Turret Room Page 11

  But Wendy leaned over the banister and sent down a ferocious whisper. “Then, they’ll find out that it was you who did something to her in the hospital—so that she died.”

  Mrs. Beck took a tiny step backwards. Wendy turned like a tiger and came sneaking down and around the newel post.

  “They won’t—notice,” said Mrs. Beck. “It was her head—”

  “Yes, they will notice.” Wendy was approaching. Mrs. Beck stepped back once more. “You are an ignorant old woman. Besides, I can always tell them, can’t I?”

  “Come, lamb,” said Mrs. Beck. She licked her lips. The lamb was a sudden lion. “Ah now, come, love. We’ll have to put it on the madman, the both of us. What’s the harm in that?” she wheedled.

  “You’re a fool! What you don’t know … Harold is right here in this house. So how could he be in the hospital last night? You don’t know everything.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Mrs. Beck. (But she was startled.) “In this house!”

  “That’s right and you’ll be in for it, but I’m not going to be, Becky.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Beck again.

  “Don’t, then,” the girl said. “I don’t care. But they’ll know whatever it was that happened in the hospital. And I’m not going to be in the mess you’re in.”

  They knew, in the hospital, what had happened. Charles Tyler was there and he knew. Murder. Someone, with malice aforethought, had got in here and killed his sister Myra. Not in sudden passion, but carefully, by patient plan.

  Tyler ran a small department. He was himself the head of Homicide. He could leave the meticulous examination of the hospital room to his expert and the routine questioning of everyone on the floor to a plainclothesman, the sharpest detective that he had. By phone, he mobilized his uniformed men to beat the bushes all over town.

  A kook could have some lucid moments. Or hours. It had to be the one who had beat her up in the first place. Or if not, Charles Tyler would know the reason why. Get that kook! Get him! Flush him out of the bushes. Get him to me!

  Ted Whitman he had left, temporarily, to the doctor, who was comforting him with pills and platitudes. Somebody would have to drive the poor wretch home. Tyler, Tyler supposed. He had to go there anyhow.

  Mrs. Beck’s eyes were turning sideways, slyly. “What if they do know, at the hospital, how it was done? The madman still did it. He got in here afterwards. That’s easy.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Wendy. “How could he get in here, during the night, with the guards all around? You’re stupid!”

  But Mrs. Beck had thought of something. “No. The guard on the front was inside, one little while. I saw him. I remember. So that’s what we can say. That’s when somebody … Miss Edie must have let him in.”

  “Oh, she … did … that!” spat Wendy.

  “Well, then, she’s in for it,” said Mrs. Beck, feeling briefly encouraged. “We’ll put it on her and the madman. I’ll tell you what to say, lamb. Don’t you worry. Becky will always be nearby.”

  Mrs. Beck was thinking, Let her take some tranquilizers. Let her play she’s upset, “for Myra’s sake.” Put her to bed, and I’ll watch. Mrs. Beck was trying to believe that all was well, but it was not. She had made a stupid mistake just now. She needn’t have said a word. There was no use appealing to Wendy, “for Becky’s sake.” Wendy had grown out of all that sort of thing. Mrs. Beck had to get Wendy in hand. Then she could deal with the rest of it.

  Wendy was looking at her under lazy eyelids. “Becky, I—don’t like this much.”

  “No.” Mrs. Beck had to agree. With the madman in the house, everything was touchy and chancy. That Edith could be a real nuisance. It was very upsetting.

  “But you know,” said Wendy, “we could. I saw where Daddy put his gun.”

  Mrs. Beck was startled. She looked suspiciously at the girl. What did she mean? Did she mean what Mrs. Beck thought she meant? Well? The housekeeper checked over the house, in her mind, rapidly. The old lady should be safe in the breakfast room for a good while, yet. Mr. Whitman was gone. Where was that Edith? She said, slowly, “We would be afraid … just women … of a madman in the house.”

  Wendy turned on her toe and glided to the big carved chest. She opened the top drawer, reached in, and her hand came out with the little gun. “It’s loaded. He didn’t bother.”

  Oh, now wait, thought Mrs. Beck, in a fluster. Now, wait.… She hurried to Wendy, who held out the weapon. Wendy’s hand was shaking.

  It came to Mrs. Beck that this “mess” could be mutual, and perfectly so, even as they both got out of it. In her mind basked the long dream. Wendy, in possession of her own fortune, and Mrs. Beck, alone, to groom her and advise her. And that Ronnie Mungo (whose fortune had diminished and who was therefore vulnerable) to be their gigolo. Until, if he got to be too much of a nuisance, Mrs. Beck could always break up the marriage. She had done it before. Then, she might find a nobleman for Wendy, perhaps. Whatever turned up, that seemed desirable. The dream was long. And glorious.

  But Wendy must be brought to hand, now. Mrs. Beck must make their positions clear, if she wished to partake of the full glory of the dream. She thought she saw the way. What about a kind of stalemate?

  She said, “It won’t make any difference, which of us … Remember? That’s the law.” If Wendy knew that, that was one thing.

  “I know. I know that.” The girl’s hand shook. “But I’m too n-nervous.” The gun was about to fall and Mrs. Beck snatched it. Her hand was not shaking.

  Still, she did not quite know how this was to be done. It wasn’t a bad idea, thought Mrs. Beck, all by itself—to get rid of the madman. Since then they could say whatever they liked about him, and a dead madman would please everybody and relax all nervous vigilance. If, at the same time, she could entangle Wendy consciously in a conspiracy to kill … Mrs. Beck did not put it quite that baldly to herself. It wasn’t a bad idea, she thought, because Wendy was an excellent liar, providing she was lying “for Wendy’s sake.” Mrs. Beck, who was already a murderess, saw nothing to lose. But one must be careful, of course.

  The housekeeper backed away to look up at the turret room. “What about that Edith? If he’s with her …” How could it be done, in that event, at all?

  Wendy said, throatily, “Oh, he’s not up there. He’s in the cellar.”

  “How do you know?” snapped Mrs. Beck. She walked around to where the cellar door was cut in the turret wall. The key was in the lock. “It’s locked,” she said.

  “I know. I locked it.”

  “You did?” Mrs. Beck looked at her sharply, but Wendy was swaying a little, as if she were exhausted by all these problems.

  “I thought I heard something,” Wendy said drearily. “I just cracked the door. I don’t think he saw me.”

  Mrs. Beck did not quite believe her. She tended to doubt that the man was in the house at all. Maybe Wendy was having hallucinations. (This was possible.) She held the gun in her left hand and turned the key with her right. She felt the girl’s breath. She felt (and she shivered) Wendy’s fingers on the back of her neck.

  “Becky, it’s silly to be afraid of him, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Beck was more than physically touched. Why, Wendy was scared—and just a baby, really! Mrs. Beck had to look out for them both. She felt the girl’s fingers as an appeal. For just a moment, she almost believed in love. “I don’t know, lamb,” she murmured.

  Wendy said, “But he didn’t do anything, really—did he? I knocked Myra down. You killed her. Didn’t you, Becky?”

  Love fled. Mrs. Beck twisted her neck and gazed into the brilliant, reckless, threatening, hate-filled eyes.

  “Unless we put it on the madman,” Wendy said, “how are we going to get out of it?”

  “This will be the both of us,” said the housekeeper, sourly.

  “I know.”

  (Wendy was willing? She didn’t beware of putting herself in the worst of the mess, too? But was there any madman to d
o it to? Mrs. Beck felt confused.)

  “There isn’t much time,” Wendy was saying softly. “Ron should be almost here. Of course, I couldn’t run away with him today, could I? I mean, if …”

  Mrs. Beck felt suddenly fierce and righteous. She firmed her hand on the doorknob. “If the madman is in our cellar,” she said, “he has no business there.” She yanked open the door. The only thing in her mind was, I’ll have to see. I’ll have to see.

  Then she felt the force on her back, the flat hand pushing, violently. She tried, too late, to catch her footing, but the cellar stairs were steep and went almost directly down. She felt the first shock, as her shoulder hit the stone of a step, and the second, as her arm bent wrong. And then, in pain, she tumbled on. She felt no shock at all, from the hard stone floor.

  In the big room, Wendy turned the key and put it in her pocket and went dancing away from the closed and silent cellar door. Screaming at the top of her lungs.

  When Edie popped out of the turret room, Wendy was standing down there, still in her robe, with her hands to her head, screaming and screaming. One couldn’t hear another thing in the world!

  “What’s the matter?” Edie shouted.

  Whether or not Wendy heard, she answered, in a lesser scream, “Somebody! Somebody in the tree! The tree!”

  Edie ran down the lower flight and looked out and up, at the tree. She was frightened. She felt as if her hair were turning white and her scalp knew it. But the tree stood, as it always had—huge, grotesquely near—an uncanny tree.

  Now, she heard Granny. “Oh, mercy! Oh, my heart!”

  So Edie turned and raced across to the old lady, who was tottering near the dining room door. Granny was frightened, too.

  Edie said to Wendy crossly, “There is nobody in the tree. For heaven’s sakes!”

  Wendy was still, suddenly, with her arms tight at her sides, looking as if she had almost been frightened to death, thought Edie.

  Now, Granny was babbling piteously. “The tree?

  Don’t let me see him. I do not wish to see him.” She was holding her thin-boned delicate hand over her eyes.

  Edie guided her to a chair and sat her down. Then she ran to the place near the bottom of the stairs where the cord hung, grasped it, and made the velvet slide. The room darkened. Almost all of the tree vanished from sight. Only a leafy portion hung motion-lessly above the velvet, against the sky.

  “Wendy, what is the matter with you?” blazed Edie. “Nobody’s there. Couldn’t be. The guard’s right outside. And he’s going to be in here any minute, thinking somebody’s been murdered!

  Wendy was very pale and she stared. Her whole body was shaking. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’m nervous.”

  Granny said, “You have certainly made me nervous.”

  “But I thought … There was a shadow. Like a big … as-spider. Look, I’m just shaking.”

  She certainly was. But Edie could feel no sympathy. “Go find Mrs. Beck,” she said rudely. “She’ll comfort you. I’d better go tell the guard it was all in your mind.”

  Edie ran up to the foyer and out the front door. (Ah, but the air was good!) The guard already had his gun drawn and was coming around the corner. Edie breathed in deep and sighed out, and began to explain.

  Granny was saying, in a voice like tin, clanking, “You are very inconsiderate, Wendy, to have nerves at your age. And I don’t think you are in any condition … Where are you?”

  “Here.” Wendy’s voice was faint and feeble. She was somewhere back, near the cellar door.

  “… in any condition to make any decisions whatsoever. I shall sit here and not budge. If this Mungo boy appears, I intend to speak to him. Perhaps you will not elope today.”

  “Won’t I?” Wendy sounded distrait. “Oh. Well … There isn’t any … hurry.” She was drifting across to the stairs. “But I’ll dress,” she said with sudden firmness. Then her voice cracked, shrilly, “In case, you know?”

  Wendy ran up the stairs as fast as she could run. She flew into her room and shut the door. She began to snatch and assemble the elements of a costume, but in a moment she dropped everything, fell on the bed, face down, and put her hands over her ears, although—from the whole house beyond her door—no sound could reach her.

  When Edie came in and saw no Wendy, but only Granny in her chair, she ran in a panic up to the turret room and fearfully slipped within. The boy was alone, standing at the side of the eastern window, looking downward. He turned and came to her, quickly.

  “Just Wendy, having a fit of some kind,” Edie panted.

  “I heard you, outside.” He put his hand under her elbow. “You didn’t tell the guard about me?”

  She shook her head. “I promised you …”

  He neither praised nor reproached her. His hand was hot and dry and strong. “You all right?”

  She nodded. She asked him, silently, to wait, and silently he nodded that he would. So Edie left him, thinking that he was the coolest, sanest single person in this terrible house. Imprisoned here.

  Harold was feeling sane enough—but hot and weak and sad, and he sure wished he could get out of this.

  Edie pulled herself together and sauntered down to the big room. Oh, this staircase and the door to the turret room, suspended halfway, in full view … the last possible exit. But hold. Hold on. The good news could come soon.

  She said to Granny, trying to make light of Wendy’s hysteria, “What was that all about?”

  The old lady stopped the kneading motion of her thin pink lips and spoke sharply. “I do not know. I certainly do wish that they would catch this madman and be rid of him. It is simply too nerve-wracking.” The phone rang. “Answer that, Edie, please. I cannot budge.”

  Chapter Ten

  AT the first note of Cousin Ted’s voice, Edie thought, with a wonderful surge of relief, He knows! It’s all over. Myra has told them who did it. But when the voice went on, in that tone of frenzied grief, Edie felt stunned. She seemed to be making the proper responses, of shock, of sorrow, of concern for him. When he choked and hung up, she went to Granny, still feeling numb, but duty bound to break the news.

  Granny said she assumed the news was bad and what was it?

  “Myra has died.” Edie softened her voice as best she could but she had no softer words.

  The old lady’s brows went up. She began to fumble with the little box on her breast, as if to suspect it. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, Granny, she was already dead when Cousin Ted got there.”

  “On the operating table?” asked Granny loudly and calmly.

  “No, no. In her bed. Cousin Ted said they tried everything. But … I am so sorry. For her. For everyone.”

  “Then she was murdered,” said Granny, in the same bold voice. “My son’s wife.”

  “What did you say?” Edie had been thinking—if anything—that Myra could never speak, would never tell, and for this she had been so stunned and sorry. Now she took it further.

  “Murdered!” said Granny vehemently. “And in this house. Right there.” She pointed. “Right there. It may be in the newspapers.” The old lady balled her dainty fist and struck the chair arm. “Oh, what is to be done about this madman! Call Charles Tyler at once.”

  “Mr. Tyler is with Cousin Ted. They are coming here. I don’t know what to …” Edie straightened from where she was bent over Granny. She looked up at the turret room. Her heart felt like a small hard stone. Myra was dead of her injuries. Harold Page was wanted for murder now.

  At the hospital, Cousin Ted mopped his eyes pitifully. “I simply couldn’t go on.”

  “Just as well,” said Charles Tyler. “They’ll hear how it happened, soon enough.” He, who had questions to ask, didn’t mind the advantage of a bit held back.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Cousin Ted, expanding with anybody’s approval, “much better to break it in stages. My mother, you know … my poor mother. And Wendy … so sensitive. I should sue, Charles, I think. Really. In
a hospital? If people are not safe in a hospital …”

  Tyler said, “I’d better get you on home. I have work to do. We’ll go now.” He was in charge.

  What to do? thought Edie. She could think of absolutely nothing that she could do.

  “I must have a yellow pill.” Granny was fumbling with a tiny silver pillbox. Her voice had faltered from that bold calm. She was nearly whimpering. “I am all thumbs this morning. Open my box, Edie. I can’t open my box.”

  Edie took the tiny thing in her hands, but her fingers were cold and stiff. “I can’t, either,” she admitted.

  “I don’t,” said Granny, stiffening and summoning up some strength for her voice, “I don’t propose to carry on about this. Ted will, of course. It is expected of him.”

  Edie felt as if she had been slapped in the face. This was so monstrously cynical. Or was it?

  “And Wendy will carry on when she hears,” said Granny, grimly.

  “I ought to tell her.” Edie winced at the thought.

  “Oh, ought,” said Granny. “A little peace. A little minute.” The blue eyes were darting to and fro. “Myra was a cold woman. I never wished her any harm. It is very cold in here, Edie. This was always a cold room. Perhaps it is the tree. Fetch me my white wool shawl—somebody? Where is Mrs. Beck? I have some yellow pills on my dressing table, I do believe.”

  The old lady was trying to struggle to her feet. Edie caught hold of her arm to help her, as the phone rang. They stood a moment. It rang again.

  “I shall have to cancel my luncheon on Saturday,” said Granny. “If that is for me, I cannot speak now.”

  She seemed to have her balance, so Edie went to the phone. “Mrs. Beck?” she called in the direction of the dining room and kitchen. There was no response. The phone kept ringing. Edie picked it up.

  “Miss Edith Thompson, please?”

  “Yes, this is she …”

  “Dr. Wesley calling.”

  “Please hold on, just one second.” Edie put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s for me, Granny.” (At last. At the wrong time. But at last.)