Some Must Watch - Ethel Lina White (best book club books .TXT) 📗

Nature

with an unfortunate appearance, The fact that she shaved could be

discounted, as a downy lip was not an uncommon feminine trait.

 

On the other hand, if Mrs. Oates’ suspicion was founded on fact, it

opened up a range of ugly possibilities. It established a definite plot,

for the genuine nurse must have been got out of the way. If the maniac

had marked down herself as his next victim, he would not be stopped, by

any obstacle, from reaching his objective.

 

His choice of herself was as inexplicable as the history of his crimes.

With scores of girls in the town on whom to wreak his mania, he had

undertaken a perilous climb in order to reach the governess’ bedroom.

But, while in the cases of the countryside murders, he might have

attacked the girls, when the itch for slaughter had suddenly awakened,

this was different, It was the more horrible, because it was a patient,

cold-blooded pursuit. She imagined him making enquiries, finding out her

address, tracking her down.

 

What appalled her most was the way in which his path was being smoothed.

No one could have foreseen such a chapter of accidents. Although he

could not have planned them, they could not be coincidence, since each

event had happened in its logical sequence.

 

“Why should he pick on me? I’m nobody. I don’t look like a film star.”

 

As she cast the net of her thoughts over the past, she captured a

memory. On her way to the Summit she had remained at the railway station

for about an hour, while she waited for Oates’ arrival with the ancient

car. As her head ached from her journey down from London she took off

her hat.

 

The bench on which she sat as under a lamp, which shone down on her

bright mane of hair—the color of pale flame. She remembered that a man

had turned to stare at her, but his cap was pulled down over his eyes,

so that she could not see his face.

 

“It was my hair,” she thought. “But I’m an idiot. It’s only Nurse

Barker’s idea. He’s not after me. She’s trying to frighten me.”

 

It all boiled down to the old question—who was Nurse Barker? Closing

her eyes, she rocked to and fro. It was long past her bed time, and she

had passed through a strenuous day. Worn out with strain, she felt

herself growing drowsy. She began to glide over the surface of a

tranquil river, shallow and crystal clear.

 

Suddenly it ended in a drop over a bottomless hole. Her heart gave a

leap, and she opened her eyes with a violent start. To her surprise she

was not alone. While she dozed the Professor had come out of his study,

and was bending over her.

 

“Sleeping on the stairs, Miss Capel?” he asked: “Why’ don’t you go to

bed?”

 

His formal voice and appearance restored her confidence.

 

Crimes don’t happen in well-conducted houses, where gentlemen dress for

dinner.

 

Very unwise, he remarked, when she confided her proposed vigil. He

passed her, and went up the stairs, holding on to the rail for support.

She called after him.

 

“Professor, may I say something?”

 

He waited while she ran up to the landing.

 

“Mrs. Oates wants the inside dope about that new nurse,” she said. I

mean—she wants to know if she really comes from the Home.”

 

“Then why not find out?” enquired the Professor. “There is the

telephone.”

 

In spite of his aloofness, the Professor did not affect Helen with the

hopeless feeling of fighting the air. She remembered that when she had

been stunned by the thunderclap of the murder, he, alone had remained

unshaken.

 

Stimulated with contact with him, she did not want to cut the wires.

 

“Are you going up to bed?” she asked boldly. “Yes,” he replied. “It is

nearly eleven.”

 

“Then, I hope you’ll get some sleep. But, if something crops

up—something I can’t cope with—may I knock you up?” “Not unless it is

urgent,”

 

Cheered by the grudging permission, Helen ran down to the hall, and

consulted the telephone directory. Her habit of listening to scraps of

conversation had yielded the address of the Nursing Home, which was

fortunate, since there appeared to be a good crop of them. Presently,

the Exchange put her through to the Secretary.

 

“Will you please tell me if Nurse Barker is at the Home?” asked Helen.

 

“No,” replied the Secretary. “Who’s speaking?”

 

“The Summit.”

 

“But she’s at the Summit.”

 

“I know. Will you please describe her?”

 

There was silence, as though the Secretary wondered whether she was

talking to an idiot.

 

“I don’t understand,” she said. “She’s tall and dark, and one of our

best nurses. Have you any complaint to make?”

 

“No. Has she a very refined voice?”

 

“Naturally. All our nurses are ladies,” “Oh, yes. Did you see her get

into the car from the Summit?”

 

“No,” replied the Secretary, after a pause. “It was late, so she waited

in the hall. When she heard a hoot, she went outside, carrying her

bag.”

 

Helen rang off with the feeling, that, on the whole, the interview was

satisfactory.

 

“I’d better check up, now, on Mrs. Oates,” she decided. Mrs. Oates was

sunken lower in her basket-chair. She looked the picture of misery as

she stared at the bottle of brandy on top of the dresser. “You gave me

the works,” she said reproachfully. “You and your cawfee. I’ve not even

got merry.”

 

“Tomorrow,” promised Helen. “I’ve been ringing up the Nursing Home.

Nurse Barker seems an awful brute, but otherwise I think she’s all

right.”

 

Mrs. Oates would not give up her original idea.

 

“All wrong to me,” she grunted. “I’ve a tin with a lid what ‘as

tightened up. Oates can’t shift it. I’ll ask her to open it, and see if

she falls into my trap.”

 

“It would only prove she had strong fingers,” said Helen. “She need not

be a man. What’s the time?” She glanced at the inaccurate clock. “Five

to eleven. That’s near enough. When will your husband be back?”

 

Mrs. Oates worked out the sum on her fingers.

 

“Say, one and a half hours to go, and two to get back. The old car’s

bound to take a rest up some of them hills. And Oates will play about,

doing his business. Say five hours, at the outside, and maybe sooner.”

 

Helen felt a rush of new hope.

 

“He left about eight-thirty,” she said. “So we’ve only another two

hours, or so, to wait. I shall sleep like a top, once I know he’s back.

Will you bring your sheets down to the spare room, so that I shall know

you’re on the other side of the wall?”

 

“I don’t mind,” promised Mrs. Oates. “It’ll be safer there, than on top,

with all the chimbleys,”

 

Suddenly Helen groaned.

 

“I’d forgotten. The Professor said we were not to let your husband in,”

 

“That’s all right,” said Mrs. Oates. “The master gave his orders for you

to obey. But he wasn’t giving them to him self. Didn’t he pack off Mr.

Newton after his missus? Of course, he means to let Oates in.”

 

Helen was astonished by the woman’s shrewdness.

 

“You mean it was a pose—to show he was master of the house?” she asked.

“If he was so keen to get the oxygen, he wouldn’t let it sit in the

garage all night. Directly we hear a knock I’ll rush up and tell the

Professor.”

 

“Oates will be inside the door by then,” prophesied Mrs. Oates. “D’you

think I’d let my old man wait outside on the mat, with Welcome?”

 

Helen sprang to her feet, her face eager.

 

“I’ll soon be back,” she said. “I want to change into my dressing-gown.

Then we’ll make tea and be comfortable.”

 

When she was outside in the basement hall, she paused in indecision. It

was quicker to use the backway. But as she gazed up the dimly-lit spiral

of narrow stairs, she shrank back, feeling that nothing would induce her

to go up them.

 

There were too many twists on the way—too many corners. Anything—or

anyone—might be lurking around the next bend—waiting to spring out

upon her.

 

Although she knew her fear was absurd, she went up thefront staircase.

On the first landing she paused, arrested by, a glimpse of the

Professor’s bedroom, through his partially opened door. He had not begun

to undress, but was sitting in a low chair before his fireless grate.

 

As she lingered, she started at the sound of a muffled cry from the blue

room. She waited for it to be repeated, but heard nothing.

 

“I wish I knew what to do,” she thought.

 

There was something about the noise which caught her imagination—a

smothered note, as though a heavy hand were placed over someone’s lips.

 

Presently she decided that she was the victim of her fancy. Lady Warren

had called out in a nightmare, or else the nurse was trying to check her

snores.

 

But as she climbed the next flight of stairs she discovered to her

dismay, that she dreaded reaching the second floor. All the bedrooms,

with the exception of her own, were now empty. There were too many

hiding-places for anyone who might have crept up the back-stairs, as she

mounted the front.

 

When she tried to open her door she thought, at first, that somebody was

inside, shutting her out, so strong was the pressure of the draught. But

as she snapped on the light, she saw only the rise and fall of the

carpet, like the well of the sea.

 

She looked around the loaded room, at the painted mirror, the

wall-packet to hold a duster, the photograph of Lady Warren the First,

the numerous tiny shelves of the toilet-table, each with its lace mat.

 

“I suppose that governess-girl’s room looked very much like mine,” she

thought.

 

There seemed to be some septic aura hanging around Nurse Barker which

had the property of arousing fear. She had stood for only a few minutes

outside the blue room, yet her serenity had fled. It was of no use

reminding herself that Oates was probably on his homeward journey; he

might be as near as the front gate, and still be too late.

 

Up on the second floor, the full force of the gale was evident. A crack

on the window made Helen look round nervously. It sounded as though

someone were forcing his way inside.

 

Although she knew that it was impossible, she crossed to the casement

and drew aside the curtain. Instantly, the black shape which had

terrified her before, swung across, apparently touching the glass.

 

It was an unpleasant illusion, as though the tree was ani mated by some

persistent purpose. Helen redrew the curtain and sprang to the middle of

the room, where she stared around her, in momentary panic. She felt that

she was on, the Point of being attacked—like the other girl. At any

moment, a window might burst open, or a curtain bulge.

 

Although she did not know it, somewhere on the floor below a door was

opened stealthily. A head looked around the landing—its eyes slanting

to right and left. Someone stole across to the stairs, leading up to the

second floor.

 

Suddenly Helen’s glance fell upon the Cross which hung over her bed. In

spite of the derision with which it had been assailed during dinner, it

held actual virtue to heal her terror. She reminded herself that its

Power was too enduring to be