Chapter 24

From his bedroom window Mix watched Mr. Singh pinning upfairy lights along the fronds of the palm tree. It wasn't Christmas or that festival Indians had about the same time, so whatwas he playing at? Maybe it's just as well we can't have handguns here like they do in the U. S. If I had a gun I'd shoot that guy here and now, Mix thought. Mr. Singh climbed down theladder, went into the house, and switched the lights on, red and blue and yellow and green twinkling in the exotic tree. Then Mrs. Singh came out in a pink sari, and the two of them stoodlooking at the tree, admiring the effect.

Even at this hour, the places where Mix had dug the garden showed up quite clearly from a distance, a small patch of turned earth and a larger one. He should have done his digging under cover of darkness, he knew that now, but that would have meant after midnight. Lights were on in the houses along Mr. Singh's road but on this side he couldn't see the backs ofthe terrace, only their gardens. One of them had outside lights along the wall and among the evergreens. A woman who hadcome out to take in a blanket and a pair of jeans from the washingline he recognized as Sue Brunswick. Thoughts of buying! her husband's car now seemed like a half‑ forgotten dream, let alone the designs he had had on her. Even Nerissa, whom he often thought of romantically at this time of day like a song at twilight, faded from his mind. Nothing mattered, not jobs or livelihood, not lack of a car, not love, nothong but stopping old Chawcer phoning the police.

Yet ever since he had come upstairs he had been paralyzed with fear. The ibuprofen he had taken, far in excess of the maximum recommended dose, made his head swim and hadn't done much for his backache. He hadn't even been able to pour himself a drink or think about food or sit down, but had stoodhere at the window, holding on to the sill for support and staringout. She would do it, he was sure of that. He hadn't tried to dissuade her because he knew for certain that she'd do it. Sheonly put it off till tomorrow because she belonged to that generation who thought you didn't phone the police or a doctor or go to the shops on a Sunday. His gran was the same. They saw Monday as the day you got down to things, so she'd tell them first thing in the morning.

The twin gleams of Otto's eyes were nowhere to be seen. Mix, who had never given Otto much thought before, now imagined how glorious it must be to be him, fed and housed for free, no job and none needed, insomnia unknown, freedom to wander a rich hunting ground all day and night if he wished. Free of pain, supple and fearless and free to murder anything that got in his way. No sex of course. Otto, he was sure, had been fixed. But sex was a nuisance anyway, and what you'd never had you couldn't miss.

This small distraction from his troubles sent Mix into the living room where he mixed himself a Boot Camp with an extra shot of Cointreau. He should have had the sense to do this a couple of hours ago. Then maybe he wouldn't have felt so bad. The cocktail had its wondrous effect and almost instantly made him feel there was no problem he couldn't solve. Youhad to get things in perspective, you had to know your priorities. His priority, in the here and now, was to stop old Chawcer talking to the police. It was probable, he thought, that she didn't know the effect her words would have on them. He knew. Searching for Danila's body simultaneously with their hunt for her killer, they would immediately be alerted to the chance of discovering both and be around here in ten minutes. She had to be stopped.

He knew how to stop a woman's tongue. He had done itbefore.

How she got out of bed Gwendolen hardly knew. She crawled a few inches across the floor. In Mr. Singh's garden a palm tree had turned into a chandelier of colored lights. She must be imagining it, something had happened to her brain. To reach the door, let alone the stairs, the drawing room, and the silverc abinet, was impossible. She would have liked to phone her doctor or even Queenie or Olive, but she would have had to roll herself down the stairs to do so. But it was Sunday, still Sunday as far as she knew, and angry as she had been with her long‑ dead mother, Mrs. Chawcer's principle of not making a phone call to anyone but members of one's family on a Sunday‑ and never, on any day, after nine at night‑ died very hard. So she crawled back without the strength to wash or what her mother had called " relieve herself, " saw that the imaginary tree was still there, still bright with twinkling colored stars, and fellon the bed still fully clothed, though she managed to pull off one shoe and kick off the other.

Lying there on her back, she pulled the quilt over her withher sound right hand. What was wrong with her she guessed, and had done so for the past hour, but only now could she put it into silent words. She had had a stroke.

Mix had come out onto the landing because she made such anoise getting out of bed. What was wrong with her? Perhaps she always made that much noise about going to bed. He wouldn't know. He never remembered noticing her bedtime before.

He asked himself if he'd be able to kill her in cold blood. Danila had been different. Danila had driven him into an uncontrollablerage with her insults and her unprovoked attackon Nerissa. The light on the landing went out and the Isabellal ights had disappeared while the street lamp was out of order. Once I'm alone here, he thought, I'm going to get all the lights in the place changed so that they stay on longer and I'm going to buy normal‑ size bulbs for them, hundreds or hundred and fifties, not this rubbish. It won't be for long, I'll soon be gone.

He looked across to the thin shaft of light coming from hiss lightly open front door, then, his eyes becoming used to thedark, along the left‑ hand passage. A figure was walking silently away with his back to Mix, as if he had come out of the neares troom. He turned as he reached the farthest door, saw him and grew still. Mix saw the gleam on the glasses on his beaky nose. Then the ghost lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. He put out his hands in the sort of gesture that indicates doubt or despair, and his lips parted. No sound came from them. Mix shut his eyes and when he opened them the ghost was gone.

The fear he usually felt seemed to have been partly banished by the greater terror of the police. He remained where he was, staring at the place where the ghost had been. The shrug had meant something. The ghost had been trying to tell him something. Perhaps it had been advising him to do what he had almost decided on. He, Reggie, had killed six women and been not much fazed by it. No one knew why he'd killed his own wife, but opinion was that she had found out about his murders and not only refused to protect him but threatened to do just what old Chawcer was doing to him. So was that what his ghost had been saying? Kill her. I never thought twice about it. Kill her and do what I did with Ethel.

Thoughts had begun to run out of Gwendolen's head, leaving it almost empty. Stephen Reeves appeared fleetingly before vanishing down a long road where those thoughts ran and where in the distance, on the edge of something indefinable, she could make out misty shapes who might or might not be Papa and Mama. Gradually they too faded and slipped overthat edge where Stephen had gone. She was alone in the worldbut there was nothing unusual in that. She had always been alone. And now, as something rumbled and murmured inside the place where thoughts had been, she knew she was goingout of the world alone. For no reason, with no particular desire, she told her hands and her arms to move, but they no longer obeyed her and she was too tired to tell them again. She breathed very slowly, in and out, in and after a long time out, in again very lightly and out on a long rattling sigh. If there had been watchers they would have waited for the next inhalation and when none came, have risen from their chairs, closed her eyes, and drawn the sheet up over her face.

Bright moonlight poured into the bedroom. When she camet o bed Gwendolen had been too ill and too tired to draw the curtains, and in the four hours that had passed, an almost fullmoon had mounted into the clear sky. Because of the positionof the large double bed and the height and width of the window, the moon between the half‑ open curtains spread a paleband across the bedclothes, a stripe of whiteness, leaving herface in the dark. Earlier than usual, the lights in Mr. Singh's house had gone out and the fairy light tree was also indarkness.

To his dismay Mix found himself trembling as he came into the bedroom, not from the temperature but from fear. Ye twhat was there to be afraid of? This time the ghost hadn't even made him shiver. All the doors downstairs were locked and, where this was possible, bolted. He and she were alone. The ghost was upstairs of course but Mix had felt and still felt that Reggie approved of what he was about to do. And, mystifyingly, the pain in his back had gone. He had taken no more ibuprofen, yet it was gone. He'd be all right now.

As he approached the bed a black shape uncurled itself andreared up, arching its back. The green eyes seemed larger andbrighter than usual.

" I'll kill you too, " said Mix.

He made a lunge for Otto who eluded his grasp with ease, hissed like a snake, and leapt for the open door and the stairs. The woman on the bed was perfectly still. Do it quickly, hesaid to himself, do it now. Don't look at her. Just do it. Her head was on one pillow and there was another beside her, athird up‑ ended against the bedhead. He took hold of the upendedpillow in both trembling hands and turning his headaway, pressed it down on her face as hard as he could.

She didn't move. There was to be no struggle. She remained utterly still. He held his hands there and they steadied while hecounted to a hundred, two hundred… At five hundred he let his hands relax and as they did so his fingers touched the skin of her neck. It was icy cold. He had never before touched such an old person‑ his grandmother had died at seventy‑ and he wondered if all of them were as cold as that, the heat in theblood, the warm life, cooling gradually with age.

He put the pillow back where he had found it and pulled thebedclothes off her body. It surprised him to see that she wasfully dressed. Maybe she always went to bed like that, nevertook her clothes off. He stripped the top sheet out from under the coverlet and blanket and began to roll the body up in it. By now he had some experience of this soh of thing, he was lessfearful and less clumsy. The trembling that he couldn't accountfor had entirely ceased. He felt very calm and resigned. He hadhad to do it. Before he wound the end of the sheet around herhead and face he made himself look. Her wide‑ open eyes remindedhim of Danila's. But Danila's had been young and clear, her body warm to touch. These eyes, rheumy, clouded, lay in a nest of wrinkles. And this old woman was ice‑ cold.

She was much heavier than Danila and it took him a longtime to drag her up the stairs to the top, the body bumping on every step. He expected renewed back pain but there was none. Once the body was inside his flat and he had had a drink, afairly stiff gin, he went back to her bedroom and tidied the bed, making it look as he thought she might have made it, in a rather slovenly way. Her shoes, which she must have kicked off before lying down, he put into the cupboard to join the jumblea lready there. He was going to tell those who inquired that she had decided to go away and convalesce, leaving everything the way she would if she had really gone.

All the time he was dragging her upstairs he was thinking hemight injure his back again, but he was quite free of pain. And somehow he knew he would continue to be unless it came on later, as it had done last time. At the trial of Timothy Evans, Reggie had made the court believe he couldn't have killed Evans's wife because his back was too bad for him to lift her. I won't be going near any court, Mix told himself resolutely. I got rid of her to keep myself out of court.

He went downstairs and drew back the bolts on the front door in case Ma Winthrop or Ma Fordyce decided to come every early in the morning and thought it was funny the door being bolted. He didn't want anyone thinking anything was funny. This house was a dreadful place at night, such a place as shouldn't be allowed to exist, he thought. Living here for long would drive you mad. You'd feel it was moldering away and slowly rotting around you, the wood and the hangings and the ancient carpets disintegrating hour by hour, minute by minute. If you stood still and listened you could almost hear it, tiny drippings and droppings, moths chewing, flakes falling, splinters, rust, and mildew turning to dust. Why had he ever thoughthe wanted to live here? Why had he spent all that money on making a small part of the house fit to live in?

Returning to the stairs, he saw Otto above him sitting on the first landing. Had she fed the cat? She would always do that before she went to bed and would have done so before she left in the morning on this journey she was supposed to be going on. He went back to look in case one of those two old women checked and found it funny the cat's plate being empty. Either Otto had eaten it or none had been put down. Mix opened a can and filled the plate.

" I'd put poison in it if I'd got any, " he said aloud.

Otto came down the stairs, Mix aimed a kick at him, but the cat sprang, raking claws down his bare ankle. Mix cried out, reached for his leg, and brought his hand away covered in blood. He cursed, peering through the moonlit dark for that shape and those eyes, but Otto had disappeared, leaving the food uneaten.

Mix followed, dripping blood. The moonlight came in everywhere it could find an uncurtained window or a crack between door and jamb, scattering spots and lines of white light. The landing windows let it in and it seeped through her bedroom door, which he had left ajar. Above him he saw Otto padding up the tiled flight. At the top, without hesitation, moving through a big square of moonlight, the cat turned left along the passage. When Mix got up there he was nowhere to be seen. Like some witch's familiar, he had disappeared into the ghost's abode. There Mix was too frightened to follow him.

He thought of searching once more for Gwendolen's sleeping pills but he was afraid. Such fear was irrational, he knew, as was the horrible fantasy he had of sleeping for too long and deeply until he awoke blearily to find police in the flat, thef ront door kicked in and Ma Fordyce unwrapping the bundle in which was Gwendolen's body. He must stay alert, lie down, and rest but not sleep. He had things to do in the morning that couldn't wait.

Queenie had been invited to a Fordyce‑ Akwaa family brunch. She thought it extraordinarily nice of them to ask her becauset he company would consist of Olive, her sister, her niece Hazel, and Hazel's two sons with their wives and two babies; she would be the only outsider. Gwendolen also had been invitedbut she had refused, as Olive‑ this was perhaps the reasonshe had been so anxious to ask her‑ had known she would.

Gwendolen was difficult. Everyone who came into contact with her knew that, but you had to make allowances for her age, ten years older than Queenie herself, and her single status. It was a well‑ known fact that being single all those years made you selfish. Queenie and Olive often discussed Gwendolen's rudeness and " contrariness" but agreed that they must put up with it and not consider withdrawing their friendship. They were also in agreement that it was unthinkable for her, in her present state, to be left alone for more than a few hours. Queenie should be the one to call at St. Blaise House in the morning while Olive would try to look in later, as she would bebusy before that with the brunch.

Nine o'clock was early, but she couldn't help that. She had things to do before she went round to Olive's. Still outstanding was the vexed question of what she was going to wear. The pink dress or the new white trouser suit she had been lucky toget in a size 18?

Gwendolen was probably still in bed. Queenie let her selfinto the house, calling, " Yoo‑ hoo" as she always did becauseshe didn't want to startle her friend. She looked first of all intot he drawing room. The bottle of port was still on the table andso were their two glasses with crimson dregs in the bottom of each one. In the kitchen was the customary mess. Nothing unusual in that. Queenie knew the tidiness and cleanliness achieved by herself and Olive was bound not to last. Otto's food bowl was half full. " Without quite knowing why, Queenie felt relieved Gwendolen had been strong enough to feed him before she went to bed.

There was no help for it, she was going to have to climb those stairs. Twice, probably, because Gwendolen would bebound to want a cup of tea. Solve that problem by makingit now. The old kettle, burn‑ encrusted on its outside and nodoubt coated in limescale within, took ages to boil. Finally Queenie was able to make the tea, a cup for Gwendolen andone for herself, liberally sugared with granulated for energy. She put both on a tray and began the climb.

Gwendolen's bed was empty and so was the room. The bed was made, not approaching Queenie's own standard with " hospital corners" but exactly the way Gwendolen would think adequate. The curtains were drawn halfway across the windowsand the place was as stuffy as usual. Queenie came out and avoice from above said, " Hi, there. "

Very unlike him, she thought. Why was he being so pleasant? " Is that you, Mr. Cellini? Good morning. Do you happen to know where Miss Chawcer is? ".

He came down. She thought he looked terrible, his roundface gaunt and hollow‑ eyed, the skin with a clammy sheen to it. His belly bulged over his jeans and the laces on his trainers were undone. " She's gone away, " he said. " For convalescence, she said. Somewhere near Cambridge. She's got friends there. "

As far as Queenie knew she had no friends but her and Olive. Then she remembered Gwendolen had said she was expectinga letter from Cambridge‑ or had it been Oxford? ‑ the one she had practically accused Mr. Cellini of purloining. Had Gwendolen had a letter from these friends and said nothingabout it to her or Olive? It was more than possible. It would be like her. Or thses Cambridge people might have phoned last eening. Still, it was very short notice. And Gwendolen had hardly seemed fit enough…

“When did she go? ”

Must have been about eight. I went downstairs to get my mail and there she was in the hall with her bag packed waiting for a cab to come. "

Queenie couldn't imagine Gwendolen calling a cab, still less having an account with some taxi company, but what did she know? How would she know?

" I supposed she asked you to feed the cat? "

" Sure and I said I'd see to it. "

" Do you know when she'll be back

" She never said. "

" Well, there's no point in me staying, Mr. Cellini. I've abrunch party to go to. " Queenie was proud of having been invited, as a widow of no particular importance, to what amounted to someone else's family gathering. " It's a joint venture of Olive and her niece Mrs. Akwas. "

He stared. “Will Miss Nash be there? "

Ridiculous man! She remembered the things he had said to Nerissa the day Gwendolen came out of hospital. He obviously had it bad, was quite smitten, as her late husband used to say. " Sadly for us, she won't. " Queenie disliked a man showing a preference for any woman but herself. She took a certain malicious pleasure, quite unlike her, in denying Mr. Cellini the chance of sending some lovey‑ dovey message. " She always has a day out with her father about this time of year and they've fixed on today. It's become quite a tradition. "

She went downstairs and to her surprise he followed her. " Did you drive here? " he asked when they were in the hallway. "

I haven't got a car. Why do you ask? "

" It doesn't matter. I just thought if you had you might take me up to the DIY place on the North Circular. "

Queenie, who generally lacked Olive's acerbity, for once forgetting to exercise her charm on a men said sharply for her, " I'm sure I'm sorry to disappoint you. You’ll have to go on the bus. " At the front door she turned round. " Olive and I will both be back. We'll want to get to the bottom of this mysterious trip of Gwendolen's. "