Read Online Designs on Life by Elizabeth Ferrars - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Ferrars
Tags: General Fiction
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hall, fighting off a horrible nausea.
After standing there for a minute or two, she went to the door of the basement and called down, “Mr. Shew, I’m going to make some tea.”
“Oh, that’s really kind of you, Mrs. Haddow, very kind.” He came pounding to the foot of the staircase. “If you really wouldn’t mind. It is such a good idea in the circumstances.”
Out of the shadows the plumber appeared and stood at Mr. Shew’s elbow. He was a small man with a grudging voice and a felt hat tipped so steeply over his face that little of it showed but a drooping moustache.
“You got the main tap turned full on,” he said.
“On?” Mr. Shew said. “I turned it off.”
“On,” the plumber said.
“Off!” Mr. Shew cried.
“You may a meant to turn it off,” the plumber said, “but you turned it on. I turned it off. Now I’ll go up and take a look in the loft.”
“The top flat’s locked,” Mr. Shew said. “You can’t get in.”
“It’s all right,” Margaret said. “I know how to get in. Come on, I’ll show you.”
She had to repeat the performance of breaking into Mr. Boyle’s flat under the eye of Mr. Cust, who went in with her and the plumber and stood watching while the legs of the plumber disappeared into the roof. Then he started roaming round the flat. Margaret went downstairs again. She fetched the electric kettle from the kitchen and plugged it into the switch in the bedroom. She fetched the rest of the tea-things on a tray and set the tray down on the floor, squatting on the floor herself, as close to the gas fire as she could without being singed. The kettle came to the boil, and she made the tea, pouring out a cup for herself, sitting there with both hands nursing the hot cup. She kept chewing at her lip, pursuing a thought that dodged round the edges of her mind, but would not let her grasp it.
Presently there was a discreet knock at the door. The councillor put his head round it.
“Ah,” he said, “tea!” He came in. “I really think the water isn’t flowing quite so heavily, Mrs. Haddow.”
She agreed, pouring out tea for him.
“The plumber says it’s all turned off now, but the walls and ceilings will take at least an hour to empty. Mrs. Haddow, you’ll never tell anyone, will you —anyone— aboutmy turning the tap the wrong way?”
She smiled absently, pouring out more tea for herself.
“Though of course it wouldn’t have made much difference, would it?” he said. “Most of the damage must have been done already, don’t you think? Listen—I really think it’s getting less every moment. It seems the main pipe burst. The plumber’s seeing to it.”
Margaret spoke abruptly. “Are they going to arrest Mr. Wragge?”
“Well, it does look rather like it, doesn’t it? Of course, I don’t know. But I should think they’d take him along to the police station for questioning.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Do you—er— happen to know anything about Mr. Wragge’s unfortunate private affairs?”
“Only what he poured out on Michael and me one evening when he was a bit, but not frightfully, drunk.”
“Did he say anything about the—er—the other man?”
“There wasn’t one.”
“Dear me, dear me.” Mr. Shew stirred his tea and sipped a little, those vague cat’s eyes of his behind the pince-nez dwelling on her face.
“You see,” Margaret said in an uncertain voice, as if it were rather hard for her to understand what she was saying herself, “it seemed to be just that that was so awful for him. I mean, that she’d just gone away because she couldn’t stand living with him. She just left him and went back to her old job.”
“And I don’t wonder!”
“No, I suppose not,” she said, and sighed.
“Listen,” he said, “it is getting less, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
They sat there, gradually feeling warmer and drier. Bit by bit the swish of water lessened to the pattering of individual drops. Policemen went on walking
After standing there for a minute or two, she went to the door of the basement and called down, “Mr. Shew, I’m going to make some tea.”
“Oh, that’s really kind of you, Mrs. Haddow, very kind.” He came pounding to the foot of the staircase. “If you really wouldn’t mind. It is such a good idea in the circumstances.”
Out of the shadows the plumber appeared and stood at Mr. Shew’s elbow. He was a small man with a grudging voice and a felt hat tipped so steeply over his face that little of it showed but a drooping moustache.
“You got the main tap turned full on,” he said.
“On?” Mr. Shew said. “I turned it off.”
“On,” the plumber said.
“Off!” Mr. Shew cried.
“You may a meant to turn it off,” the plumber said, “but you turned it on. I turned it off. Now I’ll go up and take a look in the loft.”
“The top flat’s locked,” Mr. Shew said. “You can’t get in.”
“It’s all right,” Margaret said. “I know how to get in. Come on, I’ll show you.”
She had to repeat the performance of breaking into Mr. Boyle’s flat under the eye of Mr. Cust, who went in with her and the plumber and stood watching while the legs of the plumber disappeared into the roof. Then he started roaming round the flat. Margaret went downstairs again. She fetched the electric kettle from the kitchen and plugged it into the switch in the bedroom. She fetched the rest of the tea-things on a tray and set the tray down on the floor, squatting on the floor herself, as close to the gas fire as she could without being singed. The kettle came to the boil, and she made the tea, pouring out a cup for herself, sitting there with both hands nursing the hot cup. She kept chewing at her lip, pursuing a thought that dodged round the edges of her mind, but would not let her grasp it.
Presently there was a discreet knock at the door. The councillor put his head round it.
“Ah,” he said, “tea!” He came in. “I really think the water isn’t flowing quite so heavily, Mrs. Haddow.”
She agreed, pouring out tea for him.
“The plumber says it’s all turned off now, but the walls and ceilings will take at least an hour to empty. Mrs. Haddow, you’ll never tell anyone, will you —anyone— aboutmy turning the tap the wrong way?”
She smiled absently, pouring out more tea for herself.
“Though of course it wouldn’t have made much difference, would it?” he said. “Most of the damage must have been done already, don’t you think? Listen—I really think it’s getting less every moment. It seems the main pipe burst. The plumber’s seeing to it.”
Margaret spoke abruptly. “Are they going to arrest Mr. Wragge?”
“Well, it does look rather like it, doesn’t it? Of course, I don’t know. But I should think they’d take him along to the police station for questioning.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Do you—er— happen to know anything about Mr. Wragge’s unfortunate private affairs?”
“Only what he poured out on Michael and me one evening when he was a bit, but not frightfully, drunk.”
“Did he say anything about the—er—the other man?”
“There wasn’t one.”
“Dear me, dear me.” Mr. Shew stirred his tea and sipped a little, those vague cat’s eyes of his behind the pince-nez dwelling on her face.
“You see,” Margaret said in an uncertain voice, as if it were rather hard for her to understand what she was saying herself, “it seemed to be just that that was so awful for him. I mean, that she’d just gone away because she couldn’t stand living with him. She just left him and went back to her old job.”
“And I don’t wonder!”
“No, I suppose not,” she said, and sighed.
“Listen,” he said, “it is getting less, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
They sat there, gradually feeling warmer and drier. Bit by bit the swish of water lessened to the pattering of individual drops. Policemen went on walking
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