Flight of a Witch

CHAPTER III

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He got up as soon as it was light, and dressed and went out. What was the point of staying in bed? He hadn’t slept more than ten minutes at a stretch all night. He couldn’t stop hearing her voice, patiently, desperately, wearily going over the recital time after time, unshakable in obstinacy.

‘I went out to post the letters, and met Mr Kenyon at the gate. He offered to take them for me, but I wanted some fresh air, so I walked. What else can I tell you? That’s what I did. I went for a long walk, right over the Hallowmount and along the brook. I meant to come back round by the bog, but it got dark so quickly I changed my mind and climbed back over the top. And then I met them, and that’s all. It’s Thursday. Whatever you say, it must be Thursday, it was Thursday I went out with the letters. What’s happened to you all?’

And the two of them at her, one on either side, frightened and angry but afraid to be too angry, afraid to drive her further from them; anxious, bitter, piteous, throwing the same questions at her over and over.

‘Where did you go? Where did you spend the nights? Who went with you? What’s come over you? Do you expect us to believe a fairy-tale like that?’

He had driven them home, and then torn himself away as inconspicuously as he could, but he hadn’t been able to help hearing the beginning of it. What right had he in that scene? Annet didn’t want or need him, and he didn’t want to hear them call her a liar. He got out of the house, and took the car and drove into Comerford. All the way along the quarter of a mile of solitary, moonlit road, under the flank of that naked slope, he was repeating to himself that at least she was alive and well, and that was everything. Wherever she had been, whatever was the truth about her lost five days, she was alive and well, and home. But by the ragged, chaotic pain that frayed him he knew that that was not quite everything. And he knew that she would win, that in the end, true or not, they would all be committed to the same uneasy silence and acceptance.

One thing he could do, and he did it. He parked the Mini in the drive of Bill Mallindine’s modern house by the riverside, and made returning a borrowed book the excuse for his unexpected call. Eve was out at some improbable feminine meeting, but Bill gave him a drink and a chair by the fire, and welcomed him gladly. And he hadn’t even had to ask any questions. At a table in one remote corner of the multiple living-room – heaven knew how they heated it so successfully, the crazy shape it was – Miles Mallindine and Dominic Felse were devotedly disentangling finished cassettes from cameras, and securing them in their little yellow bags ready for the post. Their heads together over the work, they gave him the polite minimum of attention. It was Bill who teased Miles to display some of his best pictures, and volunteered the information that the two had spent the half-term camping and climbing near Tryfan. The two pairs of boots, bristling with tripe hobs and clinkers, carelessly off-loaded in the hall, should have spoken for themselves.

So that, as far as it went, was that. Miles was home, with enough paraphernalia to provide him with an alibi, and with a reliable ally to bear witness for him into the bargain. And if they’d really planned anything together, Annet and he, wouldn’t they have taken care to cover her tracks as well as his?

And besides, there was the incredible conviction with which she had carried off her return, the dozen details that couldn’t be shrugged away. The mention of her surprise at seeing him, when he should have been well on his way home, the reassurance that she wasn’t even in danger of getting wet, because it had stopped raining, when it hadn’t rained for five days. And her charmed, distant face, and the suddenly engendered fear and wonder as the ground shook under her feet. Could she, could anyone, act like that? It was hard to believe.

Almost as hard as that the earth had opened and admitted her into secret, terrible places, and given her back at the end of five days with no memory of the time between, not a minute older than she went away. Late, late in a gloaming Kilmeny had come home, all right, but whether from some fairy underworld or a cheap hotel God-knew-where, that was more than he dared guess. Bonny Kilmeny! She was that, whatever else she might be. And Kilmeny, you’ll remember, he said to himself bitterly, driving home, was pure as pure could be. Who are you, to say Annet isn’t?

It wasn’t over when he got home. He had prayed that she’d be in bed, and her parents too exhausted to harrow the barren ground over again for him. But she was still there, and all that was changed was that the passion was clean gone out of her repeated affirmations, nothing left but the simple repetition of facts, or what she claimed were facts. She was indifferent now, she spoke without vehemence; if they believed her, well, if they did not, she couldn’t help that. She was tired, but eased; and there was something still left in her face and body of a strange, rapt, content. The strongest argument for her, if she had but known it. They might plead, and argue, and lament; she had only to withdraw into her own heart, and she was secure from all troubling. He could feel the truth of that, at least. The source of warmth and joy and security was within her, some perfection remembered. Not remembered, perhaps, only experienced still. My God, but it couldn’t be true! Could it?

And when they all said good-night, like relatively civilised people, suddenly it was clear that they would speak no more of this. She could not be shaken. She could only be convinced by the production of a letter received in answer to one she had posted on Thursday, by the torn-off leaves of the calendar, and their collective certainty. Confronted with these, she shrank in bewilderment and fright, and from accusing they had to reassure her. Did any of them believe? Was it even possible to believe? Elsewhere he would not have credited it, but here on the borders the frontiers of experience grew generously wide and imaginative. They winced from pressing her too hard, probably they were grateful that they had not been able to catch her out in any particular. Wasn’t it better to let well alone, and pray a little? Dreading, nevertheless, what revelation might yet erupt to confound them all.

Nobody knew! That was sanctuary, that nobody knew but the four of them, and please God, nobody ever would. He was so tangled into their household now that he would never get clear. Maybe he had drawn too close to Annet, in everything but blood, ever again to be considered as more distant than a brother.

Perhaps that was why he couldn’t sleep, why he arose before dawn, and went like a sensible modern man to look over the ground by daylight. Painfully new daylight, but clear enough to show details the moon had silvered over. Because she must be lying. (Musn’t she?) And if she was lying, where had she been? Farther away than the other side of the Hallowmount. And what had she been doing? (And with whom? But that was the question he would not entertain, he pushed it out of sight as soon as it reared its head.) Even granted the simple possibility of amnesia, she must have been somewhere. And from that somewhere she had returned precisely to the Hallowmount, as if only through the medium of that incalculable place could she reach her home again. That made this as surely a translation back from fairyland as if the earth had truly opened and let her go.

Again he climbed the hill, this time in the grey first light of a dull morning. Once over the crest he looked down upon the shallower undulations of another moorland valley, open heath grazing on both sides of the narrow brook that threaded it. An unpopulated, bare, beautiful desolation in changing tints of heather and bracken and furze. Not a single house in sight. No one here but sheep to stare at him and wonder as he dropped in long strides down the hill. On a wet Thursday afternoon there’d be no picnickers, no hill-walkers, no one to watch Annet Beck disappear into the underworld. Not like venturing on to Comerbourne station with a suitcase in broad daylight, among hundreds of people who knew her. But if this was to be considered as an escape route to somewhere else instead of fairyland, then there had to be a means of leaving this bowl of waste land, and faster than on foot. Footpaths were here by the dozen, trailing haphazard across the country from nowhere to nowhere, apparently, skirting the patches of bog where the cotton grass fluttered ragged and frayed. With a pony you could cover the ground here at a good speed, but Annet wasn’t one of the local jodhpurs and ’ard ’at sorority, and with a pony she would in any case have been courting notice when she did encounter human beings. Could a car be got up here? He had been long enough in these parts now to realise that there were comparatively few places round these border uplands where the local people couldn’t get cars to go. They had to; they lived in every corner of the back of beyond.

The long, oval, tilted bowl of pasture rose to northward, towards Comerford, and dipped to southward, in the direction of Abbot’s Bale. Both were out of sight. In a tract of land without cover you could still be private here; all you needed was neutral colours and stillness, and you were invisible.

The easiest run out of the bowl would surely be towards Abbot’s Bale. And beyond the brook, in the broad bottom of the valley, there sprang to life irresolutely a tiny, trodden path, that broadened and paled as it followed the ambling brook downwards, until it showed bared stones through here and there, and had grown to the dimensions of a farm cart, with two deep wheel-ruts, and the well-trodden dip where the horse walked in the middle. Where it tunnelled through the long grass it dwindled again, but always to reappear. Where it passed close to the marshy hollows the bright emerald green of fine, lush turf invaded it. In the distance there was a gate across it, and beyond probably others. But gates can be opened. Most gates, anyhow. A motor-bike could be brought up here with ease, even a small car, if you didn’t mind a rough ride. And whoever had met Annet here and taken her away wouldn’t be noticing a few bumps, or even a few scratches threatening his paint.

To Abbot’s Bale, and from there wherever you liked, and no one in Comerford or Comerbourne any the wiser, for neither need be touched. Her everyday coat, a sensible rainscarf, no luggage: Annet had taken no chances this time. No one should suspect; no one should have any warning. Afterwards? Oh, afterwards the flood, the price, anything. What would it matter, afterwards?

He jumped the brook and made his way along the cart-track. Deep ruts on both sides of him, in places filled with the moist black mud of puddles that never dry up completely. Brown peat water deep between the tufted grasses, distant, solitary birds somewhere calling eerily. The hoof-track on which he walked had been laid with stones at some time, and stood up like a little causeway, only here and there encroached upon by the richer grass. There seemed to be no traces of a car having negotiated this road recently. Nor had he heard any sound of an engine break the silence last night, when she returned, but that great hog-back of rock had heaved solidly between, and might very well cut off all sound.

Five dry days, and a brisk wind blowing for three of them; the ground was hard and well-padded with thick, spongy turf. Only in the green places where the marsh came close would there be any traces to be found.

He came to the first of them, and the stony foundation of the track was broken there, and the ground had settled a little, subsiding into a softer green tongue of fine grass. Moisture welled up round the toe of his shoe, and he checked in mid-stride and drew his weight back carefully. The wheel-ruts still showed cushioned and smooth on both sides; no weight had crushed them last night, or for many days previously. But in the middle of the path a single indentation showed, the flattened stems silvery against the brilliant green. Too resilient to retain a pattern of the tread, the turf had not yet quite recovered from the pressure of somebody’s motor-bike tyres.

There was no doubt of it, once he had found it. He followed it along almost to the first gate, and found its tenuous line three times on the way, to reassure him that he was not imagining things. Nowhere was there a clear impression of the tread; for most of the way the path was firm and dry, and where the damp patches invaded it the thick grass swallowed all but that ribbon of paler green. But he knew now that he was not mistaken; someone had brought a motorcycle up here from the direction of Abbot’s Bale no longer ago than yesterday. A motorcycle or a scooter; he couldn’t be sure which.

The sun was well up, and he was going to be late for breakfast; they’d be wondering, next, what had happened to him! He turned back then, and scrambled up the slope towards the ring of trees.

Miles Mallindine had a Vespa. And however many young men had danced with and coveted Annet, there was no blinking the fact that Miles had already got himself firmly connected with her comings and goings once, and could hardly expect to evade notice when something similar happened for the second time. Others might be possibles, but he was an odds-on favourite.

But he’d been camping somewhere near Llyn Ogwen and climbing on Tryfan with Dominic Felse. Or had he? All the long week-end? With a Vespa he could cover that journey quite easily in a couple of hours. And would young Felse lie for him? Neither of them struck him as a probable liar, and yet he was fairly sure that for each other, where necessary, they would take the plunge without turning a hair.

If you want to know, he told himself with irritation, lunging down the westward side of the Hallowmount, there’s only one straightforward thing to do, and that’s ask. Not other nosy people who may have seen something, not his friend who’ll feel obliged to put up a front for him, but Miles himself. At least give him the chance to convince you, if there’s nothing in it, and to get it off his chest if there is.

As if that was going to be easy!

It took him all morning to make up his mind to it; but in his free period at the end of the morning school he sent for Miles Mallindine.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

The boy had come in, in response to his invitation, jauntily and easily, brows raised a little; unable to guess why he was wanted, you’d have said, but long past the days of instinctively supposing any summons to the staff-room to be a portent of trouble.

‘Yes, come in and close the door. I won’t keep you many minutes.’ They had the room to themselves for as long as they needed it, but the thing was to keep it brief and simple; and tell him nothing that wasn’t absolutely essential. ‘You own a Vespa, don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Miles, agile brows jumping again.

‘Did you go up to Capel Curig on it this week-end?’

‘Yes. It’s a bit of a load, with two up and the tent and kit, but we’ve got it to numbers now.’ He was filling in the gaps, kindly and graciously, to avoid leaving the bald, enquiring: ‘Yes’ lonely upon the air between them. But he was wondering what all this was about, and testing out all possible connections in his all too lively mind.

‘Spend the whole time up there? When did you leave? And when did you get back yesterday?’

‘Oh, left about half past five on Thursday, I think, sir. I called round to pick up Dom first, and we did the packing at our place. We’d been in about half an hour when you looked in at home last night – just long enough for a wash and supper.’

He didn’t ask point blank: ‘Why?’ but the slight tilt of his head, the attentive regard of his remarkably direct and disconcerting eyes, put the same question more diplomatically; and a small spark deep within the eyes supplemented without heat: ‘And what the hell’s it got to do with you, anyhow?’ ‘Sir!’ added the very brief, engaging and impudent smile he had inherited from his mother.

Tom was tempted to soften this apparently pointless and unjustifiable interrogation with a crumb of explanation, or at least apology; but the boy was too bright by far. To try to disarm him with something like: ‘I’m sorry if this makes no sense to you, but if it makes no sense you’ve got nothing to worry about!’ – no, it wouldn’t do, he’d begin tying up the ends before the words were well out. No use saying pompously: ‘I have my reasons for asking.’ He knew that already, he was only in the dark at present as to what they could be, and at the first clue he’d be off on the trail. The fewer words the better. The more abrupt the better. They took some surprising, these days, but at least he could try.

‘Did you take your Vespa out earlier on Thursday afternoon? A trial run, maybe, if you’d been working on her? Say – round through Abbot’s Bale to the track at the back of the Hallowmount?’

If Miles didn’t know what it was all about now, at least he knew the appropriate role for himself. He had drawn down over his countenance the polite, wooden, patient face of the senior schoolboy. It fitted rather tightly these days, but he could still wear it. Ours not to reason why; they’re all mad, anyhow. Ours but to come up with: ‘Yes, sir!’ or: ‘No, sir!’ as required. The mask had an additional merit, or from Tom’s point of view an additional menace; from within its bland and innocent eye-holes you could watch very narrowly indeed without yourself giving anything away.

‘No, sir, I didn’t. I had her all ready the night before, there was no need to try her out.’

‘And you weren’t round there yesterday, either? Before you got home?’

‘No, sir.’

He waited, quite still but not now quite easy; he was too intelligent for that. And something subtle had happened to the mask; the young man – not even the young man-of-the-world – was looking through it very intently indeed. Tom got up from his chair and turned a shoulder on him, to be rid of the probing glance, but it followed him thoughtfully to the window.

‘I take it sir, I’m not allowed to ask why? Why I might have been there?’ The voice had changed, too, frankly abandoning the schoolboy monotone, and far too intent now to be bothered with the experimental graces of sophistication that were its natural sequel.

‘Let’s say, not encouraged. But if you’ve told me the truth, then in any case it doesn’t matter, does it? All right, thanks, Mallindine, that’s all.’

He kept his head turned away from the boy, watching the dubious sunlight of noon scintillating from the thread of river below the bridge. He waited for the door to open and close again. Miles had turned to move away, but nothing further happened.

After a moment the new voice asked, with deliberation and dignity: ‘May I ask one thing that does matter?’ No ‘sir’ this time, Tom noted; this was suddenly on a different level altogether.

‘If you must.’

‘Has anything happened to Annet?’

It hit him so hard that the shock showed, even from this oblique view. He felt the blood scald his cheeks, and knew it must be seen, and felt all too surely that it was not misunderstood. This boy was dangerous, he used words like explosives, only half-realising the force of the charge he put into them. Has anything happened to Annet! My God, if only we knew! But the simpler implication was what he wanted answered, and surely he was owed that, at least. Even if he was the partner of her defection, lying like a trooper by pre-arrangement, and sworn to persist in his lies, that appeal for reassurance might well be genuine enough, and deserved an answer.

‘I hope not,’ said Tom with careful mildness. ‘I certainly left her fit and well when I came out this morning.’

He had his face more or less under control by then, the blush had subsided, and he would not be surprised into renewing it. He turned and gave Miles a quizzical and knowing look, calculated to suggest benevolently that his preoccupation with Annet, in the light of history, was wholly understandable, but in this case inappropriate, not to say naïve. But the minute he met the levelled golden-brown eyes that were so like Eve’s, he knew that if anyone was involuntarily giving anything away in this encounter, it wasn’t Miles. He knew what he was saying, and he’d thought before he said it. Fobbing him off with an amused look and an indulgent smile wouldn’t do. Shutting the door he’d just gone to the trouble to open wasn’t going to do anyone any good.

Tom came back to his table, and sat down glumly on a corner of it. ‘You may as well go on,’ he said. ‘What made you ask that?’ Even that fell short of the degree of candour the occasion demanded. He amended it quite simply to: ‘How did you know?’ If he was the lover, he had good reason to know, but no very compelling reason to show that he knew; and if he wasn’t – well, they were all a bit uncanny round here, so he’d said, cheerfully including himself. Maybe Eve was a witch, and had handed on her powers to him for want of a daughter.

‘My mother had a telephone call on Thursday evening,’ said Miles with admirable directness. ‘From Mrs Beck.’

There couldn’t have been much communication between those two ladies during the last few months, no wonder Eve’s thumbs had pricked.

‘She made some excuse about asking when the Gramophone Club was starting its winter programme. But then she worked the conversation round to me, and fished to know what I was doing over the week-end. My mother told me, when I came back last night. I didn’t think there was anything in it, actually, until you began asking – related questions. Oh, you didn’t give anything away,’ he said quickly, forestalling all observations on that point. His head came up rather arrogantly, the wide-open eyes dared Tom to stand on privilege now. ‘My mother can connect, you know. But so can others. And I don’t suppose our house was the only one she ’phoned – if it’s like that.’

We ought to have known, thought Tom. In a small place where everyone knows everyone else’s business, where half the women compare notes as a matter of course, we ought to have known it would leak out. How could she hope to go telephoning around the whole village and half Comerbourne, without starting someone on a hot trail?

‘No,’ he said flatly, ‘I’m afraid it wasn’t.’

‘She wouldn’t realise,’ said Miles generously. He might not have occult powers, but he had a pair of eyes that could see through Tom Kenyon, apparently, as through a plate-glass window. ‘My mother had good reason to look under the mat – if you see what I mean. But some of ’em don’t need a reason, they do it for love. And my mother doesn’t talk. But plenty of them do.’

How had they arrived at this reversal? The kid was warning him, kindly, regretfully, like an elder, of the possible unpleasantness to come; warning him as though he knew very well how deeply it could and did concern him, and how much he stood to get hurt. Without a word said on that aspect of the matter, they had become rivals, meeting upon equal terms, and equally sorry for each other.

It was high time to close this interview, before somebody put a foot wrong and brought the house down over them both. They had to go on confronting each other in class for the best part of a year yet, they couldn’t afford any irretrievable gaffes.

‘Too many,’ he agreed wryly. ‘But gossip without any foundation won’t get them far. And I take it that you and I can include each other among the non-talkers, Mallindine.’

‘Yes, sir, naturally.’

‘Sir’ had come back, prompt on his cue. This boy really wanted watching, he was a little too quick in the uptake, if anything.

‘If there’s anything you want to ask me, do it now. But I don’t guarantee to answer.’

‘There’s nothing, sir. If—’ He did waver there, the elegantly-held head turned aside for a moment, the eyes came back to Tom’s face doubtfully and hopefully. ‘—if Annet’s all right?’

‘Yes, perfectly all right.’ He had nearly said: ‘Of course!’, which would have been a pretence at once unworthy and unwise in dealing with this very sharp and dangerous intelligence. He dropped the attitude in time, but a faint, rueful smile tugged at Miles’s lips for an instant, as if he had seen it hovering and watched it snatched hastily away. The young man was back in charge, and formidably competent.

‘Thank you, sir. Then that’s all.’ For me it is, said the straight eyes, challenging and pitying; how about you?’

‘Right, then, off you go. And I shouldn’t worry.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ said the flicker of a smile again, less haughtily. Either Tom was beginning to see all sorts of shades of meaning that weren’t there, or that last, long, thoughtful, level stare before the door closed had said, as plainly as in words: ‘Come off it! You know as well as I do there was another fellow in the case – nothing for you, nothing for me. Now tell me that doesn’t hurt!’

He knew, as well as he knew his own name, that if he questioned Dominic Felse on the subject of the weekend in Wales, Dominic would go straight to Miles and report the entire conversation word for word; and yet it seemed to him that he had very little choice in the matter. Since he’d begun this probably useless enquiry, he couldn’t very well leave an important witness out of it. He might be primed already, he might lie for his friend; but that was a hazard that applied to all witnesses, surely. And for some reason Tom felt sure that Miles would not yet have unburdened himself about that morning interview, he took time, when it was available, to think things out, and he had himself been considerably disturbed. He might not keep it quiet, but he wouldn’t run to confide it until he knew what he wanted to say.

So Tom sent for Dominic Felse, half against his conscience and a little against his will, but already launched and incapable of stopping. Dominic confirmed that he and Miles had spent all the week-end together. Yes, they’d packed up together and left about half past five, maybe a little earlier. No, they hadn’t been separated at all during the whole trip, except for half-hour periods while Miles took the scooter and went shopping, and Dominic cooked. Miles was no good as a cook. Yes, they’d come straight back to the Mallindines’ for supper.

Why?

Dominic was nearly a year younger than Miles, and less impeded by his dignity and sophistication from asking the obvious questions. Moreover, he was the son of a detective-inspector, and had a consequent grasp of the rights of the interrogated which made him an awkward customer to interrogate. With sunny politeness he answered questions, and with reciprocal interest asked them. Tom got rid of him in short order, for fear of giving away more than he got.

He met the two of them in the corridor as he left when afternoon school ended. They gave him twin civilised smiles, very slight and correct, and said: ‘Good-night, sir!’ in restrained and decorous unison.

The sight of the two of them thus, shoulder to shoulder, with similarly closed faces and impenetrable eyes, settled one thing. They had pooled everything they knew, and were preparing to stand off the world from each other’s back whenever the assault threatened.

He had seen it coming, and he didn’t make the mistake of thinking that either of them would as lightly confide in a third party. All the same, he began to regret what he had set in motion. Would it really do any good to find out what had happened, and who had made it happen? Wasn’t it better to creep through the next few days and weeks with fingers crossed and breath held, walking on tiptoe and praying to know nothing – not to have to know anything – like Beck and Mrs Beck? Thankful for every night that closed in with no trap sprung and no revelation exploding into knowledge; frightened of every contact in the street and every alarm note of the telephone, but every day a little less frightened.

Annet came and went with fewer words than ever, but with a tranquil face. Something of wonder still lingered, and something of sadness and deprivation, too, and sometimes her eyes, looking through the walls of the house and the slope of the Hallowmount into whatever underworld she had left behind there, burned into a secret, motionless excitement that never seemed quite to be able to achieve joy. She went to Cwm Hall in the morning, and Regina Blacklock’s chauffeur drove her home in the evening, and nobody there seemed to notice anything wrong with her or her work. Thank God that was all right, anyhow! There were bushels of Regina’s notes from the conference to decipher and type out, and a long report to her committee, which Annet brought home to copy on Thursday evening. On the incidence and basic causes of delinquency in deprived children!

She was working on it when Tom came through the hall after supper to go out and stable the Mini for the night. He heard the typewriter clicking away in the dingy little book-lined room Beck still called his study, though all he ever did in it was accumulate endless random text-notes of doubtful value on various obscure authors, with a view to publishing his own commentaries some day. No one believed it would ever be done, not even Beck himself; no one believed the world stood to gain or lose anything, either way.

Tom opened the door gingerly and looked in, and she was alone at the desk. It was the first time he had been alone with her, even for a moment, since her return. He went in quickly, and closed the door softly at his back.

‘Annet—’

She had heard him come. She finished her sentence composedly before she looked up. He could see no hardening in her face, no wariness, no change at all. She looked at him thoughtfully, and said nothing.

‘Annet, I want you to know that if there’s anything I can do to help you, I will, gladly. I’d like to think you’d ask me.’

She sat and looked at him for a long moment, looked down at her own hands still poised over the keys, and back slowly to his face. He thought he caught the bleak, small shadow of a smile, at least a shade of warmth in her eyes.

‘You’d much better just go on thinking me a liar,’ she said without reproach or bitterness. ‘It’s nice of you, but I really don’t need any help.’

‘I hope you won’t, Annet. Only I’m afraid you may. I know, I feel, it isn’t over. And I don’t want you to be hurt.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter!’ said Annet, startled into a rush of generous words. ‘Not at all! You mustn’t worry about me.’

She smiled at him, the first real, unguarded smile he had ever had from her. If she had asked him to believe in fairyland then, he would have done it; any prodigy he would have managed for her. But the moment was over before it was well begun; for it was at that instant that the knocker thudded at the front door.

He shivered and froze at the sound. Annet’s smile had grown suddenly, mockingly bright. ‘It’ll be Myra, coming for me,’ she said, quite gently. ‘What are you afraid of?’

But it wasn’t Myra. They heard Mrs Beck cross the hall, quick, nervous steps, running to ward off disaster. They heard the low exchange of words; a man’s voice, quiet and deep-pitched, and Mrs Beck’s fluttering tones between. He was in the hall now; only a few steps, then he was still, waiting.

The door opened upon Mrs Beck’s white, paralysed face and scared eyes.

‘Annet – there’s someone here who wishes to speak to you.’

He came into the doorway at her shoulder, a tall, lean man with a long, contemplative face and deceptively placid eyes that didn’t miss either Tom’s instinctively stiffening back or Annet’s blank surprise.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your work, Miss Beck,’ said Detective-Inspector George Felse gently, ‘but there’s a matter on which I’m obliged to ask you some questions. And I think, in the circumstances, it should be in your parents’ presence.’