a woman who had travelled non-stop for over forty-eight hours, been interviewed by the police over a murder case, and worked hard taking over a new house and a foreign staff in a strange city. She had lost all trace of weariness, and her manner was almost feverishly gay. A brilliant colour burned in her cheeks and her eyes were over-bright.
‘Hullo, Miranda darling. What a day! I hear you’ve been spending the afternoon being third-degreed by the police? They were around asking endless questions half the morning. They had a session with Mademoiselle too, and another with Lottie. Let’s get Robert to take us out on the town tonight. We may.as well eat, drink and be merry while we have the chance, just in case they throw us all into jail tomorrow
‘Mademoiselle had a crise de nerfs. She said that they were all picking on her because she was a poor, defenceless foreigner, and they would send her to the guillotine - innocent as she was solely in order to save the head of a guilty Englishman! And Lottie said it wouldn’t be the guillotine because we don’t chop people’s heads off in England, we hang them (how do they learn these things?) and Mademoiselle rushed wildly out of the room in a cloud of smelling salts…
‘The cook can’t speak any English, and Robert’s batman is in hospital with jaundice and won’t be out for another week. Where
85
is Robert, by the way? I haven’t seen him all day. Harry Marson brought me back. Let’s send for a bottle of champagne, ‘Randa: I feel we should do something to celebrate our first, gay, glorious day in Berlin!’
Her laugh held a note of hysteria, and Miranda said: ‘What you need is a cup of tea and some aspirin. We’ll try the champagne later. Let’s see what happens if we press a bell. Or do you suppose they only serve tea in the lounge?’
It was well after six o’clock before Miranda returned to her own room.
Sally Page had suggested that they should all go over to the Officers’ Club for dinner, and Stella had enthusiastically seconded the idea and gone upstairs to change and say goodnight to Lottie.
Miranda turned on her bedroom light and drew the curtains over the rain-spattered windows.
The room looked much the same as when she had left it earlier that afternoon in pursuit of Wally Wilkin, but for one difference: someone had visited it in her absence. Someone who had searched through her suitcases and had not had time to repack the contents neatly, but replaced them in a haphazard manner so that shoes, stockings, underwear and toilet articles were inextricably mingled. The drawers of the dressingtable had been opened, and in the cupboard her squirrel coat hung crookedly on its hanger. Even the bed was rumpled, as though someone had searched under the pillows and the mattress and then hurriedly drawn the coverlet straight above the disarranged bedding.
So that’s why he wanted me to go down to the lounge! thought Miranda. So that some of his ham-handed underlings could go through my things again. Why, when they’ve done it once already? What did they think they might have missed? Something that I might have had on me? A handkerchief or gloves with stains on it?
Another thought slid into her mind like a thin sliver of ice. The searching of her room meant something else. Simon Lang had not
86
believed her. He had been kind and friendly and had made her feel that he was on her side. But he was on no one’s side; unless it was the dead man’s.
Once again she seemed to hear his voice saying: ‘Whoever killed him must have got some blood on them - on their hands at least.’ But there was only one person who had had blood on their hands: Miranda Brand.
‘Circumstantial evidence ‘. Why had she suddenly thought of that phrase? What exactly did it mean?
Miranda turned slowly away from the disordered suitcases and began to take off her coat and skirt with stiff, unsteady fingers. And as she dressed for the Club, and all through the
‘Hullo, Miranda darling. What a day! I hear you’ve been spending the afternoon being third-degreed by the police? They were around asking endless questions half the morning. They had a session with Mademoiselle too, and another with Lottie. Let’s get Robert to take us out on the town tonight. We may.as well eat, drink and be merry while we have the chance, just in case they throw us all into jail tomorrow
‘Mademoiselle had a crise de nerfs. She said that they were all picking on her because she was a poor, defenceless foreigner, and they would send her to the guillotine - innocent as she was solely in order to save the head of a guilty Englishman! And Lottie said it wouldn’t be the guillotine because we don’t chop people’s heads off in England, we hang them (how do they learn these things?) and Mademoiselle rushed wildly out of the room in a cloud of smelling salts…
‘The cook can’t speak any English, and Robert’s batman is in hospital with jaundice and won’t be out for another week. Where
85
is Robert, by the way? I haven’t seen him all day. Harry Marson brought me back. Let’s send for a bottle of champagne, ‘Randa: I feel we should do something to celebrate our first, gay, glorious day in Berlin!’
Her laugh held a note of hysteria, and Miranda said: ‘What you need is a cup of tea and some aspirin. We’ll try the champagne later. Let’s see what happens if we press a bell. Or do you suppose they only serve tea in the lounge?’
It was well after six o’clock before Miranda returned to her own room.
Sally Page had suggested that they should all go over to the Officers’ Club for dinner, and Stella had enthusiastically seconded the idea and gone upstairs to change and say goodnight to Lottie.
Miranda turned on her bedroom light and drew the curtains over the rain-spattered windows.
The room looked much the same as when she had left it earlier that afternoon in pursuit of Wally Wilkin, but for one difference: someone had visited it in her absence. Someone who had searched through her suitcases and had not had time to repack the contents neatly, but replaced them in a haphazard manner so that shoes, stockings, underwear and toilet articles were inextricably mingled. The drawers of the dressingtable had been opened, and in the cupboard her squirrel coat hung crookedly on its hanger. Even the bed was rumpled, as though someone had searched under the pillows and the mattress and then hurriedly drawn the coverlet straight above the disarranged bedding.
So that’s why he wanted me to go down to the lounge! thought Miranda. So that some of his ham-handed underlings could go through my things again. Why, when they’ve done it once already? What did they think they might have missed? Something that I might have had on me? A handkerchief or gloves with stains on it?
Another thought slid into her mind like a thin sliver of ice. The searching of her room meant something else. Simon Lang had not
86
believed her. He had been kind and friendly and had made her feel that he was on her side. But he was on no one’s side; unless it was the dead man’s.
Once again she seemed to hear his voice saying: ‘Whoever killed him must have got some blood on them - on their hands at least.’ But there was only one person who had had blood on their hands: Miranda Brand.
‘Circumstantial evidence ‘. Why had she suddenly thought of that phrase? What exactly did it mean?
Miranda turned slowly away from the disordered suitcases and began to take off her coat and skirt with stiff, unsteady fingers. And as she dressed for the Club, and all through the
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