the corridor and I thought it must be the sleeping-car attendant, so I got up and went out. But there wasn’t anyone there …’
‘This person you heard in the corridor-which way did they go?’
Miranda wrinkled her brow, and then shook her head. ‘I can’t remember. I don’t think I knew at the time. It was such a soft
sound; more an impression than anything else. Perhaps there wasn’t anyone there after all.’
‘Unfortunately we know only too well that there was,’ said Simon Lang grimly. ‘Now about the people who were in the hall of that hostel, please - and then you can go to sleep. Who else would you say was there at the time that the Brigadier took those sleeping pills?’
Miranda pondered the question. She tried to tick them off on her fingers as she spoke, and their faces seemed to float in front of her. Sally Page with her wild-rose face and her pretty shallow laugh, smiling that revealing smile at Robert. Andy Page, with his red hair and angry blue eyes. Eisa Marson, black-haired, darkeyed, with her unmistakably foreign voice. Harry Marson, redfaced, cheerful, pugnacious and Anglo-Irish. Colonel Leslie, thin, tall and grey-haired, with an expression of dreamy boredom and a clipped military moustache. Mrs Leslie - dark hair streaked with grey, brightly coloured tweeds, Welfare and ‘My wives’ who had looked at her, Miranda, with such hate … No, not at her … at someone else, surely? Who? She could not remember
Who else? Mrs Wilkin, a bedraggled hedge-sparrow coping with a brood of unruly fledgelings. Wally, with his plain, freckled, pugnosed face and his endearing grin. A German waiter - several German waiters. And then there was Brigadier Brindley. Of course: he had been there too. But why had he forgotten to put back his teeth? He looked so very odd without them. Odd and old and pathetic…
58
Another face floated in front of her and blotted out the jumble of different faces. A strange face, and yet somehow familiar. It was someone she did not recognize, and yet felt that she had known all her life.
‘It’s time you got some sleep,’ said the unknown face.
That’s a very sensible suggestion,’ murmured Miranda. ‘Goodnight, Guinness.’ She smiled drowsily at it, and was instantly asleep.
Miranda awoke to find the train at a standstill and cold grey daylight filtering into the carriage around the edges of the windowblind.
For a moment, between sleeping and waking, she thought that she was in her own bedroom and wondered why her bed seemed so narrow? Then almost in the same instant she remembered. She
was in Germany - probably by now in Berlin - and on the other side of a door in her compartment lay the body of a murdered man.
Miranda’s mind jerked away desperately from the memory of Brigadier Brindley as she had last seen him. She did not want to think of it. The thought of blood and that slack-mouthed dead face brought back too many things - forgotten and shadowy pictures of other dead faces; the sight and smell of death, and the horror and fear of that long-ago time when a small girl had been lost and alone in the terrible storm of war.
Pushing those memories resolutely back into a locked room of her mind from which they were threatening to escape, she sat up abruptly, knocked her head against the reading-light above her pillow, and pulling back the bedclothes was surprised to find that underneath them she was not only still wearing her dressinggown, but was swathed in a cocoon of blankets.
That man - what was his name? - Simon Lang, must have pulled the bedclothes over her and subsequently tucked her in. Who was he? What was he? What had he been doing in the corridor so late last night and by what right had he questioned her? Why hadn’t she refused to answer those questions and ordered him out of her compartment? She should have rung for the atten-60
dant to fetch Robert. Instead of which she had sat meekly on her berth for hours on end waiting until a
‘This person you heard in the corridor-which way did they go?’
Miranda wrinkled her brow, and then shook her head. ‘I can’t remember. I don’t think I knew at the time. It was such a soft
sound; more an impression than anything else. Perhaps there wasn’t anyone there after all.’
‘Unfortunately we know only too well that there was,’ said Simon Lang grimly. ‘Now about the people who were in the hall of that hostel, please - and then you can go to sleep. Who else would you say was there at the time that the Brigadier took those sleeping pills?’
Miranda pondered the question. She tried to tick them off on her fingers as she spoke, and their faces seemed to float in front of her. Sally Page with her wild-rose face and her pretty shallow laugh, smiling that revealing smile at Robert. Andy Page, with his red hair and angry blue eyes. Eisa Marson, black-haired, darkeyed, with her unmistakably foreign voice. Harry Marson, redfaced, cheerful, pugnacious and Anglo-Irish. Colonel Leslie, thin, tall and grey-haired, with an expression of dreamy boredom and a clipped military moustache. Mrs Leslie - dark hair streaked with grey, brightly coloured tweeds, Welfare and ‘My wives’ who had looked at her, Miranda, with such hate … No, not at her … at someone else, surely? Who? She could not remember
Who else? Mrs Wilkin, a bedraggled hedge-sparrow coping with a brood of unruly fledgelings. Wally, with his plain, freckled, pugnosed face and his endearing grin. A German waiter - several German waiters. And then there was Brigadier Brindley. Of course: he had been there too. But why had he forgotten to put back his teeth? He looked so very odd without them. Odd and old and pathetic…
58
Another face floated in front of her and blotted out the jumble of different faces. A strange face, and yet somehow familiar. It was someone she did not recognize, and yet felt that she had known all her life.
‘It’s time you got some sleep,’ said the unknown face.
That’s a very sensible suggestion,’ murmured Miranda. ‘Goodnight, Guinness.’ She smiled drowsily at it, and was instantly asleep.
Miranda awoke to find the train at a standstill and cold grey daylight filtering into the carriage around the edges of the windowblind.
For a moment, between sleeping and waking, she thought that she was in her own bedroom and wondered why her bed seemed so narrow? Then almost in the same instant she remembered. She
was in Germany - probably by now in Berlin - and on the other side of a door in her compartment lay the body of a murdered man.
Miranda’s mind jerked away desperately from the memory of Brigadier Brindley as she had last seen him. She did not want to think of it. The thought of blood and that slack-mouthed dead face brought back too many things - forgotten and shadowy pictures of other dead faces; the sight and smell of death, and the horror and fear of that long-ago time when a small girl had been lost and alone in the terrible storm of war.
Pushing those memories resolutely back into a locked room of her mind from which they were threatening to escape, she sat up abruptly, knocked her head against the reading-light above her pillow, and pulling back the bedclothes was surprised to find that underneath them she was not only still wearing her dressinggown, but was swathed in a cocoon of blankets.
That man - what was his name? - Simon Lang, must have pulled the bedclothes over her and subsequently tucked her in. Who was he? What was he? What had he been doing in the corridor so late last night and by what right had he questioned her? Why hadn’t she refused to answer those questions and ordered him out of her compartment? She should have rung for the atten-60
dant to fetch Robert. Instead of which she had sat meekly on her berth for hours on end waiting until a
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