The Paying Guests(120)

They oughtn’t to behave unnaturally, though. She offered Lilian her cup. ‘You must drink this, Lilian. And you should eat these biscuits. You’ve had nothing, for hours and hours.’

But Lilian shook her head, looking queasy. ‘I can’t. I feel so dreadful. Almost worse than —’ Startled by new footsteps, she looked over at the door; then went on in a whisper: ‘Almost worse than I did last night. My insides feel like they’re falling out of me! I just – I just want to go home.’

‘Well, they won’t need you for long, surely? They said you were under no obligation. Isn’t that what the sergeant said? That you were under no obligation?’

‘What are they going to ask me?’

‘I don’t know. Just try to stay calm.’

‘He said they’d found something. Didn’t he? He said they weren’t satisfied. Why would he say that? Suppose —’

More footsteps in the corridor. Abruptly, they moved apart. And after that they didn’t dare speak again.

Soon, anyhow, there was a knock at the door, and Sergeant Heath was back, bringing with him another man. This man was neat, un-uniformed, clean-shaven, slightly tubby, with the watch-chain and round steel spectacles of a senior bank clerk: seeing him come forward, Frances could only think, confusingly, that he was some colleague of Leonard’s from the Pearl. Then he offered his hand, and introduced himself as Divisional Detective Inspector Kemp, and said that he was here to go over Mrs Barber’s statement. And at that word ‘detective’, together with the realisation that he was a plain-clothes man, her confidence toppled and her heart seemed to pound right into her throat.

He said he would try not to keep Mrs Barber too long. Perhaps Miss Wray – she was the landlady, yes? – perhaps she would like to just step outside?

But Lilian caught hold of Frances again, in that terrified, terrifying way. ‘Mayn’t Frances stay with me?’

‘Well —’ He thought about it. ‘I don’t see why not. If you’ve no objection, Miss Wray?’

Frances gave an awkward shake of her head and joined Lilian at the matron’s table. The two of them sat on one side; the men sat on the other. Inspector Kemp looked through a sheaf of notes. How on earth had he got so many notes already?

To begin with, however, his questions were familiar ones; familiar, too, was that disconcerting delay while he made his careful, unemotional record of the answers. When had Mrs Barber last seen her husband? What had his movements been the day before? He had spent his evening, so far as she knew, with his friend Charles Wismuth? Could she confirm the spelling of Mr Wismuth’s name? Could she confirm Mr Wismuth’s address, and the address of his employer?

And what about Mrs Barber herself? How had she spent her evening?

There was the small, distinct sound of Lilian parting her dry lips. Well, she said, she had done nothing; a bit of reading, a bit of sewing. She’d gone to bed early, just after ten.

Did she often go to bed early? – No, she wouldn’t say often. Just when she was tired.

She had been tired last night? – Yes. No, she couldn’t think why.

And at what time had she been expecting her husband? Hadn’t she missed him when he didn’t appear? – Well, he was sometimes late. She’d fallen asleep, that was all. When she’d woken this morning and realised that he hadn’t come home she’d supposed that he’d missed his tram and gone to Charlie’s, or – She didn’t know what she’d thought. She hadn’t had time to think anything before the policeman came to the door.

She spoke earnestly; perhaps too earnestly. Her manner struck Frances as not at all convincing. But she had no idea what sort of an impression was being made on the men. They were not like Constable Hardy. Their faces were grave and unrevealing, and when they smiled, the smiles were professional, insincere, cold-eyed. Now and then she saw the inspector’s gaze flick over Lilian as she spoke, and she thought she could see him taking in her pallor, and the touches of powder and lipstick. She thought she saw him gazing in a speculative way at the curves revealed by her crimson jersey.

And then, in an apparent change of direction, he asked about the events of that night in the summer when Leonard had been assaulted. When, exactly, had that been?

Frances felt Lilian hesitate. She knew the date; they both did. It was the night of their first embrace, and had had a talismanic significance for them ever since. At last she parted her dry lips again and said, ‘The first of July.’

He tilted his head. ‘You remember it well? A Saturday night, wasn’t it? Were you with your husband when the assault took place?’

‘No. I – I saw him just after. I’d been at my sister’s birthday party. That’s how I know the date.’

‘Your husband hadn’t gone to the party with you?’

‘No.’

‘How about Mr —’ He consulted his notes. ‘Wismuth? Was he there?’

She frowned. ‘Charlie? No. He was with Len.’

‘They were together that night, too?’

‘There was a dinner. An assurance dinner. Charlie was there.’

‘And what did your husband tell you about the assault, at the time?’

‘He just said that somebody had hit him.’

‘Did he know who the person was?’