Death in Kashmir Read Online Free PDF Page A

believe it. I ought to have had more sense.’
    â€˜But I do—I mean, I can’t … Oh, hell! ’ sighed Sarah despairingly, subsiding once more onto the hearthrug. ‘I’m the one who ought to be saying, “I’m sorry,” not you. And I really am sorry. I suppose I thought for a moment that you must be making fun of me just to see how much I’d swallow, and I reacted by doing a Queen Victoria: the “We are not amused” line. Can I change that instead to “Go on, convince me”? Please, Janet. I mean it.’
    Janet’s attempt at a smile was not entirely successful, but the nod that accompanied it satisfied Sarah, who smiled back at her warmly. But that brief check had evidently served to reawaken the older girl’s sense of caution, for she stayed silent for an appreciable interval; sitting very still and apparently listening, though as far as Sarah could hear there was no sound from outside the room, and only the flutter and purr of flames and the occasional crackle of a burning log from inside it. Nevertheless, Miss Rushton continued to listen, and presently she rose to her feet, and crossing over to the outer door, switched off the light, and drawing back the bolt with her left hand (the right one, Sarah noted, was hidden in the pocket that held the little automatic) eased open the door.
    The flood of moonlight that lay along the verandah had narrowed as the moon moved up the sky, but the long, snow-powdered arcade with its fringe of glittering icicles hanging from the roof-edge above was silent and deserted, and the only marks upon it were the prints of Sarah’s footsteps.
    Janet stood in the doorway for a moment or two, looking about her and listening to that silence. Then, stepping back, she closed and bolted the door, switched on the light again, and having checked the window fastenings and made sure that the curtains were closely drawn, looked across at Sarah and said very softly: ‘You won’t mind if I turn on the radio, will you? Cousin Hilda and I used to use it whenever we wanted to talk in a place where we could be overheard, so I know all the available stations backwards, and one of them puts on a discussion group around this time of night—or at least, that’s what it sounds like. I’ve no idea where it comes from or what language they’re talking, but voices make a better cover than music. So if you don’t mind…’
    She stooped to remove a small battery radio set from a chest of drawers that stood against the wooden wall between the door and the window, and placing it on top, adjusted the knobs and switched it on, releasing an excitable babble of voices that would have done credit to a family of Neapolitan fisherfolk enjoying a domestic row.
    The volume, however, while not sufficient to disturb the slumbers of any fellow-guests further down the verandah, was more than enough to prevent anyone outside the room from separating the lowered voices of Miss Rushton and her visitor from the medley of masculine and feminine chitchat and the incessant whine and crackle of static.
    â€˜I see what you mean!’ commented Sarah, automatically keeping her voice below the level of the invisible disputers: ‘Well, go on with what you were telling me. I’m all ears.’
    Janet returned to her chair, and leaning forward, elbows on knees, to warm her hands at the fire, said carefully, as though choosing her words: ‘You must have heard of the Secret Service, though I imagine it never occurred to you that very ordinary people like Cousin Hilda—Mrs Matthews—and myself could belong to it. No!’ as Sarah made a startled movement and seemed about to speak, ‘let me finish. People like us—like me—are only small fry. Our job is just to collect information: odds and ends of rumour and talk and gossip that can seem meaningless by themselves, but when added to other scraps collected by