Home through the Dark (5 page)

For the remainder of the morning I pottered happily round the flat putting away the things I had bought, unpacking my suitcases and generally congratulating myself on my good fortune in having found myself somewhere so pleasant. In the minute kitchen every inch was utilized to the most advantage. There was even a small dishwasher, fitted neatly beneath the sink, though I doubted whether I should ever collect enough dirty crockery to justify switching it on. The window overlooked the sweeping lawns and huge trees at the back of the house and as I watched a squirrel raced across the grass, its tail streaming out behind it like a feathered banner. Mr. Henry had explained that the gardens were shared between all the flats, whose owners paid a nominal sum for them to be kept in order. Perhaps I would go and relax out there this afternoon.

I had a hasty lunch of bread, cheese and coffee and then went through to the drawing room. The Hodgsons who owned the flat certainly had exquisite taste. All the books on the long, low shelves were finished beautifully in morocco, hide and suede with gold-tooled lettering. The heavy curtains which, I discovered, closed with a smooth swish on the pulling of a cord, were of a brown and gold brocade almost identical with the upholstery of the easy chairs, while the sofa and small chaise-longue were covered respectively in brown and gold velvet. The windows were Georgian style sashes, and one of them opened just far enough to enable me to climb out onto the tiny wrought-iron balcony. I stood there for a moment, leaning on the rail and looking out across the autumn tints of the foliage in the park opposite. No doubt these balconies were supposed to be merely ornamental; the little pots of gaily coloured plants could easily be reached by leaning out of the window with the long-spouted watering can I had found in the kitchen.

“Hello there!”

I turned sharply to see a girl in a trouser suit coming across the gravel. “Have you just moved in? I saw the car and wondered if you wanted any help?”

“That's very kind of you. If you'll wait a moment, I'll climb back inside and let you in!”

Feeling rather foolish, I crawled back into the drawing room and reached the front door at the same time as she did. She smiled and held out a hand.

“I'm Sarah Foss, from Number Two, over in the other wing.”

“Ginnie Durrell. Do come in.”

“I say, this is swish, isn't it?” she said admiringly, following me into the drawing room. “I've never been in here before. I don't mind telling you our flat doesn't come up to this standard!”

I laughed. “Isn't it gorgeous? I'm rather afraid to touch anything.”

“How long have you taken it for?”

“Six months, but I believe there's a possibility of the lease being extended if the Hodgsons decide to stay out there for longer.” I closed my mind to the implications of so long an absence from Carl and added hastily, “Are you renting, too?”

“No, Andrew and I bought our flat when we were married three years ago. Needless to say, it wasn't nearly as expensive then as it would be now. Where have you come from?”

“London.”

“You'll find it very different here!”

“Yes, but I like it very much.”

“Have you got a job?” She coloured a little and laughed shamefacedly. “Am I being rude? Andrew always says I'm too inquisitive!”

“It doesn't matter. I haven't a job at the moment, but I must get one if I want to keep up with the rent!”

“There are usually quite a lot of secretarial jobs going, if that's your line.” She looked round the room. “You're remarkably well organized considering you only moved in this morning! Not a tea chest in sight!”

“Actually I didn't bring very much with me.”

“Oh?” She waited hopefully but there I wasn't prepared to help her. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Love one, but I mustn't be too long. Andrew's up a ladder decorating the loo and I promised I'd be back soon.” She followed me through into the kitchen. “Actually, one reason I came was to ask if you'd like to come round for drinks at lunch time tomorrow? I'll invite some of the other inmates, so you can weigh us all up!”

I smiled, filling the kettle. “Are they as bad as that?”

She perched on a corner of the table. “Well, they can roughly be divided into three parts, like Caesar's Gaul. There's the Oldies – Miss Cavendish and the Blighs. Then there's the Lily-white Boys –”

“The what?” I queried incredulously.

“A couple of rather beaut young men in Number Four. Photographers or something. And thirdly, there's Us, i.e., Andy and I, Moira Francis and the kids, and Pam and Stephanie, who live above you. Unfortunately they're still away on holiday. And lastly, in no category but strictly on his own, is ‘M.M.'”

“And who might he be?”

“M. M. Sinclair. I swear it stands for Mystery Man. He's a kind of cat-that-walks-by-himself. No one knows what he does or where he came from, or anything.”

“How frustrating for you!”

She grinned. “It didn't take you long to sum me up, did it? Anyway, I'll invite them all, but I don't suppose he'll come. He doesn't strike me as being very sociably minded.”

I opened three cupboards before I found the teacups. “It's very kind of you to go to all this trouble on my account.”

“Nonsense, it's time we had a party, anyway. You'll sort them all out in time. The odd-numbered flats are ground-floor and the even upstairs – no doubt you've already gathered that. The Oldies have ground-floor ones because they don't like stairs, but they don't like noise either, which makes life hard for those above them. Miss Cavendish is always sending frigid little notes upstairs to the boys. She's a retired headmistress, so you can imagine!” Sarah sipped at the hot tea but it didn't interrupt her flow. “Mind you, the Blighs are better off now M.M.'s above them. I bet he doesn't make a
sound,
creeping around up there.”

“Presumably he has a dark cloak and a false beard?”

“You may well laugh,” she said darkly, “but there's something odd about him. He doesn't seem to have a regular job, for one thing, he's in and out all day. Perhaps he's a Private Eye or something like that.”

“Rather an upper-class one, to come to roost here.” I forbore from commenting that if the mysterious Mr. Sinclair were really an investigator of some kind, he could do a lot worse than solicit Sarah's help.

She finished her tea and stood up, tugging down her jacket. “I'd better go and start on the groundwork by phoning them all. See you tomorrow, about twelve.” And with a nonchalant wave of her hand, she was gone.

The sun had gone in and I changed my mind about going into the garden, relaxing with my book instead on the comfortable sofa. I watched the early news on television – still no reports of a kidnapping – and then went through to grill my solitary pork chop. It didn't feel like Saturday at all; this time last week we'd been preparing for the Winthrops' party. I remembered bleakly that Leonie had been there, playing up to Carl as usual. If I hadn't happened to go unexpectedly to the theatre on Wednesday, I would have given her attentions no more serious consideration than anyone else's.

I wrenched my mind away from the abyss of self-pity yawning in front of me and instead forced myself to repeat the words of the telephone call, and suddenly a fact I had not registered before struck me for the first time. The voice had been wrong, somehow out of character for the pseudo-criminal slang it had been using. It had, in fact, been a particularly pleasant voice, well-modulated and resonant. It could even have been a trained voice – an actor's voice.

Carefully I pushed the uneaten chop to the edge of my plate and laid down my knife and fork. That, of course, would tie in with the whistling, but it was all so wildly circumstantial that I couldn't give the idea much credence.

When I joined Kitty in the kitchenette an hour or so later, the working surfaces where last night I had laid out the coffeecups were covered with a profusion of paper bags.

“What's all this?” I asked curiously.

“Oh, savouries and things. We can see to them after the second interval.”

“Savouries? What for?”

She turned to look at me. “Didn't I tell you? We always have a small celebration after the last performance.”

“The actors, you mean?”

“Yes, they come through here when the audience has left. You'll stay, won't you? It won't go on for very long, but it's usually good fun.”

“Oh yes,” I said slowly, “I'll stay.”

Accordingly, after clearing away the crockery after the second interval, Kitty and I embarked on decorating savoury biscuits with different toppings, chopping up celery and filling it with cream cheese, tipping out packets of salted nuts and jars of olives. “We can put away the cups and saucers, anyway. They won't be wanting coffee!” Kitty said.

As it turned out, it was quite a sizable party, since besides the small cast several other actors and actresses, some of whose photographs decorated the stairway, came to join in the celebration. Kitty and I were kept busy for a while handing round the trays of canapés, but it wasn't long before Stephen Darby made his way over to me. With great deliberation he selected a savoury from the plate I held.

“You're Ginnie Durrell, I believe?” So he had asked Kitty about me.

“I am,” I replied steadily.

“Are you given to good works of this nature?”

“I hardly think what I'm doing warrants that definition, but Kitty was short-handed and I enjoy being at the theatre.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Stage-struck, Miss Durrell?”

I flushed with annoyance. “In a manner of speaking. I read drama at university.”

“I
beg
your pardon! Suzanne –” He put one arm out to encircle the waist of the girl who was passing. “This is the young lady who kindly supplied your aspirins last night. You'll be even more grateful, I'm sure, when you hear she's a university graduate!”

Suzanne Grey was tall, her skin flawless, her eyes an unusually dark grey. She looked as highly strung and edgy as she had on stage, and she certainly wasn't acting now. To my relief she didn't seem to have taken in Stephen's last comment.

“It was very kind of you. I had the most diabolical headache.”

Stephen Darby's eyes were still on my face. “I don't remember seeing you before this week. Have you lived in Westhampton long?”

“No, only since Wednesday, as a matter of fact.”

“Wednesday? And it must have been – what? – Thursday afternoon you came here? You certainly didn't waste much time, did you?”

I said stiffly, “I told you I've always been interested in the theatre.”

“But mainly from the other side of the footlights, I imagine.”

His careless superiority stung me into lack of caution.

“Not always, by any means. Quite a few of my friends are professional actors.”

“Oh? Who are they?”

Too late I realized the trap I'd laid for myself. I had no intention of betraying my connection with Carl. “I don't suppose you'll have heard of any of them,” I lied quickly. “People who were at university with me.”

He laughed shortly. “From the way you were talking, I was beginning to think you were on nodding terms with Alec Guinness and Carl Clements!”

“Will you excuse me?” I said clearly. “I think Kitty wants some more help.” I pushed my way blindly through the crowd over to the hatch. Behind me a slightly amused voice said, “Has Steve been riling you? Don't take any notice of him!”

I turned to find Robert Harling behind me.

“What was all that about Carl Clements? Do you know him?”

I drew a deep breath. “I have met him,” I said.

“God, I'd give my right arm for a chance to act with him! They say he's a bastard to work with, but who cares?” He leaned past me to put a plate down on the counter. “You're new here, aren't you?”

“Yes, Ginnie Durrell.” If I repeated the name much more, I'd forget I'd ever been Ginnie Clements.

“Did you see the play?”

“Yes, I enjoyed it very much.”

“A bit dated, perhaps, but of course it was even when it was written. We must seem small fish to you here, if you're used to the West End.”

“I didn't say –” I began desperately, but someone else had attracted his attention and my disclaimer hung on the air. I turned back to the counter and began mechanically to load more plates of assorted savouries onto a tray, but my rather agitated thoughts were interrupted as Suzanne Grey's voice rose stridently above the low hum of conversation.

“For God's sake, Laurence, will you drop it? I don't know, I tell you!”

There was a fractional pause, then a more concentrated noise as everyone quickly started talking again at the same time. I had picked up the tray and started back into the throng when without warning Suzanne spun away from her husband's restraining hand and cannoned into me.

“How the hell can I stop it if I don't know what you're talking about? Stop being so bloody superior!” And with two angry spots of colour high on her cheeks, she pushed her way between the chattering groups and went clattering down the stairs. Another theatrical marriage on the rocks, I thought achingly. Stephen put a hand on Laurence Grey's arm. “She's been under a considerable strain, don't forget,” he said in a low voice. “Can't you suggest she goes away for a while? She's not in the next production, is she?”

“You know damn well she wouldn't hear of it,” Laurence replied. “Not while she thinks there's the remotest chance of – God, Stephen, I don't know if I can go through with it.”

The quick, low-voiced exchange had only taken a couple of seconds and it seemed to be imperative that Stephen at least should not realize I had overheard it. Although I had no idea what they were talking about, the tone of their voices had implied something private, even secretive, and Stephen was already suspicious of my continuing presence at the theatre. To my relief I had managed to put a respectable distance between them and myself before they turned.