Through a glass darkly, p.17
Through a Glass, Darkly, page 17
They did not find a news-stand until they got back to the inn itself. There the only New York papers were the two tabloids whose flashy presentation of urban life is so dear to drab farming and fishing communities.
It could have been worse. One tabloid said Gisela was a beautiful Austrian countess. The other described her as one of the many greedy foreign refugees who were taking jobs away from red-blooded Americans. But both stories treated the incidents as a simple discrepancy – Gisela said she saw Faustina on the road after the time the taxi-driver claimed he had left Faustina at the house. Obviously neither Sears nor the tabloid reporters had heard the stories told about Faustina at Maidstone and Brereton. Basil shuddered a little as he thought of what the tabloids could do with that . . .
On his way to the cottage, he stopped at the garage to make sure Gisela’s car would be ready in the morning. The lank countryman in jeans was leaning against a petrol pump, reading the worse of the two tabloids by the glare of an unshaded work-light.
‘Car’s O.K. now,’ he announced, coming forward. ‘Seen the evening paper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Funny.’
‘Yes.’
He hesitated, pale-grey eyes searching Basil’s face for some encouragement. ‘Not the first time, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well . . .’ He looked down at a grease spot on the asphalt. ‘Something odd about that Miss Crayle. One night this fall, I was out in my old heap and I saw her walking along a back road – alone. I stopped and offered her a lift. She just walked on without a word or a sound – as if she hadn’t heard me. I was kind of sore. The old heap isn’t much, but it still goes. So I just drove on. Then, a week later, she came down over Sunday. That was when she was teaching at some school in Connecticut. I saw her in the post office and I said something to her about this other time and she said I was mistaken. Said she hadn’t been down here since last summer. Queer, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ever hear of anything like that before?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘My old grandmother is Highland Scot. She says things like that happen just before somebody is going to – pass away and now Miss Crayle has – gone.’
Basil noticed that the ancient taboo against speaking of death or evil by their right names was as strong as ever in this man. Pass away – gone . . . Could these transparent euphemisms make death more palatable to anyone? Aloud, he said, quietly: ‘Better not tell any city reporters about it. They wouldn’t believe you and they might make a funny story out of it. Bad publicity for your garage next summer, when the city people come here . . .’
Basil drove slowly as he came to the pine woods once more. The car dipped down into the hollow and rose on the other side without mishap. Tonight, even if headlights failed, no one could slip away through the woods unseen, for a thin new moon, sharp as a silver sickle, was shining through the tree trunks.
He came out of the woods, on to a scene of solitude and beauty. The white sand was silver in the moons light. A few lines of surf glimmered almost as whitely along the edge of the sounding black void that was ocean. A breeze rustled in the Russian olives around the house, and the house itself was dark and quiet on its perch above the dunes. Perfect for a hermit or a poet or a pair of lovers.
Basil got out of his car and shut the door. The noise was loud in the empty stillness. Even his footfalls were magnified as he walked across the porch. He fitted the key in the lock. It turned easily and smoothly. He pushed the front door open and paused on the threshold, aware of the deeper silence indoors. He was sure that he was alone. There would have been some other quality in the silence if there had been anyone else there, living and breathing, however motionless.
He was standing where Faustina herself had stood only twenty-four hours ago. The storm was raging behind her, yet she had left the door open, the key ring dangling from the lock. Then she had crossed the hall and lighted the lamp on the telephone table. He did the same things. Now he could see exactly how much light came from the lamp after dark. It was as he had expected. Clear yellow radiance to the level of his waist. Above, shadows melting into darkness at the ceiling and the top of the stairs. He turned and walked through the archway as she had walked. His hand groped for the wall switch and found it, but he did not turn it on. He stood at arm’s length from it and turned to face in the direction Faustina had been facing when she fell.
Again the light was about what he had expected it to be. A softened radiance in the first room, shadowy twilight in the room beyond. In that subdued light the white woodwork, the green-and-white wallpaper, and the rose-splashed chintz were cheerful and charming. Not a hint to warn her of the unexpected, the sinister . . . And yet – it was here that death was waiting . . . How? And why?
For several minutes he stood still, looking, thinking. The pretty room was like a bland, impersonal face that kept its own secrets. Was there one secret it could not keep?
At last he pressed the light switch. The white globe overhead blazed yellow, flooding the first room with brilliant light, leaving the further room in a paler radiance that was yet clear in every detail. Last night Sears had replaced the dead bulbs that baffled Gisela.
Basil walked about the two rooms, taking in detail. The place was well kept. Curtains freshly laundered, rugs and slipcovers clean, though faded by many washings. The white woodwork had the deep creamy glaze of wood that has been repainted many times, always by good professional painters. There was not a crack or a blister or a hair from the painter’s brush anywhere on its enamelled surface. Only one flaw – a few scratches on the wooden frames that held the glass panes in the double doors between the two rooms. The scratches were so fine they might have been made by a sharp darning needle. They looked fresh.
Basil switched off the ceiling light and turned on a table lamp. There was firewood and kindling in a wicker basket beside the fireplace. He build a pyramid of wood and paper on the hearth, set fire to it, and pulled an armchair over to the blaze. He lit a cigarette and leaned back, his eyes on the crackling flames. Absorbed in thought, he hardly noticed when the fire began to burn low. The silence seemed deeper than ever now the crackling of the flames was gone . . .
He reached in his pocket for another cigarette. It was the last one in his case. He lit it and threw back his chin, exhaling smoke, his head tilted up against the high back of his chair. That posture brought his abstracted gaze to a mirror over the mantelpiece and its reflection of the archway into the hall. The burning cigarette fell from his hand, unnoticed.
How long had that silent figure been standing in the shadowy archway, its back to the hall? A tall, thin figure in a light coat. A dark hat brim shadowed a bloodless face. Pale, blurred eyes met his own gaze in the mirror – the eyes of a dead woman, Faustina Crayle. Since he could see those eyes in the mirror, they must be seeing him. He recalled his own naïve astonishment, long ago in childhood, when he was first told about that: if you can see someone else in a mirror, that other person can see you, even though you cannot see yourself there . . .
Was it only in the mirror? If he turned his head, would the archway be as empty as it was silent? Had he fallen half asleep as he mused before the fire?
The figure in the mirror moved. There was no sound behind Basil, but there was something else – a fleeting fragrance of lemon verbena.
Basil spoke, without moving. ‘You had better come in . . .’
Chapter Sixteen
The games men play with Death
Where Death must win . . .
Now Basil rose to face the archway. His sudden motion created a slight draught. The dying fire flared up in a last bright flame. He went on speaking. ‘The moment I noticed your family resemblance to Faustina Crayle, I knew you were the only person whom it was physically possible to mistake for her. You both had the ash-blond hair, the small head, and oval face with prominent nose and thin lips, the cloudy, blue eyes and the attenuated aristocratic figure – narrow flanks, fine wrists and ankles, slim hands and feet. She was tall for a woman, you are of medium height for a man. Your colour is higher, you do not walk or stand with her studiously stooped shoulders and your expression is bold and gay, while hers was mild and shy. But these are all superficial details that could be altered. Faustina’s father died in 1922 and you were born in 1925, so it must be your grandfather who was Rosa Diamonds lover and Faustina Crayle’s father. Faustina was your father’s illegitimate half-sister, and your natural aunt. Still, I am not sure why you wanted her to die. Was it just to inherit the jewels your grandfather gave her mother? Or was it a morbidly romantic impulse to destroy the daughter of a woman who had wounded your grandmothers pride and taken jewels which you felt belonged to you?’
‘Dr Willing, I give you my word I did not kill Faustina Crayle. I wasn’t here when she died.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘Of course not. An innocent man does not provide himself with an alibi. I spent a quiet evening at home – alone. But I know something of law – studied it for a year – and I know the mere absence of alibi never convicted anyone. To convict me you would need some witness to place me at the scene of the crime at or near the time it occurred. Can you do that? You may have some witnesses who saw or thought they saw Faustina Crayle or someone resembling her on the road. That is hardly the same as identifying Raymond Vining, is it? Not in a murder trial, where proof must be beyond all reasonable doubt . . .
‘Another thing you’d have to connect with me is the means of death. From what I’ve heard from the police here, that would be impossible, too. There was no wound on her body. She died of heart failure. And – though I see you don’t believe me – I truly was not present when she died.’
‘I believe that last,’ answered Basil quietly. ‘She was alone when she died and yet – she was murdered.’
Vining was taken aback. ‘You think that you know how she died?’
‘I know that I know. And so do you.’
‘Dr Willing, I wish you wouldn’t take that tone with me. I have no idea how she died and – once you hear my side of the story you may understand why I am so utterly baffled by the whole thing. Perhaps you and I can put the pieces together between us and make out some dim outline of what really happened. I hope to God we can! Otherwise . . .’
‘Otherwise what?’
‘All the rest of my life I shall never know where reality ends and illusion begins. I shall be like a man walking on marshy ground, never sure whether the next step will land on solid earth or quicksand.’
Vining came out of the shadowy archway, into the middle of the room, and illusion died. By the light of the fire and the single lamp, he was a commonplace figure – a tall, slim, fair young man in a dark brown hat and a light overcoat of natural camels hair. He tossed the hat aside, took off the coat, and pulled up a chair to the fire. He offered Basil a pack of cigarettes, virgin in cellophane. ‘I saw you smoke your last one just now. I stood there some time before you noticed me in the mirror.’
‘Why?’
‘I was surprised. I wondered what you were doing here. When I saw the light, I thought the police had left a man on duty. Then I came to the archway and saw your face in the mirror.’
‘I didn’t hear a car.’
‘I walked from the station. Couldn’t find a taxi and I sold my own car a few days ago.’
‘I didn’t hear a step.’
Vining extended feet in beautiful brown calf, polished to the patina of old saddle leather. ‘Crêpe rubber soles.’
‘You have luxurious tastes. Yet you sold your car?’
‘I’m hard up. Who isn’t these days? My minimum for comfort is a thousand a month – twelve thousand a year. I make thirty-five hundred as a bond salesman, and I have an income of six thousand from stocks and bonds of my grandfather’s, which have depreciated. It’s not enough, but – I’m not starving.’
‘The jewels he gave Rosa Diamond may have appreciated. You did know about them?’
‘Oh, yes. Rosa told my grandfather her plan before he died. He told my father, who told me. I talked to Watkins this evening when I saw Faustina’s death in the papers. Vining is one of six names on the list. I am to get a pair of ruby earrings worth about thirty thousand today and this cottage. Just before she died, Faustina made a will leaving the cottage to Watkins. He insists on turning it over to me because it was my grandfathers. It’s too isolated for most people, so at the most it’s only worth six or seven thousand. So I net about thirty-seven thousand out of Faustina’s death. Even if I could have known the exact amount beforehand, do you seriously believe that I would plot to kill for that?’
Basil sighed. ‘Men have been murdered for far less. And women.’
‘Oh, I know men have been stabbed for fifty cents and children poisoned for a few thousand dollars’ insurance. But not by sane men with an income of ninety-five hundred a year and a position in life to lose.’
‘Thirty-seven thousand would mean a great deal to you now. And you must have hated Rosa Diamond’s daughter.’
‘I didn’t. I’m not morbidly romantic. My grandfather only met Rosa Diamond after he had left my grandmother and it all happened long before I was born. I don’t shock easily and I’m not the type to carry on a blood feud for three generations, am I? As a matter of fact, I’ve always thought the Rosa Diamond affair lent a certain dashing naughtiness to what was otherwise a very stuffy, respectable family. I’m rather proud of it.’
‘Why did you come here tonight?’
‘To look over the cottage, now it’s mine. I can’t get away from the office as often as I’d like by day.’
‘When did you first meet Faustina Crayle and discover her resemblance to you?’
‘If I were canny, I suppose I wouldn’t tell you. But I’m going to risk it, because you may be able to explain the things I don’t understand myself. No one else knew the truth, but Alice, and now – she’s dead . . .’
Basil interrupted.
‘For a long time, I’ve realized that Alice and Faustina were not the only connecting links between Maidstone and Brereton. You were a third link between the two schools because you were engaged to Alice a year ago when she was there.’
‘That’s how it all started.’ Vining leaned forward, his eyes on the fire, his hands dangling between his knees. At last Basil could give form and substance to the figure that had stood beside Rosa Diamond in this very room so long ago – turning her music pages at the piano, drinking her tea before the fire. A slender, supple man whose crisp hair was edged with gilt in the firelight, whose blue eyes were like Faustina’s and Meg’s – misty bright as star sapphires, but, unlike theirs, alive with daring and mockery . . .
‘Maidstone was strict,’ began Vining. ‘No male visitors except Sunday and then under supervision. That was a challenge to me. I used a trick as old as pagan Rome. Remember how the intrusion of young Clodius in woman’s dress at a religious rite reserved for women caused Caesar to divorce the wife that wasn’t above suspicion? Like Clodius, I was young, rather slight, and beardless. I knew I could pass as one girl among many if I wore a girl’s hat and coat, stockings and shoes, and kept at a safe distance from others, in a dim light. Nearly every girl at Maidstone had a camel-hair coat, so that was simple. The hat brim shadowed my face, but, to make sure, I dusted my cheeks with white powder and under the hat I wore what women’s hairdressers call a “transformation” of false hair the same colour as my own. I got in by a french window, slipped up the back stairs and met Alice on a balcony there, while everyone else was downstairs. It was fun, you know. Added the spice of conspiracy to what might have been otherwise a rather stupid little flirtation . . .
‘The next Sunday when I met Alice officially, in my own clothes, she told me with great glee that I hadn’t passed for just any girl among many – I had been mistaken for a particular girl, one of the young teachers, Faustina Crayle. Someone coming up the drive had seen me on the balcony and got into quite an argument with another girl who insisted that Faustina was in the library at that very time.
‘I had never heard the name Faustina, but I knew that Rosa Diamond’s real name was Rose Crayle and I knew there had been a daughter, whose name should have been Vining. So I suspected instantly why there was such a likeness between this Faustina Crayle and myself. I even told Alice about it.’
‘And, having succeeded once by chance, you then took advantage of Faustina’s resemblance deliberately and wore woman’s dress whenever you visited Alice secretly at Maidstone? Six times altogether, wasn’t it?’
‘Now we’ve come to it.’ Vining was still looking down into the fire. Its glow dusted the fair down of his cheek with a pollen of light. ‘That’s the whole point. That’s the thing I can’t explain. The thing you won’t believe.’
‘What is it?’
‘It gives you a queer feeling when a joke turns into – something else. Two weeks later, Alice and I were both in New York for the Christmas holidays and I met her at a sub-deb dance. She was angry. Even now I remember her very words. She said: “So you did it again. You’d better be careful! Once is enough. If you keep it up you’ll get caught and then well both be in trouble.”
‘I suppose I said something like: “What are you talking about?”
‘She went on: “Someone saw you at Maidstone last week, dressed as a girl again. I suppose you got cold feet before you got to my room and left without seeing me.”
‘I said: “Nonsense, I wasn’t there at all. I wouldn’t try a thing like that twice.”
