Nicholas had the room beyond, at the back of the house. She stood in front of it, her mind full of dreadful irrational prayers- “Don’t let it be Nicholas! Oh, God, don’t let it be Nicholas! He couldn’t! He couldn’t! If he was in Melbury, it couldn’t be Nicholas! Let him be in Melbury! Don’t let him be here!” She put her hand on the door knob and turned it. The room was dark, the window stood wide. There was the sound of deep, quiet breathing.
Lucy Cunningham shut the door and went back to her room. Her mind was dreadfully clear. She had come up to bed at half past ten. The stairs were safe then. At some later time Henry had come up. Nicholas had come up. One of them had stopped at the sixth step and stretched the cord above it. One of them? They might have come up separately, or they might have come up together. Or the one who had come up first might have gone down again to do what had to be done. Henry, or Nicholas- Nicholas or Henry. There was no one else in the house. One of them had tied the cord which was to trip her to her death. The stair was steep, and the hall was paved with stone. She would be hurrying blindly, and she would fall to her death.
But who wanted her dead? Henry or Nicholas-Nicholas or Henry?
The words went round and round in her head until the morning.
CHAPTER 22
Mrs. Hubbard would not arrive until eight o’clock, and since Nicholas must be got down to his breakfast by then, Miss Cunningham could not allow herself the indulgence of a cup of tea in bed. She had to wake Nicholas, hurry into her clothes, open the back door, and cook whatever they had been able to contrive for the meal-fish, or sausage, or the occasional egg. On this Tuesday morning Lucy Cunningham had plenty of time. It was a relief to leave the bed which had afforded her no rest. The water was still hot from the night before. She washed her face in it, and then sponged it repeatedly with cold water from her bedroom jug. The nights went near to frost, and the water was icy. When she came to do her hair, the image in the glass had a less ghastly look. She never had much colour, and a round face does not go haggard in a night. She put on the old grey tweed skirt and the grey jumper and cardigan and went across the landing to bang on Nicholas’s door. He always took some waking, but the sleepy voice that answered her in the end was no different from what it had been for all the years she had come to his door and knocked like this.
She went to the head of the stairs and looked down. The cord had marked the balustrade, but no one else would notice a stray mark on the old paint. It had been tied very tightly, and it had had to take her weight when she stumbled. Oak would not have marked, but the balustrade was made of a softer wood. It had dented where the cord had pulled on it. She could see the dent every time she went up and down the stairs. She went down now to unlock the back door and get Nicholas’s breakfast.
There was no need for her to go and wake Henry. He had views about sleep, and considered it injurious to interfere with what should be a natural process. If you had had enough sleep you woke up. If you had not had enough, it was harmful to be roused. It was, of course, extremely inconvenient never to know when he would want his breakfast, but when you had a man in the house you had to put up with things like that. Papa had had views about early rising, and as long as he lived they had breakfasted at seven. Lucy Cunningham had been brought up on the famous adage, “Early to bed and early to rise, Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.” She had never been able to make up her mind which part of it she disliked most, getting up at half past six or going to bed at nine, at which hour the electric light had been turned off at the meter and the family restricted to candles in their bedrooms. Henry, of course, did not mind whether the lights were on all night or not-but then he did not pay the bill.
There were a couple of sausages left from supper. She heated them on the small oil stove, since the fire was out and would be left for Mrs. Hubbard to see to. Meanwhile she took the milk and the butter out of the larder and across the hall to the dining-room. Everything else was there already, since she always laid the table before going up to bed. She stood now and checked the things over just to make sure that nothing had been forgotten. Two packets of cereal-Henry sometimes liked the kind that always reminded her of little straw mattresses, but Nicholas wouldn’t touch it. Brown sugar, marmalade, a fresh pot of mustard. Oh, the bread-
As she was bringing it through the hall, Nicholas came running down the stairs. Her heart jerked. He came running down without a glance at the sixth or any other step. She felt such a rush of relief that the bread-board tilted and the loaf began to slide. The knife fell clattering.
Nicholas caught her about the shoulders.
“Hold up, Lu! What are you doing? Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes.”
He laughed and bent to pick up the knife.
“Well, don’t go throwing things about! Here, you’d better let me have that bread. I really like it better when it hasn’t been on the floor.”
She turned back to fetch his sausage, whilst he went on. When she came into the dining-room he gave her a laughing, affectionate glance.
“You know, you do look a bit wonky. You weren’t by any chance sitting up to watch for the wanderer’s return, were you? I’m the one who ought to be looking pale, not you.”
She had not meant to speak, but everything in her was shaking. The words came of themselves.
“Were you very late?”
He was tipping wheatflakes into a soup-plate and pouring milk on them.
“Oh, fairly. I got a lift, so I didn’t have to depend on the bus. Did you hear me come in?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ve got to hurry now-I was very nearly late yesterday. Old Burlington has got a complex about punctuality. And he doesn’t care for me much. There’s nothing he’d like better than to catch me out.”
“Why doesn’t he like you?”
“Odd, isn’t it? Darling, pour me out a cup of tea. He thinks I’m frivolous. Not one of our blither spirits!”
When she had poured out his tea she went away and came back again. There was a crumpled piece of paper in her hand. He looked at it across his cup.
“Where did you get that?”
“There was a hole in the pocket of your brown tweed jacket. It had slipped down between the stuff and the lining. I found it last night when I was mending the pocket.”
He put out his hand for it and took it.
“Thanks, Lu.”
He was still smiling, but there was something-some change. It was as if the temperature had suddenly dropped whilst the sun was shining, a thing quite apt to happen in an English spring. Lucy Cunningham had a bewildered sense of there being something wrong, but she had no idea what it might be.
Nicholas put the paper into an inner pocket, gulped down the rest of his tea, and was off in a hurry. But when she went out into the kitchen it was not quite half past eight. He really had plenty of time.
Mrs. Hubbard was busy lighting the fire, which was being contrary. Presently she would help Miss Cunningham with the beds, but at the moment she wanted the kitchen to herself. Anyone would think something had got into the range this morning. Three times she had lighted the dratted thing and it had gone out. If Miss Cunningham would take and go away, there was a mite of paraffin in the scullery that nobody was going to miss.