I could see the moving, brightly coloured throng of morning shoppers.

I rang the bell again, with less hope, and it was echoed almost immediately by the sudden shrilling of the telephone on the counter beside me. Surely the joint summons would bring someone running? It takes a lot of will power to let a telephone ring unanswered, even when it is not your own, and the aftermath of yesterday's distress had left me with a tendency to a headache. I picked up the receiver therefore, intending to say that the office appeared to be deserted, but before I could speak a low voice broke in with an undercurrent of urgency: “Are you alone?”

Off balance, I stammered, “Er – yes, I –”

“Then shut up and listen. I've not much time. It went like a dream – he never knew what hit him! Now all we need is the lolly. Bring the note as soon as you can in a plain envelope – Picardy 127. But for God's sake don't knock or anything till you hear the tune and know the coast's clear. Okay? See you.”

The phone clicked in my ear. I stood blankly holding it while the incredible phrases repeated themselves senselessly in my head. After a moment I carefully replaced the receiver and ran my hands down my skirt. Outside, a passing car hooted suddenly and my heart leaped to my throat. My original intention of leaving a message for the absent staff was hardly applicable now. In fact, if anyone learned what I had inadvertently overheard –

Before the thought had fully formulated, I was outside in the sunshine, walking quickly up the road. A swift glance over my shoulder showed the path clear behind me. As far as I could tell, no one had seen me emerge. The lolly – note in a plain envelope – wait till you hear the tune. Shades of Harry Lime, I thought, but the parallel wasn't as amusing as I'd supposed.

I was still walking swiftly up the road. What would the caller do when he realized the wrong person had received his message? What
could
he do? There was nothing whatsoever to link me with it. If I'd spoken at all, it had been no more than a word, and who in this town could recognize my voice from that?

“Never knew what hit him.” Was that a colloquialism or had it been meant literally? I shivered in the warm sunshine. Looking about me at this lovely town and its inhabitants going peacefully about their everyday business, the whole thing seemed ludicrous. But no more ludicrous than bombs in Oxford Street. Heaven help us, we were beginning to accept the macabre, the distorted, almost without questioning it.

My swift progress had brought me to the end of the parade and as luck would have it, the last doorway happened to be that of another estate agent. This time I glanced cautiously inside and was reassured to see a girl sitting at a desk typing. I pushed open the door and went in.

I imagine something of my agitation must have communicated itself to the man sitting opposite me across the wide expanse of desk, and not unnaturally he put it down to acute anxiety to find somewhere to live. His manner became positively avuncular.

“Now don't worry, Miss Durrell, I'm sure we'll find somewhere to suit you, though the amount of rent you have in mind is rather limiting. However, we'll do our best.”

Two hours later, my agitation had increased rather than otherwise. A succession of dreary, boxlike flats was behind us, each one a mockery of the gracious Chelsea apartment that had so recently been home. Although I had not anticipated finding anything in that class, it was impossible to imagine myself living in any of these.

Back in the car again, Mr. Henry said tentatively, “Miss Durrell, there's no chance of your raising the figure at all? I have in mind one particular property which I'm sure would appeal to you. It only came on the market last weekend; the owner has been sent abroad on business and wants to let it for six months. I'm sure it's very much what you're looking for, but I'm afraid it's also considerably more expensive.”

“Well, on the strength of what we've seen so far, I'll obviously have to raise my sites a little.”

“Let me at least show you the Beeches and then we can discuss the financial implications more fully.”

Financial implications – the words had a rather forbidding ring. Thank goodness for the small legacies from my parents which careful investment had substantially increased over the years. At least I shouldn't be in the undignified position of having to appeal to Carl for help.

We were now leaving the depressing streets of shabby-genteel houses and moving into a much more pleasant district with wide, tree-lined roads like those I had seen yesterday with Mrs. Baillie.

“Almost there,” Mr. Henry said rallyingly, and we turned into a handsome square, the centre of which was entirely filled with a park. “It's over on our right now, but since it's ‘one way,' we have to go round three sides of the square to get there. A lovely position, I'm sure you'll agree.”

I was straining to look back over my shoulder but the house was screened by trees and I contented myself with a glance at the houses round the other sides of the square – elegant, substantial and well cared for.

“And here we are.”

I looked and was lost before we'd even left the car. The Beeches was a long, low house set back only slightly from the pavement with a sweep of immaculate gravel-swept drive in front of it. There was a small wing on each side.

“The vacant flat is the ground floor one in the right wing,” Mr. Henry murmured, respecting my silence.

“How many flats are there altogether?”

“Eight; two up and two down in the main part of the house, one up and one down in each of the wings.” He hesitated. “Would you like to see over it?”