That is kind of you.’
They listened to the double crash of the heavy cases being dropped on the floor, the tramp of his footsteps and the bang of his door. Harriet cautiously opened hers a crack.
She hauled in the two cases and then shut it again. ‘Now what?’
‘I need my case in my room, dear,’ Cathie commented. ‘Surely he didn’t think we were sharing?’
‘I doubt if it crossed his mind.’ Harriet was tart. ‘Go on. Take it and run over. I’ll cover you.’ She wasn’t too sure what the last phrase entailed, but it certainly seemed appropriate.
‘I can’t run. It’s heavy.’
‘Well, drag it then.’
‘Should we go to bed, do you think?’
‘Well, I’m not going to sit up all night. Lock your door.’ Harriet was beginning to feel alarmingly tired. She had driven nearly two hundred miles that day and now, to find her room was next to that of a gunman – actual or potential – it would be surprising if she had not found the situation exhausting. She watched Cathie drag her case across the hall and disappear into her room, then with a sigh she closed her own door and locked it.
The rest of the evening was uneventful. She managed to reach the bathroom safely, then she regained her bedroom where she climbed into bed with a book and her little transistor radio to listen to the news. The news, when it came, was disappointingly lax in reporting any escapes from any prisons anywhere and she turned it off, half relieved, half disappointed, and opened her book. Hercule Poirot was hot on the trail; she began to gnaw her thumbnail avidly, her pages turning more and more quickly as the book neared its climax.
And then she heard it. In the silence of the room she could just make out the sound of a movement next door. She dropped her book on the counterpane and listened intently. Yes, there it was. A scraping and tapping. And then footsteps. A drawer being dragged open – quite distinct, that sound – and a low cough.
She pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and listened as hard as she could. The wind was blowing more strongly now. She could hear the hedgerows rustle and squeak, and the tapping, somewhere, of a twig against the window.
Suddenly she could not bear not to know what was happening. She slipped out of bed, turned off her side-light and tiptoed, shivering in the dark, to the window. She flung back the curtains and peered through. It was pitch black out there, save where the light from a neighbouring window, his window, streamed out across the pale grass.
She waited, hoping to see his shadow, but there was no sign of movement, only the methodical noises from next door. Then the light went out and there was silence. She held her breath.
Distantly she could hear the strange echoing, churring noise of a nightjar somewhere on the marshes. It was a very lonely sound above the endless sighing of the sea. She strained her ears again. There was no sound of bedsprings from next door. Had he gone to bed, or was he still up waiting, and listening, just as she was? Leaving the curtains open she turned towards her own old-fashioned iron-frame and climbed wearily in. She was still very tense and she found herself longing to be able to go and fetch some hot milk. That alas was not possible in someone else’s house, even had she plucked up the courage to leave her room again.
Eventually she dozed.
The dog awoke her, barking furiously somewhere the other side of the house. She lay rigidly clutching the bedclothes, her heart pounding uncomfortably as she gazed up at the ceiling. Then, cautiously, she moved her eyes. A large round moon had risen. The pale colourless light flooded through the window illuminating her door and the far wall. Her eyes went without volition to the door-handle. Had it moved? Her hands flew to her mouth as she stared fascinated, hardly daring to breathe.
Then she heard it again. A stealthy movement from next door. He was stirring. She raised herself cautiously on her elbow and groped for her little clock. Half past three. Footsteps trod softly across the floor in the next room and she heard a creak and then a low clatter. He was up. He was walking about.
She put the clock down and lay back on her pillow, tensely listening to every sound. A bar of cloud drifted over the face of the moon and for a moment her eyes closed.
He had picked up the gun and was standing carefully behind his door listening. The dog was silent now and nothing in the house seemed to be awake. He checked that the gun was loaded and then, shouldering his haversack, he opened the door softly and listened again.
The old woman was standing in the hall in a patch of moonlight, waiting for him. It was the blonde, nervous one; the younger of the two. She stood there in her pink flannel nightdress, her hands stretched out as if to bar his way.
Harriet had opened her door a fraction. She put her eye to the crack and with a gasp saw Cathie standing there blandly smiling in her nightdress, her bare feet white in the moonlight. What was she doing? Why didn’t she move? Was the silly woman sleepwalking?
She tried to call out as the man stood in his doorway, his face growing ugly with anger, but Cathie didn’t seem to see that she was antagonising him, and no sound came to Harriet’s dry lips. Her throat was constricted with fear.
Then it happened. The man strode forward. He tried to push Cathie out of his way but she stood firm, gazing at him gently, that irritating foolish smile still on her face. He pushed again and she began to struggle with him, the two figures circling slowly, soundlessly on the rag rug on the polished wood floor.
Then the gun went off. It wasn’t a loud bang. Just enough to make Harriet jump, her heart leaping, thudding, into her throat. Then she saw the blood. Cathie was still smiling, but there was blood soaking through her nightdress. Drops fell darkly onto the rug and the polished floor, wet, black pools in the silver moonlight.
Slowly Cathie’s hands went to the place and, surprised, she looked down, and still looking surprised, she sank slowly to her knees. Harriet wanted to scream. She wanted to call out. She wanted to run.
She stood rooted to the spot for a moment, and then, terrified as the man turned to look at her, his face a blank mask, she moved at last, retreating into her bedroom, slamming the door, leaning against it, sweat pouring down her face. The key. Where was the key? Surely there had been a key?
Her fingers fumbled desperately at the lock and at last she managed to turn it. She ran for the chair which stood before the small table and wedged it under the door-handle, then she ran to the window and drew the curtains tight to shut out the cruel moon.
‘Cathie!’ she sobbed out loud. ‘Cathie.’
She heard steps outside her door and she froze. He was listening at her keyhole. She turned to look but the room was pitch black without the moonlight. She dared not move to try and find the light-switch.
She waited for what seemed like hours, hardly daring to breathe, then at last, shaking uncontrollably, she groped her way to the bed and sat down. She dared not open the door to look. But supposing Cathie were still alive? Suppose she needed a doctor? She pictured again that swelling scarlet patch on the flannel nightdress, and miserably she closed her eyes. It had been right over Cathie’s heart.
She must have dozed. When she awoke it was daylight. She lay, puzzled for a moment at the intense misery which gripped her whole body, gazing out of the window at the blue sky, light with high puffy clouds. Then she remembered. She dragged herself from the bed and went to the door and listened. The house was silent. She swallowed
