“She’s fine, she’s behind me now.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“I think so.”
Isabel appeared on the stairs, her handkerchief dabbing her mouth. “Call an ambulance,” she said. She began to come down, tottering like an invalid. Colin was afraid to touch her. She squatted by Evelyn and picked up her wrist.
“Do you think we could give her artificial respiration?” Florence said. “We could massage her heart. My brother here, Mr. Sidney, once took a first-aid course.”
“You can try if you like,” Isabel said.
“Turn her over,” Colin grunted. “Straighten her legs out, Florence. That’s it, now I need to raise her shoulders a bit.” He stripped off his jacket, wadded it up, and pushed it under Evelyn so that her head dropped back. He fished in her open mouth, trying to bring her tongue forward.
“Unblock the airway,” he said to himself. “Remove any dentures.”
“I always knew something dreadful would happen in this house,” Florence said. “I’ve always hated this house since I was a child.”
“Never mind that now. Ring for the ambulance,” Colin said. He leaned forward and sealed his mouth over Evelyn’s. By the front door Muriel watched him, her legs planted apart and her face absorbed.
“Now, Muriel,” Florence said. She spoke distinctly, as if to a foreigner. “Now Muriel, your mother’s had a bit of an accident. I’m going to call an ambulance. I’ll go out the front,” she said to Colin, “it’s quicker.” For a moment Muriel stood blocking her path. “Now, Muriel,” Florence said again. Her eyes focusing, as if she had only just seen her, Muriel stepped aside. The front door clicked shut after Florence.
Isabel looked down, frowning. “I think you’re wasting your time.”
“There’s no heartbeat,” Colin said. He bunched his fist and brought it down on Evelyn’s breastbone. “It’s no go,” he said. “Nothing.”
“Get up then.”
Colin levered himself up to a kneeling position. Gently he removed his jacket from under Evelyn’s shoulders, steadying the head reverently till it rested on the hall floor.
“What happened?” Isabel’s tone was dull, as if she could barely be troubled to frame the question.
“She was coming after me. Trying to drag me back. I must have pushed her. It wasn’t intended. Not hard. She just slipped back a few steps, she wasn’t hurt, she was coming up after me again.”
“She didn’t die of being pushed. She’s had a heart attack.”
“Muriel banged her against the wall. It must have been quite a knock.”
“Did she now? Yes, well, you can see that. She’s got a bump on the head too.”
“She’ll have done that when she fell.” Colin rubbed his back. He put his jacket on. “Ought we to cover her face?” He was surprised at how little he felt; no shock, no revulsion, just a kind of numb practicality.
“If you like. I imagine there’ll be an inquest. You’ll have to give evidence.”
“Will it come out, about the file? I mean, all those months—”
“No, I’ll say they refused to let me in. I had no reason to make them a priority. I have a full caseload. Of course they’ll criticise the Social Services. It’s the rule these days. Never mind. Personally, I’ve had enough.”
Colin nodded warningly in Muriel’s direction.
“Oh, Muriel doesn’t know what day of the week it is. Do you, Muriel?”
Muriel gaped at her. Isabel took her eyes from Muriel’s face. “What on earth are you doing in that overcoat, Muriel?” she said sharply. “Where did you get that?”
“She had it on when she let me in,” Colin said.
“Take it off,” Isabel said. “Let me have a look at you.”
Obediently, Muriel unfastened the coat, a dark flapping garment of old-fashioned shape and cut. She slipped out of it, held it in one hand, looked around her, and finally hung it tidily on the hallstand. Isabel ran her eyes over the girl’s body; bare-legged, thick-waisted, her breasts shapeless inside an old stained pinafore.
“What is it?” Colin said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Muriel glanced up the stairs and along the hall, rested her eyes on each of them in turn, and spoke, very softly. It sounded like “Victor of the field.” Isabel had so seldom heard Muriel speak that she could not be sure what she had heard, or that there had been anything at all. “What did you say?” Her voice was urgent. She looked up into Muriel’s face and saw there for an instant an expression of extraordinary lucidity and calm. Then Muriel turned, stepped over her mother’s body, and shambled off towards the kitchen. Colin blundered after her. Muriel picked up from the table a piece of bread and jam—which she must have been eating, he thought, when I came to the door —and began to chew at it, laughing quite loudly, and once offering him a bite. Ten minutes later, the ambulance arrived.
CHAPTER 9
The many marks of violence on Evelyn Axon’s body, some recent, some quite old, were carefully enumerated in the postmortem report. Cardiac arrest had killed her; she had been alive when the left side of her face had struck the wall with some force, but dead when the right side of her skull had struck the hall floor. I wonder how they can tell that, Colin said to himself, as he came out into the fresh air. He looked at his watch; twelve-thirty, nice time to
