Miss Silver Comes To Stay

CHAPTER 38

Saturday slipped away. Catherine Welby bought some face-cream, a box of powder, and a new lipstick, after which she took the next bus back to Melling. Saturday being a half day at the office, Allan Grover snatched a hasty lunch and went to watch a football match. Returning home in time for a six o’clock tea, he had a wash and brush up and went out again, announcing that he thought he would look in at The Feathers for a game of darts. He was home by half past ten and in bed a few minutes later, but sleep remained obstinately aloof. Mrs. Grover, in the next room, decided for at least the hundredth time that she really must do something to stop that bed of his from creaking so. Every time he turned over it made a noise like a door with a rusty hinge, and why a healthy boy should turn and twist like that was beyond her. But there, boys and girls were all the same-a trouble over their teething, and a trouble over their schooling, and a trouble over their lovering. The way Allan was going on he’d got something on his mind, and she didn’t have to think twice to know what it was. Pity he couldn’t have just gone on quiet with Gladys Luker that was a real nice girl and thought the world of him. But there-a man wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t make a fool of himself some time in his life, and better first than last. He was young, and he’d get over it and be married and settled one day, and Gladys too. And then there’d be the same trouble all over again with their children-you couldn’t get from it. She pulled the bedclothes well up over her ears and went to sleep.

Sunday morning came in bright and clear. Mrs. Fallow, professionally off duty, took time from her own domestic affairs to run up to Melling House just to keep in touch. If, for instance, Cyril had been arrested, it would be a severe affront to hear the news from anyone but Mrs. Mayhew herself. Passing the Gate House at half past nine, she thought Mrs. Welby was lying late-no smoke from the chimney and the milk not taken in. She remarked to Mrs. Mayhew that she only wished she had the time to lie in bed of a morning.

A cup of tea having been proffered and accepted, twenty minutes slipped away. After which Mrs. Fallow buttoned up her coat and said she didn’t know what she was thinking about, sitting like this with everything waiting at home and the Sunday dinner to cook. She made off down the drive at a quick trot. Slackening her pace when she came to the Gate House, she was astonished and a little shocked to see the milk bottle still on the step and no trace of smoke coming from the chimney. A good lay-in on a Sunday was one thing, but best part of ten o’clock was what you might call overdoing it. She went out between the pillars, and something nagged at her to go back again. All the years she’d known Mrs. Welby she hadn’t ever known her to be late in the morning. If it was some she could name, it wouldn’t be anything to think twice about, but Mrs. Welby was one of the early ones- always had been so long as she’d known her.

She went along the flagged path to the little porch and stood looking at the milk bottle. It ought to have been taken in best part of two hours ago. She didn’t like it. On the other hand, Mrs. Welby wasn’t one that would care about your poking your nose into her business. If she hadn’t been one of the most inquisitive women on earth Mrs. Fallow would have turned round and gone away.

She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She went round the corner of the house and saw all the curtains closely drawn and the windows shut. It was downright unnatural. Always slept with her windows open Mrs. Welby did, the one to the side of the house and the one to the front, and if she was up and about she’d be airing the room. Talking about it afterwards, she said she got a cold creep all down her back, and what came into her mind was it looked for all the world as if there was someone dead in the house.

She walked all the way round. There wasn’t a window open or a curtain pulled aside. She came back to the porch and pressed her finger on the electric bell. No one answered, no one came.

Mrs. Fallow found herself getting out her handkerchief and wiping her hands. It was a bright, cold morning, but they were clammy with sweat. The silence in the house seemed to be seeping out of it like-she didn’t know what it was like, but it frightened her. She rang again and again, and when that failed she beat upon the door loud enough, in her own words, to wake the dead. Nobody waked, nobody came. She picked up her feet and ran for the White Cottage.

She looked scared to death when Rietta Cray opened the door, and next minute she was crying, and saying she thought something had happened to Mrs. Welby and what did they ought to do about it. It was Rietta who suggested the telephone, but when there was still no reply they all went round to the Gate House, she, and Carr, and Fancy, and Mrs. Fallow.

It was Fancy who tried the door and found that it wasn’t locked. The key was on the inner side, but it wasn’t locked. They went through into the living-room, and found the light turned on in the reading-lamp and the curtains closed. The light showed the gold waves of Catherine’s hair against one of her pastel cushions. She lay on the sofa in her blue house-gown and looked as if she was asleep. But she was dead.