Weekend with Death Read Free Page A

saying, “It will be all right now.”
    All right now, because whatever the smooth, cold, glithery thing was, Miss Case had put it in Sarah’s bag. She had got rid of it by planting it in Sarah’s bag when Sarah was putting her hat straight in front of that revolting glass. “That was the only single moment I ever turned my back on her. And she must have been as quick as lightning. Who would have thought she had it in her? It only shows you can’t go by what people look like.”
    And now what?
    Sarah kept firm hold of the clasp of her bag. Smut or no smut, she wasn’t going to open it again until she was alone and could see what she was doing. She sat on the edge of the seat because the large man was now slumbering over most of her share of the back of it and thought bitterly of Miss Emily Case.
    It was at this moment that Miss Case, alone in a third-class carriage about seven miles from Ledlington, heard the sound of the wheels on the track become suddenly louder. They were louder because the left-hand door was opening. Even in the semi-darkness she could see that it was swinging in. And not of itself. Someone was climbing into the compartment. She saw a black shape rise, and she opened her mouth to scream.
    Nobody heard her.

CHAPTER III
    The cattermoles lived in chelsea. A tall, narrow house, so near the embankment that Sarah could just see the river from her attic if she craned dangerously far out from the left-hand window.
    The fog, capricious as fogs can be, was actually less thick in London than it had been in the country.
    Sarah let herself in with her latchkey, felt her way across the hall—Mr. Cattermole had personally removed the electric light bulb on the day that war was declared—and ascended to the next floor, where a very faint blue light was permitted.
    The drawing-room door opened as she went by. Joanna Cattermole in black velvet, her pale hair frizzing wildly out all round her small head, stood there beckoning. A thin, dry hand caught at her wrist.
    â€œMarvellous results whilst you’ve been away—really marvellous! My smuggler, you know—quite a long message. He has been longing to come through.”
    Sarah spoke soothingly.
    â€œI’ll be down in a minute. It’s not frightfully early, so I’d better change, hadn’t I?”
    She escaped, ran up two more flights in a hurry, and arrived at her attic. She had called it ghastly, but that was merely the irritation of feeling how nice it might have been if the Cattermoles hadn’t spoiled it. She liked being at the top of the house with a bathroom next door, and she liked the feeling that she could see the river if she didn’t mind risking her neck. The trouble was that the Cattermoles had put all the furniture they didn’t want into this large attic room, and there was so much of it that there was not a great deal of room for Sarah Marlowe.
    She came in now, switched on the light, and crossed over to the dressing-table, a massive Victorian structure with a two-tiered mahogany mirror planted squarely upon it. There were three chests of drawers, two of them full of hoarded rubbish—Cattermole rubbish—two wardrobes, one mahogany and the other yellow maple, a swing-mirror, and a big brass bedstead. There were black velveteen curtains at the two windows, a black velveteen bedspread exactly like a pall, and three armchairs upholstered in faded crimson damask. The walls were covered with one of those papers on which an elaborate pattern contends with the smoke and grime of years. A lovely bonfire of all the furniture and a pot of whitewash were visions with which Sarah sometimes cheered herself.
    At this moment however she wasn’t thinking about the ghastliness of the attic. She wasn’t even noticing it. She flung off her hat and coat, ran back to the door, and locked it. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed and opened her handbag. Her heart beat a little faster. Of