The Murder of Harriet Krohn Read Online Free PDF Page A

the wind blows in the summer. The occasional mouse scurrying across the attic floor. The house is spartan. The rooms are small and hot. The furniture is simple and carefully chosen; its colors and patterns blend together. There is little decoration, because she doesn’t waste money. She has no time for empty display.
    Charlo climbs the steps. Harriet draws a deep breath and puts her pen to the paper, writing “Dear.” A gold bracelet on her wrist rattles on the writing surface. The letter gradually takes shape inside her head; she can hear her own voice within her. It’s authoritative and flows lightly and easily, but her hand is much slower. In the midst of this tranquil interlude, she’s disturbed by the doorbell. A sudden, insistent note in the silence. She raises her head and listens in surprise, automatically glancing at the clock on the wall, as if the clock can tell her who’s coming. Five past ten. It’s well past the time for salesmen, and too late for her friend Mosse next door. She’d never call at ten in the evening. Unless it was something very out of the ordinary. Could that be it? Could something have happened? But then if it were Mosse, Harriet realizes, she’d have phoned first, because she’s considerate, and both of them are elderly. But the doorbell has rung and she sits in her chair with her pen in her hand, paralyzed. She stares at the single word “Dear.” Then she thinks, at least the door chain’s on. But there’s silence now and she’s perplexed. After all, it could just be children playing, excited by the sleet and running around the streets in search of mischief. To leave her chair and walk through the living room and all the way out to the hall would be an effort for her; she won’t get up unless she has to. But the bell rings again, twice. The person at the door isn’t going to give up. It’s silly not to answer, she realizes. She is a grownup after all. Perhaps it’s someone from the Women’s Institute; they’ve got a habit of calling incessantly.
    She rises now, with difficulty, and walks with short, fumbling steps across the room. Again she feels the wholemeal grain wedged in her teeth. Now she’s in the hall. Through the glass in the door, she can make out a figure standing on the top step. A solid black shadow. Again she hesitates. Who would turn up at this hour? She knows hardly anyone. First she undoes the lock, and then she opens the door warily as far as the chain permits. There’s a man in a green parka. He moves slightly so she can see him through the chink. Isn’t there something familiar about him? She racks her brain but can’t find him in the myriad faces stored there. He’s holding a parcel up to his chest. She has no idea what it is. She stands staring at him through the crack as she waits for some explanation. Without realizing it, her thin face has assumed a hostile and suspicious expression.
    “Harriet Krohn?” the man asks.
    The voice is friendly and light, as if the white snowflakes have made him merry, with their sudden Christmassy atmosphere at the beginning of November.
    “Yes?” she says, and stares at the package, the little she can see of it through the gap between the door and the frame. How big it is, how infinitely white.
    “I’ve got a flower delivery,” he says, beaming. Harriet is confused. Her birthday isn’t for another month, and even when it comes, no one will send flowers.
    “There must be a mistake,” she stammers, still mystified. Has she ever been sent flowers before? Not that she can remember. That’s suspicious in itself. But the flowers seem to whisper to her from within their white paper. Just imagine, flowers. Can it be? Has she forgotten something? Mentally she ransacks the previous day, but comes up with nothing. The man waits patiently on the steps. It’s snowing on his shoulders. The light above the door reveals the wet patches.
    “I don’t know who they’re from,” he says, “but someone’s sent you