The Cornish Widow, page 3
Once back in the hallway, I pass the bureau, remembering the D.H. Lawrence book, which I still haven't finished reading. It should keep me entertained until my fuller stomach makes sleep more likely. I slide the drawer open, retrieve the book, then notice a sliver of light coming from the parlour. I creep to the door and listen but hear nothing. I wait for a moment to be on the safe side, but if Mrs Ponsonby is in there, she must be fast asleep. I hold my breath and turn the handle as quietly as I can, and the door opens with a gentle squeak. I breathe a sigh of relief at the empty room and shake my head smugly when I realise that Mrs Ponsonby has gone to bed, leaving a lit candle in the wall sconce. It is most unlike her, and if I had done the same, she would scold me about it for a week. I extinguish the candle and turn to the window to draw the curtains, which she has also left open.
As I place my hand on the windowsill, I see a pale form standing under the gas lamp at the rear of the hotel. I squint at the male figure and wonder why he's there. A glance at the clock on the mantlepiece tells me it's almost one o'clock in the morning and a strange time to be up and about. I peer at the man. His form is familiar – I know him but from where? And then it comes to me. The figure is Oliver Fox, the man I met earlier today, and he is staring blankly towards the hills behind our cottage as if he cannot see them.
I wave towards him, but he ignores me, and I try again, both hands signalling semaphore-like to attract his attention. He doesn't react, and I suppose he cannot see me in the unlit room. Fox is so pale and out of sorts that I consider opening the door to check he is safe and well, but I am in my nightclothes, and I wouldn't want to embarrass him. I look away briefly as I think about what to do, and by the time I check back, he has gone. I rub my eyes, wondering how he slipped away so quickly. He was there one moment and gone the next, yet I didn't see him walk away – he vanished like smoke in the wind. But then it occurs to me that he might have used the back entrance into the hotel, and I shrug my shoulders and limp away, closing the door behind me. I ascend the stairs to go to bed. My midnight foray has sapped my energy, and my legs are weary. I pause halfway up the stairs to catch my breath, and I hear Mrs Ponsonby moving around in her room. She could emerge at any moment, and the knowledge gives me the impetus for a speedier climb. As I close the door and get into bed, I listen again, hearing nothing untoward. I smile, confident that my expedition to the kitchen will remain a secret, and I settle down to read.
About an hour later, I extinguish my light. I am sleepy now, and the book, though adequate, lacks the charm of the Agatha Christie novel that I read earlier. I lie still in my bed, waiting for sleep to come, and eventually, it does, but not for long. Time passes, at least an hour, possibly two, then all hell breaks loose downstairs as a clatter of pans and a yowl from the kitchen wakes the household. Elys rises first, swiftly followed by Mrs Ponsonby. I lay in my bed feigning sleep. Mr Moggins has had his fill of the pilchards, and the kettle is now on the pantry floor minus its contents. There will be no pilchard pie for tea after all. I smile to myself, and this time I fall asleep until morning.
CHAPTER THREE
Meeting Oliver Fox
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1930
I wake, dress, and go downstairs to find Mrs Ponsonby and Elys deep in discussion over a forthcoming gathering at Mrs Potts' house in Tregurrian. Mrs Ponsonby said she would bring a cake, and they are trying to decide what to bake. She has intimated that she expects me to join her and will no doubt push me into the orbit of Edgar Sutton, a family friend who has been staying with the Pottses for some months. I don't know why she is so insistent. I have only met Edgar once, and he was condescending and aloof. There is no possibility of a romantic attachment, and I have all the friends I need. So far, I have resisted her attempts to force me to go, but I fear I'm losing the battle.
"Good morning," says Mrs Ponsonby dryly.
"Would you like some breakfast, Connie?" asks Elys.
"A boiled egg would be nice."
"I'll see to it right away."
"But we haven't settled on the cake yet," says Mrs Ponsonby, frowning.
"How about a nice Hevva cake?" asks Elys.
"I don't think so," says Mrs Ponsonby, wrinkling her nose as if Elys has said something thoroughly inappropriate.
"It's traditional," says Elys.
"Plum cake or Madeira?" asks Mrs Ponsonby. "Your choice."
"As you wish," says Elys, leaving the room with a swish of her apron. I can't see her eyes, but I bet they are looking heavenward.
"The cat got into the pantry last night," says Mrs Ponsonby.
"Oh dear," I answer, stifling a grin.
"Elys must have left the window open," she continues. "It's not good enough."
"How do you know it was Elys?" I ask, feeling guilty.
"Who else could it have been. I hope you aren't suggesting that it was me."
"Not at all," I say. "But Jory came yesterday, and so did the coalman, and the butcher, for that matter."
"Yes, they did," said Mrs Ponsonby, softening. "Now, what are you doing today?"
"I'm off to the Lizard," I say.
Mrs Ponsonby turns towards me. I look into her eyes, and for one awful moment, I think they are welling up. But she blinks and looks away. "Are you going to the hotel?" she asks.
I nod. "Yes, why?"
"Can you give this to Dolly?" She holds out a copy of Country Life, and I raise an eyebrow, wondering why she thinks Dolly would want it.
"Page twenty-three," she says as if reading my mind. "Dolly will want to see the piece about beagles."
"Why?"
"Her parents keep one. Dolly misses Suki dreadfully."
"I didn't know," I say. "But I'll be sure to give it to her."
Elys returns with the boiled egg, and I devour it, keen to leave the dining room before the cake discussion resumes. I shrug into my coat and make my way to the hotel, avoiding the tradesman's entrance so I can be sure of seeing Dolly. But when I arrive in the lobby, she is noticeable by her absence. In her place is a young, slim woman I have never met before.
"Can I help?" she asks, looking up from the journal that she's scribbling in.
"I'm looking for Dolly," I say.
"She's not here."
"Evidently. Where is she?"
"Who are you?" she counters.
"Connie Maxwell."
"You're not a guest."
"I know. Where's Dolly?"
The woman sighs.
"What do you want with her? I'm in charge while she's unwell?"
"Dolly – unwell? She's never ill."
"Are you suggesting that I'm wrong?"
"No. Look. We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. I'm Connie Maxwell, a friend of Dolly's and a local resident. As you're new, you may not know that the hotel owners kindly allow us to use the library."
"I am fully aware," she says, peering at me as if she wished I would go away.
"Then perhaps you can let me know more about Dolly's condition. I have something for her."
"Give it to me," she says, "and I'll see that she gets it."
"I'd rather do it myself."
"That won't be possible," she replies.
"What won't be possible?" A deep voice booms behind me as Doctor Kit Maltravers approaches and places his medical bag on the reception desk. My heart skips a beat.
"Well, good morning, Miss Maxwell," he continues, flashing me a smile.
A rictus grin fixes itself to my face and lingers while I struggle to say something sensible.
"Good morning to you," I say feebly. "I was just asking Miss, er..." I peer at the receptionist, hoping to see some identifying name badge, and my words trail away as I fail.
"Miss Templeton," she says, with an unnecessary flick of her hair. "But you can call me Roxy".
Roxy? Surely to goodness, that can't be a real name, I think. If it is, her parents should be ashamed of themselves.
"Pleased to meet you," says Doctor Maltravers, pressing her hand. I scowl, then rearrange my features before he notices.
"Where's the patient, then?" he asks.
"Top floor, first room on the right," she says.
"Are you going to see Dolly?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Please, can you give her this?" I fish the magazine out of my bag.
"Of course," he says.
"And pass on my best wishes. Is it serious?"
"I doubt it," says the doctor. "Are you going to the library?"
"I nod."
"I can pop in and let you know how she is when I've finished."
"Yes, please," I say, a little too quickly.
He smiles and sets off towards the stairs.
Roxy Templeton turns her back on me as if I don't exist. I smile sweetly and follow the doctor to the rear of the hotel, watching as he ascends the stairs two at a time.
I LINGER BY THE STAIRWELL until Doctor Maltravers is out of sight, then peer into the library. To my immense pleasure, it is empty. I make for the comfortable sofa by the fireplace, slide my stick out of sight and tuck my legs beneath me, hoping that nobody will come in. I reach into my pocket, remove Women in Love from my bag, uncurl the folded page, and begin. But my attention wanders, and I find myself at the bottom of the page with no memory of the words I have read. I sigh and stare into the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and dance. The proximity of Doctor Maltravers is putting me off. I don't know what it is about him, but I turn into a dithering wreck in his presence. He is unobtainable and happily engaged to Charlotte Napier, youngest daughter of Colonel and Mrs Napier of Briarwood. The Napiers are rich, and Briarwood nestles in a substantial estate on the west side of Newquay. Naturally, Charlotte is beautiful both inside and out. She dresses in the finest fashions while regularly performing charitable acts for the townsfolk. I cannot find anything to dislike about her except for her betrothal. But Doctor Maltravers is so far out of my reach that I must stop thinking of him in that context. I have had sharp words with myself about this on several recent occasions. Though I am resigned to his unavailability, my heart has been slow to obey.
I've stared at the flame for so long that orange shadows now linger in my eyes. I turn away, focusing instead on the library window, which looks out over the bay. The sky is a murky shade of blue, and the sea is choppy, so I decide to forgo my walk today, although what I will do instead, I don't know. My world is tiny, and my days long and impossible to fill.
I hear a click behind me and turn to see Oliver Fox walking through the library door. "Hello," I say, flashing a broad smile, my previous reluctance for company forgotten. "How are you?"
"Very well, indeed," he says, striding towards me. "May I join you for a few moments? I can't stay long – I must finish an article for The Occult Review."
"How interesting," I say. "What are you writing about?"
"Dream travel," he says.
"Like we talked about yesterday?"
"More or less. I promised I would deliver my article next week, and it's only half done."
"Well, I won't keep you," I say. "You have a lot to do, and I expect you're exhausted after last night."
He raises an eyebrow. "Not particularly? Why?"
I smile conspiratorially. "I saw you on your midnight stroll."
Oliver Fox blinks and stares at me with his mouth open. "You saw me?"
"Well, yes. I was hungry and went downstairs for a late-night snack. I noticed you while I was drawing the curtains."
"You saw me?"
"Yes, I did."
"Last night?"
I nod.
"What time?"
"Gosh, I don't know. I don't have a clock in my bedroom. It must have been after midnight, but how long after, I can't say."
Fox continues to stare at me, then rests his chin on his hands. "What did I look like?"
"As you do now, except that you were very pale," I say. "I thought you looked ill, and I nearly came outside to check on you. I would have done if I were more suitably clothed."
Fox sits quietly, staring at the table for several moments until I don't know how to respond. He drums his fingers and frowns. Finally, he licks his lips and looks up again. "You didn't see me," he says.
"Oh, I'm sorry. The figure looked like you. My mistake."
"No. That's not what I meant. You didn't see my earthly body because I was asleep. It was my astral being that you noticed."
"Oh. I see what you mean. Were you dream walking?"
"I was," he says. "I passed through the pineal door last night and attempted to explore my surroundings."
"I don't understand."
"I'll help you with that another time," he says. "It's a complicated process which I have perfected, and I can now enter the dream state at will."
"You are lucky," I say. "I find myself thrust into it, whether or not I want to be there."
"If you have the basic ability, you can train yourself," he says. "And I believe that you have an inherent gift."
"Why?"
"Because you saw me. Generally, I am invisible to people. I can enter a restaurant and talk to a waiter, but he won't hear me. I can pass through a man, and he may experience a disquieting feeling, but he won't know why. It is a good thing, for the moment I lose concentration, my body draws me back in a flash. My wanderings are always of limited duration because it is difficult to stay in the trance state. But your experiences may be different to mine. Tell me again, what technique do you use to separate from your body?"
I close my eyes in concentration as I consider his question. "I fall asleep and think I'm awake, but I'm not."
"Ah, the false awakening," he murmurs.
"Whatever you say. But as soon as I realise that I'm neither asleep nor properly awake, I leave my bed and go for a walk."
"Do you always follow the same path?"
"Almost always. Though I found myself in an unknown location recently."
"And how often do you travel?"
"Frequently," I say.
"Can you control it?"
"No. I can choose where I go most of the time, but not when I travel. It just happens."
"Would you like to take part in an experiment?"
"It depends. What kind?"
"A meeting," he says.
"Where?"
"Here. In this hotel, at midnight tonight."
"You mean by dream travel?"
He nods.
"I told you, I can't simply summon it."
"Have you tried?"
"Well, no. Sometimes I dream walk, and sometimes I don't. I've learned to live with it and haven't thought about forcing the matter."
"Why don't you try?" he asks.
"How?"
"I'll tell you what works for me. It may not have the same effect on you, but there's no harm in trying, is there?"
"I suppose not."
"I lie down," he says, "and half close my eyes. When I am fully relaxed, I see a series of small misty blue vibrating circles, like frogs' spawn. I concentrate, and eventually, if I stare hard enough, I find myself in a trance-like state. Once there, I imagine my astral body is rising, and it does. Failing that, I find staring at a candle to be equally effective."
"Or a fire," I say.
"Yes, a fire will do nicely as long as you are lying down and comfortable. As I said, this technique may not work for you, but it would interest me to know. Don't expect too much the first few times," he continues. "But let's set a goal to meet here tonight, and if that is not possible, then the following night. I will come here at midnight every day until I leave."
"Alright," I say, happy to humour him. Waking dreams are a fact of life for me, but I'm not sure I want to encourage them. Still, he's a nice man and very enthusiastic, so I agree and will make a determined effort to do as he asks.
"Good. Then I'll leave you to it," Fox says as he turns and makes his way to the table underneath the window. He smiles towards me as he settles down and writes.
I pick up my book again, but I'm too distracted now and decide to leave before remembering that Doctor Maltravers is still in the building. I wait for five minutes, and the door opens again. There he is, all six feet of him, standing tall and slender in the door frame.
"How is Dolly?" I ask.
He walks towards me. "Not as well as I hoped," he answers, furrowing his brow.
"What's wrong with her?"
"She has a respiratory infection," he replies.
"She seemed fine yesterday," I say before remembering that she'd coughed more than once.
"She hasn't had it for long," he says. "But the coughing is getting worse, and this morning she had a high temperature and was vomiting, so they sent for me. Quite right, too. I must keep a close eye on her."
"Can I see her?"
"Not today," he says, shaking his head. "We'll see how she is tomorrow. I'll send word when she's up to receiving visitors."
I grin, pleased at the idea. "Thank you."
"My pleasure," he replies, acknowledging Oliver Fox's presence as he leaves the room.
I stow my book the moment he closes the door and prepare to leave.
"I'll see you tonight," says Oliver Fox as I take my stick and ready myself to go, suddenly filled with an uncharacteristic foreboding.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Rare Day Out
"MISS CONNIE. I'M GLAD to see you. Do you fancy a trip?" asks Elys as I hang my coat on the hall stand.
"A trip? Where to?" I ask, surprised. There was no mention of a trip earlier in the frosty atmosphere of the dining room.
"Newquay," says Elys. "Mrs Ponsonby has settled on a plum cake, and we've run out of almonds." She smiles as if the lack of an essential ingredient has made her day. I expect it has. Elys rarely escapes our cottage prison.
