Read Online Buffet for Unwelcome Guests by Christianna Brand - Free Book Online
Authors: Christianna Brand
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said. ‘Just a little advice. But before you ignore the advice—take a good, hard, look at yourselves. You won’t need any mirrors. And ask yourselves,’ he said, giving us a good, hard, long look on his own account, from the soles of our feet to the tops of our flaming red heads, ‘just how far you’d get…’
So that was that; and for the next two days, we ‘stewed in it’: David and Jonathan, Cain and Abel—like he’d said, blood brothers.
On the third day, he sent for us, to Heronsford police station. They shoved Fred into one little room and me in another. He talked to Fred first, and I waited. All very chummy, fags and cups of tea and offers of bread and butter: but it was the waiting…
Long after I knew I couldn’t stand one more minute of it, he came. I suppose they muttered some formalities, but I don’t remember: Fred and I might hate one another, and by this time we did, well and truly, there’s no denying it—but it was worse, a thousand times worse, without him there. My head felt as though it were filled with grey cotton-wool, little stuffy, warm clouds of it. He sat down in front of me. He said: ‘Well—have you come to your senses? Of course you killed her?’
‘If anyone killed her,’ I said, clinging to our patter, ‘it must have been him.’
‘Your brother?’ he said. ‘But why should your brother have killed her?’
‘Well,’ I says, ‘if the girl was having a baby—’
‘A baby?’ he says, surprised; and his eyes got that bright, glittering look in them. He said after a minute of steady thinking: ‘But she wasn’t.’
‘She wasn’t?’ I said. ‘She wasn’t ? But she’d told him—’
Or hadn’t she told him? Something, like an icicle of light, ice-cold, piercing, brilliant, thrust itself into the dark places of my cotton-wool mind. I said: ‘The bloody, two-timing, double-crossing bastard…!’
‘ He didn’t seem,’ said the Inspector, softly, ‘to expect her to have been found pregnant.’
So that was it! So that was it! So as to get me to agree to the killing, to get me to assist with it… I ought to have been more fly—why should Fred, of all people, be so much afraid of Black Will as to go in for murder? Will’s a dangerous man, but Fred’s not exactly a softie… The icicle turned in my mind and twisted, probing with its light-rays into the cotton-woolliness. Revenge! Cold, sullen, implacable revenge upon the two of us—because Lydia had come to me: because I had taken her. Death for her: and I to be the accomplice in her undoing—in my own undoing. And for me… I knew now who had sent the anonymous note about the hit-and-run accident: so easily to be ‘traced’ (after she was dead) to Lydia.
But yet—he was as deep in it as I was: deeper, had he but known it. I said, fighting my way up out of the darkness: ‘Even if she had been pregnant, it wouldn’t have been my fault. I’d only been going a couple of weeks with the girl.’
‘That’s what you say,’ he said.
‘But all the village—’
‘All the village knew there were goings-on; nobody knew just where they went on, or when. You must, all three, have been remarkably careful.’
I tried another tack. ‘But if she wasn’t pregnant—why should I have killed her?’
‘You’ve just told me yourself that you thought she was,’ he said.
‘Because he told me—my brother told me. Now, look, Inspector,’ I said, trying to think it out as I went along, trying to ram it home to him, ‘you say she wasn’t having a baby? So why should I have thought she was? She wouldn’t have told me, if she hadn’t been: why should she? It was he who told me: it was my brother. But you say yourself, he knew it wasn’t true. So why should he have told me?’
He looked at me, cold as ice. He said: ‘That’s easy. He wanted you to kill her for him.’
He wanted me to kill her! I could have laughed. The thing was getting fantastic, getting out of hand; and yet at the same time I had
So that was that; and for the next two days, we ‘stewed in it’: David and Jonathan, Cain and Abel—like he’d said, blood brothers.
On the third day, he sent for us, to Heronsford police station. They shoved Fred into one little room and me in another. He talked to Fred first, and I waited. All very chummy, fags and cups of tea and offers of bread and butter: but it was the waiting…
Long after I knew I couldn’t stand one more minute of it, he came. I suppose they muttered some formalities, but I don’t remember: Fred and I might hate one another, and by this time we did, well and truly, there’s no denying it—but it was worse, a thousand times worse, without him there. My head felt as though it were filled with grey cotton-wool, little stuffy, warm clouds of it. He sat down in front of me. He said: ‘Well—have you come to your senses? Of course you killed her?’
‘If anyone killed her,’ I said, clinging to our patter, ‘it must have been him.’
‘Your brother?’ he said. ‘But why should your brother have killed her?’
‘Well,’ I says, ‘if the girl was having a baby—’
‘A baby?’ he says, surprised; and his eyes got that bright, glittering look in them. He said after a minute of steady thinking: ‘But she wasn’t.’
‘She wasn’t?’ I said. ‘She wasn’t ? But she’d told him—’
Or hadn’t she told him? Something, like an icicle of light, ice-cold, piercing, brilliant, thrust itself into the dark places of my cotton-wool mind. I said: ‘The bloody, two-timing, double-crossing bastard…!’
‘ He didn’t seem,’ said the Inspector, softly, ‘to expect her to have been found pregnant.’
So that was it! So that was it! So as to get me to agree to the killing, to get me to assist with it… I ought to have been more fly—why should Fred, of all people, be so much afraid of Black Will as to go in for murder? Will’s a dangerous man, but Fred’s not exactly a softie… The icicle turned in my mind and twisted, probing with its light-rays into the cotton-woolliness. Revenge! Cold, sullen, implacable revenge upon the two of us—because Lydia had come to me: because I had taken her. Death for her: and I to be the accomplice in her undoing—in my own undoing. And for me… I knew now who had sent the anonymous note about the hit-and-run accident: so easily to be ‘traced’ (after she was dead) to Lydia.
But yet—he was as deep in it as I was: deeper, had he but known it. I said, fighting my way up out of the darkness: ‘Even if she had been pregnant, it wouldn’t have been my fault. I’d only been going a couple of weeks with the girl.’
‘That’s what you say,’ he said.
‘But all the village—’
‘All the village knew there were goings-on; nobody knew just where they went on, or when. You must, all three, have been remarkably careful.’
I tried another tack. ‘But if she wasn’t pregnant—why should I have killed her?’
‘You’ve just told me yourself that you thought she was,’ he said.
‘Because he told me—my brother told me. Now, look, Inspector,’ I said, trying to think it out as I went along, trying to ram it home to him, ‘you say she wasn’t having a baby? So why should I have thought she was? She wouldn’t have told me, if she hadn’t been: why should she? It was he who told me: it was my brother. But you say yourself, he knew it wasn’t true. So why should he have told me?’
He looked at me, cold as ice. He said: ‘That’s easy. He wanted you to kill her for him.’
He wanted me to kill her! I could have laughed. The thing was getting fantastic, getting out of hand; and yet at the same time I had
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