Tower of Silence (27 page)

On 15 January she went off punctually to catch the ten-thirty bus, wearing her camel coat and brown beret, carrying a small shopping bag. After she had been to Dr Munroe’s surgery she might look in at O’Donnell’s, she said. Someone had told her they had an after-Christmas sale there, and she could look for buttons for the cardigan she was knitting, and perhaps some new tea cloths. And with reasonable luck she would catch the one o’clock bus back to Stornforth and have a late lunch at home.

She waited until the bus had trundled back across the square, and then pulled her mackintosh out of her shopping bag and put it on over her coat. She tied a headscarf over her hair, and tucked her hair under it. The beret was laid carefully in the shopping bag. Good enough? Yes. In the reflection from a shop window she looked so insignificant as to be nearly invisible. So far so good, in fact so far more than good. She smoothed the thin leather gloves over her hands, making sure they would not slide off. The aunts had said you could always tell a lady by her gloves. Selina would not have dreamed of going out without gloves.

It felt peculiar to walk down Farthing Alley once more, but it also felt exciting again, in the secret, heart-pounding way. Selina stood in front of the tall old house and looked at the tightly drawn curtains at all the windows. Was she in there now, that harpy? It was a little after twelve o’clock. Great-uncle Matthew, if he followed his normal pattern and if the eleven-thirty
bus was on time, ought to get here in just over half an hour. Was that sufficient for what she had to do? Selina thought it was.

Taking several deep breaths, she crossed the road, continually glancing about her to make sure she was not observed. If someone came along, she would take it as a sign to abandon everything. But Farthing Alley was sunk in its usual deserted quiet, and no one appeared. It was not really a fair test, though. If the door of the house was locked, that would be the real sign, the one she would obey. But the door would not be locked; Selina knew that.

She was right. The handle turned softly and easily, and the door swung inwards. Selina looked up and down the alleyway once more, and then stepped inside.

She had not been able to form any mental image of the inside of the house, because nothing in her life until now had prepared her for such a place. She supposed, vaguely, that there would be a degree of comfort, and obviously there would be beds to lie on (did Great Uncle Matthew get undressed and lie on one of those beds, pulling his shirt up, the harpy helping him…?); but weighed bewilderingly against all that was the run-down appearance of the house itself and the sordid seediness of Farthing Alley.

What she was totally unprepared for was the grubby splendour of the interior, and its curious smell, which, although Selina did not realise it, was the smell of years of cheap perfume, ingrained cigarette smoke, and sexual intercourse.

She stood looking about her. The hall was larger than
she had expected; doors opened off on each side and directly ahead was a staircase. The walls were papered in thick crimson flock paper with a fleur-de-lys pattern–Great-aunt Flora had been very fond of the fleur-de-lys pattern; the dining room at Teind House had wallpaper with that design, although it was as well that Aunt Flora could not see it here.

There was a desk littered with papers and a telephone, and there were pink-shaded lights, and pink chairs with crimson satin cushions. Horrid, thought Selina. Cheap and gaudy and altogether horrid.

The doors on the left and right were both ajar, but as far as she could see neither was a bedroom. There were heavy mahogany tables in both the rooms, with bottles of whisky and brandy, and glasses on silver trays. The glasses did not look very clean and the ashtrays did not look as if they were emptied often enough. At the other end of the hall, beyond the stairs, was an archway, and beyond that was what was clearly a door into the kitchen quarters. Selina could hear, very faintly, the clatter of crockery, and voices. Would there be servants here? Would they be preparing a midday meal? She had no idea, but she must not stand here and risk discovery. If anyone did come out and see her she was going to say that she was looking for Number 23 where her cousin was staying. Number 23 was the larger of the two lodging houses in Farthing Alley; Selina had made a mental note of the number before coming in.

But no one came out, and after a moment she began to stealthily ascend the stairs. Every nerve in her body
was jumping with apprehension by this time, because if someone found her now the story of the cousin at Number 23 would sound a bit thin. But nothing stirred, and she reached the first floor without mishap.

She had had no idea how she was to find the harpy, and she had had no idea how many other harpies there might be inside the house either. There had been three of them on that never-forgotten afternoon, but this was quite a large house and for all Selina knew there might easily be half a dozen of them. There was also the problem about whether they actually lived here, or whether they just came here to go to bed with men, but Selina thought it more likely that they lived here.

It was now quarter past twelve, and unless Great-uncle Matthew ate his lunch somewhere in Stornforth and then came on here, he would arrive in about fifteen minutes. Selina’s heart began to race, because this was cutting it finer than she had hoped. But it had taken longer than she had thought to get her bearings, and it might take even longer to find the right bedroom.

The right bedroom. There, at the end of the first-floor landing, was an open door, and inside the room was a satin-covered bed with a familiar scarlet silk dressing gown lying on it, like a glossy pool of blood. Selina’s heartbeat accelerated, but with it came a heightened excitement. It’s all right. I’m meant to do this, that’s why it’s being made easy for me. I’ve found the right room straight away.

There was no one in the room. It would not have mattered very much if there had been, because by now
Selina was strung up to a pitch of such high tension that she knew she could have done what she had planned to do. But the room was empty, and Selina looked round carefully, and then took up a position behind the door. She set the shopping basket on the floor next to her, taking from beneath the rolled up beret the long-bladed knife, carefully sharpened in Teind House’s kitchen that morning. The handle felt familiar in her hand, even through the thin gloves. It gave her confidence, not that she really needed it, because she knew this was the absolute right thing to do. She was saving her uncle from the predator who had dug her claws into him, and she was saving her own inheritance.

Twelve twenty. Come on, Great-uncle Matthew. And come on, scarlet-taloned harpy. A hideous doubt skittered across her mind. Supposing he
was
having his lunch somewhere else? Selina had assumed he came straight here from the eleven-thirty bus, but she might have been wrong. If he did not come soon, the entire plan would collapse. Oh God, oh God, let him come, don’t let him be delayed. But did people who came to this kind of house expect to eat lunch here as well as going to bed? Selina dug the fingernails of her left hand into her palm in mingled anger and panic. Stay calm. Think of alternatives. Think of what to do if the scarlet harpy brings someone else here. Might that happen? Did these females go to bed with more than one man in the day?

And then there was the sound of the main door downstairs opening, and a man’s voice. Was it him? Yes, there was the throat-clearing sound he sometimes made. Oh
thank you, thank you! And now she could hear the shrill Glaswegian voice greeting him, saying, Oh, here you are again, and saying, Oh, we’ll have a fine auld afternoon together. There was the chink of crockery, and Selina caught, very faintly, the aroma of hot food. She held her breath, because if people were going to start coming into the room with trays—

But again it was all right. Great-uncle Matthew’s voice said, ‘Perhaps a little whisky right away, my dear. But lunch later on, I think.’ There was a wet suggestiveness in his voice when he said that which rasped across Selina’s mind like a pin catching on silk, but the harpy gave its screeching laugh and said, Och, you’ll be in need of the sustenance later an’ all, ye horny auld ram. Selina felt the bitter anger well up at that, because the bitch was pretending, she was
pretending
to want to take her clothes off for him. Nobody could possibly want to be in bed with Great-uncle Matthew, and she was deceiving him so that she could suck out all his money.

They were coming up the stairs now; here came the harpy’s light skittering footfall, with, behind it, Great-uncle Matthew’s clumping tread. Selina took a firmer grip on the knife’s handle, because it was important, it was absolutely vital, that she took the harpy by surprise.

They were on the landing–there was the rustle of clothes, and Great-uncle Matthew’s voice mumbled something that Selina could not hear, but then the harpy screeched with horrid glee again, and said, Get away wi’ ye, canna ye even wait ’til we’re in the bedroom, ye old devil! and Selina’s heart did its flip-flop again because if
they both came in together—Help me! she cried silently. Whoever you are who’s been guiding me, help me now! Keep him out of the room just for those few minutes!

‘Go back down now, and get the whisky,’ said the harpy. ‘An’ pour a glass of gin for me while ye’re about it,’ and Selina heard him go back down the stairs. This was it, then. Everything had fallen exactly and precisely into place, and this was it, this was the moment to act—

The harpy came into the room. She was wearing a slightly too tight black skirt and a vivid green blouse with frills. It was cut low so that her bosom showed. Her hair was a brassy colour; it was arranged in elaborate curls, and her mouth was a wet slash of colour. Selina thought it looked awful. Common, Aunt Rosa would have said, but in fact it was much worse than common. It looked as if she had drunk somebody’s blood and the blood was still dribbling out of her mouth. So I was right! thought Selina. She really
is
a harpy! Well, the creature would not be feeding on Great-uncle Matthew’s blood or anybody else’s after today, that was for sure!

The harpy did not immediately realise there was someone in the room. She crossed to the bed, and reached for the red silk robe, humming a little tune to herself. Selina stood very still, but every muscle was tensed. In another two seconds she would spring—

And then the harpy did realise. She turned sharply round, and saw Selina, and her eyes widened. Her gluey red mouth dropped open in a silent ‘O’ of surprise, and she started to say, ‘Who are you?’ but she only got as far
as the ‘Wh—’ because that was the moment when Selina moved.

She knocked the creature back across the bed, clapping a hand over the sticky-jam mouth so that the harpy could not shriek for help. She had the advantage of surprise, and she also had the advantage of being younger and fitter than her victim, and although the harpy was fighting back Selina was too strong for her. It was horrid almost beyond bearing to be pressed down on the creature’s body like this–she could smell the cigarette smoke in its hair and on its breath and she could feel the soft flabbiness of its body struggling to get free. Selina had thought it might be exciting and exalting to be doing this, but it was not. But you won’t get free, you evil greedy thing! she thought determinedly.

Making sure to keep her hand firmly over the creature’s mouth, she lifted the knife above her head, and brought it slicing down hard on the plump white throat. The harpy jerked and flailed wildly at the air, and as Selina dug the knife in as deep as she could, from a great distance she heard that someone in the room was sobbing with dry heaving sobs. Whoever it was must be quite a young child, because it was gulping and whispering something about saving mummy, oh please,
please
save mummy—

But the sobbing child could not be paid any attention. Selina dragged the knife free, causing blood to well up and soak into her good leather gloves and the cuffs of her mackintosh. The harpy made a choking bubbling sound, and fell back on the bed, and Selina straightened up, looking down at her. There was blood everywhere
–it was on the grubby satin coverlet and the pillows and it smelt disgusting. It made you think about a dark, bad-smelling stone tower, with a black yawning well at the centre…

But the harpy was dead. Her eyes were wide and staring, slimy trails of saliva running from the corners of her mouth. For a minute Selina thought she was bleeding from the mouth as well, but then she realised that it was the creature’s lipstick that had been smeared when Selina had her hand over its mouth. She glanced down at her left hand and saw the lipsticky marks on the leather glove.

She was just wondering, a bit dizzily, whether she could wipe the knife a bit clean on the bedcover when there was a creak of floorboards outside, and she heard Great-uncle Matthew’s h’rrmphing little cough as he came up the stairs. Perfect timing.

As if the half-nervous, half-catarrhal throat-clearing was a signal or a catalyst jerking her back on course, the plan, in all its beautiful symmetry, snapped back into Selina’s mind. She put the knife down alongside the harpy’s body, and then stepped behind the door once again.

He came into the bedroom with a stupid leery smile, and he was carrying two glasses, one of whisky, one of gin.

But when he saw what lay on the bed he turned white and stopped dead just inside the doorway. Selina, in the sketchy concealment of the door’s shadow, saw him put the two glasses down, and approach the bed; he walked unevenly, like a man in a dream or someone who was
very drunk. For a dreadful moment Selina thought he was going to go back out of the room and call for help, but he did not. He bent over the bed, his hands going to the harpy’s throat, feeling for a pulse. The cuffs of his shirt dabbled in the blood, just as Selina’s mackintosh cuffs had done.
Good
. Get as much blood on your clothes as you can. But pick up the knife, you foolish old man,
pick it up
, because if you don’t my beautiful plan won’t work nearly as well—

But he did pick it up. He did so with a bewildered expression, as if he was not quite sure what it was, and he looked at it, turning it over and over as if it might hold some secret that he could unlock. He looked back at the harpy, and that was when Selina said, ‘She’s quite dead. There’s no point in trying to revive her, or trying to call for help.’

He spun round at that, his face flabbery and patchy with fear and shock, and Selina took a step forward.

‘Her blood is all over your sleeve,’ she said, and then, speaking very deliberately, she said, ‘And your fingerprints are all over the knife that killed her.’

It was the business with the fingerprints that broke him. Selina had known there would be something that would do that–she had known there would be just one single thing that would tip the scales in her own favour, and in the end it was the ineradicability of his fingerprints on the knife.

For a few minutes he tried to bluster; he used his righteous, I-am-your-guardian voice and said he would
not be defied or blackmailed, and they would call the police here and now and Selina would be taken off and very likely shut away inside an institution for the rest of her life. She was a monster, a maniac, said Great-uncle Matthew blowing out his cheeks and glaring, and he would not hesitate to see that she received her just deserts.

But he did hesitate. He still stood there, between Selina and the thing lying in its own congealing blood, and he kept looking down at the knife and at his stained coat-sleeve, and he kept looking at Selina herself with an odd furtive sideways look, and Selina knew that he was sufficiently unsure of himself to risk calling the police, and also that he was sufficiently unsure of Selina herself. In the quiet room she could hear his thoughts as if they had been printed on the air:
She’s killed once already, and for no reason at all…If I oppose her, might she kill me as well…?

Selina moved to close the door so that no one would come in, and then she sat down on one of the silly frilly chairs, and said, ‘It’s all perfectly simple. I’ve got it all worked out, and if you want to avoid being questioned by the police you’ve got to do precisely what I tell you. And it’s no use blustering or whining, because if you do I shall go out into the street and scream for help. I shall say I saw you come in here and followed you, and that I found you standing over a murdered female. With,’ said Selina, softly, ‘a knife in your hand.’