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Roy Glashan's Library
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Pearson's Magazine, June 1930, with "At Twilight"
THE world seemed to end at Pymans Corners and pile itself up in a green wash of trees. Although it was still afternoon, the autumn mists had veiled the evergreen shrubs in Miss Luck's moist, leaf-strewn garden, so that the lawn seemed peopled with crouching forms.
Standing at her parlour window, Miss Luck thought of churchyard lights—the whisper in the lane—the footsteps on the stairs—all the old nursery tales of horror and fear. In appearance, however, she looked more than a match for man or ghost. A tall, massive woman, she were an iron-grey suit cut on masculine lines; her powerful shoulders and muscular back suggested almost ruthless strength. She turned her head and the illusion vanished. Her face was a mere handful of little, indefinite features over which peered timid eyes.
"Fay," she bleated, in a small, weak voice: "I saw a—a tree more in the garden."
The younger Miss Luck, a feather-weight of a girl with a small, pale face and short, dark elf locks, laughed.
"Did it? Now, that's quite interesting. Suppose we have a look at it."
As she rose and put her arm within that of her aunt the enormous lady felt a sudden gust of courage, for this tiny creature was more than her niece and companion. She was her protector. Together they peered into the gloomy garden, nearly submerged in that strange medium—the shade between the lights. And immediately the creeping, misted trees stopped in their advance and stiffened into definite holly or laurel.
"Where's your wonderful tree?" asked Fay.
Miss Luck laughed in her relief. She did not know that she was unable to point it out to her niece because it had crept so much closer to the cottage that it was lurking-behind the pillars of the porch.
"Draw the curtains and let's be snug, Felicia," she said.
She squared her massive shoulders and flung back her head, every inch a heroine. At this moment she could have faced lions or raging seas. Because—at this moment—the witched garden was shut out by thick wine-red curtains; the comfortable room glowed with light from lamp, and fire; the gilt clock told her that it was only a quarter to five. And on the rug was a small, dark girl in a leaf-brown jersey and kilt.
Unfortunately, she saw the smile Fay tried to suppress. It made her writhe with secret shame. It was in vain that she reminded herself that she was a lady of considerable wealth and, as such, an object of interest to her family. She could always depend upon some niece eager to "keep her company" in her Sussex cottage.
In spite of her armour of frigid dignity, she was the meekest soul at heart. A street urchin could make her quail by a shouted insult. She never rode in an omnibus, because she feared the angry glances of the passengers she crushed. She allowed tradespeople to overcharge her rather than risk a scene.
As Fay remained silent, Miss Luck tried to force her to an admission. "Did you hear how that gardener you—I—discharged described me to Elsie?" she asked. "He said I was a fat old coward. Really fantastic!"
"Really insolent," said Fay severely.
"I confess it made me laugh.... Now, Would you call me a coward?"
Fay noticed that the tip of her aunt's nose quivered, as it always did in moments of emotion. In spite of her natural contempt, she suddenly felt very sorry for Miss Luck. Fortunately, she was spared a reply by the ringing of the telephone bell from the hall.
"I'll answer it," she said quickly. When she returned there was a jaded look on her small, vivid face. "Frightfully sorry, Aunt Winny," she said, "I've got to go out immediately."
Miss Luck's mouth dropped. "Leave me all alone?"
"But, angel, it's still afternoon. It's only for half an hour. And you'll have Elsie."
"No. It's her evening out. Where are you going?"
Fay braced her nerves for another scene. "To the police station," she replied. "They've arrested another man and they want me to identify him."
Miss Luck's face puckered with rage and fear.
"Felicia," she gasped, "I forbid you to go."
"I'm afraid it's nothing to do with you." Fay's tone lacked respect. "And I don't see why you should worry. It's my funeral. Oh, dear, why did I take that walk?"
Her face grew wistful as she remembered that wild wet day of high wind and flying leaves which had tempted her to a ramble in the beech woods. She had been so filled with the joy of living— so unconscious of the horror in store. And, in the midst of her rapture, she had heard a scream. Breaking through the bushes, she had been in time to see a man rushing away from the prostrate form of a woman.
Although she had missed the actual murder and was thus spared the nauseating details—which her aunt devoured in the morning paper—the shock was severe. She relived that moment, together with her breathless rush to the police station, in many a nightmare.
What had tried her nerves most, however, was her aunt's attitude. She reproached Fay bitterly for giving information about the appearance of the criminal, and thus exposing them to his possible recrimination.
"We're a 'marked house,'" she quavered. "You should have kept your own counsel and said nothing at all."
Unfortunately, some of Miss Luck's gloomy prophecy, had been fulfilled. The police made an arrest, but Fay failed to identify the man. Although her name was kept out of the papers, she must have been seen as she left the station, for the next day she received an anonymous note.
I seen you. Keep your trap shut or I'll serve you same as I done her.
A Man of his Word.
Fay crushed the note in her indignation.
"Fancy that calling itself a man. Optimist! I'm jolly glad now I saw little rat."
But some of the poison which lurks in every anonymous letter got under her skin. She could not rid herself of the impression that her movements were dogged. Therefore she was careful to avoid lonely localities and not to go out, unaccompanied, after dark.
Today's message from the police station came as a relief. Her description of a gentleman of brunette colouring, smart appearance, and poor, physique applied to more than one member of a razor gang in which the police were interested. But, since the problem boiled itself down to a suspect being unable to account for his movements on a certain fatal Wednesday afternoon, she was hopeful that this time she would return to the cottage with the comforting knowledge that the criminal was safely under lock and key.
Her lips were set as she walked into the hall and took down her brown tweed coat from its peg. When she returned to the parlour her aunt looked at her with doglike, appealing eyes. She. had many nieces—all attractive and charming—but this independent chit was the one she cared for most, and was, in fact, her principal legatee. She wanted desperately to win back Fay's respect.
Fay's lips did not relax at her unspoken plea.
"I'm going to the kitchen to tell Elsie that she must stay in for another half hour," she said.
As she spoke, she regarded her aunt with eyes that had grown speculative. Apart from her failing, Miss Luck was a good and charitable soul, with excellent qualities. At her death she would he missed more than many an attractive personality.
Suddenly Fay felt that she would he really fond of the old thing if she were not such a desperate coward. With the regrettable urge for reformation which animates most young and ardent natures, she wondered if it would be possible to cure her aunt of cowardice. She would have to endure a sharp lesson, but the result would justify any pain. She must be made afraid of some peril which was nonexistent, and thus receive a demonstration of the futility of fear.
"How?" wondered Fay, her eyes brilliant as diamonds.
But, even as she racked her brains, she remembered the classic horror of the man who frightened his wife with a dead snake, only to attract its living mate. Fay shook her head. Her idea held dangerous possibilities.
As she went into the kitchen, she caught Elsie in the act of applying lipstick before the small mirror. Her pretty face had rather a foxy expression. Although it was not yet 5 o'clock, she wore the Lido blue coat and small felt hat which showed that, temporarily, she was out of service.
"My aunt wants you to stay in until 5.30 this afternoon. Elsie," said Fay.
"Then 'want' must be her master," returned Elsie smartly.
She knew her value as a treasure whose only fault was carelessness, and she had no intention of making herself cheap. By leaving the cottage at five, she could obtain her seat at the cinema for the low price of the afternoon session.
"Where's the sense of me staying?" she argued. "She's set in the drawing room and me here, and she won't see me once all the blooming time."
SUDDENLY, Fay saw a chance of the desired lesson for her aunt.
There would be no possible risk in leaving her alone at this
ridiculously early hour for thirty minutes.
"So long as you can make her think you are here," she said carelessly, "it seems to amount to the same thing."
She brought back the tidings to Miss Luck that Elsie would stay in.
"And they're going to fetch me and bring me back in a car," she added, "so there'll be no risk of meeting the man."
She noticed that Elsie had taken off her coat and hat and was wearing her muslin apron when she announced Sergeant Davis. He was an excellent type of policeman; powerfully built, with a pleasant and intelligent face.
"Sorry to trouble you again," he said, addressing Miss Luck, "but I think we've got our bird this time. We're lucky to have someone like your young lady, who knows her mind right off. Indeed, we're most grateful to both you ladies for your public-spirited attitude and your pluck."
"My aunt thought she saw a man lurking 'round," Fay said.
"If he is, we'll soon have him out," remarked the sergeant, darting across the lawn and ducking 'round every shrub and tree.
"Not a smell of anyone," he said, returning to the porch, "Well, if your niece identifies this man we'll see the end of a nasty set of cowards. He's the brains, and the gang will fall to bits, once he's out of the way, like a slit string of beads."
"Good luck," beamed Miss Luck, waving her hand.
"Back in half an hour," called Fay from the car.
As she looked back she saw the front door close on her aunt. She smiled, feeling confident that her plan must succeed. Inside were warmth, light, and safety. The garden had harboured no reptile. And when Miss Luck knew how she had been tricked she must realise the absurdity of her fears.
For there was nothing to tell Fay that she had just locked up the poor lady in the Company of a live snake.
HAD Sergeant Davis beaten the garden three minutes previously
he would have found the snake. It lurked, coiled up behind the
pillars of the porch, a yard away from him, when he rang the
bell. When Elsie opened the door to admit him she did not slam it
to, but left it slightly ajar. This was the snake's chance. With
the flash of the fer-de-lance it darted inside and hid behind the
row of coats which hung in the recess under the stairs.
In appearance it was not an imposing snake, but among the most venomous of the species are the small reptiles which crawl in the dust. And it carried its sting—a razor in the breast pocket or its smart, plum-coloured suit.
In its flat, black, oiled head, too, was its plan. Snotty, the brains of the gang, who had croaked the woman in the woods, was now in quod, awaiting identification. The snake had been unable to strike before the advent of the police car. But, upon Fay's return, she would find a perfect gentleman waiting to open the door to her.
With the mentality of his kind he believed that the removal of the chief witness for the Crown would cause the case against Spotty to collapse.
Happily unconscious of her anonymous visitor, Miss Luck strolled back to her parlour.
As she lowered herself cautiously into a deep-padded chair, Elsie entered, carrying a plate with molds of yellow-white sugar.
"I've brought you the sugar from the candy peel," she said loftily. "I've started to mix the Christmas puddings while I'm waiting for Miss Fay, and then when I come back I'll finish them before I go to bed."
Miss Luck beamed her approval.
"And please, mum," went on Elsie, "can I get you anything now? Because I won't want to answer the bell with my hands all mucky with flour."
"I shall require nothing, Elsie," Miss Luck informed her.
Three minutes later Elsie slipped through the hall, unbolted the front door cautiously, and started off at a good pace down the dim grey road toward the tram terminus.
Presently, Miss Luck finished her sugar and strolled out into the hall for a little exercise. At its far end was the kitchen door. It was outlined with a crack of yellow light, which, together with a smell of nutmeg, told her that Elsie was busy at her puddings.
The knowledge gave her such a sense of security that she determined not to disturb her conscientious maid in order to light the bedrooms. Miss Luck explained her illumination of the house by her wish to avoid a possible personal accident in the dark.
UP the stairs she ambled ponderously. When she was nearly at
the top she slipped and had to hold the balustrade to prevent a
fall, as the carpet became suddenly taut beneath her feet.
Looking down, she saw that Elsie had failed to put back one of
the brass rods after cleaning.
"Elsie, Elsie," she called.
There was no reply, although the girl must have heard her. Miss Luck was on the point of descending the stairs when she remembered the Christmas puddings. Because of them, she resolved to accept the fiction of Elsie's deafness.
The staircase ended in a broad corridor. On one side were Elsie's bedroom, the bathroom, and the spare bedroom. On the other side Miss Luck's huge bedroom opened into Fay's smaller apartment.
As a rule, Miss Luck hated to open her door in the dusk, because it faced the wardrobe mirror, and it gave her a shock to see a dim figure advance to meet her. But this evening she was forcibly struck by her vast, swaying grey shape.
Her face grew wistful as she remembered how Fay had hinted that she, too, could acquire courage if she would realise her reserves. From the bottom of her heart she wished that, by some miracle, her cowardly nature might be changed. She had been told that miracles actually did happen. Her silly muddle of features did not look quite so silly as she uttered lip a voiceless prayer for a miracle to happen to her. A prayer—to be brave.
Feeling quite gay and confident, she strolled over to her toilet table. To her surprise, a cheap blue leather bag lay on her silver tray. She opened it and found, by the evidence of money, key, packet of fags, and sundry cheap aids to beauty, that it belonged to Elsie.
Miss Luck forgot her exaltation in the human indignation of a mistress. This time the careless baggage should stir her lazy bones and come upstairs, in spite of floury hands.
ON her way to the bell, however, the thought of the Christmas
puddings prevailed. Elsie might get mixed in her quantities were
she called away. Leaving the bag on her toilet table, Miss Luck
descended the staircase, treading carefully over the loose carpet
on the twelfth step. She was crossing the hall when she glanced
at the front door.
It gave her a mild shock of discomfort to discover that the bolt was not drawn. She distinctly remembered doing so herself, when she had seen Fay to the police car. Feeling vaguely disturbed, she burst into the kitchen to catch Elsie unawares. The homely place reassured her with its glowing fire and snowy table laden with suet and dried fruits. The primrose-enamelled walls gleamed and the air was hot and spiced.
But Elsie was not there. Miss Luck's heart began to hammer as she went into larder, scullery, and out-houses, calling the girl by name. When she returned to the kitchen her eye fell upon the empty peg upon which Elsie's coat usually hung. Suddenly she felt blasted by a terrible sense of desolation. Elsie had gone out secretly and left her all alone.
Miss Luck's muddle of features puckered up like a pimpernel on a wet day. To understand her feelings it must be stated that the situation was unique. When she was quite young the doctor had prescribed constant companionship, after a nervous breakdown. Being' a lady of means, Miss Luck had converted a temporary measure, into a permanent one.
She felt as helpless as a stranded baby. Fortunately, however, her first flush of indignation left her no room for actual fear. She vowed that Elsie should have her marching orders. When she returned from the pictures Miss Luck would be waiting for her on the mat. Elsie should learn who was her master.
The kitchen clock, too, provided her with a measure of comfort, for its hands stood at 5.15. Already half the time had slipped away and she had survived. Mechanically she scooped up a handful of raisins and put them in her coat pocket. In another quarter of an hour Fay would be back. Meanwhile, she thought, she would feel safer in her own bedroom than on the ground floor.
With the exception of the bathroom and her own bedroom, all the white-enamelled doors had their keys on the outside, in proof that they were never used. As Fay's sanctum communicated with her own by a door without even a flimsy bolt, Miss Luck locked it, and then put the key in her coat pocket. She marched, like a soldier, into her own fortress, where she set about the task of making it impregnable.
It was now more necessary than ever to curb her imagination, for the pictures had made her dread gigantic hands with clawing fingers shooting out from behind curtains and secret panels opening behind her in the hall. She began to give Elsie notice all over again, but this time her phrases were pitched in an ominous minor key.
"Oh, Elsie, how could you betray me?"
"Haven't I always been a kind and generous mistress to you?"
"Perhaps you'll be sorry when you hear I'm—"
Miss Luck checked herself just in time. Under the beds. Behind the window hangings. Inside the wardrobes. The worst she found was a little fluff. Dusting her skirt, she went to the window and looked out.
She was amazed to find that it was still twilight. The laurels and hollies stood out distinctly against a neutral background, and the lamps in the road were not yet lit. Officially, it was afternoon. As she leaned out of the window in the hope of hearing the car her broad back was toward the door. So she did not sec the handle turn slowly, as though someone on the other side were trying to enter.
But she looked, around at the sound of footsteps. Or, rather, they sounded like footsteps, creeping along the corridor. She put her hand automatically to her heart and then withdrew it proudly, as she remembered the locked doors. Besides, she knew how much mimicry there was about the noises of an empty house at dusk. That creak, for instance, exactly resembled the opening of Elsie's door.
She looked at her watch and heaved a sigh. It was nearly 5.25. Of course, she could not count upon Fay returning to the dot, but her vigil would soon be over.
She determined not to let her thoughts get out of hand. Little bits of cotton wool in her ears would be helpful.
Suddenly her expression grew intent. In the distance there was a pinging note, like the buzz of an insect. It might be the car returning with Fay. In order to listen better, she removed the plugs of wool from her ears.
Her face paled. Someone was moving inside Fay's room.
This time it was not fancy. There were unmistakable footsteps on the other side of the thin wall. Intelligent footsteps, too, that paused when she moved, in order to mark her down.
In an agony of fear. Miss Luck told herself that it was impossible. She had herself locked Fay's door, and the key was in her pocket. Besides, there were old-fashioned lusters on the mantelpiece which always rattled when anyone walked over a loose board in the middle of the room. As the thought flashed through her mind it came—the thin, icy tinkling of glass.
MISS LUCK'S terror was too acute to endure. She was timid of
most tangible things, but her practical mind rejected sheer
impossibilities. She did not believe in ghosts. And no human
being could pass through a locked door.
It was Elsie's bag, lying on her table, that suggested the solution. The girl must have discovered her loss directly she reached the tram. What was more natural' than for her to return and stealthily creep about the house to find her bag?
Miss Luck knew that she was on the right trail, for Elsie had informed her of her discovery that the bathroom key fitted the lock of Fay's room. She determined to give her deceitful domestic the fright of her life.
"Come out," she called in a loud voice. "I know you are there."
There was silence as the footsteps stopped dead. Miss Luck advanced toward the door of communication.
"Come out and show yourself," she repeated. "I'm waiting for you."
But as she stood, in expectant majesty, her attention was distracted by the hooting of a motor horn outside the gate. She hurried to the window to see a car stationary in the road This time there was no mistake for Fay's voice floated faintly on the air.
The person in the adjoining room had caught the sounds even sooner than herself. Returning from the window, Miss Luck looked inside to find the bird flown.
She smiled grimly. Elsie could wait her pleasure, with Fay at the gate. Humming tunelessly, she opened her door, only to step back in surprise at the belt of darkness which lay behind the area illuminated by her room.
She nodded sagely. Another of my lady's tricks. This fresh demonstration of guile was typical of Elsie's mentality. Since her mistress could not actually see as-she stole upstairs, she would swear by all her gods that all the time she was in the kitchen.
As the electric switches were in the hall, Miss Luck groped her way along the wall until her outstretched hand touched the balustrade. Stepping cautiously into the gulf, she started to descend, peering the while into the well of darkness. Suddenly she stopped and stared more closely, blinking her eyes the while, as though to clear some flaw of vision. Against the dark panel of the front door was a denser shadow, like the blurred shape of a man.
The light from the porch, filtering through the fanlight, fell upon a flat, shiny black bead, a peaked, evil face, rotten teeth. A corrupt soul peered out of small, flickering eyes.
As she stood, petrified with shock, her brain worked rapidly. She realised that Elsie had not come back, after all. Below her crouched the actual source of the mysterious happenings—the footsteps, the scratching. Probably, following some predatory urge, lie had crept about the house under cover of darkness. His cunning would soon detect which key fitted the lock of Fay's door.
HER hands grew sticky and her throat dry as she thought of the
boltless door of communication. Only a few frail panels of wood
had divided her from him. She remembered the murder in the wood
and those newspaper details from which Fay had been spared. Had
she confronted the man, she knew that he would have attacked her,
like a cornered rat.
Even as she thought of the danger she had just escaped, she heard Fay's voice ring out from the garden path. She was evidently calling to her escort in the car.
"Don't wait. I'm all right. My aunt will he frightfully thrilled at the news. She's been windy about me."
Miss Luck made an important gesture as though to arrest the car. But she heard its exhaust roar as it hummed down the road like an express train.
Cheerily Fay's signal knock sounded on the front door. In imagination Miss Luck could see her standing outside—her cheeks coloured by her ride, her dark elf locks blown, and her eyes shining with excitement. She had a tale to unfold.
Instantly the dark figure crept forward, while the light flashed upon something in his hand. Then Miss Luck understood the ultimate horror. A gentleman with a razor was waiting to open the door for Fay.
That moment was to remain as her bitterest memory. She recognised it as the peak of her life. All its events had led up to this climax, when she would expiate her cowardice in a blaze of heroism. She had prayed for a miracle to happen....
But miracles follow the working of the natural law. Because Miss Luck had violated this law—starving each feeble flicker of courage while she pampered her nerves—the moment of trial brought its logical fulfilment.
No rush of mysterious power flooded her veins. Instead, she stood paralysed, like a rabbit hypnotised by a snake. She tried to move, but her limbs were stiffened as though her muscles were tied. Her strength oozed away through every pore. Her tongue felt so swollen that it seemed to stopper her throat.
"Fay! Don't open the door!"
Her lips framed the words, but the only sound that issued from them was a tiny gasp.
With the sensitised ears of his species, the snake heard. He darted forward, the razor flashing in his hand. As he sprang, terror snapped tile spell which bound Miss Luck. All thought of Fay was swept away by sheer, blind panic. She turned to run. As she did so, the loose stair carpet slid under her foot, and the tense moment of climax shirred down into anti-climax.
Miss Luck fell down the stairs.
She dropped, like a stone, with twice the force of her stupendous weight, hitting the snake just over his heart so that he collapsed, like a crumpled paper bag. Winded and prostrate, Miss Luck awaited her end.
THEN, as nothing happened, she opened her eyes. Underneath her
lay something which felt boneless as pulp. Peering down, she saw
a narrow-chested, putty-faced creature—an adder crushed
flat by an elephant's foot. His sting was drawn, for his razor
gleamed two yards away.
Miss Luck stared in astonishment at her handiwork.
"I—did—that!" she gasped.
It was in this moment that the miracle actually happened. As she gaped at the puny form, now beginning to twitch feebly under her weight, she suddenly realised her own strength.
A wondrous sense of release swept over her. She felt mighty and dominant, as though she were sitting on top of the world.
Outside the door Fay hunted for her key. She had just remembered that Elsie was out, so could not answer her knock.
As she entered the hall she was startled by the unfamiliar darkness. But her alarm was lost in surprise when she heard Miss Luck's feeble bleat magnified to a trumpet blast of triumph and scorn.
"Fay, bring the laundry cords, quick! I've squashed something here!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.