Run! (11 page)

Sally looked up, opened her lips to speak, shut them again, and looked down at the white stuff of her dress.

“Yes, I see,” she said.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

She took her hands from the arms of the chair and folded them in her lap.

“If I tell you things, it's not going to be—safe—for you.”

“I don't want to be safe while other people are being murdered, thank you.”

Sally nodded.

“One has that feeling,” she admitted.

“What about you?” said James.

She gave the faint laugh he had heard in the hayloft.

“Oh,
me
?” she said. “I shouldn't think it would make any difference. They mayn't bother about me, or they may. They haven't up till now.”

“Sally, who are
they
?”

She looked down at her hands—pretty, bare hands with no rings.

Then she wasn't engaged. And what did it matter whether she was or no?

She said, “James—I'm going to tell you things. It isn't easy. It's not easy, because I've got to be fair, and it's very difficult to be fair about a thing like this. I'll tell you somethings that happened, and you must draw your own conclusions. I don't want to tell you what I think about the things I'm going to tell you. I would like to know what you think about them. I'd like you to sit down.”

James sat down in the uncertain chair.

“All right, Sally,” he said, “go ahead.”

She looked up then, but not at him. Her eyes went past him. She said,

“I told you I met Daphne in the Tyrol. Not last summer, the year before. It was at a place called Holbrunn. Jocko and I were both there—we were with a party. We got to know the Stricklands awfully well, and we did quite a lot of climbing.” She stopped and looked at him. “It's awfully difficult. I don't think I've begun right. I think I ought to have begun with Aunt Clementa.”

“All right, begin again.”

She took a deep breath.

“I'm doing it very badly. You know what I told you in the hayloft about Aunt Clementa and her diamond necklace?”

“I know there was something about a diamond necklace.”

“I told you she'd hidden it and I'd gone to the house to look for it.”

“Yes,” said James drily—“it was something like that. I thought it was a yarn.”

Sally looked away.

“Well, it was and it wasn't. She did hide something, but it wasn't the diamond necklace. At least she told me she'd hidden something. She was bedridden, you know. That's to say everyone thought she was bedridden, and she was awfully old and ill, so I didn't take much notice at the time. The nurse was in the bedroom with the door open between. She had two nurses and they took turns. One of them was always there. And when I really began to think about things I thought about that, because nurses generally go away tactfully when you come to see your bedridden relations. But these two didn't. Never. One of them was always hovering. And I didn't like either of them. One was smarmy, and the other all tight and starched—you know the kind. Well, that day it was the starched one. Aunt Clementa was supposed to be more or less unconscious—it was only a few days before she died—but all of a sudden I saw her looking at me. She was lying on her side with her back to the nurse, and she hooked a finger out of the bed-clothes and beckoned to me, so I bent down and said ‘What is it?' and she began to whisper right in my ear. She said, ‘I've got a letter for Annie. I want you to address it to her and post it yourself.' Well, I thought she was wandering, but she put her hand under the pillow and pulled out a crumpled envelope and pushed it into my hand. She said, ‘Don't let her see. Quick—put it down the front of your dress!' So I did. And the nurse came out of the bathroom and asked if she wanted anything. I really did think Aunt Clementa was wandering, but I hated the nurse, so I said, ‘I think she wants her handkerchief.' And Aunt Clementa groaned and rolled up her eyes. After a bit the nurse went back, and Aunt Clementa looked at me and winked.”

“Who was Annie?” said James.

“The old maid she used to have. She'd been there twenty years, but she couldn't get on with the nurses, so she left. I thought she might have stuck it out myself, because the poor old pet missed her frightfully. All the old servants left round about then. They were supposed to be extravagant and I don't know what, but she liked them and they looked after her, and I thought it was a shame. Well, I wanted awfully to get rid of the nurse for a moment, but I didn't know how. Then I thought of a message, and she came over to the bed and took a good look at Aunt Clementa and primmed up her mouth, and I wondered if she was going to refuse, but she went. And the minute she was out of the room Aunt Clementa began to whisper again. She clutched at my hand, and she told me she had hidden the diamond necklace.”

“I thought you said it wasn't a diamond necklace.”

Sally threw him a fleeting glance.

“No, it wasn't a necklace, but I think we'd better go on calling it one.”

“I thought you said she was bedridden.”

“Well, she said she wasn't. That was one of the things she told me. She said she got up in the night and walked about, but no one knew, not even Annie. And I suppose she might have done it, because she hadn't had a night nurse very long, but of course she may just have imagined the whole thing. She hadn't time to finish telling me, and I couldn't ask any questions, because the smarmy nurse came in all hot and bothered. The other one must have sent her up whilst she went on my message, and that made me think a bit too. I didn't like any of it at all.”

XIV

“What did you do?” said James in his practical way.

“I posted the letter to Annie. I didn't tell anyone, and I posted it. And next day we went off to the Tyrol—Jocko and I and the party I told you about.”

“You didn't tell me who was in the party.”

The colour ran up into Sally's cheeks.

“No—I didn't. I don't want to just now. I want to tell you what happened first. I didn't feel happy about leaving Aunt Clementa, but it had all been arranged, and by that time I was feeling quite sure that she had just been rambling. I wrote to two cousins and an aunt and told them to keep an eye on her and make sure the nurses were doing their job, and then I went off. Well, she died whilst I was on my way over. Jocko and I didn't go back for the funeral. We—we weren't encouraged to. Then when Jocko found she'd left him the house and a lot of money he felt rather bad about it. We both did. I suppose we ought to have gone, but—I told you we weren't encouraged, so we stayed at Holbrunn. My guardian went over, and when he came back he told Jocko about the will.”

“You haven't told me anything about your guardian.”

“No,” said Sally. “But I will presently.” Then she went on quickly, “This is a very difficult bit to tell. It's all difficult, but this is the worst bit.”

“All right, go on.”

“It's dreadfully difficult. We were all at breakfast one morning, and the post came in. There was a letter for Jocko, and when he opened it he said, ‘Good Lord! What's old Annie writing to me for?' And I tried to kick him under the table, because I knew it must be something to do with the letter I'd posted for Aunt Clementa, but I expect I kicked the wrong person, because he began to read Annie's letter out loud, and it just said Aunt Clementa had asked her to send him the enclosed, and she hoped he was very well, and kind regards from Annie. Well, ‘the enclosed' was the crumpled envelope Aunt Clementa had given me. Everyone just sat, and Jocko opened it and took out the most awful scrawl and began to read that too. It began, ‘Dear Jocko,' and then it went on, ‘I'm going to die, and I've left you this house. I want you to find what I've hidden here. I've had to hide it because of
them
.' And when he'd got as far as that I couldn't bear it any longer, and I said, ‘Jocko, you oughtn't to read that out. She didn't know what she was writing. It's not fair.' And my guardian said, ‘Quite right, Sally,' and Jocko stopped. He just looked down the page, and he said, ‘She must have been mad, poor old thing,' and he put it in his pocket. Well, after breakfast we all went out. We weren't doing a real climb, only scrambling about. Jocko had a very bad fall. He went over a place which ought to have killed him. There was a good wide ledge and lots of room. I was in front, so I didn't see what happened. Someone screamed, and when I turned round Jocko wasn't there. It was the most frightful time I've ever had, because it took us more than half an hour to get to a place where we could climb down, and then we had to work back to where he'd gone over, and when we did get there I thought he was dead. He wasn't, but I thought he was. I made a fool of myself. I just sat down and put my head in my hands, so I don't know what happened, but presently they said he wasn't dead—I think it was Daphne who said so—and between us we got him back to the hotel. By the time we got there I was all right again. I kept with him, and before they started to undress him I looked for Aunt Clementa's letter, but it wasn't there. I knew which pocket he'd put it in, but it wasn't there. I looked in all his pockets, and it wasn't in any of them.”

“It could easily have fallen out when he fell.”

Sally shook her head.

“No, it couldn't. It was in an inside pocket, and he had on a jerkin. It couldn't possibly have fallen out.”

“Well, what did he say about it himself—about the fall and everything?”

Sally lifted one of her hands and let it fall on her knee.

“He never remembered anything. He had a very bad concussion, and he never remembered a single thing.”

“Do you mean he didn't remember what was in the letter?'

“Not a thing—not then.”

“How do you mean, not then?”

Sally hesitated.

“He's remembered now—what was in the letter, I mean. At least I think he has. He hasn't told me straight out, but I think he's remembered, and I think that's why he's coming home.”

“Yes?” said James.

“And I think it's very dangerous,” said Sally.

James leaned forward.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Oh!” said Sally on a startled breath. She leaned back against her black velvet cloak and the red leather of the chair.

James looked sternly at her.

“What's the good of telling me anything if you don't mean to go the whole way? First of all you say I'm not to ask any questions, and then you give me about half the bits of a jigsaw puzzle and say ‘Go on—make your own picture.' How can I make any picture if you don't give the pieces?”

“What pieces do you want?” said Sally.

“I'll tell you. If you answer my questions, I'll pick out what pieces I want.”

Sally looked at him, and looked away, but she didn't speak.

“And the first thing I want to know is, did your Aunt Clementa really hide anything?”

“I don't know. She said she did.”

“What did she hide?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“You must.”

“Papers,” said Sally with a sigh. Then she straightened up. “And it's no good your putting over any more of that third-degree stuff on me, because I can't tell you what I don't know.”

“All right, all right. Now this business about Jocko. Who was there when he got your Aunt Clementa's letter?”

“All of us.”

“Who's ‘all of us'?”

“It was at breakfast. We were all there.”

James gave her a raging look. He thought he knew something about how enraging girls could be, but Sally really was the limit. They generally did it to make you lose your temper, so he held on tight to his.

“You keep on saying ‘all,' and ‘we.' Do you mind telling me what that means? All the names please—one at a time.”

Sally's colour rose.

“Well, I was there,” she said.

“Yes?”

“And Jocko.”

“Yes, I'd gathered that.”

“And Daphne and Bonzo,” said Sally quickly.

“Bonzo? Was Bonzo Strickland there?”

Sally nodded.

“All the time. We were all great friends—we did everything together.”

“Well? Who else?”

There was a longish pause. The colour in Sally's cheeks burned high. Then she said all in a hurry,

“There was Hildegarde, and Henri.”

“Now we're getting there,” said James to himself. “Bonzo and Daphne indeed! Stuff and rubbish!” He said out loud,

“Do you mind telling me about Hildegarde and Henri? Who are they? You're not being exactly helpful, you know.”

“Oh—” said Sally. And then, “Henri is Henri Niemeyer. He is Hildegarde's cousin.”

“Oh, he's Hildegarde's cousin? That explains everything—doesn't it? And who is Hildegarde?”

“Hildegarde is my guardian's wife.”

“And who is your guardian?”

She said in a perfectly colourless voice.

“My guardian is Ambrose Sylvester.”

XV

“
What
?” said James.

Sally said nothing. She looked down at her clasped hands.

James took her by the left wrist with his right hand and by the right wrist with his left hand and pulled her fingers apart. He kept his hold of her, a strong, hard hold, and he said,

“Are you making this up?”

Sally said nothing.

James rather shouted at her.

“Is this another Aspidistra Aspinall stunt? Because if it is, I'm not taking any!”

“No, said Sally—“it's true.”

“Ambrose Sylvester is your uncle?”

“No, I never said he was my uncle. He's my guardian till I come of age. I'm not twenty-one yet.”

James went on holding her wrists.