"Are you all right?" He took the cigarette from her.
"I'm all right." Belatedly she realised that one edge of the torn dress had escaped her, and one breast with it; and the sight of it somehow put strength back into her knees and allowed her to get the coat round her, for modesty's sake.
He was trying to propel her out of the study, but she saw the legs protruding from behind the desk and the sight of them immobilised her again.
"He can't hurt you." Dr Mitchell's voice suddenly became harsher. "Come on!"
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She had known that already in her heart, or at least half-known it, from the stillness of those suede shoes; but although she believed him she could not take in her own belief with understanding, so that she turned to him in horror at his confirmation of what she had known.
And then she stared at the open doorway.
"And the other one won't bother you either." Dr Mitchell read her mind, but this time he had control of his voice. "He's got two bullets in his chest, so he's not going anywhere.
Come on!"
Elizabeth allowed herself to be half-led, half-pushed, and half-supported out of the study, and across the hall, and into the sitting room.
Bullets—
There had been those noises—they still rang in her head, she could still hear them—before her head had hit the desk—
noises— two bullets in the chest—and the suede shoes protruding from behind the desk—
He pushed her against an armchair—it pressed against the back of her legs, and she collapsed into it, letting it engulf her.
She hugged the old raincoat against her. "I'm cold."
He knelt down obediently in the fireplace, to switch on the electric fire which stood in it during the summer. She heard the switches click—one, two, three.
"Where do you keep your drinks?"
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"In the cabinet—in the corner," she answered automatically.
There was a thing in the back of her mind, just beyond her reach—like the cigarette on the carpet.
He tried to put a glass in her hand, and she could smell brandy.
"I don't drink—not this."
"You're drinking it now. And so am I." He paused to drink.
"Go on."
She drank, and the fiery stuff burnt her throat, squeezing tears from her eyes.
"Here you are."
He was offering her something else. Incredulously, she saw the same blue-grey smoke curl from a cigarette.
"Take it—go on."
"I don't smoke." The cigarette brought back an obscene memory, making her shiver involuntarily.
"But you were—" he bit off the end of the sentence. "Christ!
Was that. . . Christ!"
She drank again. This time it didn't burn so much— burn!
She shivered again, her teeth rattling against the cut-glass, and focussed on him.
He was staring at the little golden packet in his hand, as though he was seeing it for the first time, and she was seeing him for the first time too—not as he had stared at her from the dust-jacket of The Breaking of the Hindenburg Line—not dummy3
the Paul Mitchell born in Gloucestershire and educated at Lord Mansfield's Grammar School and Cambridge University
—
"Who are you?" Suddenly she knew what it was that she had been reaching out for, beyond the smouldering cigarette.
"Have you phoned the police?
He took another drink. "You know who I am."
"Have you phoned—?" The question died inside her as she repeated it, and a terrible fear invaded her across the gap it left in its fall—a fear which took her back to the question he had left unanswered. "Who are you?"
Who are you? What are you? She shrank away from him into the softness of the armchair, graduating from fear again into greater and uncomprehending panic.
"It's all right, Elizabeth—" he put his hand out towards her, but she tried to shrink farther into the chair, away from him.
He pulled back his hand quickly, and she watched it turn into a fist and almost thought for a moment that he was going to hit her. But instead he dropped it to his side and looked down at the cigarette he was still holding in the other one.
"All right, Miss Loftus. I can understand how you feel." He flicked the cigarette into the empty fireplace, behind the electric fire.
He couldn't possibly know how she felt, thought Elizabeth.
But there was no point in telling him so. There was only one thing worth saying, though perhaps that was pointless too.
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But she had to say it.
"I'd like you to call the police, Dr Mitchell—the phone's in the study." She licked her lips. "Or . . . if you won't. . . then I intend to call them."
"No." His eyes left her, switching first to the French windows behind her, then to those on either side of the fireplace. "No phoning. It isn't necessary."
"It isn't—?" She stopped as he moved past her, watching him draw the curtains on each of the windows in turn. They had drawn the curtains in the study too, she remembered.
But he was already between her and the door. "But that was necessary—a necessary precaution." He switched on the light.
She tried to lick her lips again, but her mouth was dry. "What do you mean? Why can't I phone the police?"
"Because I am the police, Miss Loftus."
Elizabeth could feel the heat from the electric fire on her face, but under the raincoat she was shaking now. "I—I don't believe you."
He shrugged. "There are different sorts of policemen. I'm one of the different sorts, that's all."
His lack of concern angered her—it surprised her that she could be so frightened and yet still also be angry. "The sort that shoots people, you mean?"
"Or gets shot by them—yes." He watched her. "But this time the sort that shoots people—yes again. Fortunately for you dummy3
this time . . . yes?"
Suddenly Elizabeth was half-way to believing him. But she knew that was because she wanted to do so, against all the evidence of what had happened from the moment she had first set eyes on him at the fete. "But why . . . why . . ." she trailed off.
"Why did I shoot them? It's called 'self-defence', Miss Loftus." He looked at his watch. "But if you want me to regret it then I will."
He was waiting for someone, thought Elizabeth. That was why he was merely talking to her, and not doing anything else.
But what was that "anything else"? The thought queue-jumped all the other questions which were jostling each other in her head.
"Please—"
He held up his hand to silence her while he concentrated on some other sound. In the distance she heard a car on the road outside, but the sound diminished. "Yes, Miss Loftus?"
He still had only one ear for her. "What are you listening for?"
He considered her for a second. "It's possible that your . . .
visitors were not alone." He pointed to the curtains. "Hence the precaution . . . though fortunately your windows are burglar-locked, and I've wedged the back door ... so I don't think we'll be disturbed."
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"But. . . they got in. "She heard her voice tremble at the thought of the snake-man having other animals with him.
"But they had all the time in the world—and an unattended house." He shook his head. "Don't worry."
Don't worry? Don't worry! Elizabeth hugged herself even more tightly as the awfulness of her situation possessed her: it wasn't a nightmare—he was here, she wasn't dreaming him, and he was waiting for someone—it was a daymare, and it was reaclass="underline" there was a dead man lying behind the desk in the study— and she dared not imagine what he might have been doing if he hadn't been killed . . . and there was another man desperately wounded, lying somewhere else—
"What about the man you shot—the other man?" She clutched at the only straw she could find. "Shouldn't you phone for an ambulance?"