yellow house-coat and black slacks, with high heels that gave her grotesque stature, flung herself suddenly against the hand-rail.
Just as Brian reached Audrey’s side, Eve threw out her arms as though to grasp something in the air. A streak of lightning shot jaggedly down the sky. And, at the same moment, Eve pitched headforemost with her hands at her throat. If she screamed, he did not hear it under the long concussion of the thunder.
Nor did he hear any noise when her body, falling past the lip of the low stone wall on the terrace underneath, was caught and swallowed by trees some sixty feet below. Only the thunder rolled its echoes above the hills. He and Audrey were alone.
ACT TWO
“ Any young fool of a player can humbug the town by appearing in tragedy, but comedy’s a serious matter. You’re not ready for comedy yet. ”
— DAVID GARRICK
VIII
S OME TWENTY MINUTES later, with the shock still on his wits, Brian left the study.
He left by the door to the upstairs hall, which had been locked and bolted on the inside. Pain burnt up through his hand when he unlocked it.
Both his hands and his clothes were torn and dirt-stained from climbing down the side of a gully to see what must be seen there among the trees. Heart and lungs ached from the strain of climbing back. But physical shock counted for very little.
The lies in the story he now meant to tell—that is, if he could get away with it—had been planned already. At the door he took a last glance behind him.
“Is there anything contradictory here?” he was thinking desperately. “Anything at all? Anything that might trip me up?”
No!
Still the storm would not break. A wink of lightning opened outside the two open windows, beyond a green-glimmering balcony. Thunder shocked and tumbled up and down the sky.
But nothing in the study, with its apple-green walls and its many books and pictures, had been altered or even touched. On the writing-table, between a glass ashtray and a bowl of roses, the chromium desk-lamp shed down yellow light on that curious pile of manuscript-sheets written in dark blue ink. Eve’s uncapped fountain pen lay beside them.
A strong draught rushed through the room, belling out white window-curtains, when he opened the door. A few manuscript-sheets fluttered to the carpet. That didn’t matter, he decided. Brian glanced at the mantelpiece, where a clock showed twenty minutes past nine.
Then he closed the door behind him and went to the head of the stairs.
“Dr. Fell!” he called clearly. “Dr. Fell!”
His voice was shaky; he cleared his throat.
But for a moment only the thunder answered.
The upstairs hall was almost dark. From what he had been told, from what he now knew, he could understand the arrangement of rooms on this floor; he could try to remember who slept (or did not sleep) in each one.
At the front of the villa were two bedrooms separated by an enormous bathroom with that bull’s-eye window of coloured glass. One bedroom had been Eve Ferrier’s, one her husband’s; the groping of his wits couldn’t place them or straighten them out.
Then the oblong body of the hall, with a bedroom to the left and a bedroom to the right of it. One was Philip Ferrier’s, one was Paula Catford’s. Then the transverse passage which had a small bathroom at each end; and, behind that, the three rooms with Gerald Hathaway’s at the left, the study in the middle, and Audrey Page’s to the right.
And all this, Brian reflected, was aside from Dr. Fell’s bedroom on the ground floor. The hardwood floor up here, a pale lake, vibrated to the hollow concussion of the thunder.
“ Dr. Fell! ”
“Hey?”
“Come up here, will you?”
Brian backed away from the head of the stairs.
Then, close at hand, a door opened almost in his face.
Paula Catford, in a close-fitting silk dressing-gown, her black hair tumbled from sleep, loomed up ghostlike with towel over her arm and a sponge-bag in her hand. The image she in torn
Just as Brian reached Audrey’s side, Eve threw out her arms as though to grasp something in the air. A streak of lightning shot jaggedly down the sky. And, at the same moment, Eve pitched headforemost with her hands at her throat. If she screamed, he did not hear it under the long concussion of the thunder.
Nor did he hear any noise when her body, falling past the lip of the low stone wall on the terrace underneath, was caught and swallowed by trees some sixty feet below. Only the thunder rolled its echoes above the hills. He and Audrey were alone.
ACT TWO
“ Any young fool of a player can humbug the town by appearing in tragedy, but comedy’s a serious matter. You’re not ready for comedy yet. ”
— DAVID GARRICK
VIII
S OME TWENTY MINUTES later, with the shock still on his wits, Brian left the study.
He left by the door to the upstairs hall, which had been locked and bolted on the inside. Pain burnt up through his hand when he unlocked it.
Both his hands and his clothes were torn and dirt-stained from climbing down the side of a gully to see what must be seen there among the trees. Heart and lungs ached from the strain of climbing back. But physical shock counted for very little.
The lies in the story he now meant to tell—that is, if he could get away with it—had been planned already. At the door he took a last glance behind him.
“Is there anything contradictory here?” he was thinking desperately. “Anything at all? Anything that might trip me up?”
No!
Still the storm would not break. A wink of lightning opened outside the two open windows, beyond a green-glimmering balcony. Thunder shocked and tumbled up and down the sky.
But nothing in the study, with its apple-green walls and its many books and pictures, had been altered or even touched. On the writing-table, between a glass ashtray and a bowl of roses, the chromium desk-lamp shed down yellow light on that curious pile of manuscript-sheets written in dark blue ink. Eve’s uncapped fountain pen lay beside them.
A strong draught rushed through the room, belling out white window-curtains, when he opened the door. A few manuscript-sheets fluttered to the carpet. That didn’t matter, he decided. Brian glanced at the mantelpiece, where a clock showed twenty minutes past nine.
Then he closed the door behind him and went to the head of the stairs.
“Dr. Fell!” he called clearly. “Dr. Fell!”
His voice was shaky; he cleared his throat.
But for a moment only the thunder answered.
The upstairs hall was almost dark. From what he had been told, from what he now knew, he could understand the arrangement of rooms on this floor; he could try to remember who slept (or did not sleep) in each one.
At the front of the villa were two bedrooms separated by an enormous bathroom with that bull’s-eye window of coloured glass. One bedroom had been Eve Ferrier’s, one her husband’s; the groping of his wits couldn’t place them or straighten them out.
Then the oblong body of the hall, with a bedroom to the left and a bedroom to the right of it. One was Philip Ferrier’s, one was Paula Catford’s. Then the transverse passage which had a small bathroom at each end; and, behind that, the three rooms with Gerald Hathaway’s at the left, the study in the middle, and Audrey Page’s to the right.
And all this, Brian reflected, was aside from Dr. Fell’s bedroom on the ground floor. The hardwood floor up here, a pale lake, vibrated to the hollow concussion of the thunder.
“ Dr. Fell! ”
“Hey?”
“Come up here, will you?”
Brian backed away from the head of the stairs.
Then, close at hand, a door opened almost in his face.
Paula Catford, in a close-fitting silk dressing-gown, her black hair tumbled from sleep, loomed up ghostlike with towel over her arm and a sponge-bag in her hand. The image she in torn
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