WHILE SHE SLEEPS (A Thriller Novel). Ethel Lina White
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something—was waiting for her in the darkness.
Shaking off the impression, she forced herself to step into the hall and shut the door. Nothing leaped upon her out of the gloom as she jerked up the spring blind, letting in a shaft of sunlight.
It revealed a prune piled carpet which was her special pride. She stopped and rubbed it with her finger, making a slightly darker patch.
'It's holding the dust,' she reflected. 'I'll have to face it and get a vacuum...And now I'll make a cup of tea.'
Running down the stairs to the semi-basement kitchen, she unbolted the back door, which was sheltered by a deep porch from the area. Slung on the handle outside was a basket, holding a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk.
Although she was so busy yesterday, she had not forgotten to write instructions to the local Dairy. Pleased with her command of the details which were essential to efficient organisation, she filled a kettle with water and placed it on the gas stove.
But although she was thirsty, she felt none of the excitement and joyous thrill which was present during the preparations for the first picnic meal. While it was impossible to trace the source of her discomfort, she was vaguely disturbed and ill at ease as she waited for the kettle to sing.
She found herself thinking of the house as it had looked when it was empty, with faded wallpapers, cobwebbed windows and rusted iron grates. At the time, she had been reminded of The Barretts of Wimpole Street, and wondered vaguely whether its walls had witnessed scenes of parental cruelty or the terror of children frightened by nurserymaids; but the decorators and electrician had banished every Victorian bogey.
Suddenly she realised why she was feeling nervous. It was the thought of all those darkened rooms upstairs.
'I'd better open up,' she thought, 'and then I can enjoy my tea.'
Turning down the gas-jet to a blink, she went upstairs. The house was tall and narrow, with large rooms and numerous cupboards On the ground floor were the dining-room and the morning-room, and on the first, the drawing-room, the best bedroom and the bathroom. Two other bedrooms, together with a linen cupboard and a box room, occupied the next floor, while the top part of the house was given up to Scottie and David.
Miss Loveapple went from room to room, twitching aside curtains with a clash of rings and throwing open windows, with her usual brisk efficiency. Her procedure was more thorough than her habitual routine, for she opened every cupboard and wardrobe and looked behind every door. She even stooped so low as to grovel under the beds.
By the time she had finished the job, her customary good spirits had returned. There was no trace of that gaunt Victorian relict in this prosperous mansion, with its new and expensive furniture. She was especially proud of her carpets and of the fact that only the kitchen and attic flights of stairs were covered with linoleum.
Completely reassured, she ran downstairs and made her tea. As she was drinking it, the front door bell rang. It was too early to expect Major Brand, but she dared not risk missing him, so she went upstairs and opened the door.
A man wearing a clerical round collar and soft felt hat stood outside. His bluish chin showed that he subdued a stiff beard with difficulty, while his mobile lips were slightly suggestive of an actor.
She summed him up with her native penetration which deserted her so completely in a crisis.
'Black gloves. Collecting-book. Something tells me you were never in holy orders, my friend.'
His smile was attractive, however, and when he spoke his voice had no professional whine.
'Another glorious day. We are lucky to be able to see the sky. Out of gratitude, won't you give me a contribution for the blind?'
'"We,"' Miss Loveapple reminded him. 'You can see as well as I can. What form is your own gratitude going to take?'
Meeting her shrewd blue eyes, he summed her up and decided on his line of action.
'Fifty per cent of what I collect,' he replied frankly.
'Ah, I can always spot a professional collector. Honestly, I wish I could give you something, although I am a subscriber already. But my charity list is full strength and I can't afford to increase it.'
The collector looked at the thick gold chain around her neck. Attached to it was an elephant with his trunk upraised.
'If you can't afford any more,' he said, 'why not make some extra money? Surely you've heard of the Twins?'
'Quins? Of course.'
'No, Browning's Twins. You remember his poem of the poverty-stricken monastery, which held two inmates—Date and Dabitur. "Give" and "It shall be given," you know.'
He began to quote:
'While Date was in good case,
Dabitur flourished too;
For Dabitur's lenten face
No wonder if Date rue.
Would you retrieve the one?
Try and make plump the other—'
He stopped his recitation and opened his book.
'Have I made myself clear?' he asked. 'Give me a small gift and count it as an investment. You'll get it back with interest.'
Miss Loveapple knew that he was playing upon her superstitious weakness, yet she could not resist his bait. She told herself that it was a lucky omen.
'I shall get more than I expect for the house,' she thought, as she opened her bag.
After the resourceful collector had gone, not only the house, but the neighbourhood seemed strangely silent. It had never struck her before how completely the Crescent was withdrawn from the main thoroughfare, as well as in itself. The solid walls of each house permitted no intrusion of the affairs of its neighbour. There were no voices or footsteps audible on either side of her. Only a distant hum floated in through the windows.
A board at each entrance warned the public against trespass and objectionable traffic. 'NO FUNERALS' indicated the Crescent as an awkward place wherein to die, were the injunction taken literally.
'Any one could be murdered here and no one would hear a sound,' thought Miss Loveapple, with justifiable pride at this proof of a select and secluded property.
CHAPTER FIVE. Gloves
As the church clock was striking twelve, the front door bell rang again.
'Thank goodness they teach them punctuality in the army,' reflected Miss Loveapple. 'My money's not entirely wasted.'
It was typical of her mentality to forget that any one paid rates and income-tax besides herself.
She ran up the kitchen stairs, in her eagerness to admit Major Brand; but when she opened the door, the man who stood outside was not of military appearance. Younger than she had expected—tall, spare and well groomed—he looked an average type of educated Englishman, except for the penetration of his hazel eyes and the disillusionment of his expression.
This vanished when he smiled, revealing excellent teeth.
'Is Miss Loveapple at home?' he said.
'I am Miss Loveapple,' she told him.
He stared at her in surprise.
'But you can't be the owner of this house? Not a girl like you.'
The sheer novelty of the description made Miss Loveapple gasp. But although it pleased her to discover that, outside her circle, she was not predated, the familiarity offended her self-esteem.
'I certainly am the owner,' she said stiffly. 'Are you Major Brand?'
'No, his brother-in-law. He's gone off fishing in Wales.