CHAPTER FOUR. The Empty House

       Table of Contents

      Early next morning, Miss Loveapple climbed the wooden stairs leading to the elevated railway station. She lugged a heavy suitcase, packed to capacity, while Elsie carried the small bag which contained oddments for the night.

      During the walk, the maid had scarcely spoken, while her face expressed the desperate resignation of a sea-sick sailor. It was not until Miss Loveapple had taken her place in a third-class carriage that she came to life.

      'Please, madam, will you promise me not to open the door to any one?'

      'Pull yourself together,' advised Miss Loveapple. 'I've got to open the door to Major Brand.'

      'Do you know what he looks like?'

      'No, we've not exchanged photographs.'

      'Then how will you know it's him?'

      'By his cheque. That's good enough evidence for me.'

      The guard dropped the green flag and the train began to draw out of the station. Running by the side of it, Elsie continued to shout:

      'Watch out for gloves. Notice if he keeps them on. Criminals always wear gloves, so as to leave no fingerprints.'

      'All right...Good-bye, Elsie. Be sure you come to meet me.'

      'Gloves. Don't forget gloves.'

      'Be sure you bring Scottie to the station. Scottie.'

       'Gloves.'

      Elsie got the last word as they screamed against each other. Then Miss Loveapple sank back in her seat, to find that every one in the carriage was staring at her.

      For a moment, she almost believed that they paid homage to her three houses, before she realised the real reason for their interest.

      'I suppose I look Continental,' she thought complacently.

      She had availed herself of the licence implied in Miss Pitt's advice about old clothes, to wear a white elephant which had been hanging in her wardrobe for years. It was a dressmaker's suit of black satin, bought for a wedding and too smart for general wear. Although the cycle of fashion had nearly caught it up, it was definitely dated, while the tight skirt was frankly 'seated.'

      The direct result of some unimportant feminine chatter on the green was publicity for Miss Loveapple. She was too striking a figure to be overlooked, even when she got out of the train at Charing Cross Station. Marching along, a bag in either hand, an old camel-hair coat slung over her shoulder and her fair hair uncovered, people turned to look at her again.

      Too simple to be an exhibitionist, she was naively pleased with the notice she attracted.

      'It pays to travel in smart clothes,' she thought. 'And I'm saving my good tweeds.'

      It was hot and airless in the Underground and the carriage was jammed with workers on their way to office and shop; but in spite of the congestion she was offered a seat immediately as a tribute to her appearance. Eyes stared at her, reflecting mixed emotions—criticism, derision, admiration, envy.

      When she came out of the tube station into the crowded street, she thought regretfully of the lily tank in the Pond House garden. Although it was still early, the temperature was already high. The stale air stank of dust and petrol, the pavements were grimed and a pneumatic drill was tearing up a section of the road.

      She had not far to walk before she turned down a side road which led to Madeira Crescent. Situated in a quiet backwater, it was a semi-circle of Victorian houses—well built, with pillared porticoes and long flights of front steps, guarded by plaster lions. A few had been converted into flats and there were two residential hotels; but although their regional glory had departed, the standard was not unduly relaxed.

      In front was a private garden, reserved for residents. At present it was a wilderness of shaggy grass and smutted evergreen shrubs, although in the spring lilacs and laburnums lent it temporary beauty.

      As Miss Loveapple approached No. 19, she stood and looked up at its buff stucco front. The blinds were down, so that she could not admire her expensive curtains, but she felt her usual surge of proud ownership.

      'Mine. My London house.'

      She unlocked the door and then hesitated as she peered into the darkness of the interior. After the glare of the street, her eyes were too dazzled to focus properly, or to recognise the outlines of any familiar object. It looked alive with a confusion of shifting shadows and tenebrous as a jungle.

      It was the first time she had gone into the house alone. Usually the entry was a scene of noise and excitement. Elsie—forgetful of her official voice—shouted to Scottie, who was always quivering with eagerness to be 'first foot,' while David leaped about inside his basket like a landed fish.

      She told herself that she was missing the others as she lingered, feeling a strange reluctance to enter. Although she was not normally imaginative, the house did not feel empty. She had an uneasy sense that it held an uninvited tenant who paid no rent.

      Someone—or