The Spiral Staircase (20 page)

His choice of herself was as inexplicable as the history of his crimes. With scores of girls in the town on whom to wreak his mania, he had undertaken a perilous climb in order to reach the governess’ bedroom. But, while in the cases of the countryside murders, he might have attacked the girls, when the itch for slaughter had suddenly awakened, this was different, It was the more horrible, because it was a patient, cold-blooded pursuit. She imagined him making enquiries, finding out her address, tracking her down.

What appalled her most was the way in which his path was being smoothed. No one could have foreseen such a chapter of accidents. Although he could not have planned them, they could not be coincidence, since each event had happened in its logical sequence.

“Why should he pick on me? I’m nobody. I don’t look like a film star.”

As she cast the net of her thoughts over the past, she captured a memory. On her way to the Summit she had remained at the railway station for about an hour, while she waited for Oates’ arrival with the ancient car. As her head ached from her journey down from London she took off her hat.

The bench on which she sat as under a lamp, which shone down on her bright mane of hair—the color of pale flame. She remembered that a man had turned to stare at her, but his cap was pulled down over his eyes, so that she could not see his face.

“It was my hair,” she thought. “But I’m an idiot. It’s only Nurse Barker’s idea. He’s not after me. She’s trying to frighten me.”

It all boiled down to the old question—who was Nurse Barker? Closing her eyes, she rocked to and fro. It was long past her bed time, and she had passed through a strenuous day. Worn out with strain, she felt herself growing drowsy. She began to glide over the surface of a tranquil river, shallow and crystal clear.

Suddenly it ended in a drop over a bottomless hole. Her heart gave a leap, and she opened her eyes with a violent start. To her surprise she was not alone. While she dozed the Professor had come out of his study, and was bending over her.

“Sleeping on the stairs, Miss Capel?” he asked: “Why’ don’t you go to bed?”

His formal. voice and appearance restored her confidence.

Crimes don’t happen in well-conducted houses, where gentlemen dress for dinner.

Very unwise, he remarked, when she confided her proposed vigil. He passed her, and went up the stairs, holding on to the rail for support. She called after him.

“Professor, may I say something?”

He waited while she ran up to the landing.

“Mrs. Oates wants the inside dope about that new. nurse,” she said. I mean—she wants to know if she really comes from the Home.”

“Then why not find out?” enquired the Professor. “There is the telephone.”

In spite of his aloofness, the Professor did not affect Helen with the hopeless feeling of fighting the air. She remembered that when she had been stunned by the thunderclap of the murder, he, alone had remained unshaken.

Stimulated with contact with him, she did not want to cut the wires.

“Are you going up to bed?” she asked boldly. “Yes,” he replied. “It is nearly eleven.”

“Then, I hope you’ll get some sleep. But, if something crops up—something I can’t cope with—may I knock you up?” “Not unless it is urgent,”

Cheered by the grudging permission, Helen ran down to the hall, and consulted the telephone directory. Her habit of listening to scraps of conversation had yielded the address of the Nursing Home, which was fortunate, since there appeared to be a good crop of them. Presently, the Exchange put her through to the Secretary.

“Will you please tell me if Nurse Barker is at the Home?” asked Helen.

“No,” replied the Secretary. “Who’s speaking?”

“The Summit.”

“But she’s at the Summit.”

“I know. Will you please describe her?”

There was silence, as though the Secretary wondered whether she was talking to an idiot.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “She’s tall and dark, and one of our best nurses. Have you any complaint to make?”

“No. Has she a very refined voice?”

“Naturally. All our nurses are ladies,” “Oh, yes. Did you see her get into the car from the Summit?”

“No,” replied the Secretary, after a pause. “It was late, so she waited in the hall. When she heard a hoot, she went outside, carrying her bag.”

Helen rang off with the feeling, that, on the whole, the interview was satisfactory.

“I’d better check up, now, on Mrs. Oates,” she decided. Mrs. Oates was -sunken lower in her basket-chair. She looked the picture of misery as she stared at the bottle of brandy on top of the dresser. “You gave me the works,” she said reproachfully. “You’ and your cawfee. I’ve not even got merry.”

“Tomorrow,” promised Helen. “I’ve been ringing up the Nursing Home. Nurse Barker seems an awful brute, but otherwise I think she’s all right.”

Mrs. Oates would not give up her original idea.

“All wrong to me,” she grunted. “I’ve a tin with a lid what ‘as tightened up. Oates can’t shift it. I’ll ask her to open it, and see if she falls into my trap.”

“It would only prove she had strong fingers,” said Helen. “She need not be a man. What’s the time?” She glanced at the inaccurate clock. “Five to eleven. That’s near enough. When will your husband be back?”

Mrs. Oates worked out the sum on her fingers.

“Say, one and a half hours to go, and two to get back. The old car’s bound to take a rest up some of them hills. And Oates will play about, doing his business. Say five hours, at the outside, and maybe sooner.”

Helen felt a rush of new hope.

“He left about eight-thirty,” she said. “So we’ve only another two hours, or so, to wait. I shall sleep like a top, once I know he’s back. Will you bring your sheets down to the spare room, so that I shall know you’re on the other side of the wall?”

“I don’t mind,” promised Mrs. Oates. “It’ll be safer there, than on top, with all the chimbleys,”

Suddenly Helen groaned.

“I’d forgotten. The Professor said we were not to let your husband in,”

“That’s all right,” said Mrs. Oates. “The master gave his orders for you to obey. But he wasn’t giving them to him self. Didn’t he pack off Mr. Newton after his missus? Of course, he means to let Oates in.”

Helen was astonished by the woman’s shrewdness.

“You mean it was a pose—to show he was master of the house?” she asked. “If he was so keen to get the oxygen, he wouldn’t let it sit in the garage all night. Directly we hear a knock I’ll rush up and tell the Professor.”

“Oates will be inside the door by then,” prophesied Mrs. Oates. “D’you think I’d let my old man wait outside on the mat, with Welcome?”

Helen sprang to her feet, her face eager.

“I’ll soon be back,” she said. “I want to change into my dressing-gown. Then we’ll make tea and be comfortable.”

When she was outside in the basement hall, she paused in indecision. It was quicker to use the backway. But as she gazed up the dimly-lit spiral of narrow stairs, she shrank back, feeling that nothing would induce her to go up them.

There were too many twists on the way—too many corners. Anything—or anyone—might be lurking around the next bend—waiting to spring out upon her.

Although she knew her fear was absurd, she went up thefront staircase. On the first landing she paused, arrested by, a glimpse of the Professor’s bedroom, through his partially opened door. He had not begun to undress, but was sitting in a low chair before his fireless grate.

As she lingered, she started at the sound of a muffled cry from the blue room. She waited for it to be repeated, but heard nothing.

“I wish I knew what to do,” she thought.

There was something about the noise which caught her imagination—a smothered note, as though a heavy hand were placed over someone’s lips.

Presently she decided that she was the victim of her fancy. Lady Warren had called out in a nightmare, or else the nurse was trying to check her snores.

But as she climbed the next flight of stairs she discovered to her dismay, that she dreaded reaching the second floor. All the bedrooms, with the exception of her own, were now empty. There were too many hiding-places for anyone who might have crept up the back-stairs, as she mounted the front.

When she tried to open her door she thought, at first, that somebody was inside, shutting her out, so strong was the pressure of the draught. But as she snapped on the light, she saw only the rise and fall of the carpet, like the well of the sea..

She looked around the loaded room, at the painted mirror, the wall-packet to hold a duster, the photograph of Lady Warren the First, the numerous tiny shelves of the toilet-table, each with its lace mat.

“I suppose that governess-girl’s room looked very much like mine,” she thought.

There seemed to be some septic aura hanging around Nurse Barker which had the property of arousing fear. She had stood for only a few minutes outside the blue room, yet her serenity had fled. It was of no use reminding herself that Oates was probably on his homeward journey; he might be as near as the front gate, and still be too late.

Up on the second floor, the full force of the gale was evident. A crack on the window made Helen look round nervously. It sounded as though someone were forcing his way inside.

Although she knew that it was impossible, she crossed to the casement and drew aside the curtain. Instantly, the black shape which had terrified her before, swung across, apparently touching the glass.

It was an unpleasant illusion, as though the tree was ani mated by some persistent purpose. Helen redrew the curtain and sprang to the middle of the room, where she stared around her, in momentary panic. She felt that she was on, the Point of being attacked—like the other girl. At any moment, a window might burst open, or a curtain bulge.

Although she did not know it, somewhere on the floor below a door was opened stealthily. A head looked around the landing—its eyes slanting to right and left. Someone stole across to the stairs, leading up to the second floor.

Suddenly Helen’s glance fell upon the Cross which hung over her bed. In spite of the derision with which it had been assailed during dinner, it held actual virtue to heal her terror. She reminded herself that its Power was too enduring to be a fable or a myth. It would not fail her, in her need.

Without a thought of the ill-fated governess, she drew her green dress over her head. Shaking it out, she braved the menace of the wardrobe. No one was hiding behind the hanging garments.

She felt more comfortable when she had put on her short blue woollen dressing-gown, and heel-less slippers, which made her appear. smaller than ever. Stealing noiselessly down the stairs, she stopped, to listen again at the door of the blue room.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the whimper of an old woman.

“Nurse. Don’t.”

Helen could not recognize the coarse voice which shouted back,

“Shut up—or I’ll give you what for.”

Helen’s fingers clenched into fists and her face grew red with rage. Lady Warren might be the scourge of the household, but she was old-and she was in the power of an ill-tempered woman.

But she had learned the penalty of personal interference. This time she determined that she would appeal to the Professor.

The door of his room was still ajar, while he sat in his original posture. His head was turned away from her, but she could see his hand upon the arm of his chair. It struck her that it was rather curious that he should not have moved during her absence.

“If he’s dropped off,” she wondered, “ought I to wake him up?”

She crossed the carpet noiselessly, but when she came closer to the chair she was gripped by a terrible dread. The Professor’s face looked like a mask of yellowed wax, and his lids were clay-hued over his closed eyes.

On the table, by his side, was a, small bottle and an empty glass. Seized with panic, she shook his arm. “Professor,” she cried. “Professor.”

She was no longer afraid of. disturbing him. What she dreaded was not being able to awaken him.

ACCIDENT

Alhough Helen called him again and again, the Professor did not stir. Driven to boldness, she gripped his shoulders and shook him violently. But he only fell back limply against the side of his chair, like a corpse galvanized to momentary life.

Smitten with panic, Helen dashed out of the. room and rushed downstairs into the study. As she burst in, Miss Warren raised her eyes from her book.

“The Professor,” gasped Helen. “Come up to him. Quick. I think he’s—dead.”

Her speech had the effect of rousing Miss Warren. She led the way, covering the stairs in long strides. When Helen panted after her, into the bedroom, she was bending over the inanimate figure in the chair.

“Really, Miss Capel” Her voice held annoyance. “I wish you would think twice before you frighten me unnecessarily.”

“But isn’t he terribly ill?” asked Helen, looking fearfully at the corpse-like figure.

“Of course not. He has merely taken rather too much of a sleeping-draught.”

She picked up the bottle of quadronex, and studied it.

“I do not credit my brother with the folly of taking too stiff a dose. He would not make such a brainless mistake. Probably he may not have calculated its effect on his own devitalized condition.”

She felt his pulse, and then turned away.

“He is all tight,” she said. “We can do nothing, but leave him in perfect quiet,”

Helen stayed, as though rooted to the carpet, staring down at the motionless figure. It seemed the peak of ironic fate that the Professor had slipped away from them when she most appreciated his help.

Miss Warren crossed to the bed, picked up an eiderdown, and laid it across her brother’s knees.

“Come, Miss Capel,” she said.

“No,” said Helen. “I-I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know. But our very last man is gone,”

Miss Warren appeared struck by the remark.

“There has been a curiously thorough clearance,” she said. “But I cannot see why you should be alarmed.”

“There’s been a murder,” whispered Helen. “There’s a maniac somewhere. And everyone’s going, one by one. I’m expecting things to happen now. It won’t stop here. I may be left, all alone. Or you.”