The Paying Guests(134)

‘I’m not sure. It was all Len’s stuff. Oh, it was dreadful, having to go through his things like that. And what they said about his – his brain. It was almost worse, wasn’t it, than seeing it?’ She looked over at the door. Her pose, with the twist in it, added an extra layer of strain and urgency to her voice. ‘What did they say about the wound? That it was vicious? How could they say that? They don’t know. They weren’t there! They’re turning it into something else!’

Frances caught hold of her hand. ‘But that’s what we want, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what they turn it into, so long as they don’t think of us. It doesn’t matter about Charlie. It might even help us, because of the timing. If they think he died at eleven – well, my mother was here then. She knows that you and I were in bed.’

‘But they’ve taken those hairs.’

‘The hairs don’t prove a thing.’

‘And they must have seen the ashtray! Oh, Frances!’

Frances squeezed her fingers. ‘But they’re not looking for an ashtray. They’re looking for a pipe, or a mallet. They’re looking for a man. Don’t you see what it means? It means we’ve done it. The whole horrible business – it means it was worth it. It means it worked.’

Lilian was gazing bleakly at her, but began to take in what she was saying.

‘Do you think so? Truly?’

‘I think so, for now. We still have to be careful, but – I think so, for now.’

Some of the strain left Lilian’s expression. But when she spoke again, it was with dreadful weariness. ‘I almost don’t care any more. I care for your sake, but not for mine. I care for our sake, I mean. For the sake of everything we planned. But —’

‘That’s all still there.’

‘Last night I kept dreaming about Len. I kept waking, and putting out my hand, and Vera was there, and I thought it was him, and —’ She gave a shudder, and couldn’t finish.

After a long moment of silence, she pushed herself to her feet. ‘I’d better not take too long or they’ll think I’ve fainted or something. I really do need the lavatory. There’s still blood. It’s still sore. Will you – Will you come outside with me?’

She asked it as if embarrassed. And once the door was opened she hesitated on the step. She must have been thinking, as Frances was, of the trips they’d made out here on Friday: the agonised hobble to the WC and then, a few hours later, the darkness, the haste, the strain and terror… She went quickly across the yard, then let Frances hurry her back out of the cold. In the kitchen they hugged each other, and Frances felt her quiver like a string.

But soon she eased herself away. ‘I’ll go back up on my own. It might look funny if they see us together too much.’

Frances kept hold of her hands. She felt, weirdly, almost elated. ‘I don’t want to let you go!’

‘I don’t want it either. But sometimes it’s worse being with you in front of them than not seeing you at all. Don’t you feel that?’

‘No. I can’t bear to be apart from you.’

‘It puts me on edge. They’re still on at me to go to the shop with them. Maybe I should, Frances.’

‘What? No, you mustn’t!’

‘They don’t understand why I want to stay here. I can’t say it’s because of you… Oh, if only we could just be together, alone! I feel like we never will be again. There’s the inquest, and then the funeral; and how will it be after that?’

‘Don’t think about all that yet. I love you. I love you! Think about that.’

She came back into Frances’s arms. ‘Oh, I love you too.’

But her features were doughy with tiredness again, and she didn’t cling to Frances as she had clung to her the night before. Even that quiver had gone out of her now. Once more she eased herself free, to spend a moment putting herself tidy. She let Frances support her to the bottom of the stairs, then dragged herself up them alone.



This time it was Mrs Viney who stayed the night, while the sisters and the children went home. She was less noticing than Vera, but more of a presence in the house, clattering about, sweeping and tidying, letting out bursts of sentimental song in a music-hall quaver. When Frances went up at half-past nine she found her in the little kitchen, already undressed for bed, her hennaed hair loose about her shoulders, an inch-wide strip of grey at the parting; from beneath the hem of her nightdress her stockingless ankles stuck out like two great pegs. She was happy to linger and chat, however, as she heated the water for Lilian’s hot bottle, regaling Frances with stories of other family catastrophes. Hard confinements there’d been plenty of, sudden deaths, maulings, scaldings. A Midlands cousin had got her scalp torn off by a loom… But they’d never had a murder, she concluded with a sigh, screwing in the rubber stopper. No, there’d never been a murder in the family; never till now.

Frances was almost sorry to say good night to her. Her own mood was still unnaturally buoyant. She lay in bed open-eyed, going over and over the inspector’s visit, her mind running like an engine in too high a gear.

Even next morning the feeling persisted. She was up at half-past six, had washed and dressed by seven, determined to be ready for anything the day might spring on her. To the goggling boys who brought the bread and the meat she spoke in a terse, un-encouraging way. When The Times arrived she went through it looking for a mention of the case, and found only a brief, brief report; Leonard’s name was misspelled as ‘Bamber’. The paper was full of events in Turkey and Greece. There was an account of a massacre at Smyrna. It was the sort of bad news from which, ordinarily, she turned in despair. Now she seized on it as real, important – nothing like the patchwork of blunder and police supposition that had become this phantom thing, this imaginary murder, on Champion Hill.