The Girl In The Cellar Read Online Free PDF Page B

Her life began, her conscious life began, when she stood on the cellar steps and looked down on a girl’s dead body. She had not then any idea who the girl might be. She only knew that she must get away from her. And then the second thought that had come—‘You can’t go away like that. Oh, no, you can’t!’ and she had taken the torch out of the bag and gone down and looked. There was the wound in the head. At the memory of it she turned cold and sick. No one with a wound like that could be alive—but she had stooped to the ungloved hand—and the hand was cold. She could not control the violent shudder that shook her as she remembered the cold and clammy feeling of that dead hand.
    She remembered everything from there—how she had put out the light and listened, and how there had been no sound, and how she had come up the steps into the dark entrance hall, and so out into the street, and along it until she had come to the bus. Miss Silver wasn’t on the bus when she got on to it. She could see the bus quite clearly. It had stopped and she had got on to it, and then it had gone on again. She had shut her eyes, and when she opened them Miss Silver was there, sitting opposite to her in a neat shabby black coat and a much newer hat with a half-wreath of red roses on one side and an odd trimming of black chiffon rosettes on the other. The rosettes and the flowers grew smaller as they drew together in front of the hat.
    She pulled herself up sharply. What was the good of thinking about Miss Silver’s hat? She was never likely to see it or her again. If she was to think, let her for goodness’ sake think about something or someone useful.
    She must think about Jim Fancourt. She must think about the man who might be her husband. If she was Anne Fancourt, that was what he was. It lay between her and the dead girl at the foot of the stairs. The bag with the letter to Anne Fancourt in it had been on a level with her, and she had been some steps up. She had had to open the bag to get out the torch by which she had seen the dead girl. How did she know there was a torch there if it wasn’t her bag? The letter from Lilian was in her bag. If the bag was hers, she was Anne Fancourt, Jim Fancourt’s wife, and a niece of Lilian and Harriet. If it wasn’t hers, but the dead girl’s, then it was the dead girl who was Anne Fancourt.
    Up and down, to and fro, endlessly, timelessly. The light changed, deepened, turned to grey. A little shudder went over her. It was no good going on thinking.
    She turned and went back to the house.
    CHAPTER 9
    It was two days later that she spoke to Lilian.
    ‘You said you had a letter about me from Jim. Might I see it?’
    Lilian stared at her, a little offended as it seemed.
    ‘Well, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose so—if you really want to. I think I kept it.’
    Something like a half-struck match went off in the darkness of Anne’s mind. There wasn’t time for her to see anything by the light of it, but there was something there to be seen, she was sure about that. It was gone in a flash, but it had been there. She said, ‘It might help me to remember, if you don’t mind.’
    Lilian had gone over to her writing-table. She opened a drawer and began to fuss over the papers that were in it.
    ‘Miss Porson… dear, dear, I must remember to write. And Mary Jacks… One really ought not to put letters away, one forgets them so dreadfully. Now where did I… Oh, here’s the recipe for that very good apple-chutney we had at Miss Maule’s. I am pleased about that. I’ll leave it out and give it to Mattie. She’s so much better at remembering things than I am. Now what was it I was looking for… Oh, yes, Jim’s letter about your coming. Now you wouldn’t think I would have thrown that away, would you? I wonder if it wasn’t in this drawer at all. What do you think? Shall I finish this drawer and then go on to the one underneath it, where it is really much more likely to be, and I can’t