‘Two hands are better than one, I always say.’
Rosemary’s smile became still more distant.
‘You and Mrs D,’ ventured the other woman cautiously, ‘you’re very… very close, aren’t you?
Sitting in Dorothy’s chair, Mrs Hargreaves had her back to the window. In the gathering darkness, it was impossible to make out the expression on her face.
‘We’re friends,’ said Rosemary.
‘Oh I didn’t mean there was anything, well, you know…’
Rosemary kept silent.
‘Not that I’d mind one way or the other,’ Mrs Hargreaves went on breezily. ‘I used to be quite partial to a touch myself at one time.’
Rosemary decided it was time to regain the initiative.
‘I gather that Mr Anderson is endeavouring to persuade you to alienate your estate in his favour, Mrs Hargreaves.’
‘Mavis.’
There was a silence.
‘Mavis,’ Rosemary conceded.
‘Now then, what was that about Mr A?’
‘I just said that it sounds as if he’s trying to get his hands on your money,’ said Rosemary.
Mavis Hargreaves giggled.
‘Well, you know men.’
‘I shouldn’t take anything for granted.’
‘Oh I didn’t mean you, dear! I wouldn’t dream of…’
‘Anything Mr Anderson may say, I mean,’ Rosemary explained stiffly.
‘Don’t you worry about that! I wouldn’t trust our Mr A as far as I could kick him out of bed.’
‘After all, Hilary Bryant made her money over to him shortly before she died, and much good we saw of it.’
Mavis Hargreaves nodded.
‘Keep them chasing the carrot at the end of the rainbow, that’s what I always say.’
She placed a plump white finger on Rosemary’s knee, which instantly twitched aside.
‘It’s your friend you should be worried about, by the sound of it.’
Rosemary bit her lip.
‘I’ m sure there’s no truth in that.’
‘Mr A seems to think there is.’
‘What does it matter what he thinks?’ demanded Rosemary shortly.
There was a creak of hinges at the far end of the room, then Dorothy’s voice.
‘Rose?’
She was on her feet in a moment.
‘Coming, Dot!’
The room was in almost complete darkness by now. Rosemary made her way slowly towards the door, her one thought to help her friend face up to the terrible news which had just been broken to her, and very likely in the most casually brutal fashion. She must get Dorothy out of there, she thought, away from the inquisitive Mrs Hargreaves and all the others, up to her room, where she could go to pieces without making a spectacle of herself.
‘I can’t find the light switch,’ Dorothy called faintly from somewhere near by.
‘Never mind, I’m nearly there.’
A few moments later they were in each other’s arms, and Rosemary had guided her friend to the sofa beside the door. They sat in silence for some time, holding hands.
‘I know, Dot,’ Rosemary said at last.
‘The news, you mean?’
Dorothy’s face was just a blur, but her voice sounded strangely calm. Rosemary nodded, then realised that she was invisible too.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When I was upstairs, I overheard Dr Morel talking to…’
She sat there in silence, despising herself for her selfish weakness in breaking down at the very moment when her friend was more than ever in need of her strength and support.
‘I don’t know what to say, Dot,’ she added lamely, when she could trust herself to speak.
‘I know,’ Dorothy murmured. ‘It’s like a miracle.’
As a child, Rosemary had an uncle whom her mother pronounced ‘common’, just about the worst failing in her book. Murdering someone didn’t necessarily lower you socially, but the said uncle’s tendency to bark ‘Eh?’ when he failed to hear, understand or approve of a statement made to him she regarded as an unforgivable lapse of taste. The young Rosemary’s attempts to imitate this shameful trait had been ruthlessly repressed, but she could not now prevent herself emitting the vulgar vowel, such was her astonishment.
‘Just think!’ Dorothy went on. “There you were telling me how vital it was for me to get away from here before I became the next victim. And now, as if by magic, that’s what’s going to happen! Miss Davis took me to Mr Anderson’s office. Dr Morel was there. He told me that the tests I had showed that I needed to go into hospital straight away…’
She broke off. Rosemary squeezed her hand. Dorothy gave a little laugh.
‘So there we are! Isn’t it wonderful?’
Rosemary finally understood, among many other mysteries, why Dorothy had pretended to be unable to locate the light switch. She too was grateful for the darkness, which reduced all the intolerable complexities of what they were suffering to a mere exchange of dialogue characteristic of the parts which they had elected to play. She had created these parts herself in an attempt to make a fictional virtue of the factual necessity for Dorothy to return to hospital. The idea of the alphabet murderer had been a feeble contrivance, stolen – as Dorothy had not scrupled to point out-from a half-remembered whodunnit, but it was the best she had been able to do in the time at her disposal, still numb with the shock of what she had overheard Morel and Anderson saying.
Dorothy, for her part, had evidently decided to accept it in the spirit in which it had been offered. She did not really believe that her life was in imminent danger, of course, but was pretending to do so in order to spare both of them the pain and confusion that would otherwise be unleashed. It was a supremely civilised piece of behaviour. Neither was taken in by the other’s act, but each would play her role to the end.
‘Wonderful,’ echoed Rosemary.
But Dorothy had not exhausted her capacity to surprise.
For me, yes. But what about you. Rose?’
‘What about me?’
Dorothy withdrew her hand.
‘Oh, I know what you must be thinking!’ she exclaimed. ‘”It’s all very well for Dot, but what about the rest of us?” And it’s true, Rose. I’ll be safe enough, but you will still be here, in his…’
She laughed.
‘…or her power.’
The breeziness of her tone quite disconcerted Rosemary. For a moment she felt a shiver of apprehension, as though something uncanny was afoot, something she had not planned and did not understand. It was quite in order that Dorothy should wish to appear calm and collected. What was disturbing was that at moments Rosemary had a distinct sense that she really was. Ever since learning that she might have to go to hospital, Dorothy had been on the verge of a tearful collapse at the mere idea, yet now the worst had occurred she seemed immune, floating above it all, as though it were a matter of no personal concern to her at all.
‘His or whose power?’ she murmured vaguely.
Dorothy gave a snort of impatience.
‘The murderer’s, of course!’
The door swung open and all the lights came on.
‘Murderer?’ cried Mr Anderson. ‘What murderer?’
He stood over the two women, nosing his tumbler of whisky. As Rosemary’s eyes adjusted to the glare, she
