Weekend with Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

near relations left, only an odd cousin or two, and they made the foulest suggestions—institutions and things like that. And then Tink bobbed up. She’d been my mother’s governess. They’d always kept up, and she used to come and stay, and of course I loved her awfully, but there wasn’t any reason in the world why she should have bothered about me or taken a hand, but she did. She was just going to retire—she’d got her savings all ready to put into an annuity. She had been governessing for forty-five years, and she’d managed to save quite a piece. And then I came along without one single claim on her, and instead of buying her annuity she used her savings to bring me up and put me out in the world. Do you think I mind who I work for or what I do as long as I can keep her going? She has hardly got anything left, because she spent it all on me. Don’t you see I’ve got to have a job that will keep her going?”
    When Sarah looked at him like that Henry experienced emotions of a conflicting nature. He wanted to be alone on a desert island with Sarah. He would have eliminated the rest of the human race without a qualm. Let them go and have their stupid wars and blow each other off the face of the earth—he didn’t give a damn for any of them. He wanted to drag Sarah by the hair, and beat her over the head, and kiss away the tears that were shining in her eyes. He had a moment of pure savage exultation.
    And then the waiter thrust between them with hot plates and something in a casserole. It might have been indiarubber for all that he knew, but Sarah commended it highly. She was a little ashamed of having got all worked up about Tinkler. As a sedative to the emotions there is nothing like really good food. The thing in the casserole was superlatively good. There was chicken in it, or perhaps pheasant—it was too sublimated to be easily identifiable—and there were certainly mushrooms, and very small, very succulent sausages. In the midst of her warm appreciation the bit of her mind which had not been quite made up set as firm and hard as cement. Not for anything on earth would she tell Henry about Emily Case and the oiled-silk packet.
    She wouldn’t tell him, but on the other hand it would be amusing to fish for probable reactions. She cut a minute sausage in half, pinned it to a mushroom, and ate it thoughtfully. Her expression was womanly and charming in the extreme. Henry Templar thought so, and his mood softened. If he had been alone with Sarah on a desert island at this moment he would have relinquished the more violent points of his original programme.
    Sarah looked sweetly at him and said,
    â€œSuppose you were in a lift and someone put something in your pocket and got out, and the lift went on, and then you heard a shot and you found someone had committed suicide—”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œA hypothetical case. You know—one of those what-should-A-do sort of things. Well, in this particular case, what should A do? The person who put the thing in the pocket is dead—”
    Henry bent a severe frown upon her.
    â€œSarah, what on earth are you talking about?”
    She was brightly flushed and animated.
    â€œYou haven’t been listening. I’ll say it all over again. Just concentrate. It’s quite easy really.”
    She said it all over again.
    â€œBut what’s it all about?”
    â€œWhat should A do?” said Sarah.
    Henry’s mind appeared to grapple with the problem.
    â€œIt would depend what was in the packet.”
    â€œOh, they wouldn’t know that.”
    Henry stared.
    â€œWho are they ?”
    â€œThe person whose pocket the packet was put into.”
    He held his head.
    â€œThen it isn’t they.”
    Sarah waved this aside.
    â€œIt’s what everyone says.”
    â€œYou’d better stick to A,” said Henry. “What’s inside the