Step in the Dark

Book 522: Murder Room

by Ethel Lina White

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

On what trivialities the big things in life hang. From the moment when, dining alone in her Brussels hotel, Georgia Yeo, celebrated writer of detective thrillers, opens her cigarette case and the Count comes into her life with the polite offer of a light, she realises that here is fate. In that moment too begins the strange and inimitable spell of Georgia's story. It is an enthralling story, of a woman successful in her career, yet timid and hesitant in making a decision which might have a far-reaching effect on her private life. It's truly a step in the dark ...

Release date: March 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

ACROSS the table, Georgia Yeo looked at her hostess with timid admiration.

“I wonder,” she thought, “if the time will ever come when that face will be familiar to me, at meals?”

She was acutely nervous, for she realised that the little dinner-party was a formal occasion when she was on exhibition. This was her great moment—her chance to grasp a future which
blinded her with its brilliancy.

At present, she felt almost breathless by the rush of events, as though she were another Alice, whirled relentlessly through the air. It was only ten days since she had left England, for the
first time in her life. Since then, much had happened—and it had happened too quickly.

She had come to Brussels and met the Count.

History was made on her first night. She chose to stay at an old-established hotel, patronised by those who preferred an atmosphere of tradition to ultra-modern plumbing. Once the mansion of a
wealthy family, it preserved its original grandeur of yellowed marble walls and vast gilt-framed mirrors as a background for solid nineteenth-century furniture.

It was situated in the town, amid a tangle of dark narrow streets, so that Georgia was able to gaze through the revolving doors of the lounge and watch the people passing outside. A fine rain
was falling so imperceptibly that it was visible only as a shiver through the darkness. It glistened on a procession of umbrellas and the statuary of a fountain, set in the middle of the road.

Inside was the brilliancy of branching electric lights—a constant flux of visitors—a babel of voices speaking an unfamiliar language. As she sat and watched, the novelty of her
surroundings thrilled her to excited expectancy. For six years she had looked out, at twilight, always upon the same scene—an empty grey waste, with a distant white line of crawling foam,
marking the sea.

She opened her cigarette case, which was the signal for the Count literally to leap into her life, forestalling the waiter with a match.

“Can it be really true?” he asked a minute later. “The clerk at the Bureau tells me that you are Mrs. Yeo—the celebrated writer of so many detective thrillers?”

Faster, faster. . . . When she admitted her identity, the Count swept her away on the current of his own exuberant spirits. In his stimulating company, she saw Brussels as a whirling confusion
of ancient buildings, cobbled streets, statues, still-life paintings of carcases and dark arcaded dress-shops.

Out of the swarm of impressions there emerged a few indelible impressions. The mellow glory of the gilded houses of the Grand Place seen in a red, watery sunset. The twin towers of St.
Gudule’s floating in a silvery mist. The massive grandeur of the Palais de Justice, challenging the shock of Judgment Day. The soaring figure of St. Michael glittering in the morning sun. The
horror of a picture in the Wiertz Museum—“The Age of Innocence”—which depicted two children burning a butterfly’s wings.

Faster, faster. . . . The Count rushed her from place to place, with cyclonic energy. He remained volatile, impersonal and adventurous—running risks with regulations and stamping on
convention up to the moment when he formally expressed his wish that she should meet his family.

The pace increased to a breathless whirl after his relatives arrived at the hotel. Mrs. Vanderpant—aunt to the Count—was the widow of a wealthy and distinguished American. She was
accompanied by an impressive-looking scientist—Professor Malfoy—and a youth named “Clair”—both connections on the American side. They were installed in the most
expensive suite, from whence issued the fateful invitation.

Then, with a grinding jar, everything stopped still and Georgia found herself stationary at the dinner-table.

She was on approval.

The meal was laid in the private sitting-room, which was a chill apartment with a vast expanse of waxed parquet flooring. Starched white net curtains hung at the three long windows, framing
narrow slices of cobalt-blue night sky. The golden glow of candlelight was reflected in a large Regency mirror upon the wall.

Georgia could see herself in it—small and very fair, in a backless black dinner-gown. She always looked younger than her age, but to-night, in spite of her efforts at sophistication, she
appeared too immature for her writing record.

She moved her head and her reflection vanished.

“I’ve gone inside,” she thought. “That mirror has swallowed so many faces—so many scenes.”

Her dislike of seeing herself in the glass dated from her childhood, when her nurse used to hold her up before a large old-fashioned mirror. One night she dreamed that, instead of seeing her
familiar nursery, she looked into a dark smoky place, where strange people with depraved faces drank and played cards.

Her father, who always explained the connection between cause and effect, pointed out that the dream was the logical result of looking at a forbidden volume of Hogarth’s engravings.

Although she accepted the moral, she always believed that the mirror had yielded up an evil page from the past.

At the present time she was in a super-sensitive condition which was a prelude to the temperature she usually ran, as a penalty of excitement. To counteract its effect, she had taken a draught
and, as a result, did not feel quite normal.

With the momentary detachment of a spectator, she looked at the others sitting round the table. Her hostess, Mrs. Vanderpant, was elderly, with a clear-cut arrogant face, pinched austere
features, and a sunken mouth, expressive of intolerance and pride. In contrast with her chill personality, the Professor’s vast florid clean-shaven face was benignant and his voice a
melodious gong, although he rarely spoke. He had a shock of snowy curls which shadowed his bright black eyes, twinkling behind gold-rimmed pince-nez.

The youth, Clair, was too young to count with her. She was conscious of him merely as a sharp-faced youth, in a dinner-jacket. He spoke with an American accent, although his small hands and
feet, in conjunction with smooth blue-black hair, suggested a Latin type.

There was another guest, her literary agent, Harvey Torch. He was a pleasant man, but entirely dwarfed by his neighbour. The Count’s high-voltage personality eclipsed the rest of the
party. He was unusually fair, with sparkling blue eyes and glittering white teeth, so that, whenever he moved or spoke, there was a constant flash and gleam.

Georgia shifted her position in order to see them reflected in the mirror—a reduced but vivid company. Above all, she was conscious of the Count flickering across the dimness of old glass,
like streaks of luminous paint glimmering in the darkness.

Her vision blurred and her head began to swim.

“This moment must last,” she thought. “One day—perhaps a thousand years hence—some one will look into that glass and see us all sitting round the table, just as we
are now. . . . And, by then, everything that is going to happen to us will have happened. We can do nothing then, to help or hinder.”

It was this sense of imminent and unknown destiny which weighed down her spirit. She awoke to reality at the sound of her hostess’s voice, which, in spite of her effort to be gracious,
remained harsh and grating.

“Are you going to visit any other part of Belgium?”

“No,” replied Georgia. “I’m going to stay in Brussels, all the time. At the beginning of my visit, I motored through part of the Ardennes.”

“You saw some fine scenery.”

“Yes, but it was all too old and too cruel. There were so many ruins and prisons with horrible oubliettes. They depressed me.”

“This is really amusing,” laughed the Count. “You are sorry for people who have been comfortably dead for hundreds of years. Yet you are utterly ruthless to your poor
characters.”

“That’s different. I can control my situations. My prisoners are always released.”

“But some prisons are quite comfortable. At least, I have been assured so by financial, or rather, high-financial friends. . . . Besides, you told me you had been shut up in one small
place, all your life. You’ve been living in one room. Where is the difference?”

Although she knew he was teasing her, Georgia answered the Count’s question seriously.

“The difference is this. I can leave my prison whenever I like. . . . But it must be ghastly to know you have got to stay in one place for ever. Always seeing the same scene, like
Napoleon on St. Helena.”

As she spoke the room was momentarily blotted out, and she seemed to be looking at the last red gleam of a setting sun reflected on long lines of grey waves, rolling out towards the horizon.

On—on. . . . They moved ceaselessly, but she had to stay and watch that sullen waste of water. A scene of stark desolation. No ray of hope. Doom inexorable. . . . A prisoner.

As though he sensed his client’s discomfort, Torch came to her relief with a remark on a topical subject. Released from taking further part in the conversation, she became aware that the
youth, Clair, was staring at her with hard, curious eyes. Their hostile expression told her that, for some unknown reason, he disliked her intensely.

Even as the certainty flashed across her mind, she realised that the antipathy was not only mutual, but—in her case—intensified by instinctive repulsion.

His merciless scrutiny turned the meal to a social ordeal. It was a formal and elaborate affair of many courses and wines, with two waiters in constant attendance. The table was decorated with
orchids and covered with a cloth of hand-made lace.

As she looked at it nervously, Georgia was plunged back into her childhood, when she had been taken to lunch at the Bishop’s Palace. She could see again the white damask cloth, patterned
with shamrock, as well as spattered with damson juice, which was her own shameful contribution.

Still under the spell of the past, her hand shook so violently when she raised her glass that she was childishly afraid of spilling her wine. In this company, any slip or lapse from perfect
manners might ruin her hopes. She felt overwhelmed by the importance of the issue at stake—crushed by the fact that the Count’s relatives were persons of birth, rank and wealth.

“I’m aiming too high,” she thought hopelessly. “I’m nothing. Nobody.”

She was grateful for the moral support of her agent—Harvey Torch. Although he had been annoyed by the Count’s invitation, he had accepted it in obedience to his instinct to protect
the interests of others. On this occasion, he was concerned lest his most lucrative client had become friendly with adventurers.

In his character of critical observer he studied his company, excepting Clair, whom he considered negligible. Mrs. Vanderpant looked a typical example of inbreeding during centuries of social
prestige, while the Professor bore the hall-mark of the Mayflower. The Count, too, appeared a perfect specimen of super-vitality and physical fitness. Although he was middle-aged, it was
possible to picture him, in earlier years, as a blond youth, running around a stadium with a flaming torch.

The agent decided that they were almost too genuine, besides having the advantages of a successful stage-setting and candlelight. Consequently, he subjected them to his usual method of
debunking, which was, to dress them up—in his imagination—in different clothes.

The mental exercise was justified by results. Stripped of his evening suit and with his hair shorn, the Professor could shape in the ring as a heavyweight bruiser. The boy, Clair, was changed
into a vicious young apache, by a dirty jersey and a beret; while the Count could be any type of pleasant scoundrel, common to every quarter of the globe.

Mrs. Vanderpant alone defied his efforts to degrade her dignity. Although he reduced her to sordid circles of vice and squalor, she remained, triumphantly, the perfect lady in adversity.

As a momentary pause jammed the flow of conversation, the social occasion was marred by a disconcerting incident. Clair, who had never removed his eyes from Georgia’s face, suddenly broke
his silence with a barrage of questions.

“D’you know Brussels well?” he asked.

“No,” Georgia confessed. “This is my first visit.”

“Gosh, how did you miss it? Haven’t you travelled?”

“No. I—I’ve never been abroad before.”

“Where d’you live?”

“In a small village, on the east coast of England.”

“Why?”

“It’s quiet for my writing?”

“Got a big estate?”

“No, only a cottage.”

“How d’you entertain?”

“I have so few friends. I’ve dropped out of things.”

“No family?”

“My mother and my two big girls. Merle and Mavis. They are seven and eight.”

Stunned by the rattle of question succeeding question, Georgia answered mechanically, like a witness bullied by cross-examination. She had expected the delicate probing of skilful leading
remarks, if she were to be accepted as a member of the Count’s family; but this violation of her reserve by an ill-mannered youth left her aghast.

The attack was too swift and unexpected for the others to intervene. Torch received the impression that his hosts preferred to ignore the catechism rather than to recognise any breach of
manners. Although, at first, his own mind was a blank, the mention of Georgia’s children gave him his chance to intervene.

“I’m one of the few privileged to have a photograph of Mrs. Yeo’s little girls, taken with their mother,” he said. “They look like three sisters—two from the
nursery and one from the schoolroom.”

He stopped talking, distracted by hearing an unusual complaint.

“Waiter,” said Mrs. Vanderpant, “these knives are sharp. Bring blunt ones. That is the way to find out whether the meat is really tender.”

After a swift substitution had been made and the beef had sustained the test, the Count exulted over his aunt.

“I knew it would satisfy even you. I spoke one word to the maître d’hôtel, who himself visited the kitchens and selected the joint.”

The incident stirred up Torch’s suspicion afresh, lest it were prearranged in order to demonstrate the exalted rank of guests who could command such specialised service.

The more he considered it, the less he liked the situation. He knew that circumstances had made Georgia specially vulnerable to attack. Apart from her work, her nature was pliant and credulous,
while she had only just emerged from voluntary exile. This was her first holiday after years of high-pressure writing, when she had lived in the world of her own lurid imagination.

He argued that, if this family was what it represented itself to be, the Count would be too used to the society of beautiful glamorous women to fall violently in love with Georgia. Moreover, if
it needed financial support, its objective would be a genuine heiress.

The fact that it appeared to angle for a best-selling novelist, put it in the class of cheap fortune-hunters. Suddenly he decided, therefore, to clarify his suspicions by a discussion on
specialised motives.

“Of course, you’ve all read Mrs. Yeo’s novels,” he remarked. “Besides being her agent, I am one of her fans. At the same time, I don’t think there is any
comparison between real and imaginary crimes. Nothing in fiction can compare with the horror of ‘The brides in the bath.’”

He turned to the Count.

“Probably you remember it? A man married several wretched women and then drowned them, to get their bit of money.”

The Count looked at him with genuine interest.

“Now murder is something I can never understand,” he said. “Any man who commits murder must be either a monster or a maniac. No sane person would risk his neck when there are
so many ways of getting money from a woman.”

“Any one who marries a stranger must accept the consequences,” remarked Mrs. Vanderpant. “Of course, in our class, such a marriage is out of the question. We first
insist on intimate knowledge of the family.”

“All the same,” persisted Torch, “any woman with money is bound to run a risk over her marriage. It must be a distressing problem in the case of some fascinating stranger. If
she turns him down, she may lose a genuine love; and if she takes him, she may lose more than her money.”

As he spoke, he glanced at Georgia. The candlelight stirred in the breeze from the open window and trembled on her misty web of pale hair. Her eyes were wide with apprehension, yet a smile
hovered around her mouth. She looked elusive and unearthly, like a dryad escaped from her tree.

His apprehension sharpened to actual fear. While he was presenting a hypothetical case, she might be in actual danger. Even as the fear crossed his mind, Clair attacked Georgia again with a
direct personal question.

“What would you do, Mrs. Yeo? You’ve got money.”

Georgia put her hand to her throat, as though she found it difficult to reply. Dazzled by the Count’s personality and position, she had avoided the intrusion of her personal matters in her
romance. Her reserve had amounted almost to emotional paralysis; but now she realised that the time had come for her to take a desperate chance.

“I have no money,” she said.

Remembering her royalties, Torch stared at her incredulously, while Clair flushed with anger.

“You make pots,” he contradicted. “Every one knows you make pots. Are you trying to high-hat me because I asked you a question?”

“No.” Again Georgia forced herself to explain. “It is true I have made quite a lot of money, although not as much as people think. Writers rarely do. But I cannot touch it. I
have settled all of it on my children.”

Before the youth could make any comment, Mrs. Vanderpant dismissed him.

“We shall not expect you to wait for coffee, Clair. The conversation of adults must be boring to you.”

The youth grimaced but rose from the table. As he passed the Count, he laid his hand upon his shoulder with a possessive gesture which Georgia resented.

“He’s jealous of me,” she thought.

Meanwhile, Torch studied the general reaction to Georgia’s bombshell, only to discover that no one seemed affecte. . .