Читать книгу The Girl in the Cellar - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 12
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ОглавлениеIt was two days later that Jim Fancourt came. Anne was in the garden. She heard the sound of a car. It went past her on the other side of the hedge. She felt nothing. Oh, no—nothing at all. That seemed very curious to think about afterwards, but at the time it seemed quite natural. She didn’t even think about it, but went on tidying up the border. There was a gardener, but he was an old man, and in his time the garden had had three men to do the work. Wherever she had been for all the unknown years, she had known all about clearing up a border. She didn’t have to think about that. Her hands remembered, if she had forgotten. When she heard steps behind her on the garden path she took them for the old gardener’s and said,
“These chrysanthemums have done well—haven’t they? They must like the soil here.”
The voice that was not the gardener’s said from behind her,
“Oh, they do.”
She looked over her shoulder and saw Jim Fancourt. There was a moment in which she didn’t know who he was, and another moment when she knew. In between those two moments there was a feeling as if she was drowning. She had nearly drowned when she was ten years old. It came back to her vividly. They were in a boat, and the boat was upset. She was in water—deep, deep water. And then through the fear and the drowning there had come a voice—hands—and she was saying ...
She got up slowly and faced him. He was tall—that was the first impression. And then she saw that he was frowning.
He said short and sharp, “Who are you?” and she gave him the only answer she could.
“I don’t know—if you don’t.”
The frown deepened.
“And what do you mean by that?”
She made a helpless gesture.
“I don’t know—anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said.”
There was a moment’s pause before he said, “You’re not going to faint, are you?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think so. I—I’d like to sit down.”
He gave a half laugh.
“There’s the potting-shed—can you get as far as that?”
She nodded, and moved. The next thing she knew was an arm about her, a feeling of support, not unwelcome. She shut her eyes, was conscious of being guided, and of returning consciousness. The voice said,
“Here we are. Untidy old man Clarke. Can you stand for a minute whilst I get all these sacks to one end of the seat? ... Now—sit down! Feel better?”
She opened her eyes and said, “Yes—thank you—”
Those opened eyes of hers were like two open windows. The thought went through his mind—two windows open, and someone there not knowing that she was being looked at. He turned round quickly, walked to the door of the potting-shed, checked himself, and walked back again. He said,
“Do you know who I am?”
“I think so—”
“Well?”
“You are Jim Fancourt, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
Something came over her, she didn’t know what it was. She got to her feet and stood there, leaning forward a little, her hands holding each other tightly, her eyes fixed on his face. They stood there looking at one another. He had no consciousness of ever having seen her before. They were strangers. She did not know him, nor did he know her. But underneath all that there was a deep, strong pull. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there. He said in a rough voice,
“Who are you?”
Her eyes were wide. They seemed to search his face. She said in a toneless whisper,
“I’m Anne—”
“Anne who? Anne what?”
“I—don’t—know—”
She thought he was going to leave her, for he turned and went out of the shed.
She sat down on the bench again and closed her eyes. Time ceased. And then her hand was taken and he was there quite close to her, sitting on the bench, his warm hand holding hers. His voice, strong and firm, seemed to come from a long way off. It wasn’t kind or unkind, it was just a voice. It wasn’t angry. Perhaps it was too far off to be angry. She didn’t know. The voice said,
“You’re Anne?”
“I’m Anne.” It was the one thing she was sure about.
“You’re not the Anne I was looking for.”
There was a lonely wind blowing. It cut her off from everyone else in the world. She didn’t belong to anyone.
“I’m not?”
“Didn’t you know that?”
She was looking at him again. She said,
“No, I didn’t know.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t—know—”
The hand that was holding hers increased its warm, strong pressure. He said,
“Look here, what is all this? You came here. You had Anne’s bag. What does it all mean? You’ve got to tell me!”
“Yes—”
If she told him, would he believe her? There was so little to tell—so very, very little. Would anyone believe she was telling all she knew? She went on looking at him, but she didn’t really see him. Not as he saw her. She said,
“It’s all dark—up to a point. I’ll tell you what I can. I don’t see why you should believe me, but I’ll tell you—” She paused for so long that it was as if a tap had been turned on and no water flowed from it. And then, just as he was going to say something, she began to speak. “It was quite dark. Quite, quite dark. I thought I was going to faint. I was standing on some steps. I sat down. I put my head on my knees. The faintness went away. I was on steps. I knew that I knew I had come down the steps and dropped my bag. I knew that someone was lying dead at the bottom of the steps. I don’t know how I knew it, but I did.”
She stopped, and there was a silence. When he said, “Go on,” she began again.
“The bag was on the steps beside me—I thought it was mine.” The hand that was clasped in his twitched, and she said more earnestly and naturally than she had spoken yet, “I did think that. I thought it was my bag, and that I had dropped it there on the steps.”
He said, “Yes—” His voice gave her some reassurance, she didn’t know how or why. When he said, “Go on,” it was suddenly easier. She began to tell him about taking the torch out of the bag and switching it on.
“It was there—in the bag. I switched it on and saw her. She was lying on the floor at the bottom of the steps. I knew that she was dead.”
He said quick and sharp, “How did you know that? Did you kill her?”
She said in a surprised voice,
“Oh, no, I didn’t—I’m quite sure I didn’t! Why should I?”
“I don’t know.”
She said with the simplicity of one who explains to a small child,
“I couldn’t have done it. There wasn’t anything to do it with.”
“How do you know that?”
“I could see. There wasn’t anything there to shoot her with. There wasn’t anything at all—there really wasn’t.”
He found himself believing her. It wasn’t the words, it was something else—something in her look, in her voice.
“Go on.”
“I went down. I felt her wrist. It was quite cold. There was some broken glass—it was from the other torch—”
“What other torch?”
“I think it was mine.”
She was aware of his eyes on her, steady and level—not accusing, not believing—just waiting. She went on.
“I can’t remember, but I think—I think I must have come down the steps before. I think it was my torch that I had when I saw her.”
“But you can’t remember?”
“No, I can’t—remember—”
“Go on.”
“I went down. The other torch was there—broken—on the ground. I had the feeling it was mine. I don’t know if it was really.”
“Well?”
She said with the most touching simplicity,
“I felt her hand. It was quite cold.”
“How do you know she was dead? Anyone who is in a faint may be cold.”
She pulled her hand away from him, and put both hands over her eyes.
“Why do you make me say it? She had been shot from behind. Her head—oh—”
“You’re sure she was dead?”
She dropped her hands from her eyes and said,
“Oh, yes, I’m sure—quite sure. Nobody could be alive with a wound like that.”
There was a pause. He believed her. He didn’t know why, but he did believe her. He got up, walked to the door of the shed, and stood there. When he turned his manner had changed. He said,
“How much have you told them here?”
“Nothing.”
She felt as if he was looking through and through her.
“Why?”
“I kept thinking—perhaps I should—remember—”
“Well, go on. What did you do?”
“I came up the steps.”
“With the light in your hand?”
“No—I put it out.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That someone had killed her.”
“Who else was in the house?”
“I don’t know.”
She was looking at him all the time.
“What did you do?”
“The hall was dark—the front door wasn’t quite shut—I came out into the street—”
“What street?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. It was quiet—dark. It went into a street with buses. I got into a bus. It brought me to the station.”
“What made you come here?”
“There was a Miss Silver—she was in the bus—”
“Miss Silver?”
Something in his tone surprised her. She said,
“Do you know her?”
“What is she like?”
She turned her thoughts back.
“She’s small—not young—old-fashioned looking—like the governess out of an old-fashioned story book. She was very kind and—and—practical. She had on a black coat and a kind of a fur tippet, and a hat with red roses on one side and little sort of whisks of black net on the other. I think she saw that I didn’t know what to do. She took me into the station to have tea, and I told her all about it.” She stopped there with an air of finality. She had told him what she knew. Now it was for him to do something about it.
He sat in frowning silence. If this was true? He believed that it was true. He couldn’t say why, but he did believe it. His thought strayed off to Miss Silver. He had met her. She was a friend of Frank Abbott’s. He could check up with her. He didn’t really need to. He could feel the girl straining to tell the truth as she saw it. It was a very queer business—very queer indeed.
