Vanishing Point

CHAPTER 40

Craig Lester kept his watch. After some reconnoitring he decided on a vantage point where an old apple tree rose among the shrubs which lay between the side of the house and the gap by which the garden could be entered from next door. In the darkness and still bare of leaf he could not know what kind of a tree it was, but Lucy Cunningham could have told him that it would have a wealth of rosy blossom in May and be weighed down with rosy apples in September.

Lydia Crewe could have told him more than that. For two hundred years there had been an orchard tree here between the houses. Then the taste in gardening changed, became more formal. Shrubs took the place of pear and cherry, apple and mulberry and quince, to suit the whim of Sophia Crewe who had brought a fortune into the family’s already depleted coffers. She was beautiful, stubborn, and extremely well dowered, and Jonathan Crewe had let her have her way. But he would not part with the tree which provided his breakfast apple for ten months in the year. He had boasted about it for too long, and his middle-aged foot came down and stayed that way. He had been gone for a long time now-and Sophia and her dowry-but the apple tree remained. It had low spreading boughs. When Craig was tired of standing he could sit comfortably enough, and when he was tired of sitting he could stand again. What he could not do was to walk about. He found it remarkably like old times.

He began to think about Rosamond. He could not believe, he would not let himself believe, that anything could go wrong now. Whatever happened or didn’t happen tonight, they must be married as he had planned. He hoped with all his heart that nothing would happen. He supposed Miss Silver was bound to ring up the police, but somehow he didn’t see the country people rushing over in the middle of the night to arrest Henry Cunningham on the word of an elderly spinster. There would have to be a search warrant, and a search warrant meant recourse to a higher authority. Higher authority didn’t take kindly to being knocked up in the small hours. He considered there would be some weight behind the argument that if the Melbury rubies were in Henry Cunningham’s drawer they could very well stay there for a few hours longer. As to Miss Cunningham being in any danger, he felt that a good deal of scepticism could be expected.

He began to feel a good deal of scepticism himself. If he had not stood behind the panel and heard Lydia Crewe say, “Lucy knows too much,” the scepticism might have been complete. As it was, the words stuck in his throat-“Lucy knows too much.” And how did it go on-“She knows enough to ruin us.” He could tell himself that she was putting a case to Henry Cunningham, and that anyhow people said a lot of things they didn’t really mean. But the words stuck, and the voice that carried them. It occurred to him quite suddenly that he had never disliked any one as much as he disliked Lydia Crewe.

If his ears had not been trained to listen, he might not have heard her when she came. The path ran close beside his tree. If he had taken one step and stretched out a hand he could have touched her, but she went past with what was hardly a sound. The air moved, something went by. Since he knew where she must be going, he did not hurry to follow her. He had unlaced his shoes, now he slipped them off and left them hanging on the tree. He came in his stocking feet to the edge of the little courtyard as she slipped behind the bush which screened the secret door. The key turned, the door swung in, and she was gone. He could neither see nor hear these things, but he knew that they were happening.

And then Miss Silver was saying, “She has just gone in, has she not?”

“Yes.”

“She must be followed, and at once.”

The tall figure of Frank Abbott loomed up. He said in the almost soundless voice which the others were using,

“There’s a delay about the search warrant. It may be some time before it gets here.”

Miss Silver was already on her way towards the house. Frank followed her.

“My dear ma’am, we can’t just go in!”

He considers that her reply exhibits the Victorian tradition at the point where the sublime transcends the ridiculous. It is not so easy to achieve dignity without emphasis, but she achieved it.

“My dear Frank, I am on visiting terms with Miss Cunningham, and I feel no difficulty about entering her house. You and Mr. Lester will, of course, do what you feel to be right.” With which pronouncement she too stepped behind the bush and entered the passage.

Standing for a moment to listen, she could hear nothing. There was need for haste, but there was also a need for caution.

Lydia Crewe passed through the study, leaving the panel open. A small light burned in the hall. After some consideration she left it as it was and went up to the bedroom floor. If she had to make a sudden retreat it would be useful to be able to see her way. Lucy Cunningham’s door was the first on the right at the top of the stairs-Henry opposite on the left, and Nicholas at the back of the landing. She had no fear that they would wake, but if either of them did, Henry had alarmed her about Lucy and she had slipped over to see that all was well.

She tried the handle of the door and found it fast. Her brows met in a frown. She lifted her hand and knocked. After a moment a voice said,

“Who’s there?”

She would hardly have known it for Lucy’s voice, it was so hoarse and strained. She made her own voice smooth.

“It’s Lydia, my dear. Henry was concerned about you. He said you were not well. He was concerned enough to ring me up.”

Lucy Cunningham was startled right out of her fear.

“Henry rang you up!”

“Yes. You can tell how worried he must have been. Let me in-we can’t talk like this.”

She heard Lucy come up to the door and turn the key. A triumphant sense of power took hold of her as she stepped into the room and pushed the door to behind her. She did not stop to latch it. She would not be here for long. What she had to do could be done without delay. She looked at Lucy, still in her afternoon dress, and said in a shocked tone,

“But, my dear, you are not undressed. Do you know how late it is?”

Lucy shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter-I can’t sleep. Did you say Henry rang you up?”

Lydia Crewe nodded.

“He’s terribly worried. I told him I would come over and bring you a sleeping-draught.”

“Henry rang you up?” Incredulity struggled through the flat fatigue of her voice.

“That is what I said.”

“Henry?”

“Would you be glad to know that we have made it up again?”

“Glad? Oh, Lydia!”

The tears began to run down her face. She put out her hands gropingly. Lydia Crewe took them, guided her to the bed, and sat there beside her, speaking to her soothingly.

The sound of this soothing voice reached Miss Silver as she came to the top of the stairs-that and the sound of Lucy Cunningham’s sobs. They made it quite safe to approach the door, which was ajar. Standing there, she heard Miss Crewe say,

“Now, Lucy, there’s nothing to cry about. Henry and I are just where we were, and you ought to be pleased about that. But he is terribly worried about you, so I want you to take this sleeping-draught. What you need is a good night’s rest. Henry can ask Mrs. Hubbard to let you sleep on in the morning, and when you wake up you can tell us how glad you are that we can all be friends again. Of course you and I always were. We never did let anything come between us, did we, and we never will.”

All the time that she was speaking Lucy wept, not loudly, but in an exhausted fashion as if she had come to the end of her strength and could do no more. Lydia and Henry had made it up- Lydia was being kind-there was nothing to worry about any more. But she was too tired to be glad. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep. She was conscious of the removal of Lydia ’s arm and of her getting up and going over to the wash-stand. There was the chink of glass against glass.

And then Lydia was back again, standing in front of her and holding out a tumbler.

“Now, Lucy, drink this. And then we’ll get your clothes off and you can go to sleep.”

Miss Silver pushed the door an inch or two wider. Lucy Cunningham was sitting on the side of the bed, her face wet with tears, her eyes blurred. Standing over her with her back to the door was Lydia Crewe. There was a tumbler in her hand half full. She held it out to Lucy and said in a tone of authority,

“Come now-drink it up!”

Lucy gave a last tired sob and said,

“I don’t-want it, Lydia. Now you’ve come-I shall sleep.”

The tone of authority became harsher.

“You will drink it at once and no nonsense about it! What you need is a good long rest!”

Lucy Cunningham put out her hand half way and took the glass. And saw Miss Maud Silver come into the room with her black cloth coat, her fur tippet, her second-best hat, and her warm woolen gloves. It was such a surprising sight that it shocked her broad awake. The impact of Lydia ’s will was blunted. Her face changed, she drew back her hand.

Miss Silver gave a slight arresting cough and said,

“I think it is extremely wise of you to resist a sedative, Miss Cunningham. Natural sleep is always to be preferred.”

Lydia Crewe turned stiffly round. She had had one shock already. She had surmounted it. Now there was this. In a moment she would be able to think, to plan, to know what she must do. Just now, in this instant of time, she could only stand there and stare.

With a purely instinctive movement Lucy Cunningham leaned sideways behind Miss Crewe’s back and set the tumbler down upon the bedside table. There was no design in what she did. There was a tumbler in her hand, she set it down. Something had brought Miss Silver into her room in the middle of the night. She got to her feet, passing Lydia, standing away from her, because all at once the room was full of fierce currents. She didn’t understand them, but they were there. Lydia who had been kind was not kind any longer. Her voice shook with a sound which Lucy knew and feared beyond anything else.

“What-do-you-want?”

Miss Silver did not appear to be impressed. She said in her usual composed manner,

“I want you to go home, Miss Crewe. I believe that you had better do so. Miss Cunningham should rest.”

Lydia Crewe made a great effort. She controlled the rage that shook her. She controlled her voice to say,

“I found she had dissolved some tablets for a sleeping-draught-they are some she had by her. I was just waiting to see her take them and help her to bed.”

And what must Lucy say, the babbling fool, but “ Lydia, I’ve never had any sleeping-tablets. I don’t like them-I don’t need them. It was you-”

There was a silence. Lydia Crewe gathered her remaining forces. She said,

“Very well, I’ll go. Since you don’t need that draught, we can throw it away.” Then suddenly, sharply, “What have you done with it?… Ah!”

She had not turned in time. Miss Silver had moved between her and the bedside table, and at that her control broke. She made a dreadful sound and reached for Miss Silver’s throat.

Lucy Cunningham screamed at the top of her voice, and in a moment the room was full of people-Frank Abbott, Craig Lester, Nicholas. And at long last Henry Cunningham, his shaking hands to his ears, because now it was Lydia Crewe who was screaming-dreadfully.