Читать книгу Moss Rose - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 14

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When Belle woke, a blur of bitter daylight was in the room; she had forgotten to pull down the blinds, and her windows, on which the frost had made patterns, looked east. She thought she could hear church bells. What time was it? Six, seven? At what time did it get light on December 25th?

She was wide awake and strove to keep herself so, despite her yesterday's resolution of remaining in bed; she had had an unpleasant dream which she wished to shake off. What had it been? She could not remember the circumstances, only the horror. Something about the knife which Daisy Arrow had put into her reticule. Well, that wasn't strange after all, seeing what she had intended to do with that knife yesterday, what she might have done had she been a little braver and if Minnie Palmer had not come in, nosing for "Cream of the Valley."

She walked about the room, instinctively setting her dress to rights; she looked into the blotched scrap of mirror and was shocked to see her face grimed with fog, swollen from unhealthy sleep, stained by burnt cork and rouge, with the greasy hair plastered flat round her eyes and ears. To wash herself became a necessity. She picked up the empty ewer, intending to go down to the basement for water; the light was still uncertain, it must be very early—Sunday and Christmas morning, no one would be stirring for hours yet.

As she turned to the door she heard footsteps in Daisy Arrow's room and paused with a sudden, angry, hurt recollection of that cultured masculine voice. She heard the other door open and shut, heard a man's step descending, and with a sudden hot curiosity pulled open her own door and stared down the twilit stairs. He had reached the little landing at the end of the first flight. Hearing her movements he looked round and, coming to a stand, stared up at her. He was a stranger to Belle and not in the least like the man whom she had expected to see; he could scarcely have been surprised at her appearance, for she was just such a figure as he in such a house might have been prepared to meet. Yet, they stared at one another as if in full and dreadful recognition, as if each said to the other: "You—here?"

He was neatly, handsomely dressed, wore a full light-grey coat buttoned at the waist, and held a high hat. A pale silk neck-cloth was folded under his chin and his brown hair was carefully brushed.

Belle tried to speak, but could not form a sentence; the stranger, still staring as if in extreme surprise, made an odd gesture with his free hand, as if he drew a cross in the air between them, but so quickly was the movement made and so detached was it from the expression of his face that she almost doubted if he had made it at all, but if it were not, rather, some extension of her own fancy.

Then he was gone, so rapidly that again she doubted if she had seen him at all. She heard the front door slam violently as she stood leaning against the dirty wallpaper of the landing.

Once she had been fond of sketching, of making little notes in pencil of things that had impressed or pleased her; she had for some time forgotten this small talent, now it occurred to her and she began committing to memory the features of that upturned face as if she would, when possible, draw the stranger's portrait.

She hesitated on the landing, in the murky light, disturbed by an uneasy curiosity.

"Perhaps Daisy has some fresh water—why shouldn't I ask her now she's alone?"

In front of the other woman's door, with her hand raised to knock, she hesitated again.

"Why do I want to go in? It will make me sick. Yet I can't resist—and surely I can induce Daisy to tell me something; besides, I do want the water, without going downstairs."

She knocked, and, as there was no answer, entered; the room was hideously like her own, the same kind of cheap furniture, the same worn carpet, the same odds and ends of soiled feminine litter; the holland blind was down, the dingy chenille curtains half-drawn so that the place was full of shadows. Daisy Arrow lay on the far side of the bed with the clothes pulled up all round her so that her face was invisible and only a coil of her red hair showed on the pillow.

"Well, as she's asleep I'll leave it—why should I want to talk about him?—how dark her hair is and I never knew that she had so much of it."

Belle turned to the wooden wash-hand-stand which was a duplicate of her own; her foot struck an object on the floor—a book—a small, thick book. Daisy Arrow never read anything but the Police News. Belle set down her ewer, picked up the volume—a German Bible. She glanced towards the bed, but Daisy Arrow had not moved. "She must be very sound asleep, I can't even hear her breathing."

Placing the Bible on a chair, Belle looked in the other ewer—empty, and a glass drinking-bottle empty, too. All the water had been poured into the basin, this was full to the brim—evidently Daisy had been washing off her heavy rouge, for the water was stained a brownish red. A towel with a strip torn off was folded across the stand. Belle noticed, with a spasm of rage, her pink plumes on the floor; she picked them up, some of the stain that polluted the water, wet rouge, whatever it was, disfigured the iris-coloured breast of the bird-head on the mount, as if the sharp beak had pierced the smooth feathers, drawing—

"Blood," said Belle aloud, then she put her hand to her mouth and stood still.

Well, a little accident, a cut finger, washed here and dried here. Yes, there are marks on the other towel, too, something had dripped on the feathers which were thrown on to the floor.

She steadied herself and approached the bed.

"Daisy Arrow—Daisy. It is Christmas morning, time to get up."

To herself she muttered: "Why do I say that? Why am I afraid to turn the clothes down?"

"Daisy, I came to fetch the pink feathers and the knife—you had no right to take the knife, Daisy Arrow."

She retreated from the bed and saw it the knife, as if it had been conjured into existence by her thought. It lay on a chair unclasped, and the blade was much stained, even more stained than it had been from the vinegar of Belle's midday meal.

Light and swift, Belle returned to the bed; that was not all hair on the pillow—the red locks lay on a deep stain the same colour as themselves. With rigidly extended finger and thumb, Belle pulled back the sheet an inch or so—far enough to see Daisy Arrow's eyes, set dull and staring. Another inch or so, enough to see Daisy Arrow's livid cheeks on which was the imprint of a hand in red. Another inch or so, enough to see Daisy Arrow's throat bound tightly by a strip of towel.

Belle admired her own fortitude; she relished her own control, she was excited by this sense of utter horror and of struggling with and overcoming it as she had struggled and overcome the terror of her forgotten dream.

She put back the bedclothes, she picked up the Bible, the ewer, the feather, and returned to her own room. When she had put these articles on her wash-stand, she found that she could not move; her limbs seemed paralysed, and a deep nausea weakened her; but there was something else to be done; the sense of her own courage upheld her.

"Sometimes she sends up that poor little brat to rouse people."

She forced herself to move, she kept down her retching, she returned to Daisy Arrow's room. The key was on the inside, she moved it to the outside, locked the door and brought the key into her own room.

After this most painful effort, she again felt her strength leave her and crouched on her tumbled bed, holding her throat while nervous convulsions shook her body.

She knew that she could not long remain inactive—there were things to be done, unless she wanted trouble.

First, the key. She found a knot hole in the boards of the floor, slipped the key in, pulled the drugget over the place. The pink feathers she flung, without looking at them, into one of her drawers. The Bible she looked through eagerly. A name inside, several names, inscriptions—no time now to understand or consider these no time to think or to plan. She wrapped the book in a handkerchief and put it in the carpet-bag, which was her sole article of luggage.

She felt ill, but no longer dulled by despair; as she took off her clothes, this time not noticing the cold, put on a nightgown and got into bed, she knew, through an ecstasy of horror, that the murder of Daisy Arrow had given her something for which to live. She put her hand firmly under her face to prevent her teeth from chattering.