She pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and listened as hard as she could. The wind was blowing more strongly now. She could hear the hedgerows rustle and squeak, and the tapping, somewhere, of a twig against the window.
Suddenly she could not bear not to know what was happening. She slipped out of bed, turned off her side-light and tiptoed, shivering in the dark, to the window. She flung back the curtains and peered through. It was pitch black out there, save where the light from a neighbouring window, his window, streamed out across the pale grass.
She waited, hoping to see his shadow, but there was no sign of movement, only the methodical noises from next door. Then the light went out and there was silence. She held her breath.
Distantly she could hear the strange echoing, churring noise of a nightjar somewhere on the marshes. It was a very lonely sound above the endless sighing of the sea. She strained her ears again. There was no sound of bedsprings from next door. Had he gone to bed, or was he still up waiting, and listening, just as she was? Leaving the curtains open she turned towards her own old-fashioned iron-frame and climbed wearily in. She was still very tense and she found herself longing to be able to go and fetch some hot milk. That alas was not possible in someone else’s house, even had she plucked up the courage to leave her room again.
Eventually she dozed.
The dog awoke her, barking furiously somewhere the other side of the house. She lay rigidly clutching the bedclothes, her heart pounding uncomfortably as she gazed up at the ceiling. Then, cautiously, she moved her eyes. A large round moon had risen. The pale colourless light flooded through the window illuminating her door and the far wall. Her eyes went without volition to the door-handle. Had it moved? Her hands flew to her mouth as she stared fascinated, hardly daring to breathe.
Then she heard it again. A stealthy movement from next door. He was stirring. She raised herself cautiously on her elbow and groped for her little clock. Half past three. Footsteps trod softly across the floor in the next room and she heard a creak and then a low clatter. He was up. He was walking about.
She put the clock down and lay back on her pillow, tensely listening to every sound. A bar of cloud drifted over the face of the moon and for a moment her eyes closed.
He had picked up the gun and was standing carefully behind his door listening. The dog was silent now and nothing in the house seemed to be awake. He checked that the gun was loaded and then, shouldering his haversack, he opened the door softly and listened again.
The old woman was standing in the hall in a patch of moonlight, waiting for him. It was the blonde, nervous one; the younger of the two. She stood there in her pink flannel nightdress, her hands stretched out as if to bar his way.
Harriet had opened her door a fraction. She put her eye to the crack and with a gasp saw Cathie standing there blandly smiling in her nightdress, her bare feet white in the moonlight. What was she doing? Why didn’t she move? Was the silly woman sleepwalking?
She tried to call out as the man stood in his doorway, his face growing ugly with anger, but Cathie didn’t seem to see that she was antagonising him, and no sound came to Harriet’s dry lips. Her throat was constricted with fear.
Then it happened. The man strode forward. He tried to push Cathie out of his way but she stood firm, gazing at him gently, that irritating foolish smile still on her face. He pushed again and she began to struggle with him, the two figures circling slowly, soundlessly on the rag rug on the polished wood floor.
Then the gun went off. It wasn’t a loud bang. Just enough to make Harriet jump, her heart leaping, thudding, into her throat. Then she saw the blood. Cathie was still smiling, but there was blood soaking through her nightdress. Drops fell darkly onto the rug and the polished floor, wet, black pools in the silver moonlight.
Slowly Cathie’s hands went to the place and, surprised, she looked down, and still looking surprised, she sank slowly to her knees. Harriet wanted to scream. She wanted to call out. She wanted to run.
She stood rooted to the spot for a moment, and then, terrified as the man turned to look at her, his face a blank mask, she moved at last, retreating into her bedroom, slamming the door, leaning against it, sweat pouring down her face. The key. Where was the key? Surely there had been a key?
Her fingers fumbled desperately at the lock and at last she managed to turn it. She ran for the chair which stood before the small table and wedged it under the door-handle, then she ran to the window and drew the curtains tight to shut out the cruel moon.
‘Cathie!’ she sobbed out loud. ‘Cathie.’
She heard steps outside her door and she froze. He was listening at her keyhole. She turned to look but the room was pitch black without the moonlight. She dared not move to try and find the light-switch.
She waited for what seemed like hours, hardly daring to breathe, then at last, shaking uncontrollably, she groped her way to the bed and sat down. She dared not open the door to look. But supposing Cathie were still alive? Suppose she needed a doctor? She pictured again that swelling scarlet patch on the flannel nightdress, and miserably she closed her eyes. It had been right over Cathie’s heart.
She must have dozed. When she awoke it was daylight. She lay, puzzled for a moment at the intense misery which gripped her whole body, gazing out of the window at the blue sky, light with high puffy clouds. Then she remembered. She dragged herself from the bed and went to the door and listened. The house was silent. She swallowed hard, then, suddenly resolute, began to dress as quickly as she could. She was stiff and her fingers were awkward and cold but she was determined to face whatever had to be faced from the security of her tweed suit. She even ran a brush briefly through her curly white hair.
Then she was ready. She listened carefully as very cautiously she turned the key. It took a lot of courage to open the door but she did it at last and looked out.
The body had gone. The floor was clean. Everything was as it had been the night before when she first went to bed. She breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs Cosby must have found Cathie. Perhaps the ambulance had already taken her away.
Plucking up her courage she went softly down the passage towards the guests’ sitting room. A strong incongruous smell of bacon was floating up the passage. She shuddered as she pushed the door of the sitting room open. The same two tables were laid again, one for one, one for two. At the latter sat a figure.
‘Hello dear.’ Cathie peered round. ‘I knocked on your door earlier, but you must have been sound asleep.’
Harriet’s mouth fell open.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ Cathie looked concerned. ‘Come and have some cornflakes. This sea air has already made me hungry.’
Harriet groped her way to the table and sat down. Her eyes were fixed on Cathie’s bosom which was covered in a pale yellow jumper.
Cathie smiled at her benignly. ‘Have some coffee, dear. That nice Mr Danway will be in soon. I was asking Mrs Cosby about him. He’s here for the duck shooting, you know. He went out in the early hours this morning. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him.’ She leaned forward confidentially. ‘Do you know, Hattie. It was so ridiculous last night. I dreamed he broke into your room and shot you! It really quite upset me this morning till I realised it was just a dream.’ She gave a little giggle as Harriet slumped into her chair. ‘I suppose it was the gun that did it. Silly me. Shall we go down on the beach later and look for shells, dear?’ she went on happily. ‘It’s going to be a lovely day.’
With a shaking hand Harriet reached for her napkin, guiltily pushing away the whisper of treacherous disappointment which had touched her at the sight of Cathie’s robust form. ‘You must have eaten too many sausages last night,’ she murmured with something almost approaching her usual asperity. ‘Fancy dreaming a stupid dream like that!’
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