Turret Room Page 18

  Ronnie caught her. He said, over her head to Tyler, “What shall I do with her?” as if she were rubbish.

  Harold Page had lifted his head. His skin was tight to the bone and of the bone’s color. But he made no sound.

  The doctor came into the house. They took Wendy to the foyer, as if these men, not members of the family—the doctor, the policeman, and even Ronnie Mungo—knew that the sight and sound of her, now, was better hidden.

  Edie went quietly back into the turret room. She hunted in the folds of her peignoir and found what she was after.

  When she came out, the doctor was consulting with Granny. He was a middle-aged man with a soothing manner and a nervous, realistic eye. “Can’t handle it here. You really should not try, Mrs. Whitman. I don’t advise it. You must think of yourself.”

  “This place you speak of,” said Granny briskly, “is it respectable? We can afford what it costs, of course.”

  Edie went down the lower flight and up into the foyer and around the corner of the wall. They had put Wendy on a silly little Victorian settee. Edie did not look at her. She looked at Tyler, whose eyes met hers with patient courage. She held out to him the paper napkin, folded and pinned, to make a boat or a hat. Or a nurse’s cap.

  “This is for you,” she said gravely.

  Tyler took it. Understood. Nodded. Did not smile. Went swiftly out the front door to where the ambulance waited, on his orders, for him to come.

  Edie heard Wendy’s little-girl’s voice saying to the young cop, whose back was stiff to his duty and whose face was not telling how he felt, “I was always pretty.” She sounded like a child, a real one, beaten and miserable, hunting for one tiny grain of assurance, some one little good thing, from which to take a taste of pleasure, a bit of the nourishment of pride.

  Edie stumbled back into the big room, passing the doctor, who was hustling out of it. Cousin Ted had not moved. He lay in the chair as he had fallen, looking like the frog-footman. Edie went to him and gently took from his unresisting hand the shoes. Her brain began to move with a jolt. Harold’s shoes. Well! She would hardly have been letting him in at the front door at the very moment that his shoes were being found in her room. But his alibi didn’t matter anymore.

  She knelt before Harold, with the shoes. He bent and took them from her. He fumbled at the laces. Edie guessed that he would like to hide his face, so she rose and walked apart.

  Outside, Tyler had made short work of Mrs. Beck. He had the paper hat. He had the news that Wendy was talking, which the woman had feared, and therefore quickly believed. She agreed, vindictively, that Wendy had pushed her down the stairs. (Tyler had not doubted it.)

  Wendy was out of his hands, but off his streets. He hadn’t much fear that Wendy would be back. Soon or ever. It seemed to him that it was very late, too late, for her. And she hadn’t killed his sister. Now he bent his skills upon the one who had, and Mrs. Beck soon began to boast about her method. He was able to refrain from touching her. He told the men to take her away. He had “gotten” enough to arrest her. He would get more, much more. He would “get” her, solidly, beyond the shadow of a doubt. He didn’t think that Mrs. Beck would go to the chair. But she would be off the streets, he vowed. Forever. That was his job, wasn’t it? To enforce the law, and protect the innocent, as early as he could.

  Then he said to Mungo, who was hanging around, “All right. Let’s get down to it. Did Myra threaten you?”

  Mungo was trying to look blank, but Tyler wasn’t having any of that. “Did she threaten to tell about your affair and bust up your impending marriage?”

  “No, sir, she did not,” Mungo said, his tanned face switching over to earnest honesty, now that he knew that Tyler knew.

  “She was there Wednesday night. You spoke to Myra.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve said so.” Under Tyler’s icy eye, Ronnie went on. “The fact is, Myra tried to … er … convince me that it wasn’t a good idea to marry Wendy Whitman. She was right, I think.” Ronnie flew one eyebrow.

  “And …?” Tyler used his terrible patience.

  “Well, sir, Wendy didn’t much like that. You see”—now there would be the confidence, man to man—“that’s why I was so sure that Page hadn’t got in, as they thought. Wendy was spoiling for some kind of battle when they … er … put me out.”

  “And you went?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mungo tried on his charming grin, carefully seasoned with a touch of rue.

  “So nothing was said about your past association with my sister? How did Wendy know it?”

  “Well, in fact, it was Wendy who did say something. On Wednesday. She seemed to know all about it, and said she had known for a long time … and couldn’t careless. You … er … heard her.”

  “How did she know?”

  “I can’t say, sir. Wendy was wild at Myra for being what she called a ‘hypocrite.’” Then Mungo added, with a touch of noble sternness, “But she was wrong. Myra was a good friend of mine, I think. And I’m sorry.”

  “But you didn’t think fit to tell me your strong suspicion? Who had knocked your good friend down.”

  Mungo had an odd look. As if to say, “Come now, really!”

  “Because you had to marry the money, eh?” snapped Tyler. “You couldn’t offend it. You needed the money bad, from what I hear.”

  “I did and I do,” said Ronnie and shrugged. He looked bleak.

  “Why did you stick your neck out, trying that fool stunt of getting Page out of here? You don’t seem the type to stick out a lot of neck—to me.”

  Ronnie said rapidly, “As soon as I heard that Myra was dead … and I thought it was from the injuries that Wendy had … er … prabably caused … Well, I knew it was going to blow. Wendy was going to blow, I mean.”

  Tyler thought he was being somewhat honest, at the moment.

  “So there was this kid Page. I knew he was just unlucky. In fact, I knew all about what they had done to him before. So, when a damsel in distress appealed to me …” Ronnie began to look uncomfortable. “That’s about all I can say, sir. If I said I felt like being the Good Samaritan, on an impulse, you wouldn’t believe it. Call it a challenge. I didn’t … think it through.”

  “I’ll call it,” said Tyler dryly. “Let me see. The Whitman money. Myra wasn’t going to get it—being dead. Wendy wasn’t going to get it, or her mother’s money, either—being nuts. Ted will have to be a kind of ward of the estate when old Mrs. Whitman goes. He’ll never be in charge. The one (you thought?) who will get all of it … (and this came to you like an uncontrollable impulse, eh?) … that one is Miss Edith Thompson. And there she was. In distress, too. Why let her get disinherited? Recoup your losses. Right?”

  But Edith is too smart for him, thought Tyler confidently.

  Ronnie said hastily, “But old Mrs. Whitman wasn’t—”

  “Dead,” snapped Tyler, “and isn’t, yet. Also, it slipped your mind there’s a baby who is an heir. Forgot? Oh, you didn’t think it through—I guess.”

  Tyler half turned away. He had better not touch this fellow. But then swiftly, he turned back and pounced. “Now, you tell me how you knew what they had done to Page before. You mean at the time of the divorce? This beating? Nothing got around. I didn’t hear it.”

  “No, sir, it was a simple divorce action on the grounds of ‘mental cruelty.’ Not that detail—the way it worked out. But they clobbered him with it, just the same. He had no chance. Wendy lied when she said he beat her, and Mrs. Beck lied herself blue to back that up. The Whitmans … er … chose to believe them. Page had to go quietly.”

  “But you knew all about it? Who told you?”

  “Oh …” Ronnie blinked. “Why, Myra told me.”

  “When?”

  “Why, at the time.” Ronnie saw nothing amiss.

  “I see,” said Charles Tyler heavily. At the time, Myra had been engaged to the Whitman money. Hadn’t offended it with the truth. Her brother’s bitter sorrow came out in anger. “You also knew that Beck
was down cellar, maybe hurt. Didn’t you?” he roared.

  “No, sir. No, sir.”

  “Come on.”

  “I thought I heard something. I didn’t know.”

  “You need a little practice in Samaritanism, wouldn’t you say?” said Tyler, with bitter contempt.

  “Sorry,” said Mungo, slipping out from under, the voice light, the eyes curious. (Why do you care, hurt or not? Especially when now you know she killed your sister. The foxy eyes were wondering.)

  “What a specimen you are,” said Tyler. “Get in there. Tell Page he is free to do what he wants, will you? So long as I get his statement tomorrow. And Edith, too.”

  “I’ll be very glad to, sir,” said Ronnie Mungo smoothly.

  Charles Tyler thought, He’s one of those. He isn’t glad. He isn’t sorry. Doesn’t judge, of course—not he. Wouldn’t get that much involved. Laissez-faire. Wouldn’t help the wronged—without profit in sight. Or the suffering. Doesn’t dream of stopping the wicked. Wouldn’t have the word in his vocabulary. One of those.

  And so had his sister Myra been … one of those.

  He reached, in pain, for charity. Perhaps not totally. She hadn’t cared what happened to Harold Page. But maybe she had been a good friend of Mungo’s. Maybe, for him, she had made one try. He didn’t know. There might have been that one flash of concern for another living person. At some risk to herself. She had died of it. Tyler had doubt, but he would give her the benefit. She was dead.

  Deliver us? he said, beneath his breath. Then … went about his business.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IN the big room, Granny was saying, “Dreadful woman, putting such nonsense into little Wendy’s head. Such vulgar lies about poor Myra. Well, she’s gone. We have arrangements to make, Ted. Will you speak to Charles about the funeral, or shall I?”

  Ted stirred. His mother had told him what to think and gratefully he began to think it. “Lies. Dreadful. Poor sensitive little Wendy. No wonder she was upset! Did I”—Ted seemed to lose his grip entirely for a moment—”tell you that Myra is dead? Oh. Well. Yes.” His mother had also told him what to do. “We must, of course, make the arrangements. Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll see to everything.”

  He was like a balloon that had partially collapsed but now received new air. He got up and trotted toward the foyer. Wendy wasn’t there now. They had taken her outside.

  “Ted?” called Granny after him. “Teddy? It would be best not to speak to any newsmen.”

  Ted turned on the steps. He touched his eyebrows with an arched hand. “Oh, Mother … I am not absolutely stupid.”

  Poor man, thought Edie, I rather hope that he is.

  When Ted was gone, Granny got up with spry energy. “A great deal to attend to,” she muttered. She, of course, would see that somebody saw to everything.

  “Can I help you?” said Edie, without thinking about it.

  “I think not, Edith,” said Granny, with a frosty look. “I shall go to my room. As soon as my lawyer arrives, I shall be able to manage. After all, I retain him.”

  She started toward the east wing. Nothing could be given her. She hired what she wanted.

  Harold was still bent over, one shoe on, his fingers awkward on the laces. Granny halted to look down at him. A frown creased her pale forehead. “I have always been generous,” she said. “No one can say …”

  For a moment, Edith thought the old lady would break under the weight, but Granny did not. “I am paying for that child’s special education,” said Granny briskly. “Later on, I suppose there are persons who can be employed to look after him.”

  Oh no, you can’t! You can’t, thought Edie. Oh, you poor old woman, you can’t do that!

  Ronnie Mungo came bounding in. “The doctor thinks it best to take Wendy along, right now, Mrs. Whitman, while she—er—isn’t minding what they do. I am sorry. Very sorry, ma’am.”

  The old lady was looking at him in her old way, her eyes shifting.

  “About Myra and me,” said Ron, softly, “I can’t imagine where poor disturbed Wendy got such an idea. It is just … not true, you know.”

  “It makes no difference,” said old Mrs. Whitman with great conviction and authority, “whether it is true or false, as long as you don’t mention it.”

  She swept away. Her creed, thought Edie, and seemed to have a revelation. Lila Whitman was the source of the evil in this house. Cruel and lazy. Supping with the devil, by a spoon not long enough.

  But she was gone and Ronnie Mungo turned to the two of them who were left, with a resumption of jaunty good cheer. “Mrs. Beck broke down, all right. Tyler was too much for her. So Tyler says to tell you”—now, he addressed Harold—“that he’ll want your statement tomorrow. But you are free.”

  “Oh yes. Oh yes. Oh yes.” Harold rammed his swollen foot into the other shoe at last, and the pain was fine. It seemed to clear his head. “Thank you,” he said.

  Edie began to feel fiercely practical. “Will you help me?” she said to Ronnie, demandingly. “I must get him to a doctor and maybe find a place for him to stay.”

  “You must?” The voice was light, the gaze curious, as if he were examining a species he had not often encountered.

  “Will you take us, in your car? And please, catch that Dr. Brewster. Is he still here? Ask him where to go.”

  Ron was still gazing at her.

  Are you weighing, thought Edie, whether it is necessary or advisable, or any special “kick,” to help me? “Will you do it,” she cried, “for no reason?”

  He said, lightly, “Of course, fair damsel,” grinned his mischievous, mocking grin, saluted and started for the foyer.

  Then you can run along and play, she said to herself. As if he had heard, Ron glanced back over his shoulder. She felt the curtain falling. He went on.

  Edie ran up to the turret room to throw her things into her suitcases. She worked very fast.

  Now she could mourn. Myra is dead, who shouldn’t have died. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know her, but I do know she shouldn’t have been cut down, just cut down by those two. People come in all kinds. But what shall we do with the destroyers? Call them unfortunate? Which they are.

  My father labored all his life trying to help the unfortunate. But I am seeing too much destruction, too many unfortunates, rich or poor, who carelessly destroy. How shall we stop them before the compassionate are all their servants, as well as their victims?

  Oh, I am not where I want to be, not in the front lines. I want to count, to make a difference, a better difference. I’m doing too little, patching and mending, and failing too often, because it’s too late—and too late for too many. Study, then? Find out how? Begin sooner? Work with the new ones, the littlest ones, the ones not lost yet … where the chances are? Shall I learn to work with children?

  Oh, for that I’ll need more patience. I’ve got the energy, I’m boiling with it, but it needs harnessing. It needs to go where it can feel it matters. That’s my harnessing. I’m not my long-suffering father and not my patient, easygoing mother, either. I am me … and I must do what I can. I wish …

  I wish I had a man like Charles Tyler. Not he … but like him. That is not absurd. Not absurd at all. Not at all.

  She came, thoughtfully, out on the balcony with her bags, the big one and the small. Harold Page was waiting down there, all alone.

  You didn’t get destroyed, thought Edie. Maybe, once, when you were very small, somebody gave you an everlasting clue?

  She went down to him. “There’s one thing,” she heard herself saying. “You’ll get to raise your little son, Harold. I’m sure of it. You can win. Could you think about that?” She was wishing to lift his spirits, now.

  “Yes,” the boy said, “I will think about that. In a minute.” He looked exhausted. “You don’t hate her now, either. Do you, Edie?”

  “No,” she burst, “but I hate something. I hate the rotten misery of spoiled lives. Human beings are not supposed to grow up to be such mon
sters—such dangerous, unhappy monsters.”

  “Do you think,” said Harold as if he hadn’t heard her, “they’ll figure out what it was that Wendy wanted?”

  Edie felt impatient with him. You survived. You have things to do. Get on with it. It was only your bad luck, that Wendy took a notion to run away with you—for fun. But Mrs. Beck “couldn’t approve”—so …

  Then the whole story of Wendy flashed clear into her mind. A baby, here. A little new one. The only child, with a pair of silly parents, in a cold old house dominated by a grandmother who bought everything. Who had hired a woman to raise the child. Who couldn’t be bothered, hadn’t even noticed, how the servant had become the master, how Mrs. Beck had twisted her own solitary meaningless life around Wendy’s, like a strangling poisonous vine.

  Oh, pity, thought Edie, to have been born into this. To have been ever indulged, from the beginning, to have escaped justice, to have been denied it, to have lacked it. And then to be forever told, by that powerful, sick hired woman, that nothing so difficult, or so sweet, as a struggling life was for you.

  She no longer thought that Wendy had run away with Harold Page for fun, or money. But instinctively, for her own salvation. And had not made it. Wendy had been going to marry Ronnie Mungo, not for love nor money, but for her own last chance. He would have married the money. Wendy would have got away. Anywhere. To shuck off the past? To go somewhere else, looking for the turning-around place? Too late. Too late. She hadn’t made it. Had followed bad with worse, spiraling downward. How could she have made it—all alone—never having had a clue?

  “What Wendy wanted?” said Edie aloud. “I think she told us.”

  The boy was all right. He could take it.

  “What she wanted,” said Edie, slowly, “was only human. Only human. Wendy wanted to mean something. But she … was a prisoner in a tower. Don’t you think so?”

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