The Secret House of Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

across the keys and emptied her mind.
    At half past three she went into the kitchen. A resolution had been forming subconsciously while she worked and now she brought it out into the open. In future she would have as little as possible to do with the Norths. No more accepting of lifts, no more garden talks. It might even be prudent to be on the alert for their comings and goings to avoid bumping into them.
    The drills were screaming behind the back fence. Susan put the kettle on, watching the big elms sway in the wind with the pliability of grass blades. From here she could just see the workmen’s fire glowing crimson in its punctured bucket and the workmen’s faces, ‘dark faces pale against that rosy flame’ as they passed across the threshold of their hut. The sight of another’s hearth which others share and enjoy always brings a sense of exclusion and of loneliness. The brazier, incandescent and vivid, its flames burning translucent blue against the red heart, brought to mind the improvised stoves of chestnut sellers and she remembered how she and Julian, on their way to a theatre, had sometimes stopped to buy and warm their hands.
    The sky was blue now like arctic ice and the clouds which tumbled across it were pillowy glacial floes. Susan’s kettle bumped, the drills shrilled and then, clearly and succinctly through the louder sounds, there came a gentle tap at the front door.
    Pollux hadn’t barked. It must be a neighbour or a familiar visitor to the street. Surely it was too early for Doris to be bringing Paul? Besides, Doris always came to the back door and Doris always shouted and banged.
    The drills died away on a whine. Susan crossed the hall and the little tap was repeated. She opened the door and when she saw who her caller was she felt an actual dismal sinking of the heart.
    What was the use of resolving to avoid people when those people intruded themselves upon you? Louise North wasn’t wearing her little girl’s size eight coat, but had wrapped it round her thin shoulders. She stepped inside, shivering, before Susan could hinder her and the little hammer heels rattled on the wood-block floor. Louise was trembling, she was scarcely steady on her feet.
    â€˜Spare me five minutes, Susan? Five minutes to talk?’ She lifted her eyes, bending her head back to look up into Susan’s face. Those eyes, the pale insipid blue of glass beads, were watering from the cold. But she’s only come from next door, Susan thought, unless she’s crying. She is crying. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Susan, do you? You must call me Louise.’
    You’re at the end of your tether. Susan almost said it aloud. Two tears coursed down Louise’s thin face. She brushed at them and scuttled towards the living-room. ‘I know the way she muttered. ‘It’s just the same as my house.’ Her heels left a twin trail of little pits, ineradicable permanent holes in the parquet.
    Susan followed her helplessly. Louise’s face was muddy with make-up applied over stale make-up and tear-stains. Now in the warm quiet living-room she dropped her head into her hands and tears trickled through her fingers on to the gooseflesh of her wrists.

3
    Susan stood by the window and waited for Louise to stop crying. She was anxious not to prejudge her, but she felt impatient. Louise had no handkerchief. Now, in a feeble and embarrassed way, she was fumbling in the pockets of her coat and looking vaguely about her for the handbag she hadn’t brought.
    In the kitchen the kettle was bumping on the gas. Susan knew it was the sponge she had put inside it years and years ago to absorb the lime deposit the water made. The sponge had become petrified with time and the noise of this piece of rock lurching against the kettle lining made the only sound. Susan went into the kitchen, turned off the gas and fetched Louise a clean handkerchief.
    â€˜I’m ever so sorry,’ Louise