The Paying Guests(129)
Hearing movement overhead, she stumped forward. ‘Are you there, my darling? It’s only me and your sisters, love!’ She began to haul herself up the stairs.
And so, once again, the house became a muddle of footsteps, creaking floorboards and raised voices. Drawers were opened in Lilian’s bedroom. There were arguments in the little kitchen. Frances heard pans and kettles being filled, then set to heat on the stove; soon lids were rattling above simmering water, and the sourish, briny smell of the black dye began to creep downstairs. She recognised it with a shiver, for it was one of those scents, like the smell of khaki and of certain French cigarettes, forever to be associated with the worst days of the War.
But she couldn’t bear to let all the activity keep her from Lilian; not again. She and her mother ate an unhappy, un-Sunday lunch, and her mother returned to the chair by the fire. But she herself went up and tapped shyly at the sitting-room door – just wanting to know, she said, if the family needed any help.
They had begun sewing already: they all had pools of black silk in their laps. The curtains at the windows were part-way shut – out of respect for Leonard, she supposed – but the lamps were lighted, coals were piled high in the grate, and the stains on the carpet were lost in the general clutter; the room retained its cosiness, in spite of everything that had happened. Vera was at one end of the sofa, a saucer of cigarette stubs by her arm. Min was beside her, sitting with her legs drawn up. Lilian was at the other end, closest to the fire. She was sewing like her sisters, but she let the work fall, and dropped her head against a cushion, to look over at Frances while Netta fetched a kitchen chair.
On Friday evening, Frances thought, she herself had sat where Min was now, holding on to Lilian’s hand. Their future had felt real, close, palpable, just an inch or two beyond their outstretched fingers. Now, returning Lilian’s gaze, she saw her tired dark eyes begin to brim with tears, as if exactly the same vision had occurred to her. They exchanged a tiny shake of the head, a shrug of hopeless regret. If only, if only, if only…
The little girl was at one of the windows, tracing patterns on the steamy glass. She turned to the room. ‘There’s a policeman coming!’
Frances looked at her. ‘Coming to the house?’
She answered as if to a half-wit. ‘No, coming to the moon.’ And while Vera got up, to smack her, Frances pushed past her and, wiping a pane, saw two men down on the pavement, just lifting the latch of the garden gate. She recognised Sergeant Heath at once. The other man wore an ordinary brown ulster, with a Homburg hiding his face. But as they crossed the front garden he tilted back his head – and then she saw his pink bank-manager’s lips and chin, his steel glasses. It was Inspector Kemp. He spotted her at the window, and raised his hand.
She couldn’t tell anything from their expressions when she let them in. And their tones, when they spoke, were as bland as ever. They apologised for disturbing her. They wanted a word with Mrs Barber, that was all. They were assuming she was at home?
She gestured them up the staircase, looked in on her mother, then followed them up to the sitting-room.
The bits of black sewing had been hastily tidied away. Lilian had shifted to the front of the sofa and was nervously smoothing down her hair. ‘I hope you’re feeling better?’ the inspector asked her, once a few subdued greetings had been exchanged. ‘I don’t mean to keep you too long today. But if you can spare me a few minutes, I’d be grateful. I’d like to tell you about the progress we’re making with the case.’
He sounded amiable enough. Again, however, Frances had the impression that his friendliness was all surface – or, worse than that, was somehow strategic, designed to put Lilian at her ease, the better, later, to trip her up. In the minute or two that it took to bring in another chair she saw him gazing around the room, clearly taking it all in. When Siddy awoke and began crying, and had to be bounced on Netta’s knee, he stood in a patient way on the hearth-rug, looking politely at the objects on the mantelpiece: the elephants, the Buddha, the tambourine, the china caravan…
Siddy’s howls subsided and the room settled down. Frances remained over by the door, on one of the kitchen chairs; Sergeant Heath had the other, between Netta and Mrs Viney. The inspector took the easy chair, across the hearth from Lilian. He sat at the front of it, still in his overcoat, his elbows on his parted knees, his hat dangling from his pudgy fingers.
‘Well,’ he said, addressing Lilian, ‘I dare say you’ve seen the morning papers. I should like to have spoken to you before we made our statement to the press, but they caught us on the hop a bit last night; I must apologise for that. I’m afraid what they’re saying is true. We’ve had our suspicions from the start, as you know. But there’s no doubt whatever now that this is a case of murder.’
Frances’s heart seemed to lose its footing. All this time, in spite of everything, she’d had a small, persistent hope that there would be too much uncertainty for the police to be able to commit themselves to the idea of the crime, to the word. Lilian must have felt the same: she closed her eyes, held herself tensely, as if unable to answer. Min, sitting beside her, gave her an awkward comforting pat. Netta drew Siddy closer. The little girl, cross-legged on the pouffe now, pinning scraps of black material together, sensed the stir and lifted her head.
Only the men were still – still and watchful, Frances thought. And partly to draw their attention from Lilian, who remained in that fixed, incapable pose, she cleared her throat and said, ‘How can you be sure?’