one has the time to stand around nattering.’
‘All the same, I’d be happier if she stayed here.’
‘No can do, Bill. Once the machinery’s been set in motion…’
Rosemary ran as fast as she dared along the corridor to the landing and clattered downstairs. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she noticed that she was patting the back of her right hand, which held the medicine bottle. That gesture had been the closest her mother, an undemonstrative woman, had ever come to physical intimacy, and then only on very special occasions when she had felt it necessary or desirable to reassure the child-in much the same way that she kept a small bottle of brandy on the top shelf of the cupboard in the bathroom ‘for medicinal purposes only’.
Rosemary turned briskly away. That was quite enough of that. She wasn’t having mirrors going soft on her. Shiny, hard and shallow was how she wanted them, reflecting her as she was, as she appeared to be, an elderly maiden aunt whose emotions were under perfect control at all times. It was a relief to return to the lounge and find the other guests all in their places: the colonel with his newspaper, the peeress at the piano, the clergyman buried in his book, the lovebirds using the jigsaw as an excuse for their proximity, the invalid widow swathed in her blankets, the Jew on the phone. Only George Channing, the corned beef millionaire, appeared to be missing.
Rosemary slipped into the chair beside her friend.
‘We must talk, Dot!’ she said urgently. ‘Here, put the cardigan on. I’ve been a fool, Dot. No, not that button, there’s one right here at the bottom. We’ve been totally and utterly wrong all along, and I almost didn’t realise the truth until it was too late! Quick, take your medicine and then I’ll explain.’
She held out the brown bottle to Dorothy, who shook her head.
‘It’s eased again.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ll keep it until I really need it. What were you saying about being wrong?’
Rosemary leant forward and regarded Dorothy earnestly.
‘Our fundamental mistake all along has been to assume that there was a logical motive for each of the murders which have taken place so far,’ she said. ‘We’ve taken it for granted that Roland Ayres and Hilary Bryant were killed for revenge, or for their money, or to silence them. Now a third member of our little group, George Channing, has become the target of a seemingly senseless act of…’
Dorothy twisted impatiently in her chair.
‘Why is Dr Morel taking so long, Rose?’ she broke out. ‘Don’t they know how hard this is for me? Why can’t they just tell me and have done?’
‘Pull yourself together, Dorothy Davenport!’ snapped Rosemary. ‘We’re facing a ruthless and cunning killer who has already struck three times, and while I don’t yet know who he-or she-may be, I do know the identity of his-or her-next victim.’
Dorothy smiled wanly.
‘Can you save him, Rose?’
‘Her.’
‘Who?’
‘You.’
Dorothy’s eyes widened.
‘Me?’
Tm so sorry,’ Rosemary sighed. Try and be brave.’
‘But…’
‘It came to me in a flash while I was upstairs. I was thinking of what happened when we had tea. Do you remember? Belinda Scott was annoyed because of something that happened when you were outside the room, so she insisted on serving the tea in strict alphabetical order…’
‘But you had to wait until the end, even though you were getting my tea too. I didn’t think that was fair, Rose. You shouldn’t have stood for it! If I’d been you, I’d have…’
That isn’t the point!’ hissed Rosemary. ‘The names of the victims so far are Ayres, Bryant and Channing. Now do you understand? The killer is eliminating the residents in alphabetical order. Which means that you will be the next victim!’
Dorothy tut-tutted.
‘Come on, Rose!’ she exclaimed with a toss of the head. ‘This simply won’t do. It sounds like one of those awful American books about some maniac who goes about chopping up total strangers with an axe because he had an unhappy childhood. Not my cup of tea at all, I’m afraid. Life is quite horrible enough as it is, I should have thought, without scaring oneself silly with such rubbish.’
Rosemary smiled in a superior way.
‘That’s precisely what the killer wants us to believe. The plan-and I’m bound to say it’s a very clever one-is to create the impression that these killings are indeed the work of some distasteful psychopath such as you describe, whereas in reality all except one are simply red herrings designed to obscure the identity of the murderer’s true target.’
Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. She gave her friend a suspicious look.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘This has been used before, hasn’t it?’
‘Are you accusing me of plagiarism?’ snapped Rosemary.
‘Of course not, Rose. It’s just that, well, it has a familiar ring to it.’
This is no time to discuss the finer points of the genre, Dot! Every minute you remain here you are in the most terrible danger. This very night might be your last! We must get you out of here at all costs.’
‘Don’t be silly! No one’s ever managed that. Look what happened to Channing.’
Rosemary clasped her friend’s hand and smiled confidently.
‘We’ll think of a way.’
Dorothy shook her head.
‘Anyway, why should anyone want to kill me? It doesn’t make sense. I don’t like it when things don’t make sense, Rose. And I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you. I’m sure you must be mistaken about this. After all, we’re the detectives. The detectives never come to any harm, do they?’
The door banged open and the woman in the stained blue overalls swept into the lounge again. She looked round the room with a contemptuous sniff and then made for the corner where Rosemary and Dorothy sat talking. When she reached the centre of the room, however, she stopped and sniffed the air again, more deliberately this time. Then she turned round slowly, inspecting the residents, each of whom looked away as the beam of scrutiny passed. Eventually it came to rest on the pair still bent over their jigsaw puzzle. The woman hitched up the straps of her overalls. A feral grin convulsed her features.
‘Symes!’
Charles Symes quivered slightly but did not look up. The woman walked slowly towards him, swaying her hips in a slow sinuous rhythm.
‘To let the punishment fit the crime,’ she crooned softly.
She stood over Charles Symes and Grace Lebon, sniffing loudly. With a violent movement of one hand she swept the completed section of the jigsaw off the edge of the table. It broke up and fell to the floor in pieces.
‘Look at me, Symes!’ she howled.
Slowly, painfully, the man turned his head.
‘My nostrils suggest that you’ve beshat yourself,’ the woman remarked conversationally.
Charles Symes stared up at her without moving.
‘Do they deceive me?’ she inquired.
There was no sound in the room. The woman bent closer.
‘Well, Symes?’ she demanded in a stage whisper. ‘Which of us is at fault, my nose or your bum?’
She straightened up abruptly.
‘On your feet and let’s have a gander.’
A high-pitched keening made itself heard in the room. Swivelling on her heels, the woman slapped Grace Lebon hard with the back of her hand. The sound abruptly ceased. The woman sniffed her fingers briefly, then crooked one at Symes.
‘Make yourself erect, man!’
