There was obviously only one room in which to look, since there was only one woman resident in the house. Dinah went back into Mrs. Macsen-Martel’s room. The old woman had not moved. The sheet over her chest lifted just perceptibly with her shallow, feeble breathing; she was so frail that her body scarcely swelled the covers enough to cast a shadow in the firelight.
Cautiously Dinah turned the handle of the large wardrobe that filled one end of the room, and tentatively pulled at the door, which opened easily and silently. The first section was all shelves, most of them half-empty; but beyond that came the central hanging section, smelling of some protective against moths, and of the faded lavender bags that were slung on the hangers. The old woman could have bought nothing new for several years. Everything here was good, solid country stuff, but years out of date; and beneath the hanging garments were arrayed a dozen pairs of shoes, all old, well-kept, and meant to last, every pair polished and immaculate, but every pair mended at least once. Dinah found a pair of sheepskin slippers with rubber soles. They might well be too big, for the old lady’s tall frame needed feet made to the same measure, but they would at least be warm. She put them on one side, and began to look through the coats and dresses, but the only dressing-gown she found was of printed silk, no protection against the draughts from these ancient windows. She stood back and looked over the array of open shelves again, and a fold of thick brown woollen cloth caught her eye.
It looked just the kind of material of which winter dressing-gowns used to be made, though why it should have been rolled up and pushed to the back of one of these pigeon-holes was more than she could guess, when everything else in the wardrobe was kept with such meticulous care.
She reached in and drew it out, and the moment they made contact with it her fingers registered a minor shock of astonishment, for it felt cold and damp to the touch. She held it up and let it unroll, and it swung down to brush the floor, hanging crumpled and stained from her hands. On her it would have swept the carpet, but it was not a dressing-gown, after all, it was an ancient camel coat, probably at least twenty years old. Its skirts, which had been the outermost layer of the roll, were dry, but soiled at the hem with greenish stains, as if from wet and muddy grass. The shoulders and back were distinctly damp, and the, multiplicity of creases into which the cloth had set showed that they had been damper still, and for some considerable time.
Dinah’s mind, stung into violent action, reviewed times, intervals, happenings, a rainy night, an apparition in brown… Could thick cloth like this stay damp, she wondered, as long as three days? Yes, rolled up tightly like that and pushed into that narrow shelf, probably even that long.
There were a few lank, dank threads of autumn gossamer, fouled with minute fragments of dirt and dead leaves, on one sleeve. And speared into the collar she found two narrow dark spines of yew leaves.
She stood there with the coat dangling in her hands, and suddenly she felt cold from head to foot, with a chill that seemed to invade her from without, eating through skin and flesh into her bones. Sometimes the mind connects too quickly, the body’s energy is used up in a convulsion of awareness. She seemed to hear her own mental processes at work, like listening to a tape recording of herself, but with the inward ear.
Three nights ago, Saturday night, the psychic research man was knocked on the head. It poured with rain that night. The grass in the churchyard is long, and would be very wet. There are yew trees there. Someone was seen there in a long, brown robe, like a monk, vanishing among the trees. Someone who went there knowing there was something that must not be investigated about that door, and afraid that the researches would not all be psychic. Then that same someone knew about the bullet-hole, if it is a bullet-hole—knew, in any case, about whatever it is that shouldn’t be there and had to be covered up.
Perhaps they had been looking for more than a gun when they searched the house. But they had not searched this room. Impossible to intrude upon mortal illness. There is, after all, only one sure way to escape consequences, and that is to die. She even turned back to the bed to look again at the sleeper, to make sure that this was still sleep. For a moment she would almost have been willing to believe that even mortal illness can be induced, when the need is great enough. But the old woman, austere and still, lay coldly indifferent to all suspicions, the faint rustling in her chest her only comment.
Dinah slid her hand into the right-hand pocket of the coat she held, and her fingers closed over a small round object. Damp here, too, from a rain-wet hand that had thrust this little thing within. She felt the left-hand pocket, and the lining was dry.
The door opened so quietly behind her that she did not hear it, but the soft steps on the interval of bare boards reached her ears, and she swung round almost guiltily. Hugh had come in on tip-toe, flushed and relaxed from his bath, but gingerly and uneasy in a sickroom, and was looking at her with a surprised smile, because she had started so violently.
“Did I startle you? Sorry!” he whispered. He had dressed fully again, evidently he was prepared to come and sit out the vigil with her, and drive her home as he had promised, if the nurse came in good time. “Whatever have you got there?”
He came nearer, still treading stealthily, still smiling. She wanted to roll up the coat and thrust it away again out of his sight, but it was far too late for such a move. Mutely she let him take it from her. In a whisper she said: “I was looking for a warm dressing-gown—for the nurse…”
“Where did you find…?” He broke off there on a sharp, indrawn breath, seeing the wardrobe door open. His hands, suddenly intent, felt at the woollen cloth here and there. One of the yew spines came away and lay in the palm of his hand. He stared at it, and Dinah saw his face tighten and shiver, saw him shake his head and stare again. He, too, could connect, as rapidly as anyone.
In a frightened whisper, barely audible at all, he said: “Oh, no! Oh, my God—Mother!”
CHAPTER 13
« ^ »
THEY stood staring at each other with wide, horrified eyes across the draggled coat and the brittle, broken leaf. Hugh opened his lips to blurt out something unguarded, a protest, a cry of rejection, an appeal—no, more likely a demand!—for reassurance, but Dinah motioned him urgently to be quiet, and he swallowed his distress and cast one brief, alarmed glance at the bed. It was impossible to talk there. No revelation, however stunning, had a right to intervene in the struggle now on in this room between life and death.
It was the intensity and helplessness of their silence that made it possible for them to hear Robert’s footsteps on the stairs. Hugh came out of his stupor with a shudder, rolled up the coat hastily and pushed it to the back of one of the shelves. He had scarcely closed the door upon it when Robert came in.
“I’ve made you some coffee and sandwiches,” he said, in a muted half-voice that was less disturbing than a whisper. “You go down and get them in peace. I’ll sit with her while you’re away.”
“You should be sleeping,” said Dinah as quietly.