Читать книгу So Evil My Love: Based on a True Crime Story - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 10

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Mrs. Sacret met her prospective tenant by appointment at her house in Minton Street. He was the first applicant she had had, for there were many To LET notices in the dingy adjacent streets and there was no particular attraction about her property. She did not like the man’s description of himself as “a painter”; the word to her represented unstability and ungodliness, but his letter had been well written though from an address that she knew to be humble and probably an apartment house in Pimlico. She had decided, if he had respectable references and seemed himself responsible, to accept him as a tenant and at a moderate rent. The rates were low, and any sum above those would be profit.

The house she had once felt proud to own looked very mean and shabby as she considered it with a critical eye, going from room to room and adjusting the worn furniture and shabby curtains. When she had come to dust and air the place she had hardly noticed it; now, in mental comparison with the Old Priory, she felt slightly ashamed of it and startled to realize that it was her home and that she would have to return to it—and from that background earn her living.

She sat down in the parlor, considering this intolerable prospect. Yes, suddenly intolerable. Why, this place was wretched, not even clean, compared to Susan’s home where busy servants kept every inch of wood, stone and metal washed and shining.

The bell rang and she sprang up, nervous from her own thoughts, not from fear of the newcomer. He can have it, she decided, with a touch of panic, for almost any price.

She went to the front door, but a step from the tiny parlor across the narrow hall, and opened it wide.

A young man stood on the small flagstone, between the railings of the two areas. It seemed absurd that he should be there, and yet Mrs. Sacret did not know why.

“I am Mark Bellis,” he said, raising his hat. “Mrs. Sacret?”

“Yes, please to enter, Mr. Bellis. This is the parlor.”

She preceded him, feeling subdued, a little shaken; she rallied her spirits, however, and said:

“You know the exterior of the house. Shall I show you the rooms?”

“If you will be so good.”

“As I said—the parlor—very modestly furnished, but all that is needful—a table, chairs, a bookcase, coal hod.”

“Yes, all that is needful.”

They were in the passage again. “A little room at the back that I—we—never used much.” Gathering up her expensive mourning she went abruptly down the steep dark stairs to the basement. “A kitchen, a scullery—equipped—but I don’t suppose that interests you.”

She did not look at him, and hastened upstairs; she heard him behind her, a quiet, firm tread such as had not sounded in this house in her memory. She showed him the two bedrooms, each with a single bed with a white honeycomb quilt, washed muslin at the windows, squares of drugget, and yellow varnished tables, chests and washing stands.

“That is all.” Still she did not look at him; she turned again and was quickly in the front parlor, that distinctive tread behind her; without facing him, she asked: “Does it suit you?”

“Very well. I live alone, but my present apartment is too small. I have much lumber to store. What, please, Mrs. Sacret, is the rent?” Gazing at the floor, she answered:

“Two pounds a week.”

“I could not pay that. I am a painter, not known. I do not earn much. The rent of this house cannot be above fifteen pounds a year. Good day.”

Mrs. Sacret was startled.

“Don’t go. You think I ask a high figure. You see me well dressed; that is because I am companion to a rich woman. My husband left me nothing but this house. The rent of it represents my sole means.”

“I am sorry, it is too much for me.”

She looked as high as his hand on the doorknob.

“How much would you pay?”

“One pound a week. Far too high. But I don’t wish to waste time looking farther—and it suits me, and since you make a point of the money—

“No more than you do!” she flashed, looking up, then down again. “This is half what I expected—but I am not used to bargaining.”

“No? We have agreed, then?”

“I shall want references.”

“I have none,” he replied coolly. “I have been abroad, France, Italy. My friends are scattered—if I may think them friends. My present landlady will assure you that I have paid my rent for three months and been a quiet tenant.”

“Pay me six months in advance, then,” demanded Mrs. Sacret, staring at the floor boards as if she saw through them, deep into another world.

“I could not do that, Mrs. Sacret. I may be engaged to work for Mr. Fox Oldham at Lyndbridge House in Kent. If so—then I’ll pay you for six months—”

“Portraits?” she asked.

“Mural decorations. For the home-coming of a bride.”

“Then you would have to live there—in Kent?”

“Perhaps. None of it is certain yet. Will you let me this house, Mrs. Sacret?”

“Yes. I suppose so. You’ll pay something?”

“I thought you were not used to bargaining. A sovereign. One week’s rent from today.”

Her eyes were again at the level of his hand. She saw it place the gold coin on the mean table where she and her husband, then she alone, had had their dreary, tasteless meals.

“Can you come here tomorrow, at the same time, to make an inventory of your possessions, Mrs. Sacret?”

“Yes.”

“Good day, then. And bring a receipt for the sovereign.”

He went. She heard two doors shut, then she raised her head and stared at the spot where he had stood.