The Dead of Winter Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    She said this last word with a sour expression that betrayed her opinion of such works. I opened my mouth to reply, but Jerwood interrupted with what I firmly believe to be a wholly invented piece of gossip about a politician I had never heard of and so saved me from further inquisition.
    Sir Stephen seemed content for others to dominate the conversation and said very little. My view of him was partially obscured by the flickering flame of a candle, but I just knew that he was studying me intently and I found this unseen gaze very discomfiting.
    Then I became aware of Charlotte tapping her glass with her long fingernails as she listened toJerwood.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap
. But the noise began to change – to become a banging which seeped slowly into the fabric of the room. I lifted my head to try to determine the source, but it was clearly distant, even though the sound seemed to pulse through the walls. I watched as the water in my glass rippled in concentric rings. No one else appeared to take any notice.
    Sir Stephen suddenly let out a groan and pushed himself away from the table.
    ‘I rather think I may retire,’ he said, getting to his feet and glancing at me with a look of wonder on his face.
    ‘I’ll come with you, Stephen,’ said Charlotte, rising from her chair and exchanging a concerned look with Jerwood. Jerwood and I stood up too.
    ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘if you will excuse us.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Jerwood.
    When they had left, Jerwood sighed and stared at the wine glass he cradled in his hand. I opened my mouth to speak, but he interrupted.
    ‘Michael,’ he said, ‘Sir Stephen is suffering from a kind of nervous exhaustion. It grows ever more serious. I fear for his life, I really do. Every time I see him he seems so much frailer than before.’
    I did not know what to say and so I said nothing.
    ‘Come. We are all tired,’ said Jerwood, getting to his feet. ‘I think perhaps it would be best if we turned in.’
    I followed Jerwood out of the dining room and up the stairs but we spoke not one word further until we bade each other goodnight in the passageway outside Jerwood’s room.
    It was not until I was undressed and my head rested on the pillow that my thoughts returned to the woman on the road. I wondered where she was at that moment, picturing the terrible darkness that surrounded Hawton Mere.
    The thought of that poor creature alone and unloved quickly mingled with my own sense of being friendless and trapped in this awful place, and this together with my sense of injustice at being disbelieved and disregarded soon brought tears. Alone in my room, I pulled my blankets round me, buried my face in the pillow and began to cry.
    I tried to stifle the sound of my weeping, knowing that Jerwood was next door, but for a while despair overcame me completely and I curled myself up into a tight ball. So lost was I in my grief that it was some time before I registered that there was a strange echo to my sobs.
    At first it seemed merely that they were amplifiedsomehow and I thought this to be a product of the stillness and the disorientating blackness. But then I could hear that the sobbing was not quite in register with mine, as if two singers had begun to drift apart mid song. This effect was so odd that it gradually brought my sobbing to an end; but the echo continued. Someone else was crying – I was convinced of it.
    In an instant I sobered up from the intoxication of my misery. Fear flooded in and my senses jumped to attention. The sobbing was still there, although it was becoming fainter as I listened intently.
    I was about to get up from the bed – though I have to confess that the room was so dark I couldn’t have been certain of which direction to walk in. But in any case, the sobbing had now ceased. The house was as silent as a monk.
    I strained my ears to hear, but there was nothing save the