It was all a question of timing. Don’t hold the gaze for too long. That would seem bold, provocative. As much a sign of guilt as shifty evasion. Keep it natural, that was the thing.
Oh, he was good. There was no point pretending otherwise. He didn’t even allow himself a small smirk of triumph once he had left the bobby in his wake.
He heard the chug of trains and the screech of steam whistles. A moment later he saw the looming shadow of King’s Cross station ahead of him.
As he stepped out of the churning smog into the flux and bustle of the station concourse, it occurred to him that perhaps he needn’t be in such a hurry to leave the country. His experience with the policeman had given him confidence, and the beginnings of a new plan. As long as he had his theatrical make-up and his talent, he could go anywhere he pleased.
THIRTY-NINE
The house was in darkness when Quinn got home. He had remained at the department for as long as possible. Not because there was much that he could usefully do, more because of a reluctance to return home. This, he knew, was connected to the arrangement he had established with Mrs Ibbott concerning Miss Dillard’s rent.
His mouth stretched into a private grimace as he closed the door behind him.
He was surprised to see Mrs Ibbott coming towards him with a candle in her hand. ‘Oh, Mr Quinn. I’m afraid something has happened to the electricity supply. Mr Timberley and Mr Appleby are looking into it for us. They think it is something to do with a fuse.’
‘I see. Thank you for telling me, Mrs Ibbott.’
‘We never had this problem with gas, I have to say.’
‘That’s true. But there are other advantages to electricity, are there not? It is cleaner and safer, I think.’
‘It’s all very well when it works, Mr Quinn. Would you like a candle for your room?’
‘I believe I have some candles, thank you, Mrs Ibbott.’
‘Very well, Mr Quinn. I shall light your way upstairs for you.’ Mrs Ibbott turned and then hesitated. ‘Oh, Mr Quinn …’ There was an ominous tone to her voice. Quinn recognized an old detective’s technique, to begin the conversation with something inconsequential, before dropping in the main thing on your mind, as if as an afterthought. ‘I’m a little worried about Miss Dillard.’
Quinn said nothing. He felt a weight of dread settle inside him. His feet dragged to a halt behind her.
Mrs Ibbott still had her back to him. ‘I’m afraid she found out about your generous offer.’
‘She found out? Mrs Ibbott, I asked you not to tell her!’
‘I did not. I did, however, tell my daughter, who must have let it slip to the Misters Appleby and Timberley. I fear those two gentlemen may have conducted some indiscreet banter on the subject, which Miss Dillard somehow overheard.’
Quinn groaned.
Mrs Ibbott at last turned to face him. ‘She has practically kept to her room since, although Betsy saw her coming out of the kitchen earlier. She seemed to be hiding something, according to Betsy. We wondered whether she had stolen something to eat. The silly woman, she knows she only has to ask. At any rate, no one saw her at dinner. I do not believe she has any gin left to consume, or money to buy more.’
‘I truly wish you had not said anything to anyone about our arrangement.’
‘I am sorry, Mr Quinn. I do regret my indiscretion.’
‘What is to be done?’
‘Perhaps we might … look in on her … together. You and I. As concerned friends.’
‘Is it not rather late?’
‘I do not think Miss Dillard has been keeping regular hours recently. I do feel that it would be better to have everything in the open, if we are to move to the arrangement you suggested. I feel Miss Dillard has a right to know who is paying her rent. And why.’
Quinn had to accept the justice of this remark. He nodded for Mrs Ibbott to lead on. ‘Very well.’
They came to the first landing. Mrs Ibbott tapped on Miss Dillard’s door. There was no reply. Mrs Ibbott pressed her ear against the door. Her eyes widened in alarm.
‘What is it?’
Mrs Ibbott stood back, allowing Quinn to listen at the door. He braced himself for the sound of weeping. But that was not what met his ear. It sounded like someone was throwing furniture around. Or using the bed like a trampoline. If he had not known Miss Dillard better, he might have said she was entertaining a lover in a violent and energetic act of coitus. ‘Good grief!’
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ cried Mrs Ibbott.
Quinn rapped on the door. ‘Miss Dillard? Miss Dillard? Are you quite well?’ The thumping inside the bedroom intensified in speed and volume. Quinn tried the door. It was locked. He turned to the landlady. ‘Do you have a key?’
She produced a large fob from her apron. Her hand shook as she held out a key. ‘I’m all fingers and thumbs.’
Quinn snatched the fob from her and began trying the keys in the lock. It seemed an age before he had the door open.
They were in the same room now as the thumping. It was like a heaving of the darkness. A giant hand pounding a box of springs. The bed: it was coming from the bed. It was the sound of the bed rattling and kicking against the boards. It was not quite rhythmic. There were pauses in it. Then it would come back with renewed force.
‘Give me the light!’
Quinn held the candle out in front of him. Miss Dillard, wracked with convulsions, was throwing contorted forms of herself around on top of her bed. Her body would lie in a backward arch of tension and then spring upwards, clearing the mattress by an inch or so.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ cried Mrs Ibbott.
‘She appears to be having some kind of a fit,’ said Quinn. ‘Is she an epileptic, do you know?’
Mrs Ibbott could not answer. She too was shaking now, uncontrollably. She held her hand out to a small dark bottle on Miss Dillard’s bedside table.
‘What is it? What’s in that bottle? Do you know? What has she taken?’
The answer came from Mrs Ibbott in a shriek: ‘Strychnine!’
That raised any number of questions, which would have to wait for now. ‘We must get her to a hospital!’ Quinn tried to hand the candle back to Mrs Ibbott, who seemed incapable of doing anything other than making a small, helpless whimpering sound. She stared at the candle, as if he was offering her the extracted spleen of her daughter. Eventually he was able to thrust it into her hands.
Quinn then stooped over the convulsing woman, looking for a way to lift her. Her body shifted position constantly, arching and collapsing, closing down his opportunities to get a handhold.
Her eyes were open, more than open, bulging starkly from her head. The pupils were fully dilated; the wonderful, miraculous pewter grey of her irises shrunk almost to a fine circle. For all their dilation, it was clear that she saw nothing.
Her mouth was stretched back into a grimace of helpless agony. Flecks of foam appeared on her yellow and grey teeth, seeping out through the gaps between them. The flecks grew quickly to an abundant froth.
He knew that the longer he hesitated the worse it would be for Miss Dillard.
He touched her quivering frailty, and was repelled. This was a strange, unasked-for intimacy. The effect on Miss Dillard was catastrophic. Her convulsions redoubled in ferocity. It was as if she was trying to throw herself away from herself, to escape the misery of her existence by some final, doomed act of self-discarding.
Her body, her flesh was patently present to his touch, a blazing heat beneath the delicate nightdress. She was on fire, it seemed. His touch wracked her like raging flames. He pulled her to him in a firm embrace, clinging to the muscular writhing of her body. Her convulsions were transmitted to him. He became convulsed too.