The Paying Guests(112)
She burned the scarf first. It gave a twitch, like a snake, the moment she dropped it on to the heat, then burst into yellow flame and steadily shrivelled up into nothing. And the sight of it disappearing into the heart of the fire like that laid the first calming touch upon her panic: she began to think more coherently, to act more decisively. She took up the cushion next. It was a ghastly thing to handle, weighty with blood – and far too big, she realised, to burn in one piece. She had to fetch a pair of scissors and slice open its cover, then pull out its wet woolly innards, clump by clump. Only the fact that she had already had to deal with so much gore today enabled her to do it; even so, the revolting savoury sizzle with which the clumps went on to the fire brought her stomach into her mouth. But she was thankful, at least, that the cushion wasn’t feather: the stink of burning feathers would have been impossible to hide.
By now her hands were brown with blood again, the fingers adhering together, and her gingham apron looked like something from a butcher’s shop. Closing her mind to the horror of it, she tipped the remaining contents of the bowl on to the coals; she added the soiled napkin, then looked at the clock. It was gone ten – gone ten, and there was still so much to do! But the fire had given her confidence. She took the bowl and the scissors across to Lilian’s kitchen and carefully washed them; she fetched Lilian’s chamber-pot and emptied and washed that; and then she made a mixture of salt and water, returned with it to the sitting-room, and got to work on the stains on the carpet. The carpet would never come properly clean; there wasn’t the time for it. She ought to use starch, or peroxide – It couldn’t be helped. After five whole minutes of frantic soaking and dabbing, the spots had spread but lightened, become ghosts of themselves, haunting the gaudy pattern; she had to be satisfied with that. The cleaning-cloths went on to the fire, to steam and sizzle with everything else. The ashtray, the hideous ashtray, made her stomach heave again: there was a scrap of something pale, with hairs attached, clinging to its base. She plunged it into the coals, turning it to scorch and cleanse it; then, with a shudder, she wiped it and stuck it behind the sofa. What else? There must be more. Think, Frances. Concentrate. She remembered the packet that had held the pills: she ran and got it, and threw it on the flames. She examined her clothes, examined Lilian’s, and found smears of blood on their sleeves and skirts: she mixed more salt water and did what she could to sponge the smears away. She even thought of the uncooked pastry, sitting in the bowl on her kitchen table. She dashed down, covered it with a plate, and hid it in the pantry.
By the time she was back in the sitting-room, on her hands and knees again, picking up a hundred pearl-headed pins, she felt like a character in a fairy tale who had been set some impossible task and yet, by a miracle, had managed to complete it. Lilian lay helpless on the sofa, watching with dazed, wet eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she kept saying. ‘I’m so sorry, Frances.’
But then she pushed herself up, and spoke in a terrified whisper. ‘What’s that?’
Frances grew still. There were footsteps, out in the porch. Now a key was being put into the lock of the front door. She raised a finger to her lips. ‘It must be my mother.’
‘But there’s someone else, isn’t there? A man?’
She listened. Yes, there was definitely a man’s voice, answering some question of her mother’s. Not the police, already? She rose and tiptoed to the door.
But, ‘It’s all right,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s Mr Lamb.’
‘Mr Lamb?’
‘From down the hill. He’s walked Mother home. He must have been there tonight, too. What shall I do? Shall I go down?’
‘Yes, go! Go quickly, in case they come looking for you!’
The panic in Lilian’s voice made her tear off the apron and hurry out to the landing; but she paused, catching sight of her face in the oval mirror of the coat-stand. There was a crust of blood on her forehead, where she must have raised gory fingers to put back a lock of hair. Appalled, she rubbed it away. Was there anything else? Something in her expression? Some mark, some change? She held her own gaze, willing her features to be smooth, to be calm. For if she couldn’t manage this, she thought, then they were done for. If she couldn’t manage this, then what was the use of the horror and the fever of the past ninety minutes?
She heard her mother’s voice. ‘That might be Frances now. Let me see —’
She mustn’t come up! Frances moved forward and they met at the turn of the stairs.
‘There you are.’ Her mother was smiling, but sounded not quite happy. Frances followed her down to the hall. ‘Here’s Mr Lamb, look. He’s been so kind in seeing me home, I thought we might offer him a glass of your father’s whisky. But the drawing-room fire is dead in the grate!’
Frances said, with what sounded to her like unnatural smoothness, ‘I’ve been in my room, reading. How are you, Mr Lamb? Were you lucky at cards tonight?’
Mr Lamb smiled. ‘The ladies trounced us gentlemen, I’m afraid. They always do. Your mother’s far too clever; I don’t like it one little bit. But, how are you? It must have been a good book – was it?’
‘Book? Oh —’ Her mind, for a moment, was another terrifying blank. Then it clicked into gear again. She said, ‘To tell the truth, I was dozing. I’m sorry about the fire. I can soon lay a new one.’