Gathering Darkness
“Take it easy,” said Hazeldean quietly, as Dora opened her eyes.
He had lifted her into a chair after dismissing Pierre from the room. The old man had objected to the dismissal, but Hazeldean had not been in a mood to listen to his objections and had bundled him unceremoniously into the passage, closing the door in his indignant face. Possibly the face was now plastered to the keyhole, but Hazeldean did not mind the thought of that, since the key was in the hole on his side of the door, and in the event of further trouble he was quite ready to turn it.
Dora’s eyes rested on him for a moment or two, during which the distress in them became less acute, and then they closed again. When next they opened, they remained open.
“Had a shock?” asked Hazeldean.
She nodded.
“Tell me about it when you’re ready,” he answered, “but don’t hurry. We won’t be interrupted,” he added, as her glance wandered towards the door.
She waited a few moments longer, while the colour returned to her cheeks, then said.
“It was silly of me—to go off like that.”
“Don’t expect me to agree with you,” he replied. “You seem to think everything you do is silly! There’s a limit, you know, to what any of us can stand.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Thank you. I expect it was—coming on top of everything—”
She paused and gulped, and now her glance wandered towards the window.
“What came on top of everything?” inquired Hazeldean. “Something at the window?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A face. Dark—foreign.” The brief description was sufficient for Hazeldean to recognise it. “It was only there for a moment.”
“But it must have been a very nasty moment.”
“Yes. And—you see—I’d still got that awful news you brought in my mind.”
“Ah—your uncle told you about that?”
“Yes. He’d just gone. So I suppose the shock did it. Fainting isn’t a habit of mine, though I do sometimes. It always annoys me. I never used to.”
“Well, if you’ve grown into it, you’ll grow out of it,” he answered. “It’s nothing to worry about. How are you feeling now?”
“Better,” she replied, responding to his encouraging smile.
“How much better?”
“Quite all right.”
“Do you need anything? Shall I ring for the maid?”
“Oh, no!” The negative was very definite. “Have you seen her? What do you think of her?”
“Of Marie?” he replied. “Well, she was quite pleasant while she served my tea. I can’t say I was wildly enthusiastic, but I can’t say I minded her.”
“No. That’s right.” She was comparing her own opinion with his. “And what about Pierre? Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you wildly enthusiastic about Pierre?”
The form of the question pleased him. It was her first real attempt at humour, the invaluable tonic for jarred nerves.
“Do you remember a little rhyme about a certain Dr. Fell?” he asked.
“No.”
“It goes like this: ‘I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, the reason why I cannot tell, But this I know, and know full well, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.’” Her laughter rippled round the dim parlour with pleasant incongruity. “So now you know my opinion of our friend Pierre. Incidentally, he hasn’t got Marie’s enterprise.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well—Marie can speak a bit of English.”
“Oh, but so can Pierre.”
“Oh, can he?” Thus Hazeldean drew from Dora the information that Pierre had been lying, which further reduced the popularity of Dr. Fell. “My mistake. By the way, he hasn’t been bothering you, has he?” She shook her head. “Or Marie? Was she here when you fainted?”
“No. I’d just had my meal.” Her tray was still there. “You say you’ve had yours, or I’d—what are you going to do now?”
“Didn’t your uncle tell you?” he asked.
“No.”
“That’s funny—”
“He was in a hurry,” she explained. “He had to go to the police station with Madame Paula.”
“Yes—of course… I’m staying here for a bit.”
A pleasant moment followed. The spontaneous relief in her expression was ample repayment for his decision, though all she said was, “I’m glad!”
“Are you? Then so am I. It was your uncle who suggested it—”
“Did he?”
“But I expect I’d have suggested it myself if he hadn’t. My man will be here shortly with some things from the boat.”
She looked a little puzzled.
“But didn’t you suggest it?” she asked. “I mean, when you left, wasn’t Madame Paula going to show you a room?”
“So she was,” he recalled.
“Only I wasn’t sure you’d really decided.”
“Well, I’ve decided now, anyhow. I’m in charge of you till he comes back. Do you mind?”
She smiled at him. “I like it. I hope it’s a nice room. Some are very poky. I’ll tell you something. I didn’t think Madame Paula wanted it first—you to stay here, I mean. I had an idea she’d show you the horridest room there was, so you wouldn’t take it! Yes, but now, of course, everything’s different. Poor Madame Paula! I don’t expect we’ll be seeing much of her. My uncle said she’d be staying in her room.” Her voice grew rather faltering. “Was I a little beast?”
“When?”
“I mean, the way I spoke about her. And about—I mean, when a thing like this happens, it makes you think. I wanted to go to her, but my uncle thought it was better not to.”
“I’m sure he was right. And you weren’t a little beast.”
“Thank you. Only you would say that. I think I was, though. But, of course, I couldn’t have seen her then, because they went out. I’m afraid it will be rather gloomy for you here. We don’t do anything. Don’t think you have to stay here and talk to me—if you want to go and see Notre Dame!”
She gave a nervous little laugh.
“I haven’t the least desire to see Notre Dame!” he laughed back. “At least, not unless you come with me. But don’t think you’ve got to talk to me either if you want to do anything else. Perhaps you want to get on with your book?”
The book she had been reading when he had first met her was on the little table by the tray.
“No, I’d much rather talk,” she answered. “I don’t often get the—I mean, I’m so afraid you’ll find it dull, when I expect you meet so many interesting people—going about in your boat, and that. What shall we talk about?”
She was beginning suddenly to develop a painful self-consciousness, and though he longed to talk of personal matters, and meant to return to them, he decided to carry her mind away from herself and the pension and Boulogne for a little while. He described his boat to her, and his crew; and while the mantelpiece clock ticked away the minutes, and her interested face grew less and less distinct in the fading daylight, he took her on one of his voyages to Oslo and back. It was almost dark when he had finished.
“It must be a wonderful boat!” she exclaimed.
“It’s just a boat,” he replied. “But one’s own boat is always wonderful, like one’s dog or one’s car.”
“Could it go farther than Oslo and back?”
“Of course.”
“Such a small boat?”
“She can sleep four comfortably. And she has an auxiliary engine.”
“Could she go round the world?”
“Smaller boats have done it.”
“It must be lovely to travel. To see things—new things. I wonder my uncle doesn’t want to more sometimes. He came from South Africa, you know. Well, of course, you didn’t know. That was after my father died.”
“When you were a little girl?”
“Well, fourteen or fifteen. I forget.”
“You weren’t fourteen when that picture of you was painted, were you?”
“Picture? Oh, in the dining-room at home? Yes, you’ve seen that, haven’t you? There’s something I still don’t quite understand. Oh, well, never mind, I’m sure it doesn’t really matter.”
“What is it?”
“No, nothing. That picture. I was twelve.”
“Then it was your father who commissioned it?”
“No, he painted it.”
“Oh! He was an artist?”
“Only an amateur. I remember he used to tell me he couldn’t paint for nuts. But he liked that picture. Another thing he told me was that it was the best thing he had ever done, and that really we’d both painted it, I was such a good sitter… We used to have great fun…”
Someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it? Entrez,” called Dora.
The door opened, and Marie stood silhouetted against a faint light in the passage.
“Ze tray,” she said, “et les drapeaux.”
Hazeldean cursed her silently for her interruption, although he made use of it.
“I suppose no one’s called to see me yet?” he asked as the maid crossed to the window and pulled the curtains.
It occurred to him that Bob Blythe should be arriving about now with his bag.
“Non, m’sieur,” the maid answered.
“Please let me know the moment any one comes. Comprenez?”
“Mais oui!”
“Is Madame Paula back yet?”
“Oui, m’sieur.”
“Comment elle portez vous?”
“Pardon?”
“How is she?”
“Ah! Je comprens! I ’ave not see ’er. She ees—lock in ’er room. Pierre me dit she is back and il faut zat she is not disturb.”
She was leaving with the tray when Dora asked:
“Et Monsieur Fenner? A-t-il retourné?”
“Mais non, ma’m’selle. I fetch ze lamp.”
When the door had closed and they were alone again, Hazeldean looked at Dora thoughtfully.
“Miss Fenner,” he said, “please tell me something.”
“Of course, if I can,” she responded.
“You can. What was it you said you didn’t understand just now—after I’d begun asking about the picture?”
She hesitated for a moment, then answered:
“Please don’t mind—but I was wondering why you asked me all those questions about myself—and my movements yesterday.”
“I—see,” murmured Hazeldean slowly. “And you don’t know?”
“But I don’t mind. Really and truly! I’m sure you had a reason. And—and also for not telling me about Dr. Jones when I was talking about him.”
Hazeldean got up, turned and stared towards the little clock on the mantelpiece. He was not especially interested in the clock, although time was beginning to have some significance, but he wanted to think for a few moments without Dora’s inquiring eyes upon him.
“What’s the matter?” came her voice, behind him.
“I’m just—working things out,” he said. He turned round and faced her again. Each was a faint outline to the other, and would remain so till Marie returned with the lamp. “What did your uncle tell you?”
“What you told him.”
“About—?”
“Dr. Jones.”
“And, of course,” said Hazeldean, after a little silence, “you couldn’t understand the connection between all my questions and Dr. Jones?”
“No. Though—then—I did understand why you had left with Madame Paula.”
“Let me see whether you understood that right.”
“Wasn’t it because you wanted to tell her alone? The room was just an excuse. That was why I decided afterwards that you mightn’t really be staying on here—and—and why I was so glad when you said you were.”
He nodded.
“All very good reasoning,” he smiled, “whether you were right or wrong.”
“Then wasn’t I—?”
“Wait a moment, please. Now there’s something I want you to tell me that I don’t quite understand. Your last question to Marie.”
“You mean about my uncle?”
“Yes. You asked whether he’d come back yet, too. Did you expect him back here to-night?”
She looked astonished.
“Isn’t he coming back?” she exclaimed.