Chloe Hawkins came running down the stairs, in a hurry, evidently. Her reaction, when she saw him, was normal in the circumstances: a little startled shriek, and the look of consternation to which the intruder was becoming accustomed.
He smiled. “Where are you off to?” he asked. “My, you look nice!”
“Don,” she faltered. “Why did you come here?”
“To see you, of course. Don’t you remember? We’re-friends.”
“But the police are after you. And suppose Gus comes home?”
“I don’t think he’ll come yet, Chloe. He’s just sitting down to a meal at the Stag’s Head.”
“Oh. But you can’t stay, Don. It-it isn’t fair to me. What do you want? Money? I haven’t much.”
He put one arm around her tiny waist and squeezed her, lifting her onto her toes. “I don’t want money,” he said. “At the moment I want you. I’ve been in a monastery for the last two years, you know.”
“Oh. And then will you go?” she asked, slightly relieved.
“What is this? Am I a leper or something?” he demanded with assumed irritation. “Everywhere I go, people want me to keep going.”
“Well, the police are seeking you everywhere. It’s in all the papers. You won’t stay long will you?”
“Not more than a fortnight. And now, how about something to eat, my dear? Just a snack: I don’t expect you to cook anything.”
He had gone all through the eventful day, since morning, without a wash. He had not touched Cicely Wainwright after she had so inconveniently died, but nevertheless he could not eat until he had cleansed his hands. He had a wash in the kitchen, so that he could keep an eye on Chloe. Then he drew a chair to the kitchen table and had a factory-made pork pie with pickles, followed by two cups of tea. Chloe watched him uneasily, smoking all the time. She noticed that his hands were stained green, just as her husband’s hand had been at breakfast that morning. She was too worried by his presence to make any comment about the stain.
Starling also noticed the stain, and wondered about it. Something on Chloe’s towel? He could not see that it was important, and he did not speak about it.
After eating, he watched her remove the evidence of the meal. As she was passing near to him he caught her hand. He rose and embraced her. He fondled her and became excited. In a little while, though she still wished that he would go away, she responded to his urgency. When he suggested that they should go to her bedroom, she was not unwilling.
They went upstairs together. On the broad landing at the head of the stairs he stopped. He looked up at the ceiling.
“Is the old gadget still working?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied, surprised that he could remember the loft ladder at such a moment.
“Is it used much?”
“Nobody’s been up there for months.”
“Do you remember the time I had to hide up there when Gus came home too soon? I stuck it twelve hours for your sweet sake.”
She smiled faintly. “It was awful. All the time I was scared you’d make a noise.”
“It could happen again,” he said as they went into the bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, he walked out onto the landing and again looked at the ceiling, at the part where there appeared to be a long trapdoor. He went to the stairhead window, where the cords which controlled the loft ladder were hidden by a draw-on curtain. He found the cords, and operated the nicely counterbalanced mechanism. The trapdoor dropped open gently and noiselessly. He reached up and pulled at the stepladder which was revealed. It slid down smoothly until one end of it was resting on the landing.
Chloe came out of the bedroom and saw that he had let down the loft ladder. “What have you done that for?” she demanded in alarm.
“I’ve got to sleep somewhere tonight,” he said. “Your attic will do me nicely.”
She stared at him in dismay.
“Don’t worry, I shall only stay one night,” he said. “Keep moving, that’s me. Mr. Bloody Martineau won’t see me till I want him to see me.”
She did not speak. He grinned at her.
“I believe I noticed an old chamber pot among the family heirlooms stored up aloft,” he said. “You know, the one with pink roses on it. So all I need is a couple of blankets and a jug of water. Go get ’em.”
“You can’t stay here, Don,” she whimpered.
“Sure I can,” he said confidently. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, and I don’t snore. I’ll clear off tomorrow as soon as Gus has gone out, and you won’t have a thing to worry about. Now go get my blankets. I am about to retire.”
She brought blankets and a jug of water. He took them from her. “And so to bed,” he said lightly. “Cheer up, Chloe. Don’t worry about me. Go out and enjoy yourself.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going out. I daren’t, now.”
“Please yourself,” he said. Then he paused with one foot on the bottom step. “Don’t entertain any notion of calling the coppers,” he warned her. “If I’m caught here, Gus will get to know about the good times you’ve had with me. And not only me, a few more fellows as well. Doug Savage for one. So keep your cute little mouth buttoned up. Good night, sweetheart. Pull the stairs up after me.”
13
It was nearly ten o’clock when Gus arrived home. There were lights in the house. When he saw that Chloe was waiting he felt somewhat repentant, wishing that he had not stayed for a meal at the Stag’s Head. He apologized as he embraced her.
“That’s all right,” she replied. “Nobody can blame a man if he stays for the odd drink after a hard day.”
But she could not quite meet his glance, and he wondered if she were hiding resentment. Then he saw the evening paper, unopened, on the hall table.
“Haven’t you looked at the paper?” he asked. “Haven’t you heard the news?”
“No. What news?” she queried, rather absently he thought. He told her. She seemed to stop breathing when she heard the word “murder.” She held a button of his coat, and looked at it as she listened.
“Oh dear, that’s dreadful,” she said when she had heard it all. “Dreadful!” she repeated.
He noticed that she was very pale. “Now don’t get upset,” he said kindly. “The four thousand is a smack, but I can stand it. It’s Cicely and the boy I’m bothered about.”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “How is Colin?”
“He’s got a bad concussion, but the doctor says he’ll be all right. I hope so. You can never tell with a bang on the head.”
Her attention seemed to be straying. Then she became aware of his scrutiny, and she said: “I do hope he’ll get better, darling. Shall I make some supper?”
“Not for me, thanks. I’ve just had a meal.”
“I’ll make a drink of coffee,” she said, and hurried away to the kitchen. He frowned after her, observing uneasiness in her; uneasiness which was additional to the shocked concern which he had expected. It was as if the murder of Cicely had aroused in her some fear for herself. He shook his head. Unpredictable creatures, women.
After drinking his coffee, he felt extraordinarily drowsy. He was immediately suspicious, because he was never sleepy before midnight. “Did you put one of your sleeping pills in my coffee?” he demanded with heavy-eyed sharpness.
“No,” she denied.
“You have!” he insisted. “I can tell. Damn it. I’m not so worried about Cicely that I have to be put to sleep.”
She looked down at her hands, and the expression on her small face was hidden by fair hair and long dark eyelashes. He considered her, and reflected that the sleeping tablets showed practical sympathy, at any rate.
“Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”
14
That was Saturday, St. Leger day. The day Granchester was shocked by the murder of Cicely Wainwright. The day her murderers’ guilty hands were stained green instead of red. The day Furnisher Steele was made to worry about his grandchild and Lucky Lusk about her face. The day Martineau, for the first time, actually wished that his wife Julia would leave him.