The Spiral Staircase (17 page)

“Has Stephen Rice ever flirted with you?” she asked.

“No,” replied Helen. “And, if he did, I shouldn’t tell you. Affairs should be kept private.”

“But, my good woman, how can they be? One goes out—balls, restaurants, and so on. And there’s always the inevitable man.”

“I wasn’t thinking of you,” said Helen. “I was naturally speaking for myself.”

“You? Have you a lover?”

“Of course,” replied Helen recklessly, as she remembered Dr. Parry’s prophecy. “I’m sorry, but I’m more interested in myself than you. Of course, I know that you have your photograph in the papers and that people talk about you. But to me, you’re a type. I see lots like you, everywhere.”

Simone stared incredulously at Helen, whom she had only vaguely noticed as someone small, who wore a pinafore and shook a perpetual duster. Although she was staggered to realize that the nonentity was actually claiming individuality, she could not keep off her special subject.

“What do you think of Stephen?” she asked.

“I like him,” replied Helen, “but I think he’s a rotter. He shouldn’t have left us in the jam.”

“Left us?” echoed Simone, springing up from her reclining posture “Yes, he’s gone for good. Didn’t you know?”

Helen was rather startled by the effect of her news on Simone. She sat, as though stunned, her fingers pressed tightly over her lips. “Where did he go?” she asked in a low voice.

Helen determined to make a thorough job of Simone’s disillusionment.

“To the Bull,” she replied.

“To that woman, you mean.” “If you mean the landlord’s daughter,” Helen said, “he, was talking about her in the kitchen. He said he couldn’t go away without wishing her ‘Goodbye’.”

The next second, she realized her blunder, as Simone burst into a storm of tears.

“He’s gone,” she cried. “That woman has him… . I want him so. You don’t understand. Its’ burning me up… . I must do something.”

“Oh, don’t yearn over him,” entreated Helen. “He’s not worth it. You’re only making yourself cheap.”

“Shut up. And get out of my room.”

“I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted,” Helen said stoutly. “But I’ve orders not to leave you.”

Her speech roused Simone to white fury.

“So that’s it?” she cried. “You were sent to spy on me? That was clever of them. Oh, thank them from me. But why didn’t I think of it for myself?”

“What do you mean?” asked Helen nervously.

“You’ll see. Oh, you’ll see.”

Helen watched in silent dismay, as Simone whirled around the room, snatching at garments and dressing in frantic haste. She realized that the situation had passed from her control. She could no more arrest the inevitable catastrophe than subdue a runaway engine.

She cried out in protest, however, as Simone dragged on her fur coat. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

“Out of this house. I won’t stay to be watched and insulted.” Simone snatched up a handful of jewelry, thrust it inside her bag, and turned to Helen. “I’m going’ to my lover. Tell the Professor I shan’t be back-tonight.”

“No, you shan’t go,” declared Helen, trying to grip Simone’s wrists. “He doesn’t want you.”

The struggle was short and desperate, but Simone was the stronger, besides being entirely reckless. Careless of consequences, she pushed Helen away with such force that the girl was thrown to the floor.

Although Helen was not hurt, she wasted a little time in assuring herself that such was actually the case. While she was rubbing her aching head, she heard the click of a key in the lock, and realized that she was a prisoner.

THE DEFENCE WEAKENS

The sound brought Helen to her feet and sent her rushing to the door, even while she knew that she was too late. She tugged at the handle and battered on the panels, to relieve her feelings, rather than with any hope of release.

It was a humiliating situation, and indignation was her strongest emotion. She had been, thrown about, as though she were a dummy, in a film. Worst of all, she had failed again in a position of trust. The thought quickened her sense of responsibility and made her rack her brain for some method of arousing the household-only to be forced back on the hopeless expedient of ringing the bell.

Even as she pressed the button, she knew that no one would come. The bell rang down in the basement-hall, where Mrs. Oates would only hear it as a soothing accompaniment to her snores. Were she roused, she would ignore it, on principle..

Bells were none of her business. She did so much during her working-hours, that she was forced, in self-defence, to guard her precious leisure. Helen remembered how she would point, either to her husband or the girl, and sing “Thebellsof Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling, for you, but not for me, “whenever she noticed an unanswered tinkle.

It was soon obvious that she did not intend to relax her rule on this occasion. Helen stopped prodding the button, and resigned herself to an indefinite wait.

At first, she had plenty of occupation, for she was able to satisfy her curiosity over Simone’s wardrobe and toilet-aids; but she could not bring her usual interest to her investigations. Every silk stocking and pot of rouge reminded her of Simone. She was out in the storm—lashed on by a spluttering match of desire, which she had magnified to a torch of passion.

Helen reconstructed her—a luxury-product, spoiled neurotic and useless from her cradle, every wish had been gratified and every whim forestalled. She had been shielded under a glass-case, lest life should blow too roughly upon her.

And, even then, the horror might be closing over herthe glass shattered, leaving her defenceless, to face reality.

Instead of protecting arms, she would see hands stretched out, in menace. She would cry for help, and-for the first time in her life-she would cry in vain.

That was the vision which kept flashing across Helen’s mind, as she thought of Simone’s peril. Although she had done her best, she still felt a sense of guilt. In order to prepare her story for the defence, she began to reconstruct the incident.

As she did so, she was again visited by a disquieting memory. This time, it was an auditory illusion. She was positive that she had heard the key click in the lock at the same time as she listened to the sound of Simone’s frantic flight down the stairs.

“Someone else locked me in,” she whispered. “Who? And why?”

She could only conjecture that Nurse Barker had been on the landing, probably attracted up there by the noise of the scuffle. If she had grasped the situation, her jealousy might have urged her to imprison Helen, in order to stamp her as an incompetent.

Suddenly Helen received a belated inspiration. Mrs. Oates had told her that all the doors in the Summit were fitted with the same lock. In that case, Newton’s dressingroom key should fit the bedroom keyhole.

She had some difficulty in wrenching it out, for it was rusted from desuetude. From her recent investigations, she knew where to find Newton’s hair-oil; but before she began her lubrications, she decided to match it with the lock.

As she grasped the handle of the bedroom door, it slipped round in her fingers, and swung open. Her lips, too, fell apart, as she stared out at the deserted landing.

“Well,” she gasped.

Faced with the prospect of a violent drop in favour, she ran downstairs, to raise the alarm. While she had established the fact that she was the victim of a practicaljoke—or trick—it was impossible to prove it to her employers. She decided that it would be wiser to accept any blame, and remain silent, only to find that no explanation was required. When she blurted out the news of Simone’s flight, the Warren family was united in a solid front, to save the situation.

As the Professor, Miss Warren and Newton looked at each other, the likeness between them, became plain. The muscles of their thin overbred faces worked convulsively as the steel jaws of a trap, betraying the violence of their emotion, and the force of their self-control.

Although Newton’s high voice broke in an occasional squeak, his manner remained as temperate as though the subject of discussion was the weather.

“You say, Miss Capel, that she went to the Bull, to join Rice,” asked the Professor.

“Yes,” said .Helen, avoiding looking at Newton. “I fought with her, but—”

“Yes, yes… . The question is—who will go after her, Newton. You or I”

“I’m going,” replied Newton,

“No, darling,” urged Miss Warren. “You’re the younger man. Your father will have more authority. Your place is here.”

“You’re in no danger,” Newton told her. “But she’s running a horrible risk.”

The Professor laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, to steady him, and Helen noticed that his thin knotted fingers trembled slightly.

“I understand your feelings, Newton,” he said. “But I think the chances are against your—maniac being outside in this storm. If he’s not back in his home, he will be sheltering in some barn. I am sure Simone will reach the Bull safely.”

“What a happy prospect.” Newton bit his lip. “All the more reason for her husband to be there.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But before you go we’d better discuss our line of procedure. We want to avoid a scandal”

“I don’t want to divorce Simone.” Newton’s voice cracked, “I only want to get her away from that—from Rice.”

“Personally, I think she is in no danger from Rice,” remarked the Professor. “He is very definitely not an amatory type.”

“He locked that poor girl in his room at Oxford,” declared Newton heatedly.

“You forget, Newton, that I’ve been an undergraduate in my time. Such episodes can be staged. I’ve always kept an open mind on that charge. Wash out Rice. The question is—how to account for Simone running through the rain, to a small public-house?”

“A brain-storm, caused by nerves,” suggested Miss Warren. “The murder would explain her condition.”

The Professor nodded approval.

“I’m afraid you’ll both have to put up at the Bull, for the night,” he said. “They have no conveyance, and Simone could not return through the storm.”

“Couldn’t you come back, Newton, when you’ve explained everything and made all arrangements for Simone?” asked Miss Warren..

Newton laughed as he thoughtfully buttoned his water proof.

“Excellent. I could leave her in Rice’s care… . Don’t worry, Aunt.. Expect us back tomorrow morning.”

Helen was assailed by a fresh pang of loneliness when the chain was re-fastened, after the exodus. As Newton went out of the house—his head thrust forward as though he were butting the storm—the partially-opened door revealed a section of chaos, interlaced with veins of slanting rain, spinning round in the shaft of electric-light.

After that glimpse of a watery confusion, the atmosphere of the hall appeared stagnant, and clogged with femininity. All the virility had been drained out of it with the departure of the men. It was true that the Professor remained, but he seemed exhausted by the excessive burden of responsibility.

“Mr. Rice will have to come back tomorrow to fetch his dog,” said Miss Warren.

Helen’s face brightened.

“Shall we free it, to roam the house?”

Miss Warren’s face betrayed indecision. “I fear and dislike all dogs,” she said. “Still—the Creature might be a protection.”

“I’m used to dogs,” Helen told her. “May I feed him and then bring him down, with me?”

“It has been fed, by Mrs. Oates, before I took it out to the garage.” Miss Warren’s gaze challenged her brother. “Perhaps, Sebastian, you will bring it in?”

Helen pricked up her ears as the secret of the strange noises upon the back-stairs was explained. Mrs. Oates’ reticence was but another proof of her loyalty to her employers.

The Professor was looking at his sister, a faint smile touching his lips.

“Typical, my dear Blanche:’ he murmured. “Is the door of the garage unlocked?”

“Locked. I have the key upstairs.”

As they waited for Miss Warren’s return, Helen tried to conquer her dread of the Professor. Like a kitten, which pats a suspicious object, and then springs sideways, she could not resist an attempt to explore his mind.

“I admire Miss Warren’s strength of character,” she said. “Of course, she can’t help being afraid of dogs.” She hastened to bring out the classic excuse of analogy. “Lord Roberts was frightened of cats.”

“But my sister is not afraid in your sense of the word,” explained the Professor. “That is to say, she is not afraid of being bitten or worried by a dog. But she realizes the danger of bacteriological infection which lurks in the parasites of animals.”

Helen did her best to reciprocate his intelligence.

“I know,” Helen said. “There are millions of germs everywhere. Enough to kill all the people in the world. But—I understood that there were good germs to fight the bad germs.”

The Professor’s faint smile did not conceal his scorn.

“Even as your good angels strive with devils?” he enquired. “There may be some combat, but, in the Animal Kingdom, the Ultimate Good does not prevail, as in your fairy-tale Creed.”

Although she felt choked with nervousness, Helen continued the argument.

“If the destructive germs were the more powerful,” she said, “we should all of us be dead.”

“We soon shall be dead. Longevity is only comparative, while, many die young. Think of infant mortality, which is Nature’s method of dealing with surplus population. Unfortunately, medical science has interfered with her good intentions, to a certain extent. Still, death wins.”

Helen felt too overawed by the Sardonic gleam in the scientist’s eye, to dare to argue further. She knew herself outclassed, even while her heart protested against his dreary materialistic outlook.

“What is Miss Warren’s special subject?” she asked timidly. “She ranges. Her plane of vision is, consequently, different from your own. You see with eyes, but she sees through a microscope. Terrors, which are lost to you, are revealed to her.”

Helen rather liked the way the Professor was trying to gloss over his sister’s imperfections. She believed that, even as shadows on the sea betray the presence of rocks, so trifles indicate character.