Lizabet was looking out of her window. She was full of jealousy and anger and spite. Janet had come into the house, but she hadn’t come to look for her. She had gone into the sitting-room, and there she was, talking to Anne. Before Anne came to them it was Lizabet whom she would have called out for the moment she came in. Now she went straight into the sitting room and stayed there talking to Anne! She stamped her foot so hard that it hurt, and stared out at the quiet street.
There was a man there. He was looking at the numbers. Presently he turned away and crossed over. Lizabet had the strangest idea that he had been on the point of ringing their bell and had thought better of it. She picked up a hat and ran lightly down the stairs. If Janet came out of the sitting-room, she could say she was going to the post. But Janet didn’t come out. They were much too busy talking to know, or to care, that she had come down. A sharp little jab of anger caught her as she opened the front door and looked up the road.
The man was about half-way to the corner. She needn’t speak to him. She could catch him up easily enough without his noticing. She could just walk past him and go up to the pillar-box at the corner and pretend to be posting something, and that would give her a good opportunity of looking at him. If she liked him, she would say something. If she didn’t like him, there was no harm done.
She quickened her steps, came up with the man, who was walking slowly, passed him, and came to the pillar-box. There she went through the pretence of posting a letter and allowed her eyes to rest on the man whom she had passed. She thought him very good-looking. He wasn’t the man whom Anne had seen at Chantreys. He was younger and much better-looking. When he saw Lizabet staring at him he smiled and took off his hat.
‘I wonder if you could tell me what street this is?’
Lizabet coloured brightly. She had only been long enough in London to think Janet was very un-up-to-date. When you have lived in a village all your life and been the squire’s granddaughter, and when everyone knows you and has known you since you were in your cradle, it gives you a certain feeling of confidence. This had, unfortunately, not had time to wear off. Janet had preached, but of course Lizabet knew better. She responded in the friendliest manner.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I just wondered whether you knew a friend of mine who I believe lives near here. It’s so very awkward not having her address. I suppose you can’t help me?’
‘I don’t know.’
She wouldn’t have thought anything of a stranger asking a question of that sort in Cruxford, so why should she think anything of it here? But all the time something niggled at her. She knew very well what Janet would say. Janet was old-fashioned and pernickety. Janet wasn’t treating her properly— coming into the house like that and not so much as calling out to know if she was there! Other people thought her worth noticing. This young man did. She pushed the feeling about not speaking to strangers right into the back of her mind.
The man spared an admiring thought from his preoccupation. This was a very pretty girl, and she was very young— seventeen—eighteen perhaps? He was in luck. He let a respectful admiration appear and said, ‘Her name is Anne—’
He noted her reaction. She knew Anne. He said, ‘I didn’t say her surname. There was some talk of her being married, but I don’t know if it was true. I must know.’
‘Anne Fancourt?’
‘Oh, you do know her?’
‘I know Anne Fancourt.’
All at once she was a little frightened. She remembered Janet, and what Janet would say about talking to a strange man whom she had met in the street. She coloured suddenly and vividly.
‘I—I don’t think I ought to go on talking about her. I—I don’t think she’d like it.’
‘Perhaps she wouldn’t. But then again, perhaps she would. I’ve been looking for her for a long time. Perhaps she’ll be very pleased to be found.’
‘Do you think she would?’
‘She might be. One can but try. Only—’ he hesitated. ‘Will you do something to help me?’
‘If I can.’
‘Well, don’t tell her you’ve seen me. I’d like it to be a surprise. The fact is we quarrelled, and if you say you’ve met me, she’ll go all hard and stiff and say she won’t see me. You know how girls are. If she wasn’t expecting me it would be different. She wouldn’t have time to remember our quarrel or to stiffen herself up against me. You know how it is?’
Lizabet nodded. She knew just how it was. She felt wise and benevolent. She would bring Anne and this young man together, and then Anne would go away with him, and she and Janet could go back comfortably to their own way of life. Everything had been all right before Anne came. Everything would be all right when she had gone away. This young man knew who she was and he would take her away. Nothing could be simpler. She spoke quickly. ‘Oh, yes—I’d like to help! What shall I do?’
Ross Cranston considered. He said, ‘Wait a minute—’ And then, ‘Could you—do you think you could get her to come out of the house to post a letter or something of that kind?’
‘Oh, yes, I think I could. I could try.’
‘You see, if I came to the house, she might say she wouldn’t see me. I can’t risk that. But if she goes out to post a letter and I come up just as she’s got to the pillar-box, it would give me a chance, wouldn’t it? You see, I must know whether she’s married or not. If she is, I’ll go away, but if she isn’t—’
‘Oh, yes!’
Lizabet’s eyes were dancing. This was a lovely plan. She would be rid of Anne, and she wouldn’t be doing anyone any harm. Nobody could say there was a scrap of harm in it. She would be restoring Anne to her friends and relations, and she would be getting rid of her. It was a lovely plan. She beamed at Ross Cranston, and when he said, “Then it’s a bargain,‘ and held out his hand she put hers into it and felt very pleased with herself.
It wasn’t really as difficult as it might have been. She got home, and then she sat down and wrote a letter. It didn’t really matter to whom. Nanna would do… yes, Nanna would do very well. And then she only had to act a little, and she quite enjoyed that.
The first thing to do was to let Janet go off to bed, and fortunately Janet was more than ready for bed. After that she played about with her letter, pretending to hide it until she thought that Anne would be thoroughly intrigued. In the end, after she had carefully set the scene, she took the letter in her hand and sidled to the door. Anne was finishing the seam on one of her nightdresses. It was pale blue with little bunches of flowers on it. Lizabet thought it was very pretty. She stopped just short of the door and said so.
‘That’s pretty stuff. You sew nicely’
Anne looked up with a smile.
‘Do I?’
‘Mmm—you do. I say, you wouldn’t like to come out with me to the post, would you? Janet doesn’t like my going by myself so late as this.’
Anne ran her needle in and out of the blue stuff and put it on one side.
‘Yes, I’ll come, of course. It’s time we went to bed anyhow.’
It had been too easy. Lizabet felt all puffed up and pleased.
She said in a whisper. ‘I don’t want Janet to know. She’s a fuss. And she can’t say anything really—not if we’re together, can she? Do you want a coat?’
‘Well, perhaps. I expect it’s cold outside.’
‘I don’t want one—I’ll be perfectly warm. But I’ll get yours.’
She was out of the door like a streak, up the stairs, and down again with Anne’s coat on her arm. Janet was safe in the bathroom. How cleverly she was managing it all. And it was fun. She whispered, ‘Tiptoe down,’ and took Anne by the arm. She had it all planned out. She had been very clever about it—very clever indeed.
She opened the front door and felt the keen edge of the night’s wind. It had turned much colder. As they came out on the steps, the clock of St James and St Mary in the next street began to strike eleven. Lizabet giggled and swung round.
‘Oh, I’d forgotten,’ she said. ‘Don’t wait for me.’
‘What have you forgotten?’ Anne’s voice was not vexed. It sounded as if she was amused.
‘My other letter. Go on—I’ll catch you up.’
‘Oh, I’ll wait.’
‘No—no—don’t. Don’t wait. Go on.’ The last syllable died away.
Anne had the letter ready to post in her hand. She began to walk slowly in the direction of the pillar-box. There was a car standing just short of it. As she came level with the car, a man came round it and another man got out. Before she knew that anything was going to happen it had happened. The man who had come round the car had slipped his arm about her neck. He was holding a pad of something down upon her face. She couldn’t breathe. The other man caught her hands and held them in one of his. The door of the car opened and she was lifted in. She couldn’t breathe. There was a ringing sound in her ears. The sound dwindled and went away.
‘She’s off,’ said the man who had come from behind the car.
Lizabet stood half-way to the corner and caught her breath to listen. There was no sound. There was no sound at all. She saw three figures together on the pavement, and then there weren’t any figures. It was as sudden and as quick as that. There was no cry, no struggle. One minute there was Anne with only a little way to go to the pillar-box, and the next it had all happened. It gave her a queer excited feeling and the beginning of something that wasn’t comfortable. She tossed her head, turned, and ran back to the house. She had left the door ajar. She pushed it open, took a step inside, and pushed it shut again. It was done. Anne had gone. And she wouldn’t come back again.
Bewilderingly there swept over her a sense of irretrievable loss. What had she done? And quick on that something that resisted. She hadn’t done anything—nothing at all. If Anne had gone with that man, she had gone of her own free will, hadn’t she? She had. She had.
She went slowly up the stairs and heard Janet call from the bathroom.
‘Is that you, Anne?’
‘No, it’s me. Anne’s gone up. Do you want her?’
‘No—not really—it will do in the morning.’
She went on up the flight of stairs which led to her bedroom and Anne’s. When she was half way up she called down to Janet in the bathroom. ‘Good-night! I’m awfully sleepy.’ Then she ran the rest of the way and came into her room with a sense of escape.
She locked the door and sat down on the bed in the dark.
She didn’t want the light. And then after a few minutes she did want it and she got up and turned it on. She undressed, put the light out, and got into bed. But she couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts were racing. She had been very clever, very clever indeed. There was nothing to feel uncomfortable about. What had she done?
What had she done? ‘I haven’t done anything.’ Anne had lost her memory. She didn’t know who she was, or where she was, or where she had come from. It was only kindness to give her back to her own people.
‘It was the basest betrayal in the world.’
Lizabet started on her elbow. Who had said that? Someone had said it. She was in her own room, locked in. She had been comfortable and nearly asleep, and someone had said that.
It went on all night. When she was quite awake she could argue with herself. These were Anne’s own people—it was much better for her to be with them. And then when she was slipping down into sleep the thought would come, ‘How do you know who they were, or what they wanted? How do you know?’ Round and round, and over and over the thoughts went on. There was nothing to distract your mind in the silence of the night.
The first faint breath of fear came and went. It did not stay long. It came back again. It kept on coming back until with the first faint streak of daylight it was there all the time and would not be talked down or covered up. She got out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and went down to Janet’s room. She couldn’t bear it by herself any more. Janet would know what to do. Janet always knew.
She opened the door cautiously. Janet didn’t move. She could tell by her breathing that she was asleep. A wave of self-pity came over her. Janet could sleep. She hadn’t slept all night—not really. A sob came up in her throat. And at once Janet stirred and woke. She was up on her elbow looking across the faint dawn light that filled the room.
‘Lizabet—what is it?’
Lizabet was child enough to dissolve into tears. She ran across to the bed and sobbed.
‘Janet—oh, Janet!’
‘What is it? Lizabet, what’s the matter?’
‘I—I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Why couldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’ There was a fresh and more agonised burst of tears.
Janet got out of bed.
‘You’re all cold,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you some hot milk. Get in and cover yourself up. I won’t be a minute.’
It was nice and warm in Janet’s bed. Perhaps she could go to sleep here. She could try. And then just as she was beginning to feel comfortably warm and sleepy Janet came back with the hot milk. Lizabet sipped the milk. Then she became aware that Janet was looking at her.
‘What put you in such a state?’
Lizabet hung her head.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Something did. You’d better tell me what it was.’
‘It wasn’t anything.’ Lizabet drank up the rest of the milk and pushed the glass at Janet. ‘It wasn’t anything at all.’
Janet took the glass, put it down, and turned to the bed again.
‘If you don’t tell me, I must go and ask Anne.’
‘No—no—you can’t—’
‘Why can’t I?’
It was at that moment it came home to Lizabet that she would give almost anything for Anne to be still there. She caught Janet by the wrist and broke again into tears.
‘You can’t! She’s not there—she’s gone!’
There was a stunned silence. Then Janet said, ‘Where has she gone?’
‘I—don’t—know—’
Janet sat down on the bed. Her legs shook. She sat because she couldn’t stand any longer. She said as firmly as she could, ‘What have you done?’
The bell rang. Miss Silver waked. She was quite composed, quite all there. She stretched out her hand to the extension by her bed, took up the receiver, and said, ‘Miss Silver speaking.’
A voice that tried very hard to be steady answered her.
‘Miss Silver, it’s Janet Wells. Something dreadful has happened. Anne has gone.’
‘Gone!’
‘Yes. I don’t know what to do.’
Miss Silver sat up and pulled a shawl round her.
‘What has happened?’
There was a pause. It was as though Janet couldn’t get it over her lips. Then she said, ‘I’m afraid I was followed yesterday afternoon. Lizabet went out to post a letter, and she saw the man. I’m afraid she hasn’t behaved well, but she’s so young—she didn’t understand. She is dreadfully sorry now.’
Miss Silver pressed her lips together. She said, ‘What did she do?’
‘The man persuaded her. She thought it was a joke—I don’t know what she thought. Anne was finishing some sewing and I went to have a bath. When I had gone, Lizabet pretended that she had a letter to post. She asked if Anne would come to the corner with her. She said she had promised me not to go alone when it was late. Anne went with her, and Lizabet turned back. She said she had forgotten one of her letters and would catch her up with it, so Anne walked on slowly. There was a car standing by the pillar-box. When she got level with it a man came round from the other side and another got out from the front. I—I think they held something over her face. Lizabet couldn’t see, and she was frightened. She says it didn’t take a minute, and then they drove away with her.’
Miss Silver said, ‘I see—’ Then she said, ‘Have you reported this?’
‘No—not yet.’
‘I will tell Jim Fancourt. Do not do anything until I ring you.’
She rang off, sat for a moment in thought, and then rang up Jim Fancourt.
Anne lay in the back of the car. Every now and then the deep unconsciousness which held her thinned away. She became aware of unhappy things, a confusion, of a rushing, sliding sound. As often as this happened there was the smell of chloroform again and she went down into the pits of sleep. This was until they were out of London—out of the network of roads round London.
It was later that she passed this stage. She did not hear the driver say, ‘I should slack it off now,’ or the man who was sitting by her answer with a brief ‘All right,’ but this time her consciousness came nearer and went on coming.
She made a moaning sound, and Ross Cranston said, ‘I say, what about it?’
The man who was driving laughed.
‘She’ll probably be sick. Never mind—we’ll be there soon.’
Ross was in a state. ‘Oh, I say!’ he protested. The man who was driving said, ‘Shut up!’ and he shut up.
The first thing that Anne knew was the motion of the car. At first it was pleasant and vague and then, after it had gone away and come back several times, she was tired of it and wanted it to stop. But it wouldn’t stop. It went on, and on, and on. In the end she called out and tried to change her position. Something stopped her and she struggled to be free. And then the thick white giddiness came down on her again.
It was whilst she struggled out of the giddiness that they turned off from the road.
The house was in a hollow. It was thickly surrounded with trees—big hollies and monstrous yews. It was an old house. They drew up in front of it, and Anne opened her eyes again. She said, ‘Why have you brought me here?’ Because she knew this house, she knew it very well. It was the house where she had lived with Aunt Letty, the house she had seen—was it in a dream—she didn’t know. She sat in the car, her eyes wide, and every now and then the picture before her dipped and slanted. When this happened she shut her eyes and there was a rushing sound in her ears. The man who was in the car with her got out. He must have gone to the door, because when she looked again it was open and he was turning and coming back to the car.
And it was Ross.
She was so astonished that she did not know what to say. For a moment she said nothing at all. She shut her eyes again, but when she opened them he was still there—her cousin Ross Cranston. She couldn’t imagine what brought him there. She shut her eyes again, and then opened them quickly and said, ‘Ross!’
Cranston looked around. He felt the need for someone to back him up. The man who had been driving came round the house.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Miss Forest, will you come in? Are you able to walk?’
Anne looked at him with wavering eyes. She knew Ross— she knew this man too. He had stood in the garden at Chantreys and talked to her. He had stood in the study there and talked to Lilian. And she had stood in the dark on the other side of the door into the dining-room. She had stood there and she had listened, and then she had gone upstairs cold-foot in the dark, and dressed, and run away. She didn’t know his name, but she knew who he was. He had come into the garden whilst she was there. He had talked to her. She couldn’t remember all he had said, but it had frightened her. She thought he had said not to repeat anything, not to tell anyone. But she had. She had told Jim. The thought of Jim rushed to her heart. It was a strength and a deliverance. It was the linking of her two worlds. It was safety. She must keep hold of that.
She got out of the car. She was weak and dizzy and her head went round. She needed Ross’s arm and she held to it. They came into the hall of the house. She knew it all quite well. The third stair would creak when she put her foot on it—it always had—and the tenth one again. It was very difficult to climb the stairs, very difficult indeed. Ross was helping her. That was kind of him. He hadn’t always been kind. She wouldn’t think about that now.
The other man frightened her. Why had he talked to Lilian in the night, and why had she run away? She couldn’t remember, but she stood still and said, ‘I don’t want him to come up.’
They weren’t quite at the top—there were fifteen steps before the landing, and she had taken only twelve of them. There was a pause. She had the feeling that Ross was looking across at the other man. He had her left arm. She stood still and pulled to get it away from him, and he laughed and let it go so suddenly that she came within an ace of falling. He said, ‘What’s the odds?’ and she caught at Ross to save herself and stumbled up the rest of the stairs and across the landing. She needed Ross’s arm to lean upon but not to guide her. She did not need anyone to guide her to her own room.
When she reached it, it was like coming home. The bed was sideways to the window. Someone had put a candle on the chest of drawers. She walked to the bed and laid herself down on it. She would have liked the window open, but it was too much trouble to bother about that. She pulled up the eiderdown until it covered her and turned on the pillow and went to sleep. The last thing she knew was the change from light to darkness. There was the click of a turning key. She slept.