The Penningtons by Pamela Oldfield

overshadowed by Montague’s wife. The only thing Montague’s wife had failed at had been motherhood. No son or daughter for poor Montague. That must have rankled, she thought, with a grim smile. Not that she, Dilys, had produced a child either – but then no one had ever considered Dilys perfect. Casting aside ungenerous thoughts she was soon in bed and drifting into sleep.
    When she awoke it was to a feeling of alarm for which she could see no explanation. She stared round the darkened room then sat up with a shiver of apprehension.
    ‘What is it?’ she demanded of the empty room.
    Listening she heard nothing but some instinct urged her to slide from the bed and make her way cautiously to the landing from where she looked down into the hall. Nothing unusual there. Vaguely reassured she returned to the bedroom, lit the bedside candle, pulled on her dressing gown and returned to the top of the stairs. Flickering shadows filled the space around her . . . and then she heard a sound from the sitting room below.
    ‘My God!’ she whispered, her heart thumping wildly. Someone or some thing was down there. Should she, dare she, go downstairs? Instead she called out. ‘Who’s there?’ but the sound of her own voice, weak and trembling, frightened her almost as much as the sounds she was now sure were being made by an intruder. Her first thought was to call the police but the telephone was in the hall close to the sitting room and that meant . . .
    She heard something drop and it was followed by a muffled curse. Terrified, Dilys rushed back into the bedroom and slammed the door. Maybe the noise would alarm whoever it was, she thought desperately. There was no key in the door so she was unable to lock it so she sat on the floor with her back to it.
    Her imagination was working overtime. Suppose whoever it was came up after her . . . sought her out and murdered her! ‘Oh please God!’ she whispered. Within minutes she could be lying dead on the floor and nobody would know.
    With an effort she tried to calm her fear, aware that to panic would be a serious mistake. She must stay alert. She must find a way to protect herself. ‘I’d be safer in the bathroom,’ she told herself. There she could lock the door – but that meant abandoning her bedroom to run the length of the landing and he might already be on his way upstairs.
    ‘Oh please God!’ she begged again, straining for sounds of the intruder’s whereabouts.
    Minutes passed. When would it be safe to venture out from the bedroom? Maybe never! It seemed that she sat there for at least an hour while her heart beat increased and she found it hard to breathe. At last she heard sounds from the kitchen and assumed the thief was making his way out. The back door slammed and she scrambled to her feet and ran to the window from where she saw a man making his way towards the gate at the rear of the house.
    So she had not imagined it! The proof made her shudder with delayed shock and she stumbled to the bed and threw herself on to it, face down. Immediately she recalled the man in the queue at the soup kitchen. ‘It was him!’ she told herself. She recalled the look of him, the intense expression and his muttered word ‘Dilys’. Yes! She had been right all along and they had all been wrong to try and persuade her otherwise.
    But why had he chosen her – and why draw attention to himself? Why should he make his intentions so obvious?
    ‘The police!’ she muttered. Now she would contact them and tell them her suspicions and they would go after him. Still shaking from the ordeal, Dilys made her way downstairs and called them.
    A young constable arrived ten minutes later on a bicycle and the two of them sat at the kitchen table, each with a mug of cocoa which he assured her would help soothe her nerves.
    Dilys had dressed herself during the wait for his arrival and had also had time to discover the loss of various items.
    ‘A small carriage clock from the sitting