just going to telephone to the butcher,’ she announced nonchalantly. ‘Don’t you bother to move.’
‘To the butcher? At this time of night?’
‘His shop’s shut, of course, silly. But he’s in his house all right. And tomorrow’s Saturday, and I want him to bring me some veal cutlets early, before someone else grabs them off him. The old dear will do anything for me.’
She passed quickly into the house, closing the door behind her. She heard Gerald say, ‘Don’t shut the door,’ and was quick with her light reply, ‘It keeps the moths out. I hate moths. Are you afraid I’m going to make love to the butcher, silly?’
Once inside, she snatched down the telephone receiver and gave the number of the Traveller’s Arms. She was put through at once.
‘Mr Windyford? Is he still there? Can I speak to him?’
Then her heart gave a sickening thump. The door was pushed open and her husband came into the hall.
‘Do go away, Gerald,’ she said pettishly. ‘I hate anyone listening when I’m telephoning.’
He merely laughed and threw himself into a chair.
‘Sure it really is the butcher you’re telephoning to?’ he quizzed.
Alix was in despair. Her plan had failed. In a minute Dick Windyford would come to the phone. Should she risk all and cry out an appeal for help?
And then, as she nervously depressed and released the little key in the receiver she was holding, which permits the voice to be heard or not heard at the other end, another plan flashed into her head.
‘It will be difficult,’ she thought to herself. ‘It means keeping my head, and thinking of the right words, and not faltering for a moment, but I believe I could do it. I must do it.’
And at that minute she heard Dick Windyford’s voice at the other end of the phone.
Alix drew a deep breath. Then she depressed the key firmly and spoke.
‘Mrs Martin speaking – from Philomel Cottage. Please come (she released the key) tomorrow morning with six nice veal cutlets (she depressed the key again). It’s very important (she released the key). Thank you so much, Mr Hexworthy: you won’t mind my ringing you up so late. I hope, but those veal cutlets are really a matter of (she depressed the key again) life or death (she released it). Very well – tomorrow morning (she depressed it) as soon as possible.’
She replaced the receiver on the hook and turned to face her husband, breathing hard.
‘So that’s how you talk to your butcher, is it?’ said Gerald.
‘It’s the feminine touch,’ said Alix lightly.
She was simmering with excitement. He had suspected nothing. Dick, even if he didn’t understand, would come.
She passed into the sitting-room and switched on the electric light. Gerald followed her.
‘You seem very full of spirits now?’ he said, watching her curiously.
‘Yes,’ said Alix. ‘My headache’s gone.’
She sat down in her usual seat and smiled at her husband as he sank into his own chair opposite her. She was saved. It was only five and twenty past eight. Long before nine o’clock Dick would have arrived.
‘I didn’t think much of that coffee you gave me,’ complained Gerald. ‘It tasted very bitter.’
‘It’s a new kind I was trying. We won’t have it again if you don’t like it, dear.’
Alix took up a piece of needlework and began to stitch. Gerald read a few pages of his book. Then he glanced up at the clock and tossed the book away.
‘Half-past eight. Time to go down to the cellar and start work.’
The sewing slipped from Alix’s fingers.
‘Oh, not yet. Let us wait until nine o’clock.’
‘No, my girl – half-past eight. That’s the time I fixed. You’ll be able to get to bed all the earlier.’
‘But I’d rather wait until nine.’
‘You know when I fix a time I always stick to it. Come along, Alix. I’m not going to wait a minute longer.’
Alix looked up at him, and in spite of herself she felt a wave of terror slide over her. The mask had been lifted. Gerald’s hands were twitching, his eyes were shining with excitement, he was continually passing his tongue over his dry lips. He no longer cared to conceal his excitement.
Alix thought, ‘It’s true – he can’t wait – he’s like a madman.’
He strode over to her, and jerked her on to her feet with a hand on her shoulder.
‘Come on, my girl – or I’ll carry you there.’
His tone was gay, but there was an undisguised ferocity behind it that appalled her. With a supreme effort she jerked herself free and clung cowering against the wall. She was powerless. She couldn’t get away – she couldn’t do anything – and he was coming towards her.
‘Now, Alix –’
‘No – no.’
She screamed, her hands held out impotently to ward him off.
‘Gerald – stop – I’ve got something to tell you, something to confess –’
He did stop.
‘To confess?’ he said curiously.
‘Yes, to confess.’ She had used the words at random, but she went on desperately, seeking to hold his arrested attention.
A look of contempt swept over his face.
‘A former lover, I suppose,’ he sneered.
‘No,’ said Alix. ‘Something else. You’d call it, I expect – yes, you’d call it a crime.’
And at once she saw that she had struck the right note. Again his attention was arrested, held. Seeing that, her nerve came back to her. She felt mistress of the situation once more.
‘You had better sit down again,’ she said quietly.
She herself crossed the room to her old chair and sat down. She even stooped and picked up her needlework. But behind her calmness she was thinking and inventing feverishly: for the story she invented must hold his interest until help arrived.
‘I told you,’ she said slowly, ‘that I had been a shorthand-typist for fifteen years. That was not entirely true. There were two intervals. The first occurred when I was twenty-two. I came across a man, an elderly man with a little property. He fell in love with me and asked me to marry him. I accepted. We were married.’ She paused. ‘I induced him to insure his life in my favour.’
