The Paying Guests (39 page)

By the time she was back in the sitting-room, on her hands and knees again, picking up a hundred pearl-headed pins, she felt like a character in a fairy tale who had been set some impossible task and yet, by a miracle, had managed to complete it. Lilian lay helpless on the sofa, watching with dazed, wet eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she kept saying. ‘I’m so sorry, Frances.’

But then she pushed herself up, and spoke in a terrified whisper. ‘What’s that?’

Frances grew still. There were footsteps, out in the porch. Now a key was being put into the lock of the front door. She raised a finger to her lips. ‘It must be my mother.’

‘But there’s someone else, isn’t there? A man?’

She listened. Yes, there was definitely a man’s voice, answering some question of her mother’s. Not the police, already? She rose and tiptoed to the door.

But, ‘It’s all right,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s Mr Lamb.’

‘Mr Lamb?’

‘From down the hill. He’s walked Mother home. He must have been there tonight, too. What shall I do? Shall I go down?’

‘Yes, go! Go quickly, in case they come looking for you!’

The panic in Lilian’s voice made her tear off the apron and hurry out to the landing; but she paused, catching sight of her face in the oval mirror of the coat-stand. There was a crust of blood on her forehead, where she must have raised gory fingers to put back a lock of hair. Appalled, she rubbed it away. Was there anything else? Something in her expression? Some mark, some change? She held her own gaze, willing her features to be smooth, to be calm. For if she couldn’t manage this, she thought, then they were done for. If she couldn’t manage this, then what was the use of the horror and the fever of the past ninety minutes?

She heard her mother’s voice. ‘That might be Frances now. Let me see —’

She mustn’t come up! Frances moved forward and they met at the turn of the stairs.

‘There you are.’ Her mother was smiling, but sounded not quite happy. Frances followed her down to the hall. ‘Here’s Mr Lamb, look. He’s been so kind in seeing me home, I thought we might offer him a glass of your father’s whisky. But the drawing-room fire is dead in the grate!’

Frances said, with what sounded to her like unnatural smoothness, ‘I’ve been in my room, reading. How are you, Mr Lamb? Were you lucky at cards tonight?’

Mr Lamb smiled. ‘The ladies trounced us gentlemen, I’m afraid. They always do. Your mother’s far too clever; I don’t like it one little bit. But, how are you? It must have been a good book – was it?’

‘Book? Oh —’ Her mind, for a moment, was another terrifying blank. Then it clicked into gear again. She said, ‘To tell the truth, I was dozing. I’m sorry about the fire. I can soon lay a new one.’

But at that, her mother gave an awkward laugh. ‘We can’t expect Mr Lamb to sit and watch you do that!’

‘No, I wouldn’t dream of putting you to the trouble,’ Mr Lamb said, laughing too.

He was as embarrassed as her mother, embarrassed at having caught them out in their economies over coal and servants; and the smallness of it all, the aching drab simplicity of it, after the violence of what she had been through, nearly pushed her off balance. They chatted for another minute or two, but she grew ever more wooden and unnatural. The strain in her muscles was like a howl. There was a wet patch in the folds of her cuff, where she had soaked away a bloodstain. She could feel the perspiration rising on her lip, and was afraid to draw attention to it by wiping it away.

Anyhow, they could hardly all stand there in the hall. Her mother, moving towards the front door, said, ‘I’m afraid you shall have to have your whisky some other time, Mr Lamb. Thank you so much for seeing me home. Do give our love to Margaret.’

When the door was closed behind him she began twitching off her gloves. ‘Really, Frances. You might make a little more effort. What on earth’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing’s the matter,’ said Frances, wiping her mouth at last. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, poor Mr Lamb —’ But now her mother’s fingers had slowed and she was looking at Frances oddly. ‘
Is
something the matter?’

Frances smiled, or attempted to. ‘I was on my way to bed. I wasn’t expecting visitors. I might have been in my dressing-gown!’

‘Well, he was kind enough to walk with me. I felt I had to ask him in. It isn’t half-past ten yet, is it?’

‘I don’t know what the time is. – No, leave the locks.’ Her mother had gone back to the door, to fasten the chain and draw the bolt. ‘I haven’t put out the milk-can. And besides —’ Her heart fluttered; she could hear the flutter in her voice. ‘Leonard isn’t home yet.’

Her mother let the chain fall. ‘Oh, isn’t he?’ She spoke with dismay.

But then she grew still, and looked at Frances in a sharper way. ‘Mr Barber has been out all evening? But Mrs Barber’s been at home?’

Frances stumbled over the little word. ‘Yes.’

Her mother said nothing. But it was plain what she was thinking. It was plain what she was supposing, about how Frances had spent her time. And the gap between even the worst of her suspicions and the hideous nightmare reality was again almost too much. Frances felt an urge to step towards her, catch hold of her hand. ‘Oh, Mother,’ she wanted to say, ‘it’s frightful! Oh, Mother, make it better!’

She forced herself to turn away, and went, with bowed head, to the kitchen.

For there were still the bedtime chores to see to, even tonight: the stove to be riddled, the breakfast things to be put out. Her eyes were darting the whole time, looking for marks, for splashes of blood. When her mother followed her along the passage and headed out to the WC she thought of the lavatory pan, remembering how hastily she had cleaned it. That was Lilian’s blood, of course, incriminating in a different way. God, there’d been nothing but blood, all day! The house felt as though it were swimming in it! If her mother should see some trace of it —

But, no, it was too dark for that. Her mother returned from the yard in silence. She poured herself a glass of water and said a chill good night.

Once Frances had shut off the gas in the hall she went softly back up to the sitting-room and leaned weak-kneed against the arm of the sofa. Lilian, seeing her pose and expression, whispered, ‘What? What is it?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘What did they say? They haven’t guessed?’

She answered in a hiss. ‘No, of course they haven’t guessed! How could my mother ever guess such a thing? It was only foul, to have to stand there and pretend that nothing was wrong, when all the time —’

She didn’t finish. Lilian’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Please don’t start to hate me now.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ said Frances with an effort. ‘I just —’

‘You don’t wish we hadn’t done it?’

‘Yes, I wish we hadn’t done it! I wish you hadn’t hit him, Lilian! But what does it matter what I wish? We’ve done it, and that’s that. We’ve done it, and can’t undo it, and —’ She saw the gingham apron, still lying in a heap on the floor. She bundled it up and threw it on the fire. ‘If only we might have more time! I can’t believe there isn’t something to give us away. But we can’t keep looking. My mother will hear us moving about, and start to wonder. We must go to bed —’

Lilian looked terrified. ‘You won’t make me go to bed on my own?’

Frances sagged. ‘Lily, you must. We must do just what we would do on an ordinary night. It’ll look odd, otherwise. We mustn’t do anything to raise suspicion. The police will want to know, when they come —’ A fresh wave of panic rose in her. ‘But we haven’t talked about this at all! We have to be sure to say the same thing. There mightn’t be time to discuss it in the morning.’

‘Let me come into bed with you, then. We can talk about it there. Please don’t make me sleep on my own tonight. I can’t do it. Please, Frances.’

Please, Frances
.
Please, Frances
. Frances had heard those words all evening. But the tears were running from Lilian’s eyes now; she was trembling again; and it was impossible to do anything but go over to her and embrace her.

And in clutching at each other, they both grew a little calmer.

‘All right,’ murmured Frances, as she helped her to her feet. ‘All right. Put on your night-clothes. Can you do that? Don’t get cold.’

While Lilian went weakly off to undress, she herself remained in the sitting-room, looking again at the stains on the carpet, and searching for anything she might have missed before, any evidence of Leonard’s having been there… She found only more pearl-headed pins.

Out on the landing they called good night to each other, and Lilian closed her bedroom door. That was for Frances’s mother’s benefit; a minute later she came creeping across the landing and Frances hurried her into bed. They left a candle burning. Her face was grey in the light of it. She lay under the blankets with chattering teeth, her arms and legs twitching with cold, her hands at her still-aching belly. Frances spread herself against her, pulling her close, trying to warm her.

Once her shivering had begun to subside they talked for a while, in strained whispers, about what might happen in the days to come. They settled on the stories they would tell, as to how they had spent their evening. But Lilian by now was exhausted, and began to frighten herself by growing muddled; so Frances kissed her, and let her be, and soon she lay still and heavy in the bed, marble-cold, like a toppled statue. She stirred only twice more before sinking completely into sleep. The first time was to squeeze Frances’s hand, to look into her eyes and murmur, ‘We used to want to do this, didn’t we?’ She might have been mournfully recalling the habits of a long-ago love affair. But the second time was to raise her head with a start, and peer over at the curtained window.

‘What was that?’

‘There’s nothing,’ said Frances.

‘Are you sure? I thought I heard —’ She met Frances’s gaze. ‘Suppose we made a mistake? Suppose he wakes up? Suppose —?’

‘He won’t wake up,’ said Frances. ‘There’s nothing we can do. It’s too late. Don’t think about him.’

But she was thinking about him herself. She was recalling the weight of his body in her arms, the bulk of his padded head against her shoulder. She kept remembering the moment in the sitting-room when she had had that vision of the two dark paths. What had made her choose one over the other? She could recall the urgency of her feelings, but the feelings themselves eluded her. The only urgency she felt now was the urgency of fear. She was afraid of what she had done, and of what she might have neglected to do. Those twists and tugs in Leonard’s clothing, for example: she ought to have taken more care over putting them right. And then, the position of his limbs. She hadn’t thought of that at all, but surely there was a way that a man fell, when he’d slipped or stumbled, and a way that he didn’t fall…?

Most of all, however, she thought of his wound, that had had the cushion pressed against it. She couldn’t believe that the yellow fabric hadn’t left threads and tufts behind. Could she go back? For a moment she considered it. She actually began to ease herself out of Lilian’s statue-like grip, thinking that she could steal downstairs and out across the garden with a lantern in her hand.

But then she heard a noise, a rustling or creaking on the other side of the window; after a few suffocating heartbeats she realised that the noise was the patter of rain. It came gently at first, then fell more persistently, until she could picture it making its blameless, cleansing assault on Leonard’s clothes, Leonard’s body, his smashed head, his soft, soft mouth. She lay there listening to the drum of it, sick to her bones with relief and shame.

The rain fell steadily all night long. The candle died, the fire burned lower in the grate; the room grew dark, then less dark, and still the tumble of water went on, until Frances began to think that she had heard every separate drop of it. She didn’t sleep. She barely closed her eyes. Somewhere around six she managed to prise herself from Lilian’s grip, to slide from the bed, creep to the window and part the curtains. She could just make out a line of roofs and chimneys through the downpour, but of the far garden wall she could see nothing: only a black mass of shadow.

She was aching in every limb, and the room seemed piercingly cold. She struck a match, tiptoed to the hearth, did her best to light a new fire in the ashes of the old. Once the flames had begun to crackle, she heard a murmur: ‘Frances.’ Lilian was awake, looking at her. She went back to the bed and they held each other tightly. ‘I thought it was a dream,’ Lilian whispered. ‘I thought it was a dream; and then I remembered.’ A shudder ran right through her, just like the shudder that came with love.

But she didn’t cry. The tears seemed all wrung out of her. A change had come over them both: they were calm, perhaps dazed. Frances looked at the clock. ‘You ought to go back to your own room. Now that it’s light, someone will find him; a workman, or someone. Someone might come to the house.’

Lilian rose without complaint, only wincing a little with pain. She was still bleeding into the napkin, though not so heavily as before. She fitted her arms into her dressing-gown with her shoulders drooping. She and Frances stood together in a last, wordless embrace. Then Frances eased open the door and she stole across the landing, pale and silent as a ghost.

The knock came at five to eight, as Frances was pulling on a skirt, and just as she’d begun to wonder whether it was ever going to come at all. There could be no mistaking it for the postman’s brisk double rap. It was heavy, ominous: the sound of bad news. With her heart like lead in her chest, and her torn muscles seeming to tear again at every step, she made her way downstairs.

She found her mother in the hall, just emerging from her own room.

‘Are you expecting any sort of delivery, Frances?’

She shook her head.

The small gesture felt false. Her leaden heart stirred unpleasantly. Then she opened the door, and the sight of the policeman, tall and bulky in his mackintosh cape, nearly took the strength right out of her.

But the man was one they knew slightly from having seen him make his rounds: a Constable Hardy, rather young, and new to the job. She saw his Adam’s apple moving in a boyish way as he swallowed. He said, ‘Miss Wray, I think?’

She nodded. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘Well, I’m afraid to say something is.’

Her mother came forward. ‘What is it, Frances?’

He addressed himself to her then, swallowing again before he spoke. ‘I understand that a Mr Leonard Barber normally resides in the house. Is that correct?’

‘Yes. Yes, it is. He has rooms upstairs with his wife. But he’ll have left for work by now. At least –
Did
he leave today, Frances? I don’t know that I heard him. Has something happened, Constable? Come in, will you, out of the porch.’

He came forward, taking trouble over wiping his feet. When the door was closed behind him he said, ‘I’m afraid there’s reason to believe that Mr Barber has been injured.’

Frances’s mother put a hand to her throat. ‘Injured? On his way to work, you mean?’

He hesitated, then looked over at the staircase. ‘Is Mrs Barber at home?’

Frances touched her mother’s arm. ‘I’ll fetch her. Wait here.’

Her heart had calmed, but her manner still felt strained and artificial, and her aching legs, as she began to climb, seemed not quite under control. She meant to go right to the top and call to Lilian from there; but Lilian, of course, had heard the knock, had heard the constable’s voice. She was out of her room already, still in her nightdress and dressing-gown but with a shawl over her shoulders, and looking so pale, so hunched, so worn – so
ill
– that Frances’s knees almost buckled completely. She spoke from the turn of the stairs, horribly conscious that Constable Hardy and her mother were watching as she did it.

‘Don’t be frightened, Lilian. But a policeman’s here. He’s saying that something’ – her mouth felt tacky – ‘that something has happened to Leonard. I don’t understand. Has Leonard left for work already?’

Lilian stared at her. She had heard the oddness in her voice, and it had made her afraid. She mustn’t be afraid! Frances swallowed, and spoke less stickily. ‘Is Leonard here?’

Finally, Lilian came forward. ‘No. No, he isn’t here.’

‘Has he gone to work?’

‘He hasn’t come home. I – I don’t know where he is.’

She followed Frances down the staircase, and when she caught sight of the policeman she faltered, just as Frances had, and reached for the banister. But that was all right, Frances thought; that was natural. Wasn’t it? She took hold of her hand to help her down the last few stairs, trying to will strength and confidence into her grip. The constable said again that he was sorry, but he had something very grave to say, and perhaps Mrs Barber would like to sit down? So they all went into the drawing-room, Frances going quickly to the windows to open the curtains. Lilian sat at the end of the sofa; Frances’s mother took the place beside her, put a hand on her arm. Constable Hardy removed his helmet and came gingerly forward, doing his best to avoid the carpet; he was concerned about the rainwater dripping from his cape.

With his Adam’s apple jerking more wildly than ever, he told them that a man’s body had been discovered in the lane at the back of the garden, and that he had reason to believe, from items in the man’s possession, that the body was that of Mr Leonard Barber. Could Mrs Barber confirm that her husband was absent from the house?

Lilian said nothing for a moment. It was Frances’s mother who cried out. Constable Hardy looked more awkward than ever.

‘If Mrs Barber could just confirm —’

‘Yes,’ said Lilian at last. Then: ‘No. I don’t know. I don’t know where Len is. He didn’t come home last night. Oh, but it can’t be him! Can it?’

There was fear in her voice. Was it the right sort of fear, or the wrong? Frances couldn’t tell. She went swiftly around the sofa and put a hand on her shoulder.
Be calm
.
Be brave
.
I’m here
.
I love you
.

Constable Hardy had got out his notebook and now began to take down the details of the case. Could Mrs Barber tell him when she had last seen her husband? What had his movements been yesterday? He had gone to work? Where was that? And afterwards? When had she first missed him?

In a wavering tone Lilian gave him the address of the Pearl headquarters, then told him about Leonard’s plans to meet up with Charlie Wismuth. He made a careful note of the name in a laborious, schoolboy hand, his helmet tucked awkwardly under his elbow as he wrote. Then he turned to Frances and her mother. They hadn’t seen Mr Barber?

They shook their heads. And, ‘No,’ said Frances. ‘No. Out in the lane! You’re quite sure? It seems incredible.’ She stared over at the window, her hand still on Lilian’s shoulder, trying desperately to shrug off the artificiality of her manner – trying, too, to work out what questions she ought to be asking, which bits of knowledge she should and shouldn’t have. ‘I know,’ she said, in the same inauthentic way, ‘that Mr Barber sometimes uses the lane as a short-cut. Do you think he might have done that late last night? But that means – How long do you suppose he’s been out there?’

‘Well, his clothes are soaked right through.’

‘But how on earth did it happen? How did he —?’

‘We think, from an injury to his head.’

The words made Lilian twitch: Frances felt the jump of her shoulder. She tightened her grip on it.
Be brave!

But now her mother looked up at her. ‘Oh, this is dreadful. Dreadful! It’s just like that other time, Frances!’

Constable Hardy blinked at them. ‘Other time?’

On slightly safer ground now, her manner more natural, Frances told him about Leonard’s having been assaulted by a stranger back in July. He took down the details, in his arduous way; she had the impression, however, that he was doing it mainly for form’s sake. For it was too early, he said, to determine cause of death. The police surgeon would be able to tell them more, once he’d made his examination. There had been no robbery from Mr Barber’s person, so far as they’d been able to ascertain. His pocket-book still had money in it, and his wristwatch and wedding-band were still in place. That made it very possible that he had simply lost his footing on the wet ground and struck his head. The surface of the lane was covered with stones —

Frances felt Lilian twitch again; again she tightened her grip on her shoulder. She said, to make it be true, ‘A fall, you mean?’ And Constable Hardy answered, ‘Well – yes, that was certainly how it looked.’

Her mother had risen from the sofa and gone over to the French windows. Her face was grey. ‘It doesn’t seem possible! To think of poor Mr Barber out there! And the rain still falling! Mrs Barber, we must bring him inside, surely? Frances —’

Frances felt a wave of nausea at the thought of going anywhere near him. If she had to touch him, if she had to lift him again —! But Constable Hardy said, ‘I’m afraid it would do no good. I’ve already sent a man for an ambulance.’

‘But to think of him out there! Who’s with him now?’

‘PC Edwards is with the body. One of your neighbours at the back gave us a piece of mackintosh for it. It was the man who discovered him, while walking his dog. He supposed him a tramp at first, because he had no hat on him; the hat had gone rolling off, you see. But then he saw that he was respectable, and after he’d had a closer look he thought he knew him for a clerk from one of the houses on Grove Lane. I’ve been over there for half an hour, knocking on doors. We got a doctor in the meantime, to come and confirm that life was extinguished, and it was only then that we found a paper in Mr Barber’s pocket, with this address on it… That looks like the ambulance now,’ he added, as a grey, featureless van went up the street, past the front garden. He turned to Lilian, and drew himself together. ‘Mrs Barber, I’m afraid it’s my duty to have to ask you, as next of kin, to follow us on to the mortuary to make a formal identification.’

Lilian paled further. ‘What do you mean? To look at Len, do you mean?’

‘I’m afraid so. We’ll have a taxi drive you there and bring you back. It won’t take long. The coroner’s officer will want to take a statement from you too, but I expect he’ll call here later for that.’

Lilian had begun to breathe more quickly. She said, ‘I don’t know if I can.’ She raised her hand to Frances’s, looked up into her face. ‘I don’t think I can.’

Her gaze was panicked, unguarded. Alarmed, Frances squeezed her fingers. She didn’t want to look at him, either. She remembered his pink, protruding tongue. But, ‘It’s all right,’ she made herself say. ‘I’ll do it with you. Will that make it easier? I’ll go with you. You won’t be alone.’ She turned to her mother. ‘You’ll manage here, Mother, if I go with Lilian?’

‘Yes, of course,’ answered her mother. ‘No, Mrs Barber mustn’t go alone.’ But she spoke distractedly. She was still peering down the garden. ‘I simply can’t believe it. The idea of us being in our beds while —’

Lilian gazed across at her. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Wray.’

She turned from the glass, shocked. ‘What are you sorry for?’

‘I don’t know.’

Lilian’s voice broke on the words, and she started to cry. She dried her eyes with her handkerchief, but cried again when Constable Hardy asked if there were any persons she would like to be notified – relations of her husband’s, or of her own?

She nodded. ‘Len’s mum and dad. Oh, this’ll kill them, I know it will!’ And in a voice broken up by upset and fear she gave him the Peckham address, along with her own mother’s address on the Walworth Road.

He put his notebook away, then fitted on his helmet, fiddling with the strap under his chin. He would talk to his colleagues at the police station, he said, and call for a taxi at the same time. Did the house have the telephone, by any chance? No? Then he would use the police box down the hill.

Once he had left, the three of them stood absolutely helpless for a moment; then they started into jittery life. ‘You must eat something, Frances,’ her mother told her. ‘You, and Mrs Barber. You mustn’t go with nothing inside you. Mrs Barber, this is awful for you. May I come and help you to dress, or —?’ Lilian shook her head. ‘Are you sure? You’ve a horrible thing ahead of you.’

Frances said, ‘I’ll see to Lilian, just as soon as I’ve done the stove. – No, there isn’t time for the stove. I’ll make the tea upstairs, on the gas.’

She raced about, fetching the things. Lilian weakly climbed the stairs. She was in her bedroom, a hand at her forehead, when Frances went up. She let Frances pull her close, then trembled in her arms. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, Frances. I feel giddy. It’s all too much.’

Frances spoke in a whisper. ‘But you’ve done a part of it. You heard what he said about the stones. That’s one part done already.’

Lilian drew back to look into her face. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Yes. Yes.’

She closed her eyes, and nodded. Frances pulled her close again, and kissed her, then ran to see to the tea.

And while the water was boiling, she went into the sitting-room. She wanted to take another look at the blood-stains on the floor. She quietly drew back the curtains, and – God, there they were, four, five, six, seven of them, plain as anything if one knew what to look for. When she stooped and put her hand to them she found them damp, still, to her touch. And the fireplace was black with smuts, the grate a mess of greasy-looking clinker and scraps of unburned apron: there was no way to get rid of that just yet. She shovelled the worst of it into the ash-pail and hastily laid a new fire; she got it burning, and heaped on the coal. So long as the room was kept warm, the carpet would dry, and the stains fade into the pattern – wouldn’t they?