The Dark on the Other Side

I

MICHAEL CAME DOWN LATE THE NEXT MORNING TO find the breakfast room unoccupied. Gordon had explained that they followed English country-house habits in the morning; he considered it a tyranny to demand that his guests appear at a specified hour for a meal as trying as breakfast.

One of the servants, a well-stacked blonde with skirts so short they took Michael’s mind off coffee for several minutes, had shown him the way to the “small dining room.” It was a sunny, pleasant room with a table in a circular bay window and silver chafing dishes set out along a sideboard. Michael surveyed the effect approvingly. He wished he knew more about furniture, and all that sort of thing. This stuff was what they called Provincial, he supposed-light in design and color, with flowered drapes and blue-and-white delft pots filled with blooming branches standing around. It was very different from the somber large dining room, with its heavy dark furniture and velvet hangings and family portraits. He wondered how much Linda had had to do with the decoration of the house, and which, if either, of the two styles represented her taste.

He forgot Linda as he foraged happily among the chafing dishes. The butler, bringing fresh coffee and toast, informed him that Mr. Randolph and his secretary had already breakfasted and gone to work; Randolph had said that they would meet for lunch, and suggested that in the meantime Michael explore the grounds. Mrs. Randolph? The butler’s face was impassive. Mrs. Randolph always breakfasted in her room.

Along with one hell of a hangover, Michael thought. He finished his coffee and decided he might as well follow Gordon’s suggestion of a walk. The view from the window was beautiful; it reminded him of Devon, where he had spent a memorable month slogging through the mud and declaiming the inevitable lines of Browning with the ardor of an eighteen-year-old. Illumined by sunshine, the spring colors of flowers and new leaves were as bright as if they had been freshly painted.

He had to ask directions again to get out of the house. Finally he found his way onto the terrace, an immense flagstoned expanse with half a dozen low steps leading down to a lawn like apple-green velvet. Tulips, one of the few flowers Michael knew by name, made swatches of crimson and yellow along a graveled path. There were other flowers: pink ones and blue ones and spotted ones. The air effervesced like champagne when he breathed it in; he felt dizzy with it. Something smelled good. Must be the pink and blue flowers. As an expert on tulips, he recalled that they didn’t smell.

Breathing in and out with self-conscious virtue, he went down the steps, heading for a copse of trees that looked like a pale-pink, low-hanging cloud. Cherry trees, maybe. Or apple. There had been apple trees on his grandmother’s farm…how many years ago? He was just old enough to revel in nostalgia, instead of finding it hurtful, and his mood was pleasantly self-reproachful as he wandered along the path. Something wrong with people who gave up this kind of life for a foul den in a smoggy hive of sterile buildings and packed humanity. Maybe he would buy himself a cottage someplace. If this book was a success…

Midway along the path he turned for a backward look, and stopped short. The night before, he had got only the vaguest impression of the house, which was approached by a long drive through a grove of pines. It had been twilight when he arrived; he had seen a vast, dark bulk, which in the tricky dusk had loomed larger than it was. Or so he had thought. The place was big. Built of gray stone, it had three stories and a roof with dormers that might conceal attics or servants’ quarters. The wings stretched out on either side of the terrace and the garden. The tower…Something wrong with the tower. Michael studied it, frowning. The same gray stone, a handsome slate roof…The shape, that was what was wrong. It was too tall, too thin to harmonize with the bulk of the house. And the stairway that wound up, around the exterior, didn’t harmonize either. It looked like an afterthought.

Still, the overall effect was impressive. It was a good-looking house. But the impression foremost in his mind was not so much aesthetic as financial. Money. What a hunk of dough this place must have cost, even in the laissez-faire days of Randolph ’s grandfather. And what it must cost, now, to maintain.

He wandered on, while another long-forgotten memory worked its way to the surface. His mother, in an enormous floppy straw hat and a shapeless skirt-women didn’t wear slacks in those days, at least his mother didn’t-kneeling on the ground, wielding a busy trowel. She had been an enthusiastic gardener. Maybe, if she had lived longer, she might have been able to impart knowledge about some other plants than tulips. He had been eight when she died. He had hated her for dying. But still there was that undefined feeling of pleasure and content when he saw flowers pink and blue and sweet-smelling…

Rounding the end of the left wing, he saw a bank of flowering bushes and struck off at a tangent to investigate them. With the sunlight full upon them they blazed like fire-orange and purplish red and pink-a brighter shade of pink than the fat flowers in the beds. It was not until he got close that he saw the kneeling figure; and because of his odd mood of reminiscence and receptivity he was struck suddenly breathless. A familiar figure, in a big floppy straw hat, kneeling, the bright flash of a trowel twinkling in its gloved hands…

But the straw hat was circled by a strip of figured chiffon, and he had seen its like in shop windows along Fifth Avenue. The kneeling figure wore tight slacks, not a shapeless cotton skirt; and the face that looked up at him, shaded by the brim, had the wide tilted eyes of an Egyptian court lady.

It was reassuring to know that he was not facing a revenant, however fragrant her memory; but the girl who was digging in the dirt was almost as much unlike his hostess of the previous night as she was unlike his mother. If she had a hangover, it didn’t show. The lock of hair hanging down over one cheek shone in the sunlight like a black-bird’s wing; she brushed it back with a gloved hand and left a smudge of dirt along the exquisite cheekbone.

“Good morning,” she said coolly. “I hope Ha-worth gave you something decent for breakfast.”

“More than decent. How was yours?”

She dismissed the inanity with the shrug it deserved.

“Are you soaking up atmosphere or just taking a walk?”

“The latter,” Michael said shortly.

“Then allow me to be the perfect hostess. I’ll give you the guided tour.”

“Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“This is therapy, not productive labor. There are four gardeners, and they regard me as a necessary nuisance.”

She got to her feet, in a movement so smooth that Michael’s incipient offer of a helping hand was left dangling. In her flat shoes she came up to his chin. The brim of the hat brushed his nose, and she swept it off, tilting her head back and laughing.

She wore a yellow sweater over her white blouse, with dark-brown slacks. He had thought of her as thin, the night before; now he searched for other adjectives. Slim; wiry; slender…No, not slender, that suggested a delicacy, a yielding grace; and the alert tension of her pose was the reverse of graceful. Michael damned his incurable writer’s tendency to wallow in words, and smiled back at her.

“The place is beautiful. Are you the genius who planned all this?”

“Heavens, no. It’s been like this for a hundred years. Roughly.”

“But surely plants and flowers, even trees, need replacing from time to time.”

“Gordon does that.” There was a slight pause; he had a feeling that she was considering, not what she should say, but how to say it. “His taste is impeccable,” she went on. “In everything.”

Hm, Michael thought. Probably true. And spoken, if not with enthusiasm, at least with a courteous approval.

“I wish I knew more about these things,” he said, indicating the bank of flowering bushes by which they stood. Descriptions of inanimate objects-which, to him, included landscape-were his weak point; he always had to labor over background. But now he found himself searching for color words: Salmon? Fuchsia? (What color was fuchsia, anyhow?) White, of course. That pink wasn’t just pink, it was sort of rose-colored and sort of-

“They’re azaleas,” said his guide, with amusement. “Very common plants.”

“Oh.” Michael stared blankly at the bushes. “Azaleas. It does sound familiar. I’ve never seen so many colors.”

“Some of the varieties are rare. That group over there is rhododendron.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be interested.” She was laughing, openly; the expression changed her face, robbed it of its oriental elusiveness.

“I am, I am. Keep it up. I’ll work it into some book or other and get gushing comments from lady reviewers.”

“More likely they’ll think you’re a woman in disguise-or a bit odd. Men aren’t supposed to be interested in flowers.”

“Or cats,” Michael agreed. “Or birds?”

“Definitely not. You know the stereotype of the male bird watcher.”

“Skinny, bespectacled, lisping…Interior decoration?”

“Effete,” she agreed gravely. “Fashions?”

“Times have changed. I’ve seen men’s boutiques.”

The tone of disgust made her laugh again, and after a moment he joined in.

“Sorry, I guess I’m more conventional than I thought. This last century is one of the few eras in history when men weren’t concerned with looking like butterflies, when you come to think of it.”

“That’s right. And you can’t think that dandies like Charles the Second and Francis the First weren’t one hundred percent male.”

“Not if the historical novelists are accurate. Okay. When I get back to town, I’ll buy myself a flowered tie and a velvet jacket.”

“And flaunt them publicly?”

“Certainly. When I take up a cause, I go all the way.”

She looked up at him, with the laughter fading from her face.

“I think you would,” she said slowly.

Michael found himself looking, not at her mouth or her chin or her nose, as people ordinarily do when they look at someone, but directly into her eyes. They were extraordinary eyes-so dark that they looked permanently dilated, with the pupils drowned and lost, luminous, shining…

“But,” she added, “you wouldn’t be easy to convince.”

Michael knew he ought to say something, but he couldn’t think what. He couldn’t even remember what they had been talking about.

Linda broke the spell by turning away.

“You get a good view of the house from here,” she said.

Michael shook himself, like a dog coming out of the water, and turned. The view was impressive-and relaxing, after what he had just been looking at. The gray stone of the house was mellowed by sunlight, which sparkled off innumerable windows. Surrounded by a haze of newly leafed trees, with a backdrop of darker green firs, the lovely lines of the house had the appeal of a Constable painting. Except for that damned tower…

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

Linda consulted her watch.

“We can walk down to the grove, and then we’d better turn back. I think Gordon planned to work with you this afternoon, didn’t he?”

“He said something about meeting at lunch.”

“We’ll make it a quick walk, then. You must see the meadow. Gordon’s latest scheme, that is; he had it grass planted with daffodils and narcissi, like the meadow at Hampton Court; it’s really gorgeous. And the grove is all flowering trees-cherry and apple and plum and almond.”

“Oh.”

“You’d better take notes,” she advised. “Or the lady reviewers will scold you for your errors instead of gushing.”

“I have an excellent memory. What are those stout pink and blue things?”

“Hyacinths.”

She went on chatting lightly about flowers, pointing out different varieties, explaining that Gordon’s rose garden was one of the sights of the neighborhood, and inviting him to come back in June, when it was at its best. The initial mood of their meeting, which had been shaken briefly by that odd exchange of words and glances, was back in full force. Making light conversation, Michael felt bewildered. It was impossible to reconcile this girl, composed and gracious, with the bitter-tongued drunk of the night before. He began to wonder whether he had misinterpreted the incident. Maybe something had happened the day before, something that set her off into behavior that was not a pattern, but an isolated outburst. Maybe he was starting to read too much into looks and expressions. Maybe…

“There’s one thing I miss,” he said casually, as they passed under the hanging boughs of white blossom.

“What’s that?”

“The dogs.”

He had gone several steps before he realized she was no longer beside him. Turning, in surprise, he saw her framed in apple blossoms, with a shaft of sunlight polishing the green leaves and spotlighting a face gone whiter than the petals.

“What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

“Dogs,” she said, in a breathy whisper. “What…dogs?”

Michael was so shocked by her sudden pallor that it took him a second or two to remember what she was talking about.

“Why-animals in general. Pets. I guess I mentioned dogs because they’re always there in my mental pictures of country estates. Those brown-and-white hunting dogs…You look terrible. Sit down for a minute.”

He put his arm around her rigid shoulders. For a moment they resisted, like rock; then her whole body sagged, so suddenly that he fell back a step under the weight of it, and put his other arm around her to steady her.

Over her bowed head he saw her husband come into sight, at the end of the avenue of cherry trees.

Michael was too concerned for his hostess and too confident of his host to feel any embarrassment at his farcical position. Randolph ’s smiling face changed and he began to run; but his first words made it clear that he had not misinterpreted the situation.

“Darling, what’s wrong? She gets these dizzy spells,” he explained distractedly. “Too much sun, or not enough vitamins, or something…Linda…”

He put his arms around his wife, and Michael hastily removed his. Linda straightened.

“I’m all right. Sorry, Mr. Collins.”

“You scared the hell out of him,” Gordon said, sharp in his relief. “Damn it, honey, this time I’m not kidding. You’ve got to see a doctor.”

Linda started back toward the house.

“I don’t need a doctor.”

Her footsteps were a little unsteady, but Gordon made no move toward her. As if by mutual consent, the two men fell into step together, following Linda’s slight figure.

“What did you say that set her off?” Randolph asked, under his breath.

Michael stiffened.

“I hope you don’t think-”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t talk like a fool. I meant, what were you talking about when she came over queer?”

Gordon’s candid gaze was one of his most attractive features. It was not in evidence now; he scuffed his feet and stared at the ground like a delinquent caught in the act. Michael saw the truth then, and cursed himself for his stupidity. Alcoholism was a symptom, not a disease. Naturally Gordon couldn’t come right out with it, not to a stranger…

“I don’t remember exactly,” he said truthfully. “But it certainly wasn’t anything that might frighten or distress her. Something about the grounds-flowers, animals, damned if I can recall.”

They had been muttering, like stage conspirators. Linda was about ten feet ahead of them. She stopped and turned, and Gordon’s reply was never uttered.

“Wait up,” he said easily. “What’s the hurry?”

“I thought you wanted to get to work. Didn’t you come in hot pursuit of your biographer?”

The color had come back to her face, and it was perfectly composed. Too composed; the animation that had given it life was gone, and she looked like a tinted statue.

“No, I finished the letters and thought I’d like a walk.” Gordon came up beside her, but he did not touch her or take her arm. “It’s a beautiful day,” he added.

“Yes, isn’t it.”

They walked on together-a perfect picture, Michael thought sardonically, of a happy three-some spending a morning in the country. Diffused sunlight trickled through the overhanging boughs, waking highlights in Linda’s satiny black hair, turning the tan on Gordon’s bare forearms to a golden brown. They made a handsome couple.

“By the way,” Linda said casually, “Andrea is back. I’ve asked her to dinner tonight.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” The words were explosive, but there was more amusement than annoyance in Gordon’s voice. “Not Andrea!”

“I thought I’d better warn you well in advance,” Linda said, smiling up at her tall husband from under the brim of her hat. It was a charming, provocative look; no doubt, Michael thought, it was the oblique slant of those oriental eyes that made him think of something sly and malicious peering out between dark leaves.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Gordon said resignedly. “I find the old witch amusing, even if she does hate my guts. But I don’t think you’re being fair to Mike.”

“I thought he might find her amusing too,” Linda murmured.

“Who is she?” Michael asked.

“Just what I said.” Gordon was smiling. “The local witch.”

“What?”

“She lives in a stone cottage that’s over two hundred years old,” Linda said dreamily. “She keeps cats. One whole wall of the kitchen is fireplace-brick, darkened by centuries of smoke. There’s a black pot hanging over the flames, and oak settles on either side of the hearth. The roof is raftered; things hang from hooks in the beams. Bundles of herbs-vervain and mandragora, and Saint-John’s-wort. And a stuffed cockatrice.”

“And hams and strings of onions,” Gordon said drily.

“You’re putting me on,” Michael said, looking from one smiling face to the other.

“Her mother was a witch, too,” Linda murmured. “And her grandmother. It goes back for generations, like the house.”

“Cut it out, honey.” Gordon smiled. “The old lady is a little touched in the head, that’s all. She calls herself a white witch and denies all traffic with the powers of darkness. I think she really believes it herself, which makes her an entertaining conversationalist.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Michael said. “One forgets that people really do believe these things, even in this day and age.”

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’”

“That, of course.” Michael studied his host with new interest; none of his perfunctory research had exposed a mystical streak in Gordon Randolph. “The limitation of human knowledge, at any given point, must be admitted by any rational person. What I meant was that some people believe, literally, in those old superstitions. I read some books once by a man named Summers-a twentieth-century priest, Anglican or Catholic, I forget which, but a trained scholar-who believed in witchcraft. Not as a historical phenomenon, but as a living force. He thought-”

“I remember old Montague,” Gordon interrupted. “Amazing mind.”

“But it follows logically, doesn’t it,” Linda said, in a high voice. They had reached the terrace; she stopped, outside the French doors. “Especially for a priest. If you believe in God, you must admit the existence of His adversary.”

“Certainly; but orthodoxy in these matters is a narrow tightrope to walk. You can’t deny Satan; but you can’t attribute too much power to him without risking the heresy of Manichaeism. Good and evil-two equal, opposing powers-that doctrine was condemned at some church synod or other centuries ago.”

He would have gone on, for the subject was one that had interested him once upon a time, if he had not realized, tardily, that his audience wasn’t listening. Linda’s face was as blank as a doll’s, and her husband was watching her with that familiar look of concern.

“I’d better go and change for lunch,” Linda said.

Michael watched her disappear through the doors. He half expected Gordon to speak to him, but Gordon went after his wife, like a faithful dog. Dog…What the hell, Michael wondered, making up the end of the procession-what the hell is going on in this house?

II

That afternoon Linda searched her husband’s room.

Though their bedrooms were connected through the twin-mirrored dressing rooms, she had not been in Gordon’s room for almost a year. Not since that night…Her memory shook, and went dark, as it always did when she thought about that night. But surely, today, it would be safe. Gordon and his repulsive secretary were with Michael, and would be until dinnertime. The maids cleaned the bedrooms in the morning. No one else had any business upstairs, except possibly Haworth, the butler, who doubled as Gordon’s valet, and she had set him to polishing the silver. It was a week before the silver was supposed to be polished, but…so what? That was what she had said to Haworth when he courteously pointed out the discrepancy. So what?

She repeated it now, taking an infantile pleasure in the cheap defiance of the phrase. She giggled softly, remembering Haworth ’s face when she said it. Then she stopped the giggle with a quick hand that covered her lips. None of that. She had done well, so far today-except for that one slip. If he hadn’t sprung it on her unexpectedly, just when she was beginning to relax, to feel confident of her power to charm and convince…That had been a bad one. It was all the more necessary now that she be calm. Calm, and charming, and gracious and…sane.

Yet, when the heavy door moved under the pressure of her hand, she caught her breath with a sharp sound, and stepped back, jerking her hand away as if the door had been red hot. Fine courage, she jeered silently. You really hoped, deep down inside, that the door would be locked on the other side. It had been locked on her side; surely Gordon had an even stronger reason to keep his door bolted and barred. But he had not done so.

There had not been bolts on either side of the door at first. She had put hers on herself, after that night, on an afternoon when Gordon was out of the house. The whole thing had come in a neat package, enclosed in plastic-the bolt and the screws with which to affix it. She hadn’t remembered the need-the so obvious need-for hammer and screwdriver until she stripped off the stiff plastic, kneeling with pounding heart by the closed door. Even now she could recall the wave of terror that had gripped her when she realized she couldn’t do the job without tools. It had taken cunning as well as courage to get rid of them long enough to sneak into the hardware store in the village. She could never do it again. The thought of boldly entering the tool shed, where the gardener kept his tools, made her stomach turn over. What if he came in and caught her, standing there, with the hammer in her hand?

In the end, with a resource she had thought long forgotten, she had used the heel of a shoe and a nail file.

The whole performance had been ridiculous, of course. She could see that now. Gordon must have known about the bolt. If he had not wanted her to have it, he could have had it removed. But he had never said a word about it. Yet someone must have oiled it, because its surface shone as brightly as it had when she took it out of its plastic cover, and it had slid back without a sound.

Gradually her pounding heart slowed, as no noise came from the next room. She pushed the door open wider and looked in.

His room was the twin of hers in size and shape, except that the high windows on the south wall were French doors, leading out onto a stone-balustraded balcony. They had breakfasted there, on summer mornings, in the first year of their marriage… The furnishings, of course, were quite different. Gordon had had her room redone. His still contained the furniture his grandfather had selected-heavy, dark mahogany, with the unique sheen produced by decades of well-trained housemaids. It was a somber room on dark days, with its dark maroon hangings and heavy carpeting of the same shade. Now the afternoon sun flooded the room, making the deep pile of the carpet glow like aged Burgundy, reflecting blindingly from the tall pier mirrors in their gilt frames. Another of Grandpa’s vanities, those mirrors. Gordon looked a lot like him, according to the family pictures.

Tiptoeing, in stockinged feet, she ventured cautiously into the room, casting a frustrated glance at the door that opened into the hall. She wished there were some way of locking it, so she would have warning if anyone came. But the smooth dark surface of the door was unmarred by bolt or chain. She turned to look at the back of the door by which she had entered the room. No-no bolt there either. So, he had never had one put on.

Why had she supposed that he would? Because she had done so. That was illogical. She knew what he would say if anyone asked him-any one of those few who knew what had happened on That Night. Barring his door to her would have been a symbolic thrusting away, a rejection of need and a denial of trust.

She crossed the room. Carefully, touching only the ornate brass knob so that no smudge would mar the gleaming wood, she pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. Handkerchiefs, neat, plain, pure white, without even a monogram. She put out her hand and then drew it back, biting her lip. Damn Haworth and his neatness. It would be impossible to touch anything without leaving a sign of disturbance. The corners of the folded handkerchiefs might have been aligned with a ruler. And damn Gordon, too. He was a fanatic about neatness, he had trained Haworth, and he would be the first to notice the slightest irregularity.

More drawers. Pajamas, neatly folded. Coiled belts, looking like flat, curled snakes. Leather boxes, containing studs, cuff links, and his grand-father’s ornate rings-one of the old gentleman’s habits that Gordon had not emulated. More underwear. Nothing else. Nothing else visible.

She would have to risk it. Her lower lip caught between her teeth, she turned back to the top drawer and delicately lifted a pile of handkerchiefs. There was nothing underneath except the immaculate lining of the drawer. Her hands began to shake as she returned the handkerchiefs to their place and went to the next pile.

Still nothing.

It was hard to control her hands, they shook so. The silence of the room was unnatural; her ears rang with it. No-it wasn’t her ears, it was a fly, trapped against one of the windows. Stupid insect. There was an open window within a few inches of its frantic lunges against the glass. For a long moment Linda stood perfectly still, staring at the small, frantic black dot. The buzzing droned in her ears. She turned back to her self-appointed chore with an abruptness that swept a pajama jacket out of alignment. What was under it?

Nothing. Nothing except the lining of the drawer.

Gradually her movements became quicker, jerkier. She shoved at the last drawer of the dresser, turned, before it had stopped moving, toward the tall bureau.

Sweaters. Folded neatly, encased in plastic bags. Nothing under the sweaters. Scarves. Nothing…

Slowly, like a creeping stain, the yellow path of sunlight from the window moved across the rug. As its warmth brushed her arm, Linda flinched and jerked around. It was late, dangerously late. How much longer before the conference ended, before Gordon came up to dress for dinner?

It didn’t matter. She had finished the search. There was nothing here, and she ought to have known there would be nothing. Only her desperate desire for something concrete, some proof that might affect an unprejudiced mind, had driven her to what she knew would be a wasted search. It was his study she ought to investigate. His study, or…

The sunlight seemed brighter; it hurt her eyes. Her breathing was so uneven, it caught at her throat in sharp gasps. Nerves. She was getting upset. And that was bad, because tonight she had to be perfect. Calm, and composed, and…She needed something to calm her nerves.

Gordon’s study, or-the other place. The most likely place, and the one room that she could not risk searching. Because the secretary had arranged with the servants to clean it himself, and there was no conceivable reason why she should need to enter Jack Briggs’s private quarters. If anyone found her there-if he found her…

A long shiver ran through her body. Dropping the last scarf back into the drawer, she turned and ran across the room, on soft stockinged feet. The bottle, the comforting, reliable bottle in the bottom drawer of her dressing table…

She closed the door and shot the bolt into place-leaving behind the marks of her feet imprinted as clearly in velvety pile as in snow, and two drawers standing open, spilling out their contents onto the floor.