The Little Stranger

  ‘Bit her cheek nearly clean off, they say. Damn near took the nose off, too. There’s dogs for you. I’ve said many times, any dog’ll kill you. The breed’s not in it. Any dog’ll turn.’

  Recalling my conversation with Peter Baker-Hyde, I asked him if he thought the dog in this case ought to be destroyed. He answered, without hesitation, that he did not—because, as he’d just said, every dog was a biter, and where was the sense in punishing a creature for what was natural to it?

  Was that, I asked, what other people were saying? Well, he’d heard one thing and another. ‘Some say it should be whipped, and some say shoot it. Of course, there’s the family to think on.’

  ‘You mean, at Hundreds?’

  ‘No, not them. The girl’s family, the Baker-Pies.’ He laughed, liquidly.

  ‘But won’t it be hard on the Ayreses, having to give up their dog?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, coughing again, then leaning to spit into the fireless hearth, ‘they’ve had to give up worse, ha’n’t they?’

  His words rather unsettled me. I had been wondering all day what the mood was like out at the Hall. And since, when I left his cottage, I found myself close to the gates of the park, I decided to call in there.

  It was the first time I had gone to the house without an invitation, and, as on the previous night, the rain was heavy and no one heard my car. I rang, then hurriedly let myself in, and was greeted by poor Gyp himself: he came out into the hall, barking half-heartedly, his claws tapping on the marble. He must have been aware somehow of the shadow of disaster he was under, for he seemed subdued and disconcerted, not at all like himself. He reminded me of a woman I’d once had the care of, an elderly schoolmistress whose mind began to fail her, so that she went wandering out of her house in her slippers and nightdress. For a second I thought to myself, Perhaps he is losing his wits. What did I really know about his temperament, after all? But when I squatted at his side and tugged at his ears he seemed very much his ordinary amiable self. He opened his mouth and his tongue showed, pink and healthy against his yellow-white teeth.

  ‘Here’s a to-do, Gyp,’ I said softly. ‘What were you thinking of, boy? Hey?’

  ‘Who’s there?’ I heard Mrs Ayres call, from further back in the house. Then she appeared, dim in the shadows, in one of her customary dark gowns and with a darker paisley shawl around her shoulders. ‘Dr Faraday,’ she said in surprise, drawing the shawl closer. Her heart-shaped face was pinched. ‘Is everything all right?’

  I straightened up. ‘I was worried about you,’ I said, simply.

  ‘You were?’ Her expression softened. ‘How very kind of you. But come and get warm. It’s chill tonight, isn’t it?’

  It wasn’t really so very cold, but it seemed to me, as I followed her back to the little parlour, that the house, like the season, had undergone some slight but definite shift. The high-ceilinged passage, which had been wonderfully cool and airy throughout the long summer, now had a feel of damp about it, after just two days of rain. In the little parlour itself the curtains were drawn across the windows, a crackling fire of sticks and fir cones was burning in the grate, and the fireside chairs and the sofa had been pulled up to the hearth; but the effect, somehow, was not quite cosy, more as if the seats formed an island of light and warmth with an expanse of worn carpet and pools of shadow just beyond. Mrs Ayres had obviously been sitting in one of the chairs, and in the other, facing me as I went in, sat Roderick. I had seen him only the week before, but his appearance now startled me. He was dressed in one of his bulky old Air Force sweaters, and his hair, like mine, was newly cut; with the wide wing chair behind his head he looked slender as a ghost. He saw me come in, and seemed to frown; after a fractional delay he gripped the arms of the chair as if to rise and give it up to me. I waved him down, and went over to join Caroline on the sofa. Gyp came and lowered himself onto the rug at my feet, giving, as he did it, one of those expressive doggy groans that sound so startlingly human.

  No one had spoken, not even to greet me. Caroline was sitting with her legs drawn up, looking tense and unhappy, picking at the seam of woollen stocking across her toes. Roderick, with jerky, nervous movements, began to roll himself a cigarette. Mrs Ayres rearranged the shawl across her shoulders and said, as she sat, ‘We’ve all been rather at sixes and sevens today, Dr Faraday, as I expect you can imagine. You’ve been to Standish? Do tell me, how’s the child?’

  ‘Doing well enough, as far as I know,’ I answered. And then, when she looked at me, not understanding: ‘I didn’t see her. They’ve given her over to Jim Seeley. I found him there this morning.’

  ‘Seeley!’ she answered, and the scorn in her voice took me by surprise, until I remembered that it was Seeley’s father who had had the care of her own little girl—the first little girl, who had died. ‘They might as well bring in Crouch the barber! What did he tell you?’

  ‘Not a great deal. Gillian sounds as well as can be expected. The parents mean to take her up to London, apparently, as soon as she can travel.’

  ‘The poor, poor child. She’s been on my mind all day. You know I telephoned the house? Three times, and no one would speak to me—only a maid. I thought of sending something over there. Flowers, perhaps? Some sort of gift? The fact is, with people like the Baker-Hydes—well, one could hardly send money. I remember, years ago, a boy being injured—Daniel Hibbit, do you remember, Caroline? He was struck by a horse, on our land, and was left with some sort of a paralysis. We saw to everything, I believe. But with something like this, one hardly knows …’ Her voice faded.

  Beside me, Caroline shifted. ‘I feel as badly for that child as anyone,’ she said, still plucking at the seam across her toes. ‘But I’d feel the same if she’d gone and put her arm through a mangle, or got herself burnt on a hot stove. It was rotten bad luck, wasn’t it? Money or flowers won’t fix it. What can one do?’

  Her head was lowered and her chin drawn in, making her tone remote. I said after a second, ‘I’m afraid the Baker-Hydes are certainly expecting something.’

  But she spoke again, across my words. ‘Anyway, there’s no reasoning with people like that. Do you know what that brother-in-law told me last night? Not only are they getting rid of practically all the panelling at Standish, they mean to rip open the entire south wing of the house! They’re going to make a sort of cinema of it for their friends. They’re keeping the gallery, that’s all. “The one-and-nines”, he called that.’

  ‘Well,’ her mother answered vaguely, ‘but houses do change. Your father and I made many alterations to this house when we first married. I do think it a pity that the Standish tapestries couldn’t have been saved. Did you ever see those tapestries, Dr Faraday? It would break Agnes Randall’s heart.’

  I didn’t reply; and as she and Caroline pursued this subject for another few minutes I couldn’t help feeling that, consciously or unconsciously, they were avoiding the more urgent issue.

  At last I said, ‘You know, with Gillian to worry about, dismantling Standish must be about the last thing on the Baker-Hydes’ minds just now.’

  Mrs Ayres looked pained. ‘Oh, if only, if only,’ she said, ‘they hadn’t brought that child here with them! Why on earth did they? Presumably they have a nurse or a governess for her. They’re clearly able to afford one.’

  ‘Probably they think a governess would give her a complex,’ said Caroline, moving about. And a second later she added, in a sort of nervous mutter: ‘She’ll certainly have a complex now.’

  I looked at her, shocked. And, ‘Caroline!’ said her mother, as if aghast.

  Caroline herself, to do her credit, seemed as startled by the words as we were. She met my gaze with a horrible expression, her mouth fixed in a nervous smile but her eyes almost anguished; then she turned away. There was no trace of make-up on her now, I noticed: on the contrary, her cheeks looked dry, and her mouth seemed faintly swollen—as if she had taken a flannel to her face and brutally scrubbed it.

  I saw Roderick looking over
at her as he drew on his cigarette. His own face was flushed unevenly from the heat of the fire, the patches of tight pink skin on his cheeks and jaw standing out like diabolical fingerprints. But, bafflingly, he still said nothing. None of them, I thought, had any idea of just how gravely the Baker-Hydes were treating the affair. Instead they seemed to have turned their backs on it, drawn themselves together, closed ranks … I felt the stirrings of a dislike for them, just as I had on my first visit. When the small commotion raised by Caroline’s remark had settled I spoke again, telling them, plainly, everything that had passed between Peter Baker-Hyde and me in the courtyard of Standish earlier that day.

  Mrs Ayres listened in silence, raising her joined hands together to her face and bowing her head. Caroline looked at me in absolute horror.

  ‘Destroy Gyp?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Caroline. But can you blame them? You must have expected this.’

  I think she had. I saw it in her eyes. But, ‘Of course I didn’t!’ she said.

  Catching the note of upset in her voice, Gyp himself had risen. He stood with his anxious, bewildered gaze fixed on her face, as if waiting for the word or gesture that would allow him to relax. She leaned forward to put a hand on his neck and draw him closer, but spoke again to me.

  ‘What good do they think it will do? If getting rid of Gyp would mean that that child could somehow be miraculously unbitten, then I’d give him up like a shot. I’d rather I was bitten than have to go through last night again! They just want to punish him—punish us. They can’t be serious.’

  I said, ‘I’m afraid they are. About bringing in the police, too.’

  ‘Oh, this is dreadful,’ said Mrs Ayres, now almost wringing her hands. ‘Quite dreadful. What will the police make of the matter, do you think?’

  ‘Well, I suppose they’ll have to take it seriously, with a man like Baker-Hyde behind the complaint. And with the injury such an emotive one.’ I looked at Roderick, determined now to draw him in. ‘Don’t you think so, Rod?’

  He moved in his chair as if self-conscious, then spoke thickly.

  ‘I really don’t know what to think.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I suppose we’ve a licence for Gyp, have we? I imagine it’ll help if we do.’

  ‘Of course we’ve a licence!’ said Caroline. ‘But why on earth should a licence matter? This isn’t a case of a dangerous dog running loose in the street. This was a family dog in its own home, being teased out of temper. Everyone who was here last night will say the same. If the Baker-Hydes can’t see it—Oh, I can’t bear it! I wish those people had never bought Standish! And I wish to God we’d never had that wretched party.’

  I said, ‘I expect Mr and Mrs Baker-Hyde wish that, too. This business with Gillian has pretty well devastated them.’

  ‘Well, naturally it has,’ said Mrs Ayres. ‘Anyone could see, last night, that that child will be quite horribly disfigured. It’s a frightful thing to happen to any parent.’

  There was a silence after her words, and I felt my gaze drawn, unwillingly, from her own face to her son’s. He was looking down, as if at his hands. I could make out the movement of some emotion behind his eyes, but his manner still baffled me. He raised his head, and again his voice caught in his throat and he had to clear it. He said, ‘I wish I’d been there with you all last night.’

  ‘Oh, so do I, Roddie!’ said his sister.

  ‘I can’t help but feel,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard her, ‘somehow responsible.’

  ‘We all feel that,’ I said. ‘I feel it myself.’

  He looked at me blankly.

  Caroline said, ‘It wasn’t any fault of ours. It was that brother-in-law, messing about on the harpsichord. And if those parents had kept their child where she ought to have been—or better still, not brought her at all—’

  And so we were back exactly where we’d started, except that this time it led to Caroline, her mother, and me running over the whole horrible incident from beginning to end, each of us with our own slightly different perspective on events. From time to time as we spoke I looked over at Rod. I saw him light up another cigarette—making a mess of it, dropping tobacco into his lap—and I was aware of him moving restlessly about, as if troubled by our voices. I had no idea how really uncomfortable he was, however, until he got abruptly to his feet.

  ‘God!’ he said. ‘I can’t bear it. I’ve heard this too many times today. Excuse me, Mother, Doctor: I’m going back to my room. I’m sorry. I—I’m sorry.’

  He sounded so strained, and moved so awkwardly, I half rose to help him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said quickly, putting out his hand as if to push me back. ‘No, don’t trouble. Honestly, I’m fine.’ He gave an unconvincing smile. ‘I’m still feeling a bit cheap, that’s all, after last night. I’ll—I’ll have Betty bring me some cocoa. I’ll be OK with a decent night’s sleep.’

  As he spoke, his sister rose. She went across and linked her arm with his.

  ‘You don’t need me, Mother?’ she said, in a subdued voice. ‘Then I’ll say good night too.’ She looked awkwardly at me. ‘Thanks for coming out to us, Dr Faraday. That was thoughtful of you.’

  I had got to my feet properly now. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t bring better news. But do try not to worry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ she said, with a smile as brave as her brother’s. ‘They can say what they like, those people. They won’t hurt Gyp. I won’t let them.’

  She and Roderick moved off, and the dog trotted faithfully after: reassured, for the moment, by the confidence in her voice.

  I watched the door close behind them, then turned back to Mrs Ayres. Now that her children had gone she looked terribly tired. I had never spent time with her on her own before, and wondered if I oughtn’t to leave her. I had had an early start that day, and was tired myself.

  But she beckoned wearily to me. ‘Come and take Roderick’s place, Dr Faraday, so that I can look at you more easily.’

  So I moved to the fire.

  I said, as I sat, ‘I’m afraid this has all been a dreadful shock for you.’

  ‘It has,’ she answered at once. ‘I was wakeful, all last night. Thinking of that poor child. That such a ghastly thing should have happened, and here! And then—’

  She started to turn the rings indecisively on her fingers, so that I wanted to lean across and place my hand on hers. At last, in a tighter, more anxious voice than before, she said, ‘The fact is, I’m rather concerned about Roderick, too.’

  I glanced at the door. ‘Yes. He certainly seems not quite himself. Has all this upset him as much as that?’

  ‘You didn’t notice? Last night?’

  ‘Last night?’ I’d forgotten, with all the drama; but remembered now. ‘You sent Betty to him—’

  ‘Poor girl, he alarmed her. She came back for me. I found him—oh, in such a strange state!’

  ‘What do you mean? Was he ill?’

  She spoke reluctantly. ‘I don’t know. He said his head was aching. But he looked frightful—half dressed in his evening clothes, sweating, and trembling like a leaf.’

  I stared at her. ‘He hadn’t been … drinking?’

  It was all I could think of, and I was embarrassed to make the suggestion. But she shook her head, beyond embarrassment.

  ‘It wasn’t that, I’m sure it wasn’t. I don’t know what on earth it was. At first he asked me to stay with him. He caught hold of my hand, like a schoolboy! Then just as suddenly he changed his mind and told me to leave him. He almost bundled me from the room. I had Betty bring him aspirin. There was no question of his coming out, like that. I had to make what excuses I could. What else could I have done?’

  ‘You could have told me.’

  ‘I wanted to! He wouldn’t let me. And, naturally, I was thinking of how it might look. I was afraid of his appearing, making some sort of scene. Now I almost wish he had. For then that poor little girl—’

  Her voice had grown so ti
ght, it pinched itself out. We sat in an unhappy silence, and once again my mind ran back to the previous evening, to the gristly snap of Gyp’s jaws, the shriek and liquid moan that followed. At that very moment, Rod had been sitting in some odd nervous state in his own room; and while I carried Gillian downstairs, while I worked on her cheek, he’d remained in there, presumably hearing the fuss beyond his door but unable to emerge and face it. The thought was horrible.

  I seized the arms of my chair. ‘Why don’t I go and talk to him?’

  But Mrs Ayres reached out. ‘Don’t. I don’t think he would want it.’

  ‘What harm could it do?’

  ‘You saw how he was tonight: so unlike himself, so uncertain and subdued. He’s been like that all day. I had practically to plead with him to get him to sit in here this evening. His sister doesn’t know how I found him last night; she thinks he had a bad headache, that’s all, and put himself to bed. I think he’s ashamed. I think—Oh, Dr Faraday, I keep thinking about how he was when he came back here from hospital!’

  She bowed her head, and started to turn her rings again.

  ‘I’ve never spoken to you about this,’ she said, without quite meeting my eye. ‘His doctor at the time called it a depression. But it seemed more than that to me. He seemed never to sleep. He’d fly into rages, or into sulks. His language was filthy. I hardly knew him. My own son! For months and months he was like that. I had to stop asking people to the house. I was ashamed of him!’

  I’m not sure if what she told me surprised me. David Graham had mentioned Rod’s ‘nervous trouble’, after all, back in the summer, and from what I’d seen of Roderick himself since then—his over-preoccupation with his work, his occasional bouts of irritation and impatience—it seemed clear to me that the trouble had not been entirely resolved.

  I said, ‘I’m sorry. Poor Rod. And poor you, and Caroline! But you know, I’ve treated many injured men—’

  ‘Of course,’ she said quickly, ‘I know that what happened to Roderick could have been so much worse.’