Read Dorothy Eden for Free Online Page A
Authors: Eerie Nights in London
creaking sound. Or was there? Had she imagined it? Listen? Was that a faint padding? No—yes, what was that? A faint far-off crying sound. Oh, a cat miaowing. Mimosa, of course. Why was Mimosa prowling about the house? Wasn’t he shut in with his master at night?
Or was it that his master, too, prowled… What was that? It sounded like a voice hissing “Usurper!” And then a faint choking sound, as if someone were sobbing.
Cressida sat upright. She was aware of that delicate lingering scent of roses. She felt the silk of the carefully laid-out robe beneath her fingers. Suddenly she sprang off the bed, rigid with distaste.
How could she lie there on Lucy’s bed, which awaited only Lucy who would never come again. Oh, it was not only sad and tragic, it was somehow unpleasant, as if her own warm blood were congealing, and she too was to be petrified into everlasting youth.
She couldn’t stay in this room after all. It was too haunted. Somehow she had to get out, and not by way of the stairs where her tormentor was no doubt waiting to further enjoy her distress. Surely there must be a way over the balcony.
She was not without resourcefulness. She was athletic enough even to shin down a drainpipe, if need be.
But that feat, to her great delight, Cressida found to be unnecessary. For leading down from the side of the balcony was a fire escape. Why hadn’t she thought of looking for that before? This was as easy as could be. Even with her long dressing-gown she had no difficulty in descending the iron rungs to the terrace far below. She was even chuckling with amusement. Whoever had played that humourless joke on her had come off worst, after all.
Or had they? For, safely on the terrace, Cressida found that she could not get back into the house. All the doors were locked, and when she rather timidly tapped on Vincent Moretti’s window, which was the only one to face the garden, there was no answer. Apparently he was not yet home.
But thank goodness there was a crack of light showing from the basement windows. Cressida shrugged resignedly. Once more she had to depend on Jeremy Winter for succour.
A steep flight of stairs led down to the back door. Cressida went down them quickly and banged briskly on the door.
Presently it opened and Jeremy stood there. He was fully dressed, but his black hair was rumpled as if he had been running his hand feverishly through it, and he looked sleepy. Mimosa was twisting voluptuously round his ankles,
Cressida said apologetically, “Yours was the only light showing. That’s why I knocked.”
“Did you indeed?” Jeremy’s dark eyes were losing their sleepy look. They swept over her appraisingly.
“It was the only way I could get in,” Cressida explained.
“And why not the way you got out?”
“That was down the fire escape.” Abruptly Cressida, who was beginning to shiver, lost her politeness and said sharply, “Aren’t you going to let me in? I’ve had enough practical jokes for one night. I suppose it was you who locked me in Lucy’s room, too.”
Suddenly she was remembering Mimosa’s calling on the stairs, and her gaze took in Jeremy’s fully dressed appearance. Why was he still up? It was after two o’clock.
But now she had his interested attention.
“You don’t mean you’ve been locked in that room?”
“And what do you think I would be doing here dressed like this if I hadn’t?”
He gave her tart question serious consideration.
“Actually I don’t know you very well.”
“Oh, don’t be idiotic. You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t be climbing down fire escapes in my dressing-gown from preference.”
“But why should anyone lock you in? The door must have jammed. Look here, I’ll just sprint upstairs and see. Come and sit by my fire. You’re cold.”
Cressida wrapped her arms round herself. “I’m not cold. It’s just that room at night. I shouldn’t have gone up alone. I felt as if someone were walking over my
Or was it that his master, too, prowled… What was that? It sounded like a voice hissing “Usurper!” And then a faint choking sound, as if someone were sobbing.
Cressida sat upright. She was aware of that delicate lingering scent of roses. She felt the silk of the carefully laid-out robe beneath her fingers. Suddenly she sprang off the bed, rigid with distaste.
How could she lie there on Lucy’s bed, which awaited only Lucy who would never come again. Oh, it was not only sad and tragic, it was somehow unpleasant, as if her own warm blood were congealing, and she too was to be petrified into everlasting youth.
She couldn’t stay in this room after all. It was too haunted. Somehow she had to get out, and not by way of the stairs where her tormentor was no doubt waiting to further enjoy her distress. Surely there must be a way over the balcony.
She was not without resourcefulness. She was athletic enough even to shin down a drainpipe, if need be.
But that feat, to her great delight, Cressida found to be unnecessary. For leading down from the side of the balcony was a fire escape. Why hadn’t she thought of looking for that before? This was as easy as could be. Even with her long dressing-gown she had no difficulty in descending the iron rungs to the terrace far below. She was even chuckling with amusement. Whoever had played that humourless joke on her had come off worst, after all.
Or had they? For, safely on the terrace, Cressida found that she could not get back into the house. All the doors were locked, and when she rather timidly tapped on Vincent Moretti’s window, which was the only one to face the garden, there was no answer. Apparently he was not yet home.
But thank goodness there was a crack of light showing from the basement windows. Cressida shrugged resignedly. Once more she had to depend on Jeremy Winter for succour.
A steep flight of stairs led down to the back door. Cressida went down them quickly and banged briskly on the door.
Presently it opened and Jeremy stood there. He was fully dressed, but his black hair was rumpled as if he had been running his hand feverishly through it, and he looked sleepy. Mimosa was twisting voluptuously round his ankles,
Cressida said apologetically, “Yours was the only light showing. That’s why I knocked.”
“Did you indeed?” Jeremy’s dark eyes were losing their sleepy look. They swept over her appraisingly.
“It was the only way I could get in,” Cressida explained.
“And why not the way you got out?”
“That was down the fire escape.” Abruptly Cressida, who was beginning to shiver, lost her politeness and said sharply, “Aren’t you going to let me in? I’ve had enough practical jokes for one night. I suppose it was you who locked me in Lucy’s room, too.”
Suddenly she was remembering Mimosa’s calling on the stairs, and her gaze took in Jeremy’s fully dressed appearance. Why was he still up? It was after two o’clock.
But now she had his interested attention.
“You don’t mean you’ve been locked in that room?”
“And what do you think I would be doing here dressed like this if I hadn’t?”
He gave her tart question serious consideration.
“Actually I don’t know you very well.”
“Oh, don’t be idiotic. You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t be climbing down fire escapes in my dressing-gown from preference.”
“But why should anyone lock you in? The door must have jammed. Look here, I’ll just sprint upstairs and see. Come and sit by my fire. You’re cold.”
Cressida wrapped her arms round herself. “I’m not cold. It’s just that room at night. I shouldn’t have gone up alone. I felt as if someone were walking over my