It was then that he heard the front-door bell. It was a hesitant, tentative ring but it sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the clinic. When he opened the door, the figure of Jenny slid through so quickly that she seemed to pass by him like a wraith, a slim ghost born of the darkness and mist of the night.
She said breathlessly: “I’m sorry, darling, I had to see you. When you weren’t at the studio, I thought you might be here.”
“Did anyone see you at the studio?” he asked. He felt that the question was important without knowing why.
She looked up at him, surprised. “No. The house seemed empty. I didn’t meet anyone. Why?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Come on downstairs. I’ll light the gas stove. You’re shivering.”
They went down to the basement together, their footsteps echoing in the eerie, presageful calm of a house which, with tomorrow, would awaken to voices, movement and the ceaseless hum of purposeful activity. She began walking on tiptoe and, when she spoke, it was in whispers. At the top of the stairs she reached for his hand and he could feel hers trembling. Halfway down, there was a sudden faint noise and she started.
“What is it? What’s that noise?”
“Nothing. Tigger in his scratch tin, I imagine.”
When they were in the restroom and the fire was lit, he threw himself into one of the armchairs and smiled up at her. It was the devil of a nuisance that she should turn up now but somehow he must hide his irritation. With any luck he could get rid of her fairly quickly. She would be out of the clinic well before ten.
“Well?” he asked. Suddenly she was on the rug at his feet and clasping his thighs. Her pale eyes searched his in passionate entreaty.
“Darling, I’ve got to know! I don’t mind what you’ve done as long as I know. I love you and I want to help. Darling, you must tell me if you’re in any trouble.”
It was worse than he feared. Somehow she had got hold of something. But how, and what? Keeping his voice light he asked: “What sort of trouble, for God’s sake? You’ll be saying next that I killed her.”
“Oh, Peter, please don’t joke! I’ve been worried. There is something wrong, I know there is. It’s the money isn’t it? You took that fifteen pounds.”
He could have laughed aloud with relief. In a surge of emotion he put his arms round her and drew her down upon him, his voice muffled in her hair.
“You silly kid. I could have helped myself to the petty cash any time if I wanted to steal. What the hell started you off on this nonsense?”
“That’s what I’ve been telling myself. Why should you take it? Oh, darling, don’t be angry with me. I’ve been so worried. You see, it was the paper.”
“What paper, for God’s sake.” It was all he could do not to shake her into coherence. He was glad that she could not see his face. So long as he need not meet her eyes, he could fight his anger and the fatal, insidious panic. What in God’s name was she trying to say?
“The Standard. That sergeant came to see us this evening. I’d been to fetch the fish and chips. When I was unwrapping them in the kitchen, I looked at the paper they were wrapped in. It was Friday’s Standard and it had a large picture of that air crash all over the front page. Then I remembered that we had used your Standard to wrap up Tigger’s food and the front page was different. I hadn’t seen that picture before.”
He tightened his hold on her and said very quietly: “Did you say anything about this to the police?”
“Darling, of course I didn’t! Suppose it made them suspect you! I didn’t say anything to anyone but I needed to see you. I don’t care about the fifteen pounds. I don’t care if you did meet her in the basement. I know you didn’t kill her. All I want is for you to trust me. I love you and I want to help. I can’t bear it if you keep things from me.”
That’s what they all said but there wasn’t one in a million who really wanted to know the truth about a man. For a second he was tempted to tell her, spit the whole brutal story into her silly, pleading face and watch the sudden draining away of pity and love. She could probably bear to know about Bolam. What she couldn’t bear would be the knowledge that he hadn’t blackmailed for her sake, that he hadn’t acted to preserve their love, that there wasn’t any love to preserve and never had been. He would have to marry her, of course. He had always known that it might be necessary. Only she could effectively witness against him and there was one sure way to stop her tongue. But time was short. He planned to be in Paris by the end of the week. Now it looked as if he wouldn’t be travelling alone.
He thought quickly. Shifting her weight to the arm of the chair but still keeping his arms around her, his face resting against her cheek, he said softly: “Listen, darling. There’s something you’ve got to know. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to worry you. I did take the fifteen quid. It was a bloody stupid thing to do but there’s no sense in worrying about that now. I suppose Miss Bolam might have guessed. I don’t know. She didn’t say anything to me and it wasn’t I who phoned her. But I was in the basement after she was killed. I left the back door open and came back that way. I get sick of that old fool Cully booking me in and out as if I were as nutty as a patient and asking for the paper as soon as I appear. Why can’t he buy his own, the mean old devil. I thought I’d fool him for once. When I came in at the basement door, I saw that there was a light in the record room and the door was ajar, so I went to look. I found her body. I knew that I daren’t be found there, particularly if they ever discovered about the fifteen quid, so I said nothing and left again by the back door and came in as usual by the front. I’ve kept quiet ever since. I must, darling. I’ve got to take up the Bollinger by the end of this week and the police wouldn’t let me go if they started suspecting me. If I don’t get away now, I’ll never have the chance again as long as I live.”
That at least was true. He had to get away now. It had become an obsession. It wasn’t only the money, the freedom, the sun and the colours. It was the final vindication of the lean, pallid years of struggle and humiliation. He had to take up the Bollinger. Other painters could fail here and still succeed in the end. But not he.
And, even now, he might fail. It was a thin story. He was struck, as he spoke, by the inconsistencies, the improbabilities. But it hung together—just. He couldn’t see how she could prove it false. And she wouldn’t want to try. But he was surprised by her reaction.
“By the end of this week! You mean, you’re going to Paris almost at once. What about the clinic … your job?”
“For God’s sake, Jenny, what the hell does that matter? I shall leave without notice and they’ll find someone else. They’ll have to do without me.”
“And me?”
“You’re coming with me, of course. I always meant that you should. Surely you knew that?”
“No,” she said, and it seemed to him that her voice held a great sadness. “No, I never knew that.”
He tried to assume a tone of confidence tinged with slight reproach.
“I never discussed it because I thought there were some things we didn’t need to say. I know the time’s short but it’ll be easier if you don’t have to stick around too long at home waiting. They’d only get suspicious. You’ve got a passport, haven’t you? Didn’t you go to France with the Guides that Easter? What I suggest is that we marry by special licence as soon as possible—after all, we’ve got the money now—and write to your parents when we get to Paris. You do want to come, don’t you, Jenny?”