is, too. Sold six wireless sets and three gramophones this week alone, so she did, a four-slice toaster, and an electric egg-cozy. Fancy!”
“You must have a lovely view of things from up here,” I observed.
“So I do,” he said, tightening the last bolt. “Funny you should say so. It’s the same thing that German fellow from Culverhouse told me as he left. ‘Far from the madding crowd,’ he called up to me. Talks over my head but he’s a good lad for all that.”
“Yes, his name is Dieter,” I told him. “He meant Thomas Hardy.”
Gil scratched his head.
“Hardy? Don’t know him. From around here, is he?”
“He’s an author.”
Like any bookworm’s sister, I knew the titles of a million books I hadn’t read.
“Ah!” he said, as if that settled it. “You’d better scramble down now. If the chief sees you up here, both our gooses will be cooked.”
“Geese,” I said. “Latshaw, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he said quietly. “Geese,” and turned his attention to a box of colored filters.
I had nearly reached the bottom of the ladder when I became aware of a face too close for comfort. I jumped to the floor and twisted round to find myself standing almost on Latshaw’s toes.
“Who told you you could go up there?” he asked, his ginger mustache bristling.
“No one,” I said. “I was having a word with Mr. Crawford.”
“Mr. Crawford is on time-and-a-half for a short call in the holiday season,” he said. “He has no time for idle chitchat—do you, Mr. Crawford?”
This last part he called out loudly enough for everyone to hear. I stepped back and glanced up at Gil, who was fussing with his spotlight, but he must have heard.
“I’m sorry,” I said, becoming aware of the sudden silence that had fallen upon the foyer.
“Take my advice, miss,” Latshaw said, “and keep to your quarters. We’ve no time for nuisances.”
In my mind, Latshaw was already writhing on the floor, his face engorged, his eyes bulging from their sockets, hanging on with both hands to his gut, begging for the antidote to cyanide poisoning.
“Help me! Just help me!” he was screaming. “I’ll do anything—anything!”
“Very well, then,” I was telling him, reluctantly handing over a beaker into which I had stirred carefully calibrated proportions of ferrous sulfate, caustic potash, and powdered oxide of magnesium, “but in future, you really must learn how properly to address your betters.”
Perhaps Latshaw was a mind reader, perhaps not, but he turned, strode off abruptly, and began giving right old hob to a carpenter who wasn’t driving a nail properly.
At that very instant a bloodcurdling shriek came echoing from somewhere in the upper regions of the house.
“No! No-o-o-o-o! Let me alone!”
I recognized it at once.
All eyes were turned upwards as I flew past the workers and up the stairs. At the landing, one of the actresses reached out to stop me but I shook her off and continued my flight to the top and along the first-floor corridors, my pounding feet the only sound in the eerie silence that had fallen suddenly upon the house.
Strangers fell back out of the way to let me pass, hands to mouths, their faces frozen with—what was it?—fear?
“No! No! Keep away! Don’t touch me. Please! Don’t let them touch me!”
The voice was coming from Harriet’s boudoir. I threw open the door.
Dogger was crouched in a corner, one of his quivering hands clasping the wrist of the other in front of his face.
“Please,” he whimpered.
“Leave him
alone
!” I shouted at his ghosts. “Get out of here and leave him
alone
!”
And then I slammed the door loudly.
I stood perfectly still and waited until I could bear it no more—about ten seconds, I think—and then I said, “It’s all right, Dogger, they’re gone. I’ve sent them away. It’s all right.”
Dogger trembled behind his hands, his face, the color of ashes, looking up at me unseeing. It had been
“You must have a lovely view of things from up here,” I observed.
“So I do,” he said, tightening the last bolt. “Funny you should say so. It’s the same thing that German fellow from Culverhouse told me as he left. ‘Far from the madding crowd,’ he called up to me. Talks over my head but he’s a good lad for all that.”
“Yes, his name is Dieter,” I told him. “He meant Thomas Hardy.”
Gil scratched his head.
“Hardy? Don’t know him. From around here, is he?”
“He’s an author.”
Like any bookworm’s sister, I knew the titles of a million books I hadn’t read.
“Ah!” he said, as if that settled it. “You’d better scramble down now. If the chief sees you up here, both our gooses will be cooked.”
“Geese,” I said. “Latshaw, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he said quietly. “Geese,” and turned his attention to a box of colored filters.
I had nearly reached the bottom of the ladder when I became aware of a face too close for comfort. I jumped to the floor and twisted round to find myself standing almost on Latshaw’s toes.
“Who told you you could go up there?” he asked, his ginger mustache bristling.
“No one,” I said. “I was having a word with Mr. Crawford.”
“Mr. Crawford is on time-and-a-half for a short call in the holiday season,” he said. “He has no time for idle chitchat—do you, Mr. Crawford?”
This last part he called out loudly enough for everyone to hear. I stepped back and glanced up at Gil, who was fussing with his spotlight, but he must have heard.
“I’m sorry,” I said, becoming aware of the sudden silence that had fallen upon the foyer.
“Take my advice, miss,” Latshaw said, “and keep to your quarters. We’ve no time for nuisances.”
In my mind, Latshaw was already writhing on the floor, his face engorged, his eyes bulging from their sockets, hanging on with both hands to his gut, begging for the antidote to cyanide poisoning.
“Help me! Just help me!” he was screaming. “I’ll do anything—anything!”
“Very well, then,” I was telling him, reluctantly handing over a beaker into which I had stirred carefully calibrated proportions of ferrous sulfate, caustic potash, and powdered oxide of magnesium, “but in future, you really must learn how properly to address your betters.”
Perhaps Latshaw was a mind reader, perhaps not, but he turned, strode off abruptly, and began giving right old hob to a carpenter who wasn’t driving a nail properly.
At that very instant a bloodcurdling shriek came echoing from somewhere in the upper regions of the house.
“No! No-o-o-o-o! Let me alone!”
I recognized it at once.
All eyes were turned upwards as I flew past the workers and up the stairs. At the landing, one of the actresses reached out to stop me but I shook her off and continued my flight to the top and along the first-floor corridors, my pounding feet the only sound in the eerie silence that had fallen suddenly upon the house.
Strangers fell back out of the way to let me pass, hands to mouths, their faces frozen with—what was it?—fear?
“No! No! Keep away! Don’t touch me. Please! Don’t let them touch me!”
The voice was coming from Harriet’s boudoir. I threw open the door.
Dogger was crouched in a corner, one of his quivering hands clasping the wrist of the other in front of his face.
“Please,” he whimpered.
“Leave him
alone
!” I shouted at his ghosts. “Get out of here and leave him
alone
!”
And then I slammed the door loudly.
I stood perfectly still and waited until I could bear it no more—about ten seconds, I think—and then I said, “It’s all right, Dogger, they’re gone. I’ve sent them away. It’s all right.”
Dogger trembled behind his hands, his face, the color of ashes, looking up at me unseeing. It had been
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