Death Trap Read Online Free PDF Page A

extraordinary place for her to be living, and an open invitation to any passing thief.
    Mrs Beauchamp was obviously aware of Kate’s surprised survey of her home and waved her into a chair. She was a tall, thin woman with grey hair pulled back to the nape of the neck in an old-fashioned style and with an imperious manner, but her face was finely lined and pale, the skin tight over the cheekbones, and it looked, in the poor light, that she had attempted to apply make-up but merely smudged foundation unevenly, and botched her bright lipstick. Kate wondered if her sight was failing. She waved vaguely around before sitting down close to the empty fireplace where an electric fire was turned off. The flat was cold and smelled of damp and lavender water.
    â€˜I was only able to keep a few of my treasures,’ she said, looking around vaguely. ‘It turned out that there were a great many debts when my husband died, but I wanted to stay in London and my son and I thought this was the best solution for me. It’s not ideal, but people in reduced circumstances have little choice in these matters. And I kept the access to the garden at the back. I like that. It’s very overgrown but I can sit outside when it’s warm enough.’
    â€˜You’re dead lucky to have so many beautiful things,’ Kate said.
    Cecily Beauchamp nodded. ‘For a little while longer, anyway,’ she said. ‘And that’s why I asked you in. I wondered if you would be kind enough to take a message for me. I have arthritis and I can’t walk as I used to. You saw the other day how difficult I was finding the steps. It’s not very far. Just down to Portobello Road. I have a friend there, an antique dealer who buys and sells for me sometimes. I’d like her to come and see me when she has time. There’s something I want to discuss. If I gave you a note for her, could you deliver it?’
    â€˜Can’t you phone her?’ Kate asked.
    â€˜I’m afraid my phone’s out of order,’ Mrs Beauchamp mumbled, looking embarrassed, two red spots appearing on her cheeks. Which means the bill’s not been paid, Kate thought, familiar enough with the consequences of unpaid bills. This woman, with her cut-glass accent, expensive antiques and obvious poverty, was a mass of contradictions.
    â€˜Could you take a note for me, Catherine? I’d be very grateful.’
    Kate nodded. She did not want to be hooked into becoming Cecily Beauchamp’s messenger girl, but then, she thought, she was not going to be living here long enough for it to become a burden. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Can it wait till Saturday morning, though? I’ll be off to work early tomorrow.’
    â€˜Yes, she’s certain to be there at the antique market on Saturday. That’s their busiest day. I’ll have it ready for you by about ten. Will that be convenient?’
    Kate nodded. ‘I’ll call round then,’ she said.
    â€˜What is it exactly you do, my dear?’ her hostess asked, her rheumy eyes peering at her as if to see her more clearly. ‘For a living, I mean.’
    â€˜I’m a photographer for an agency in Soho,’ Kate said, feeling for the first time that she had a secure claim to what had been a mere ambition for so long.
    Mrs Beauchamp did not hide her surprise. ‘What a very quaint job for a gel,’ she said. ‘I had my photograph taken by Cecil Beaton once, many years ago when I came out.’
    â€˜Came out?’ Kate asked, trying not to look overawed by the Beaton name.
    â€˜I was a debutante, presented to the Queen. You modern gels don’t know anything about those times, do you? But I don’t know where that picture is now. I’ve mislaid so many things.’ She ran a hand across her brow and for a moment Kate glimpsed a level of confusion in her eyes which alarmed her.
    She stood up and pulled her jacket back on. ‘I must go,’