Weekend with Death Read Free

way to town. She had her back to the engine. Outside the cloudy window the fog flowed away on either side in an unending stream. The windows themselves were fastened, and covered by dark blinds. It was only with the eyes of her mind that she could see the river of fog go streaming by. With her ordinary, everyday bodily eyes she could at first see practically nothing, but as they became accustomed to deep dusk inside the carriage, she was able to identify the man over whose outstretched boot she had tripped and the girl who had said “Damn!” when she hacked her on the shin. The boot was so large that she wondered how she had ever got past it. The shin belonged to something in uniform—an A.T. or W.A.A.F. Beyond them other shapes, one of considerable bulk. These were between her and the door by which she had entered. On the other side a young man nudged and a girl giggled. In the opposite corner a fat voice soothed a yapping Peke.
    Sarah sighed. There was of course no hope of getting a compartment to oneself on this train, but it wasn’t always as crowded as this. She leaned back, wedged between the giggling girl and the man whose outsize in boots was matched by the width of his shoulders.
    She thought about Tinkler— darling Tink—“I shan’t see her again for a fortnight. Heavenly to have a little flat and find her waiting for me when I got home instead of retiring to my ghastly attic or sitting out the evening with the Cattermoles. But it’s no use—she’d never transplant, and the money wouldn’t run to it either. It’s the board and lodging and everything found that saves our financial lives.”
    She thought about the Cattermoles. Wilson Cattermole. Joanna Cattermole. Mr. Wilson Cattermole. Miss Joanna Cattermole. Brother and sister—elderly, cranky, stuffy, but undeniably kind. One wouldn’t perhaps cling to a Cattermole if one didn’t have to, but there were worse ways of earning a living—Emily Case’s way, for instance. It was better to be the secretary of the president of the New Psychical Society than to wait on an old lady’s whims.
    There were moments when the Society amused Sarah quite a lot. There was the time when they had investigated the case of a flat which was haunted by a canary—some very bright moments there—and the time the car broke down and they had to spend the night in the local inn and Joanna swore to an interview with a genuine eighteenth-century smuggler—“Such a very, very, very handsome man, my dear.” Poor old Joanna!
    It was a little later that Sarah felt convinced she had a smut on her nose. She declared afterwards that she had distinctly felt it settle. The large man on her right had gone to sleep practically on her shoulder. She had to slide sideways and lean well forward before she could open her bag. A smut on the nose is frightfully undermining to one’s self-respect. She slipped off her glove, managed to get the bag open, and groped in it for compact and handkerchief.
    The handkerchief should have been right on the top, but it wasn’t. Instead her fingers touched something quite unfamiliar—something smooth, cold, and glithery. She touched it, and instantly recoiled. It was rather like touching a snake. As the thought rushed through her mind, Sarah pringled all over. She shut the bag in a hurry and sat there. It couldn’t be a snake. It felt like one. “How do you know what a snake feels like? You’ve never touched one, thank goodness ! You don’t need to touch a snake to tell what it feels like—smooth, and cold, and glithery. How could there possibly be a snake inside my bag? Well, there’s something there that doesn’t belong.” And all in a blinding flash she thought of Miss Emily Case.
    Miss Case saying, “He pushed it into my hand.”
    Miss Case saying, “I don’t know what to do about it.”
    Miss Case all perked up and