Pilgrim’s Rest

chapter 20

Judy Elliot heard the trampling feet and stood a moment on the back stair by the bathroom door. A word came up to her here and there, and her hair rose on her head. Something had happened-something more. The words told her that, but they didn’t tell her what it was. She was left with a sense of horror and apprehension much greater than would have been produced by actual knowledge. Because as soon as you know a thing you can bring your reason to bear upon it, but the unknown takes you back to the cowering savage terrified by all the things he cannot understand.

The trampling ceased. She went down a few steps, and met Mrs. Robbins on the last of the stairs with a face as white as lard. They had hardly spoken before-no more than a good-morning here and there. The Robbinses hadn’t wanted her, and they made it felt. But now, with Mrs. Robbins holding to the rail and staring as if she had seen a ghost, Judy ran to her.

“What’s the matter-has anything happened?”

A hand came out and clutched her. She could feel the cold of it right through her overall.

“Mrs. Robbins-what is it? You’re ill!”

There was a faint movement of the head that said, “No.” The cold clutch persisted. The white lips moved.

“They’ve found Mr. Henry-”

Something like a small piece of ice slid down Judy’s spine. She hadn’t been a week at Pilgrim’s Rest without hearing from Gloria how Henry Clayton had walked out of this house on the eve of his wedding and never been heard of again. But that was three years ago. She couldn’t get her voice to work. When she forced it, it didn’t sound like hers at all. It said,

“He went away-”

Mrs. Robbins made that movement with her head again. She said in a whisper which Judy could only just hear,

“He were in the cellar all the time-he were dead and buried in an old tin trunk. And Alfred says it fare to serve him right. But I don’t care what he done, I wouldn’t want him buried thataway, not him nor no one, I don’t care what they done. But Alfred says it fare to serve him right.”

Judy was shocked through and through. The woman’s look, the terrible whispering voice, conveyed a sense of horror. The country accent, the turn of words, the manner of their delivery, all took her back to something simple, primitive, and dreadful. She didn’t know what to say.

Mrs. Robbins let go of her arm with a shudder and went on up the stairs. Judy heard the slow fall of her climbing feet, the heavy clap of a door on the attic floor. Her own knees were shaking when she came out on the corridor by her room. It was in her mind to go in there and pull herself together. People were murdered every day-you read about them in the papers. It wasn’t sense to go cold and sick inside and feel as if your legs were dangling loose like one of those jointed dolls which are threaded up on elastic and go limp when it begins to wear, just because Henry Clayton had been murdered three years ago.

As she stood there outside her own door, something twanged in her mind like a string being plucked on a fiddle, and something said in a small, clear voice with an edge to it, “Henry Clayton three years ago-and Roger Pilgrim yesterday. So the murderer is still in the house-and who will it be tomorrow?”

The red carpet down the middle of the corridor went all fuzzy at the edges and seemed to tilt. She put out her hand and caught at the doorpost to stop herself sliding down the tilt which would land her in Jerome Pilgrim’s bathroom. And just as she thought about that, and how surprised Lona Day would be, his bedroom door opened and he stood there beckoning to her.

She remembered that she was a housemaid, and the floor got back into the straight. He had his finger on his lips, so she didn’t speak, only walked rather carefully down the middle of the red carpet until she reached him, when he put a hand on her arm, pulled her in, and shut the door.

“What’s going on?”

What was a poor housemaid to do? If she’d known that telling lies to a nervous invalid was part of the job she’d have seen everyone at Jericho before she took it, because she never had been and never would be the slightest use at telling lies. Something in her got up and screamed with rage. Why should she have to tell lies? And what good did they do anyhow? Jerome would have to know.

He had his stick in his hand, but he wasn’t leaning on it. A faint smile moved his lips. He said in an encouraging voice,

“Stop thinking up a good convicing lie and tell me the truth-it’s much more your line. Lona will give me all the soothing syrup I need, so get on with it before she comes in and throws you out on your ear. Why this influx of policemen?”

“How did you know?”

“I looked out of my Aunt Columba’s window and saw them arrive. What did they want?”

Judy gave up.

“They’ve been searching the house.”

“Not this part of it.” He limped over to his chair and sat on the arm. “Did March produce a search-warrant-or did Aunt Columba give him leave?”

“I think Miss Columba said he could.”

“Well, where did they search?”

When Judy said, “The cellars,” she had that sick feeling again. She got to the other chair and sat down on the edge of it.

Jerome Pilgrim looked at her white face and said,

“Find anything?”

Judy nodded, because she had a horrid feeling that if she tried to speak she would probably begin to cry. She saw Jerome’s hand clench on the stick.

“I suppose they found Henry.”

She nodded again.

He did not speak for what seemed like quite a long time. Then he got up and began to take off his dressing-gown.

Judy got up too.

“What are you going to do?”

He was dressed except for the jacket of his suit. He reached for it now.

“I’m going down to see March, and I don’t want to have any argument with Lona about it. Give me a hand-there’s a good child. You’ll find a coat and a cap and muffler in the wardrobe. Just take them along down to the hall, and see that no one gets them whilst I’m talking to March. I may have to go out.”

She said “Out?” in such a tone of surprise that he almost smiled again.

“I’m not dead and buried,” he said. And then, “Someone has got to tell Lesley Freyne, and I think it’s my job.”