The Paying Guests
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.
Part Three
11
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 Fra
nces 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 rolli
ng 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?