He grinned, regardless of the blood now staining his teeth. “For what it’s worth,” he agreed. “Emily-”
“Yes?” Then, as he said nothing, she added, “Your face is bleeding. You had better go and wash it. And find some ointment, or it will dry and crack again.”
“I know.” He put his hand on her arm gently and she could feel the warmth of him through the muslin of her sleeve. “Emily, keep your courage. We will find out who killed George-I promise you.”
Suddenly her throat ached abominably and she realized how deeply frightened she was, how close to weeping. Not even Thomas seemed able to help.
“Of course,” she said huskily, pulling away. This was ridiculous. She did not wish him to see her weakness- above all, she did not wish him to know how very agreeable she found him, in spite of her distrust. “Thank you. I’m sure you mean well.” She went hastily up the stairs, leaving him standing in the hall looking after her, and she turned onto the landing without glancing back.
9
Emily slept badly. It was a night full of enormous and ugly dreams, blood-spattered clothes, the rattle of stones on George’s coffin lid, the vicar’s pink face with his mouth opening and closing like a fish. And every time she woke the picture of Jack Radley came back to her, sitting on the nursery stool staring at her, the sun in his hair, and in his eyes the understanding that she knew he was guilty and there could be no escape. She woke at once sweating and chill, staring into the black void of the ceiling.
When she fell asleep again the dreams were worse, billowing one into another, swelling and bursting, then shrinking away into nothingness. Always there were faces; Uncle Eustace smug and smiling, staring at her with those round eyes that saw everything and understood nothing, not caring if she had murdered George or if it was someone else, only determined she should be blamed for it, to keep the March name clear. And Tassie, too mad to know anything. Old Mrs. March’s eyes like glass marbles, blind with malice, shrieking all the time. William with a paintbrush in his hand, and Jack Radley with the sun round his head like a halo, smiling because Emily had murdered her husband for love of him, over one kiss in the conservatory.
She lurched into wakefulness and lay watching the slow light creep across the ceiling. How long had she before Thomas had no choice but to arrest her? Every second ticking away was eating her life; the remnant was slipping into eternity and she was lying here alone and useless.
What was it that had so horrified Sybilla? That had ripped the usual mask off her face to show such hatred- twice; once at dinner two days ago, and then again in the withdrawing room when she overheard the quarrel in the conservatory?
She could bear it no longer and climbed out of bed. It was already light and she could see quite easily where she was going. She put on a wrap over her nightgown and tiptoed across the room to the door. She would ask her! She would go to Sybilla’s room now when she was alone and could not make some polite evasion, or claim a pressing duty, nor would anyone interrupt them.
She opened the door slowly, holding the latch so it would not fall back with a noise. There was no sound outside. She looked up and down the passage. The dawn light came in cool and gray through the windows and fell on the bamboo-patterned wallpaper opposite. A bowl of flowers glowed yellow. There was no one.
She stepped out and walked quickly towards the room she knew was Sybilla’s. She had no doubt what she was going to say. She would tell Sybilla that she had seen that look in her face, and wherever her pity lay, whatever loyalties she thought she had, if she did not tell Emily what act in the past had given birth to such a depth of loathing, she would go to Thomas Pitt and let him discover it in her with pryings and questions which would be far harder. From the anger in which she left the room the night before, she was willing to threaten anything. It was too late to care about sensitivity or embarrassment now.
She found her hand was shaking as she lifted it to grasp Sybilla’s doorknob and turn it slowly. Perhaps it would be locked, and she would be forced to wait till day. She could put off the inevitable answers for a few hours more. But it turned easily in her hand. Of course. Why would anyone lock doors in a house like this? It would mean having to get out of bed to let the maid in. Who wanted to do that? Half the point of having a maid was to avoid getting up and pulling the curtains or drawing the water yourself. If you were going to get out of a warm bed on demand, fresh from sleep, the whole luxury was lost.
She was inside now. It was quite light. The curtains were yellow and the window faced the sun. Sybilla was already awake, sitting upright against the nearest high, carved bedpost, facing the window, her black hair in thick tresses wound at both front and back. The thought passed through Emily’s mind that it was an odd way to wear it.
“Sybilla,” she said quietly, “I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t sleep. I need to talk to you. I believe you know who murdered George, and-” She was at the end of the bed now and she could see Sybilla more clearly. She was sitting very awkwardly, her back rigid against the bedpost and her head a little to one side, as if she had fallen asleep.
Emily came round the far edge of the bed and leaned forward.
Then she saw Sybilla’s face and felt the horror rising inside her, robbing her of breath, freezing her heart. Sybilla was staring with blind, bulging eyes out of swollen flesh, her mouth open, tongue out; the black hair was knotted tight round her throat and swept back round the bedpost and tied again.
Emily opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came at all, only a violent dry ache in her throat. She found she had her hands to her lips, and there was blood on her knuckles where she had bitten them. She must not faint! She must get help! Quickly! And she must get out of here-she must not be alone.
At first she was shaking so much her legs would not obey her. She knocked into the corner of the bed and bruised herself, felt for the chair to regain her balance and nearly upset it. There was no time to be sick-someone else might come and find her here. They blamed her already for George’s death-they would be sure to blame her for this too.
The doorknob was stiff now; twice she turned it and her sweaty fingers let it slip back before she pulled the door open and almost fell out into the corridor. Thank God there was no one else there, no housemaid hurrying down to clean grates or prepare the dining room. Almost running, she made her way to the dressing room where Charlotte was, and without knocking, fumbled for the handle and threw it open.
“Charlotte! Charlotte! Wake up. Wake up and listen to me-Sybilla is dead!” She could dimly make out the form of Charlotte, her hair a dark cloud on the white pillow.
“Charlotte!” She could hear her voice rising hysterically and could not help it.
Charlotte sat up, and her whisper came out of the cool grayness. “What is it, Emily? Are you ill?”
“No … no …” She gulped painfully. “Sybilla is dead! I think she’s been murdered. I just found her … in her bedroom … strangled with her own hair!”
Charlotte glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “Emily, it’s twenty past five. Are you sure you didn’t have a nightmare?”
“Yes! Oh, God! They’re going to blame me for this too!” And in spite of all the strength of will she thought she had, she began to weep, crumpling slowly into a little heap on the end of the bed.
Charlotte climbed out and came to her, putting her arms round her and holding her, rocking her like a child. “What happened?” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice calm. “What were you doing in Sybilla’s room at this time in the morning?”
Emily understood Charlotte’s urgency; she dared not indulge in misery and fear. Only thought, rational and disciplined, could help. She tried to iron out the violence in her mind and grasp the elements that mattered.
“I saw her face at dinner the night before last. For a moment, there was such a look of hatred on it as she turned to Eustace. I wanted to know why. What did she know about him, or did she fear he was going to do something? Charlotte, they are convinced I murdered George, and they are going to make sure Thomas has no choice but to arrest me. I have to find out who did-to save myself.”
For a moment Charlotte was silent; then she stood up slowly. “I’d better go and see, and if you’re right I’ll waken Aunt Vespasia. We’ll have to call the police again.” She pulled on a shawl and hugged it round herself. “Poor William,” she said almost under her breath.
