The Alien

Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

About Bello:
www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello

About the author:
www.panmacmillan.com/author/josephinebell

• Josephine Bell
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  

Josephine Bell was born Doris Bell Collier in Manchester, England. Between 1910 and 1916 she studied at Godolphin School, then trained at Newnham College, Cambridge until 1919. At the University College Hospital in London she was granted M.R.C.S. and L.R.C.P. in 1922, and a M.B.B. S. in 1924.

Bell was a prolific author, writing forty-three novels and numerous uncollected short stories during a forty-five year period.

Many of her short stories appeared in the
London Evening Standard
. Using her pen name she wrote numerous detective novels beginning in 1936, and she was well-known for her medical mysteries. Her early books featured the fictional character Dr. David Wintringham who worked at Research Hospital in London as a junior assistant physician. She helped found the Crime Writers' Association in 1953 and served as chair during 1959–60.

Snow had not fallen anywhere since the early morning. In the little town of Higlett in Yorkshire, on the south side of the bay of that name, an army of overcoated and red-faced men with shovels and picks had piled the icy slush into grey ramparts along the edges of the pavements and afterwards, working from lorries, had thrown down sand and salt on the main streets. The infrequent cars, making a dangerous way into the town in search of necessary provisions, their wheels festooned with chains, ropes and other contrivances, sent up a muddy spray as they passed, bespattering those who had to cross the road and were climbing slowly, precariously, over the swept heaps at the kerb.

Outside the town the snow lay white, untouched, a heavy obliterating blanket on the surrounding hills, on the fields smooth and empty, on the stone walls dividing them and on the wild land beyond where it swept round to the cliffs at the north end of the bay. A smooth, relentless, aching cold, the surface broken only by a single streak where the coast road ran out through the Higlett suburbs, gradually winding upwards past the last of the shops to the larger houses standing back in their gardens, on to the bleak stretch along the head-land that served the lighthouse on St. Jude's headland itself.

The sky had been overcast all that day, yellow-grey above the snow, promising another fall. The dusk came early, to turn the sea black where lately it had been invisible under the blizzard and before that for three days whipped into foam by an easterly gale. When the wind died, after backing into the north, the snow had continued to fall. Now, sheltered from the north by the cliffs, the waves had died down; the bay was a flat black lake on which a single ship lay anchored.

The last house on the coast road was brightly lit that afternoon, the lights shining all the more strongly for want of any curtains drawn across the windows. The effect was not one of warmth, or cosiness. A hard light from unshaded bulbs shone out on to the snow, bulky figures moved in the rooms. Two cars, with paper spread on their windscreens and sacking on their bonnets, stood head to tail in the short, swept drive. They had made the hazardous journey at midday. Their owners, tired, cold, depressed, were now at odds with one another.

“Why doesn't he pack it in for today?''

“Why don't you ask him?
I
can't say anything.''

The girl looked up at the young man beside her. He smiled unwillingly, but pulled her close against him.

“No, Ann darling, you can't say anything. You can just go on practising being patient with me when I let out my grouse on you—''

“Instead of on Colin,'' she interrupted. “Don't say it, Steve. I know.''

“If he wasn't so damned
solemn
—We've
had
the funeral. Now it's only the furniture and things—''

“Would you expect him to cheer up on that account? Because he's disposed of them? Or because their things are now his? They were his parents, after all. Losing both together—''

“Within a fortnight. I know, I know.''

“Together, near enough. It'd be a shock for anyone. For Colin it's a near disaster.''

Stephen looked at her curiously. She seemed to be always, just now, defending his brother-in-law, who was no relation of hers. Even after they were married Colin would be only her sister-in-law's husband. No relation at all. She had often criticized Colin in the old days, when they were first engaged, for being stuffy, humourless, the perfect bureaucrat. Now it was just the opposite. Always excuses for him. Sympathy, pity, were charming up to a point. But the point had been passed.

“Keeping us sticking about while he sorts
papers
! I ask you,
papers
! As if he couldn't bring them all in the car and take them down to the hotel. It's fantastic!''

Ann drew away from him.

“How many times do I have to tell you he's very badly upset? Shocked and grieving. His biggest prop knocked from under him. I never knew them very well, living up here, but I thought they were a really splendid old couple.''

Stephen offered her a cigarette which she refused, then lit one for himself before answering.

“Of course you're right about them,'' he said, quietly. “A prop for Colin. You mean, of course, that Margaret isn't.''

She turned to him quickly.

“Look out. Mrs. Ogden.''

They had been standing at the window of the former drawing-room, which had windows at both ends; one looking out over the narrow strip of front garden to the bay, the other on to the fair-sized garden at the back of the house. They turned together to face the door through which came an elderly woman, well wrapped up in a thick overcoat, a woollen shawl over it round her shoulders and a thick felt hat pulled down over her white hair.

As the two turned to face her she was suddenly bathed in a fierce red light that swung across the room and away. Ann gasped. Stephen gave a short laugh.

“St. Jude's light,'' he said. “Just come on, I suppose.'' He turned again to the window. “Look, Ann, it shines white out to sea, but we're in the red sector, meaning that a ship coming into that beam would be standing into danger, too near the shore.''

“It frightened me,'' the girl answered. “I see what you mean. How on earth did the Brentwoods put up with it every night? Oh, there it comes again! I'd go scatty.''

“They had long, very thick curtains, if I remember rightly. Didn't they, Mrs. Ogden?''

The old woman nodded. She stood in the doorway looking from the young couple to the labelled furniture, the table with its close ranks of ornaments and photographs, the stacked pictures, the rolled carpet.

“They've done in here, I take it?'' she said, in her flat north country accent. “The dining-room and the study, too. Have you seen Mr. Colin, either of you?''

She spoke with the mixture of familiarity and respect usual in long-established servants who are also trusted friends.

“He's upstairs,'' Stephen said, impatiently. “God knows why he can't finish.''

“The good Lord
do
know better than you do, Mr. Stephen,'' Mrs. Ogden rebuked him. “Mr. Colin was a good son. They were a loving united family. Now there's only him left, all alone.''

Stephen and Ann exchanged glances.

“He has James and Sally,'' the girl said, quickly. “Only of course they're back at school now.''

“He has my sister,'' Stephen said, rather too loudly.

“Oh, aye,'' Mrs. Ogden was beginning, when a voice from the door said, “What about your sister?''

Margaret Brentwood stood looking into the room, holding her soft fur coat to her neck with both hands.

“What about your sister?'' she repeated, in a low, dragging voice that exposed to all of them her total exhaustion of body and spirit.

“Will Mr. Colin be finished soon, m'm?'' Mrs. Ogden asked, intervening in a calm level voice. “Ogden has the kettle on the stove in the kitchen. I could make you all a pot of tea before you go.''

“Wouldn't it mean more washing up, more work? I mean, heating more water? I thought we were going to turn the water off again? We shall have to, shan't we? Or the pipes will freeze. Mr. Colin wants to take you both down in the car with us when we go.''

“We're very grateful, I'm sure,'' Mrs. Ogden said, briskly. “But I for one would prefer to walk. I'm used to weather and so's Ogden. Them cars is dangerous in snow. I'd be easier on my feet.''

“Make the tea, Mrs. Ogden,'' Ann said. “We'd like a hot drink, wouldn't we, Steve?''

The latter murmured agreement and then moved to pull out one of the labelled chairs for his sister, who seemed to be swaying on her feet. Mrs. Ogden, nodding her head, moved across to the window, glancing through it as she passed.

“Still there,'' she said. “They may be Russians, but I wouldn't want any living soul to go through what they did two days back when their anchor dragged in the gale and they were like to go aground on the Head.''

“I can't see anything.''

“Where did Colin put the glasses?''

“In the hall, I think.''

Stephen went quickly to the door. Margaret said, just too late. “Ask Colin first if you may borrow them. They were his father's.''

Ann left the window to stand beside her fiancé's sister. She had always liked and admired Margaret, for her very English good looks, her beautiful home, her admirable children. She felt a little sorry for her, because Colin was such a bore, poor dear, stiff and prim with F. O. written all over him, as she usually described him to her friends. But since yesterday her opinion of them both had changed. On the journey up in the Brentwoods' car Colin drove in spite of the weather with great competence, smoothly, fast, taking no chances, losing no opportunities. He spoke very little. His face still showed traces of shock, even now, nearly a month after the influenza deaths, within a week of one another, of his old parents. But he was not any longer absorbed in his own grief. He was thinking of their comfort and convenience, hers and Margaret's. It was the latter who gave a really lamentable display of frayed nerves, irritation, even bad temper. Ann had been quite ashamed of her, and very glad when Stephen had joined them, travelling in his own car, the next morning.