to get out of the last of the nursing-homes. It took a long time, and at last I couldn’t bear it any longer, she was so unhappy, and I simply told them that they must finish what they were doing by coming to see her down here. We brought her here one night and carried her across the ford and up the mountain-path. Mrs. Love came with her from the home; and that man today…”
A woman expertly making a bed, tucking in the corners with a clever little flick —a woman who said, not “put your foot up” but “elevate the leg.” A man, standing in his shirt sleeves, soaping the blood off spatulate, rubber-gloved hands. A nurse. And a surgeon. Types, recognizable all the world over, not by face or figure but by the mannerisms of their trade; and associated indissolubly in the mind with—death. A hospital nurse, making believe to be a maid-servant in this secret-haunted house; a surgeon turning up without due warning to make some small adjustment to the poor, terrible, patched-up horror of a face and hurry off home before the light began to fail. A comfortable old Sairey Gamp of a nurse; and a mild little refugee from Nazioppressed- Char many.
Katinka lay on the sofa with her silly leg stuck up before her on a cushion. “But why didn’t you tell me? Couldn’t you have trusted me?”
“Trusted you?” said Carlyon. “Well, no, I don’t think we could have trusted you. And after the irreparable harm you’ve done, I think we had something there, don’t you, Miss Jones?” He kicked at a log which smouldered, sweet-scented, halfway out of the little grate. “I took one look at you the moment you arrived and I said to myself, ‘She’s a journalist.’ And as soon as you were out of the room, Inspector Chucky confirmed my opinion. We’ve had no occasion since then to think otherwise.”
Inspector Chucky! She had it on the tip of her tongue to cry out that “Inspector Chucky” was a journalist himself, that he had crept in here just using the fact that she, fortuitously, happened to work on a paper. But “honour among thieves,” Mr. Chucky had said. She stammered instead: “Yes I am a journalist: but not that kind of journalist—not a reporter.”
“Not a reporter?”
“I was a reporter, it’s true. But now I’m on a women’s magazine. I mean, what would I be snooping after here?”
“A women’s magazine!” said Carlyon. He stood with his hands deep in his pockets, his back to the fireplace. “Could anything be a more juicy dish to set before your women? A pretty girl—a bride, happy and in love—and all in a moment her happiness and prettiness and love and everything in the world that can possibly mean anything to her, are all swept away, for ever ended—and she’s a grotesque monstrosity, horrible, revolting—disgusting even to those who love her and—pity her. Just the sort of prey for you sharks of journalists, just the sort of victim that Miss Jones would glory in, serving it all up on a platter for some dirty little Fleet Street rag.” As she raised her head in stammering protest, he kicked out blindly at the log till the sparks flew, disregarded, onto the silken rug. “I couldn’t think how you’d scented her out. But you’d been questioning the villagers of course—I remember you let it out, over Dai Trouble’s name. Not that they could tell you very much; and the servants had their orders, don’t answer questions, never tell anyone, there’s nobody in this house except us three. You made it easy for us, because all we had to do was to dismiss your ridiculous story and pack you off. But we hadn’t counted on your worming your way back. And I must say, you almost had me taken in, Miss Jones. When I came round the corner and saw you sitting there in the rain…” He kicked out at the log again. “I congratulate you. You certainly have the forlorn act to a T ”
“I’d injured my ankle,” said Tinka, with not quite justifiable indignation.
“A trick known to every
A woman expertly making a bed, tucking in the corners with a clever little flick —a woman who said, not “put your foot up” but “elevate the leg.” A man, standing in his shirt sleeves, soaping the blood off spatulate, rubber-gloved hands. A nurse. And a surgeon. Types, recognizable all the world over, not by face or figure but by the mannerisms of their trade; and associated indissolubly in the mind with—death. A hospital nurse, making believe to be a maid-servant in this secret-haunted house; a surgeon turning up without due warning to make some small adjustment to the poor, terrible, patched-up horror of a face and hurry off home before the light began to fail. A comfortable old Sairey Gamp of a nurse; and a mild little refugee from Nazioppressed- Char many.
Katinka lay on the sofa with her silly leg stuck up before her on a cushion. “But why didn’t you tell me? Couldn’t you have trusted me?”
“Trusted you?” said Carlyon. “Well, no, I don’t think we could have trusted you. And after the irreparable harm you’ve done, I think we had something there, don’t you, Miss Jones?” He kicked at a log which smouldered, sweet-scented, halfway out of the little grate. “I took one look at you the moment you arrived and I said to myself, ‘She’s a journalist.’ And as soon as you were out of the room, Inspector Chucky confirmed my opinion. We’ve had no occasion since then to think otherwise.”
Inspector Chucky! She had it on the tip of her tongue to cry out that “Inspector Chucky” was a journalist himself, that he had crept in here just using the fact that she, fortuitously, happened to work on a paper. But “honour among thieves,” Mr. Chucky had said. She stammered instead: “Yes I am a journalist: but not that kind of journalist—not a reporter.”
“Not a reporter?”
“I was a reporter, it’s true. But now I’m on a women’s magazine. I mean, what would I be snooping after here?”
“A women’s magazine!” said Carlyon. He stood with his hands deep in his pockets, his back to the fireplace. “Could anything be a more juicy dish to set before your women? A pretty girl—a bride, happy and in love—and all in a moment her happiness and prettiness and love and everything in the world that can possibly mean anything to her, are all swept away, for ever ended—and she’s a grotesque monstrosity, horrible, revolting—disgusting even to those who love her and—pity her. Just the sort of prey for you sharks of journalists, just the sort of victim that Miss Jones would glory in, serving it all up on a platter for some dirty little Fleet Street rag.” As she raised her head in stammering protest, he kicked out blindly at the log till the sparks flew, disregarded, onto the silken rug. “I couldn’t think how you’d scented her out. But you’d been questioning the villagers of course—I remember you let it out, over Dai Trouble’s name. Not that they could tell you very much; and the servants had their orders, don’t answer questions, never tell anyone, there’s nobody in this house except us three. You made it easy for us, because all we had to do was to dismiss your ridiculous story and pack you off. But we hadn’t counted on your worming your way back. And I must say, you almost had me taken in, Miss Jones. When I came round the corner and saw you sitting there in the rain…” He kicked out at the log again. “I congratulate you. You certainly have the forlorn act to a T ”
“I’d injured my ankle,” said Tinka, with not quite justifiable indignation.
“A trick known to every
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