Fear by Night (5 page)

“Five days? Much too dangerous.”

Mr. Halliday coughed.

“The old lady don't fancy starting on a Friday—she's got an idea it's unlucky—nor she don't fancy a Saturday, nor a Sunday.”

“What's this infernal nonsense?”

“I won't go against the old lady,” said Mr. Halliday.

“What's wrong with Saturday?”

“She don't fancy it,” said Mr. Halliday. “She isn't so downright set against it as she is against the Friday or the Sunday, but she don't fancy it much. I might try her again.”

The man he called Gale fairly made the receiver crackle.

“She's got to fancy it! Do you hear?”

“Well, I'll try,” said Mr. Halliday. “Good night to you, Gale.” He hung up the receiver.

Gale was in a fume. Gale always did put himself in a fume. Elias Paulett wasn't going to die before Monday. He was just the sort to hang on, and on, and on. Still if there was any risk, they'd better shift on Saturday. That was the worst of dealing with anyone like Gale—you didn't know when to take them seriously. If Gale wanted you to do a thing, he'd pitch you a tale, and how were you to know whether it was a true one? He supposed they'd better shift on Saturday.

He set about making his arrangements.

Ann slept that night at Westley Gardens. Her room was over Mrs. Halliday's sitting-room. Mrs. Halliday had the bedroom over the drawing-room, and her maid, a stout elderly person of the name of Riddle, had a slip of a room between the two. It had been intended for a dressing-room, and it was a tight fit for Riddle.

Ann's room was a little smaller than the room below. It was furnished in bright yellow maple. The carpet, the curtains, the bed-spread, and the china were of a lively pink, but the bed was so comfortable that it almost made up for it.

Ann fell asleep and dreamed that she was running away from Charles down a primrose path. There was a bonfire at the bottom of the path, and someone whose face she couldn't see was feeding it with bright yellow furniture and bright pink china. The china crunched and smashed under her feet, but she couldn't stop. She ran right into the fire and heard the flames go roaring past, and old Mrs. Halliday said, “Girls wouldn't be in such a hurry if they knew what was in front of 'em.” And then quite suddenly the fire was gone, and the light, and the noise. Everything seemed to have stopped, and she was in a dark place. Something moved, just out of reach. It moved again and came nearer, and in the last moment before she woke Ann knew what the something was.

But when she was awake she didn't know any more. She sat up in bed with her hand pressed tightly to her breast. There were beads of sweat on her forehead. Her hair clung to her temples. Something had made her afraid, and for a moment she had known what the something was. But now she didn't know.

It was a long time before she went to sleep again.

CHAPTER VI

The next day was Thursday, and in the course of it Mrs. Halliday imparted to Ann a great deal of family history. It made her head go round, because Mrs. Halliday ranged over some eighty years which she remembered herself, and another fifty or sixty which she had been told about by her uncles and aunts, and brought up, as from a crowded lucky bag, quarrels, courtships, births, marriages and deaths. You never quite knew to within fifty years what century you were in. At one moment Mrs. Halliday would be recounting the infant virtues of her son James—“'Is 'air curled lovely, and he weighed ten pound when he was born.” And the next, with voice dropped to a whisper, she was imparting details of the scandal which had parted her great uncle Amos and his wife—“an 'ussy if ever I see one—not as I ever did see her, she being dead and buried afore I was born, and a good job too, coming mixing and meddling in a respectable family with 'er ringlets and 'er rooge.”

By degrees, however, Ann gathered that Mrs. Halliday had married late—“I'd a brown cashmere dress wot my lady give me, and a black straw 'at with a nice bunch of cornflowers one side, and a pair of brown kid gloves with brass buttons.”

Halliday, it appeared, had followed the sea—a north-countryman and close in his ways—not, Ann gathered, a good husband—“And few and far between they are Miss Vernon, my dear. A young man courting is one thing, and an 'usband is another—too loving to last is what I say, and it'll save you a lot of disappointment if you don't count on it. You take a good-living, respectable man with a bit in the bank—that's my advice.”

“It sounds frightfully dull,” said Ann.

“There's worse things than being dull,” said Mrs. Halliday.

By way of an improving anecdote about a second cousin once removed who was so foolish as to marry a chance-come young man with a handsome face and a wheedling tongue, and who very properly ended in the workhouse, they returned to Mr. James Halliday. He was an only child and the best son that ever was. He too had followed the sea, and then he had a bit of luck and went into business—“'E's a great one for business is Jimmy, and set on my having the best of everything.”

“Does this house belong to you?” said Ann.

“No, Miss Vernon my dear, it doesn't—not but what it mightn't come to that if 'e brings off something as 'e's got in 'and. 'E's got it furnished, and what they call a h'option, which is to say that 'e can buy it if 'e likes. But it belongs to Mr. 'Iggins—the Mr. 'Iggins as won the big prize in one of they Irish sweepstakes, pore feller.”

“Why?” said Ann.

“'E got the money and 'e bought the 'ouse, and 'e done it up lovely from top to toe and furnished it fit for Buckingham Palace, and then if 'is wife didn't put 'er foot down and say she wouldn't live in it. Burst into tears right there in the 'all she did, and said as she wasn't brought up to it, and if she'd got to live in an 'ouse where 'er kitchen wasn't 'er own to sit in and she'd got to dress in velvet, she'd rather be dead and in her coffin right away and save a lot of trouble. Pore-spirited, I call it—put me in mind of my Aunt Maria when Mr. 'Iggins told me, and I said to 'im, ‘Such being the case, better let 'er 'ave 'er kitchen, for you won't get any peace and quiet until you do.' Crying like a leaky tap all the time she was. So 'e let the 'ouse to James.” She paused and added, “With a h'option.”

On Friday morning there was a letter from Charles Anstruther. Ann opened it with a curious feeling of expectation. Which was absurd. The letter began with her name—just “Ann.” This was, of course, highly compromising. It was more compromising than if he had said “Darling Ann,” for nowadays everybody said darling and meant nothing by it. Just “Ann” meant, “I could call you such a lot of names if you would let me. Ann, don't you want to hear the names I've got for you?”

Ann bit her lip and read the letter:

Ann, do for any sake chuck this job. I don't like it for you. I'm sure I could find you something if you would wait. Ann, do wait, and let me lend you something to go on with. I promise I'll let you pay me back. If you won't take the job I want you to take, I'm sure I can find you something else. You don't know anything about these people, and I don't like what I hear. I've been nosing round, and no one seems to know quite where the money comes from. Some of it anyhow is from rum-running—some of it's possibly shadier than that. Quite definitely I don't like it for you. And I don't like your having had a paper sent to you with the advertisement marked. How do you know Mary Duquesne sent it? I don't believe she did.”

Ann frowned and bit her lip again. Then she sat down and wrote to Charles:

Darling Charles
,

What a
fuss!
You've been seeing films. The Hallidays are being frightfully nice to me. She's an old pet, and he's the best son in the world. She says so, and she ought to know. She's got a maid called Riddle who has probably been the most respectable person in England since Mrs. Grundy died. I suppose she is dead—or had you just been having a nice cosy heart-to-heart talk with her when you wrote to me
?

She signed “Ann,” and then wrote underneath:

Don't be a Maiden Aunt
.

Boil the head till perfectly clear. One to two hours should suffice. (Mrs. Halliday has just been telling me how to make marrow jam. This ought to reassure you, because villains in films never make marrow jam
.)

My Maiden Aunts told me never to allow young men to lend me money
.

On Friday Ann began to settle down. It wasn't going to be too bad. Riddle looked after Mrs. Halliday till eleven o'clock, and then Ann took her over. After lunch she rested for two hours under Riddle's supervision, and at eight o'clock she went to bed. No, it wasn't going to be at all bad, and the pay was marvellous. If Charles thought she was going to throw up a job like this just because he chose to be a fuss, Charles had got to be taught to think again. Perhaps she would dine with him one day next week. She wondered whether she would have the nerve to ask for what Mrs. Halliday called her wages in advance. She couldn't dine with Charles unless she could get her dress out of pawn. Ouf! There was something horribly sordid about the idea of dining with Charles in a pawned dress—sordid, and salutary. If she was in any danger of weakening, the thought of the pawnbroker's shop would have a bracing effect. Yes, she would dine with Charles, just to show them both that she didn't care a damn.

And with that, Mr. James Halliday came into the room and inquired whether she had finished packing.

“Packing?” said Ann.

Mr. Halliday's sandy eyebrows rose.

“Well now! Hasn't Mrs. Halliday told you?”

“Nothing about packing,” said Ann.

“No—no,” said Mr. Halliday—“you've not seen her lunch, to be sure. Well, if you like to make a start, you could get in the best part of an hour before tea.”

“But where are we going?”

Ann was in one of the old-gold chairs with a book on her lap. A hot, dusty ray of sunshine slanted between her and Mr. James, who stood a couple of yards away fingering the hard, shiny leaf of the aspidistra in the blue pot. He said,

“We're going on my boat. I hope you like sailing. It's too hot here for the old lady, and that's the truth. We wouldn't have been here now if it hadn't been for getting her fixed up.”

“I
love
sailing,” said Ann. “Where are we going?”

Mr. Halliday took out a bright magenta silk handkerchief and dusted the aspidistra. He had shrewd grey eyes and unusually thick sandy lashes. He did not look at Ann.

“Oh, up along the coast.”

“And when do we start?”

“Nine o'clock to-morrow morning,” said Mr. Halliday, and he put the magenta silk handkerchief back into his pocket and went out of the room.

It did not take Ann half an hour to pack. She looked at the clock, and wrote to Charles in pencil because there was no ink in her bedroom, and somehow—somehow she didn't want to write to Charles under the eyes of the mirrors and the aspidistras in the drawing-room. She said:

Darling Charles
,

Back to the films! Captions: “The Sinister House”—“The Lowly Companion”—“The Seven Aspidistras”—“Rum-runner's Gilded Hall of Vice”—“The Mysterious Yacht”—“An Unexpected Voyage.” Take three long breaths and emerge into real life. We're off to-morrow on a cruise up along the coast. Isn't it simply too thrilling? I adore sailing. I'll send you an address when I've got one. If I don't, you'll know I've eloped with the run-runner to wherever he keeps his secret still—do you make rum in stills? I shall be able to tell you all about it if we ever meet again. Return to captions: “A Voice from the Ocean. Good-bye—good-bye—good-bye!” Slow fade out
.

Ann
.

Isn't it too marvellous to be getting out of London
?

Mrs. Halliday came down to tea in a very bad temper. Mr. Halliday did not come to tea at all.

“And I don't wonder neither!” said his mother, cutting a thick slice of bread viciously into squares. “It's right down put me out and 'e knows it, and if 'e's got any sense, 'e'll keep out of my road till I've slep' on it.” She put butter on one of the squares, honey on another, marmalade on a third, and black currant jelly, strawberry jam, and apple cheese on the remaining pieces. “'E did ought to know better, and so I told him!”

“Don't you want to go away?” said Ann.

Mrs. Halliday took the square spread with honey in one hand and the square spread with marmalade in the other and took alternate bites from each.

“Acourse I want to go away!” she said angrily. “Monday we was going, and Monday was a good day to go—start of a week and start of a journey.” She finished the honey and marmalade and went on to strawberry jam and apple cheese. “End of the week travelling's like end of the week washing—looks as if you'd been trying to get off since Monday and hadn't made it out. Wash on Saturday, wash for shame—that's what I was always told in my young days—I'd like some more milk in me tea. 'Ot and milky, and three lump o' sugar's the way I like it, Miss Vernon. So I says to James, ‘Have it your own way, my lad, and don't blame me if things go wrong.' Another lump of sugar, my dear, and just a dab more honey. Him and me 'ad words, and if 'e goes without 'is tea it's no more than 'e deserves.” Mrs. Halliday paused, licked a smear of honey from her forefinger, and went on to black currant jelly. “There won't be any good come of this, and so I told 'im. Dreamt I was packing last night and all, and woke up that put about because Riddle 'ad packed my best bonnet along of Jimmy's sea-boots. Another cup o' tea, my dear, and you needn't trouble to empty the dregs—I like to keep me sugar. I've had some terrible strange dreams in my time, and I don't hold with going against 'em. I dreamt one time that my laundry-line was blowing away, and I run out and tried to catch it, but I couldn't reach, so I got the kitchen table and climbed on it, and so soon as I got the line in my two 'ands it took me right off me feet and I couldn't let go, and I tore my best table-cloth clean in two and woke up crying my 'eart out, and that day three weeks I broke my leg through missing the top step of the stairs in the dark. So I don't 'old with flying in the face of dreams, and never shall.”