terrace: “Who’s there? What’s that?”
It made her jump, but after all it was comforting. “It’s me. Francesca Hart,” she called back, leaning out of the window.
Footsteps moved up the terrace; she could hear the scrunch of boots against the dry snow. “Just stay there a minute, Miss Hart, and let me see your face. Half a moment while I flash my torch.”
Fears came crowding back. After all the murderer might not be a “she.” Pretend for a moment that it was a man; and that the man had killed Cockie’s guard out on the terrace and now was luring her to look out of the window and into the eyes of death! Supposing he should be climbing up to the sill to grasp her by the throat as she stood at the window; supposing he had a rope and flung it round her neck as she leant out, and dragged her down to the ground…!
There was a blinding light in her eyes, followed immediately by soft, black darkness. The voice called again: “All right, Miss. Thank you. Mustn’t make any mistakes, must we? You go to bed and to sleep, Miss; I’ll be watching out for you.”
“Good-night,” she called; and put her head out again to add: “I hope you’re not terribly cold. I’m so sorry to give you all this trouble.”
The window was closed and the curtains closely drawn. Somehow it was not so easy to start across the room again and get into bed. “Never again will I be superior about people who aren’t brave,” she vowed, and forced herself to leave the shelter of the curtains, to pass her own white ghost in the mirror and jump like a shot rabbit into the warmth and comfort and security of her bed. She sat curled up against the pillows, her shaking hands clasped against the silk and lace of her nightie, trying to still the thudding of her heart.
The curtains hung motionless now across the big window. The corners of the room were deeply shadowed in the gentle lamplight, but with shadows that she and Venetia had known from their childhood, from the days when there had been two little beds in this dear old room, when Pen and Granny had come and kissed them and tucked them up, and gone down to something grand and mysterious called Dinner that went on until the Middle of the Night… She supposed that Pen had been quite young then, but he had seemed very old to them. His father had been alive, a terrifying old man whose kindly advances they had found themselves unable to welcome…
She fell into a doze, still sitting curled up at the top of her bed, propped against the big white pillows. Her hands released their hold and lay with curling fingers outside the eiderdown. A soft dark curl fell over her face; she stirred and moved her head against the pillow to push it back.
Slowly the door of the cupboard began to open.
Inspector Cockrill was standing on the terrace briskly rubbing his face with his hands and stretching his aching limbs after a brief rest on Pendock’s “comfortable sofa.” He was paralysed by the sight of Constable Troot galloping across the grass towards him, his mouth opening and shutting idiotically, his arms flailing the innocent morning air. “They’ve got her, sir; the devils… they’ve got her, sir…”
“Got who? For God’s sake…” He stumbled down the steps and started to run across the lawn.
She was sitting in the little round summer-house down by the railway track, propped against the wooden wall in a strange stiff attitude, her hands hanging awkwardly at her sides; and her head had been severed from her body and sat crookedly on her mangled neck, tied there by a bright woollen scarf. He could not have recognised the dreadful face that leered at him, blotchy and purple, with distended eyes; but his stomach heaved with a sort of insane relief when he saw that the hair was not soft and dark, but a short, coarse crop of auburn, almost like a cap. Fran was safe; but Pippi le May was dead.
Chapter 5
H E DREW HIS HAND across his eyes and, shuddering, looked again. Beside him, the
It made her jump, but after all it was comforting. “It’s me. Francesca Hart,” she called back, leaning out of the window.
Footsteps moved up the terrace; she could hear the scrunch of boots against the dry snow. “Just stay there a minute, Miss Hart, and let me see your face. Half a moment while I flash my torch.”
Fears came crowding back. After all the murderer might not be a “she.” Pretend for a moment that it was a man; and that the man had killed Cockie’s guard out on the terrace and now was luring her to look out of the window and into the eyes of death! Supposing he should be climbing up to the sill to grasp her by the throat as she stood at the window; supposing he had a rope and flung it round her neck as she leant out, and dragged her down to the ground…!
There was a blinding light in her eyes, followed immediately by soft, black darkness. The voice called again: “All right, Miss. Thank you. Mustn’t make any mistakes, must we? You go to bed and to sleep, Miss; I’ll be watching out for you.”
“Good-night,” she called; and put her head out again to add: “I hope you’re not terribly cold. I’m so sorry to give you all this trouble.”
The window was closed and the curtains closely drawn. Somehow it was not so easy to start across the room again and get into bed. “Never again will I be superior about people who aren’t brave,” she vowed, and forced herself to leave the shelter of the curtains, to pass her own white ghost in the mirror and jump like a shot rabbit into the warmth and comfort and security of her bed. She sat curled up against the pillows, her shaking hands clasped against the silk and lace of her nightie, trying to still the thudding of her heart.
The curtains hung motionless now across the big window. The corners of the room were deeply shadowed in the gentle lamplight, but with shadows that she and Venetia had known from their childhood, from the days when there had been two little beds in this dear old room, when Pen and Granny had come and kissed them and tucked them up, and gone down to something grand and mysterious called Dinner that went on until the Middle of the Night… She supposed that Pen had been quite young then, but he had seemed very old to them. His father had been alive, a terrifying old man whose kindly advances they had found themselves unable to welcome…
She fell into a doze, still sitting curled up at the top of her bed, propped against the big white pillows. Her hands released their hold and lay with curling fingers outside the eiderdown. A soft dark curl fell over her face; she stirred and moved her head against the pillow to push it back.
Slowly the door of the cupboard began to open.
Inspector Cockrill was standing on the terrace briskly rubbing his face with his hands and stretching his aching limbs after a brief rest on Pendock’s “comfortable sofa.” He was paralysed by the sight of Constable Troot galloping across the grass towards him, his mouth opening and shutting idiotically, his arms flailing the innocent morning air. “They’ve got her, sir; the devils… they’ve got her, sir…”
“Got who? For God’s sake…” He stumbled down the steps and started to run across the lawn.
She was sitting in the little round summer-house down by the railway track, propped against the wooden wall in a strange stiff attitude, her hands hanging awkwardly at her sides; and her head had been severed from her body and sat crookedly on her mangled neck, tied there by a bright woollen scarf. He could not have recognised the dreadful face that leered at him, blotchy and purple, with distended eyes; but his stomach heaved with a sort of insane relief when he saw that the hair was not soft and dark, but a short, coarse crop of auburn, almost like a cap. Fran was safe; but Pippi le May was dead.
Chapter 5
H E DREW HIS HAND across his eyes and, shuddering, looked again. Beside him, the
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