Patricia Wentworth - The Blind Side

“Well, I really was going to Isabel’s party with Bobby, so I didn’t tell a lie about that. But then we quarrelled-”

“You and Bobby, or you and Isabel?”

“Oh, Bobby of course-about Ross. You know, Peter, it’s frightfully stupid of people to go on warning you about someone. Everyone has been warning me about Ross for months-Aunt Gladys, and Uncle Ernest, and Aunt Mavis, and Aunt Lucy. You know-all the sort of people you can’t have rows with. So when Bobby started in I just let him have it. I’d got it all saved up, and out it came. And then of course I couldn’t go to the party with him-could I? So I rang Ross up. Every time any of the aunts do any of their awful warnings I always ring him up-it just makes me feel I must. So I told Bobby I wasn’t ever going to speak to him again, and I met Ross at the end of the road.”

“Chapter one,” said Peter. “And chapter two is fun and games at the Ducks and Drakes, and we can skip that, because I was there and saw most of it. And now we come to chapter three.”

Mavis showed some slight embarrassment.

“Well, we got here-”

Peter nodded.

“I’d gathered that.”

“And when we got here he said, ‘Come in and have a drink,’ and I said it was too late, but he said oh, he’d just remembered that Lucy wasn’t here after all. And I said, ‘Do you mean the flat is empty?’ and he said ‘Yes,’ and a lot about being awfully sorry and all that-and, Peter, I thought he really was . And when he said I must come in and talk about what would be the best thing to do, I never thought-honest, Peter, I never thought about there being anything wrong-I really didn’t.”

“Evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart,” intoned Peter.

“How horrid of you! I can’t think why no one ever warns me against you. I think you’re quite the horridest person I know.”

“You’d better go on with chapter three.”

He could see her warming to it. Her colour had come back, and her eyes had brightened.

“We went into the sitting-room, and there was a decanter and glasses on the table, and I said I wouldn’t have anything more, and he said I must, so he got a bottle of champagne and poured out a glass for me and a glass for him, but I really only sipped it. And then he began to make love to me, and at first I liked it, and then I didn’t. And then he got rough, and my dress got torn and I got awfully frightened, and I picked up the decanter and hit him with it as hard as I could, and the table went over and everything broke.”

“I heard it. Continue.”

Mavis shuddered enjoyably.

“Oh, Peter, I thought I’d killed him. He went right down, and he groaned.”

“Dead men don’t groan.”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t dead. I only thought he was. I felt absolutely frozen, but when he began to get up I ran away-and oh, Peter, you can’t think how glad I was to see you.”

“The pleasure was far from mutual,” said Peter, in his most disagreeable voice. “Mavis, you really are an absolutely prize, champion idiot. Anybody could have told you what Ross was like.”

“They did tell me,” said Mavis tearfully. “That’s why I did it.”

“That’s why I said you were a prize, champion idiot. Now sit up and pay attention and listen. You’ll have to stay here tonight.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

“I don’t want you to thank me-I want you to listen. You will stay here tonight. You can have the bedroom, and I’ll camp down in here. In the morning you must go to this Isabel woman and tell her the exact truth and get her to back you up. She can lend you some clothes to go home in. And now you’d better try and get some sleep.”

“I don’t think I can sleep,” said Mavis.

“Well, I can,” said Peter. “So off you go!”

When she had got as far as the door she turned back.

“Suppose I had killed Ross-” she said rather breathlessly.

Peter was arranging a pile of cushions on the sofa.

“You didn’t, worse luck.”

Her dark blue eyes opened to their very widest.

“Would you have liked me to?”

“It might have been inconvenient. Pleasant things very often are.”

Mavis said, “Oh!” She looked mournfully at her torn dress. “It’s quite spoilt, and some of the champagne dripped on it. But I’m glad I didn’t kill him. Would it have been murder if I had?”

Peter gave a short enraged laugh.

“If you don’t want to be murdered yourself, go to bed and stay there! You’ll have to be up again at six or so.”

“Why?”

“I suppose you really haven’t got any brain. Do you want Miss Bingham to see you, or Rush, or that dreep of a charwoman?… No? Then you’ll have to get up bright and early and avoid them.”

Mavis trailed her torn dress through the doorway between the sitting-room and the bedroom. She said, “I think you’re very unkind,” and ended on a sob and banged the door.

Peter finished arranging his pile of cushions, switched on the light, and went to sleep. The last thing he heard was the clock striking two.

It was Peter’s habit to sleep deeply and dreamlessly until (a) somebody waked him-and it took a bit of doing-or (b) an alarm clock went off in his ear. The alarm clock was in the bedroom, and it would go off in Mavis’s ear at six o’clock, because he had intended to go out and swim before breakfast. And at six o’clock of an August morning it was broad daylight. So when he waked up a second time in the dark he felt very much annoyed. Not a single gleam of light came through the two open and uncurtained windows. It was stiflingly hot, and the cushions smelt of feathers dust and dye, and he had a crick in his neck.

He got up and stretched himself, and as he did so he heard the latch of the outer door click home. Peter could move very quickly. He was hot, stiff, and sticky, but he reached the hall and had the light on all in a flash. There was a scurry and a scream, and there was Mavis at the bedroom door. But she wasn’t coming out. She was trying to get in-and hide. She was still in her silver dress and her silver shoes. She had one hand at her throat, and in the other she clasped the little silver bag which he had seen lying beside her on a table at the Ducks and Drakes. Her eyes stared with fright and all her colour had gone.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said Peter in a rasping voice.

She kept on staring. Her tongue came out and touched her lips. She said in a whisper,

“N-nothing.”

“Why did you go out of the flat?”

She moistened her lips again.

“I didn’t.”

“Have it your own way, but I heard you come in.”

She let go of her throat and caught at the door jamb.

“I dropped my bag. It’s got all my money. I went to look for it.”

“Back to Ross’s flat?”

“N-no. I didn’t. It was on the landing.”

“Where?”

“Just by the door. It’s got all my money. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Are you going out again?”

“N-no, Peter.” She took her hand suddenly from the jamb and retreated.

“Then go to bed and stay there!”

Mavis shut the door with alacrity. How awful of him to wake up like that-how perfectly awful!

She put the silver bag down on Aunt Mary’s bow-fronted chest of drawers with the ivory escutcheons. Then, as she turned away, she caught sight of herself in the long mirror on the opposite wall. She half cried out, and stood a long time with her eyes fixed.

At last she moved. She looked down, and began to tremble. It wasn’t a trick of the light. It was really there-a red soaked patch just under her left knee. How horrible!

She caught up the silver stuff and held it away from her. The stain was about two inches across. Not so very large-and the dress was torn already.