They then unhooked and lowered the mirrored work-light chandeliers, so that they could be re-fitted with candles for the next day of school. Fanny had never noticed before how particularly unpleasant was the sound of the rattling chains clinking through the iron rings in the ceiling.
A scraping noise made Fanny jump, even as she realized it was only Madame Orly pushing aside a chair.
“Fanny, I have some bread and butter downstairs, left over from my dinner,” the Frenchwoman said. “I will go and get it.” Her voice sounded different in the echoing silence around them, pale and uncertain and small.
“I will rake the coals, and tidy up, Madame, and shall join you in just a moment,” answered Fanny with assumed cheerfulness. Madame Orly picked up one of their two candlesticks, and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Fanny alone in the small pool of light, in the large empty room.
Fanny began quickly winding up her thread on its bobbin and arranging her sewing basket by the light of her remaining candle. She was accustomed to solitude, in fact had often sought it in the past, but now, all alone in the gathering darkness, the complete silence was unnerving. None of the homely sights of the classroom looked familiar now. Shadows loomed around her. Even her cloak with its hood, hanging on its peg, looked like a thief lurking in the corner. She could hear a shutter creaking in the wind somewhere, and a horse clip-clopping slowly up the street. It could not be Mr. McIntosh, for he had a pair of horses to the carriage. Where was he? Had anything happened to Mrs. Butters in the city?
Although she tried to reason with herself, the horrid details of the recent murders rose to her mind once again. Somewhere in the darkness there lurked a fiend in human form who stalked their streets, who moved silently in the black of night, who raised his arm and struck savagely and without mercy. He appeared from nowhere, he killed, and he disappeared into the darkness. He could be anywhere.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. Even supposing the killer were to strike again, the chances that he would come here are extremely remote, one might say non-existent. And he kills at midnight—it is hours from midnight. Yet, she hurried to smother the fire in the stove, and fold up her sewing work and stuff it into her portmanteau. Swiftly, she caught up her candle, and headed for the stairs, ready to join Madame Orly in the shop below where, she hoped, they would not have much longer to wait.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she heard the faint tinkle of the bell at the back door of the shop. That’s odd, she thought, why did Mr. McIntosh come to the back door?
She heard Madame Orly say “Who is it? Who is there?”
Then Madame Orly screamed—but the scream was cut off!
A thudding noise—as though a body had fallen to the ground!
Absolute terror seized her. The fiend—was he here? Was he downstairs? Had he chosen this shop, had he been watching outside, did he know there were only two defenceless females within? Had Madame Orly herself, hearing a noise at the door, and supposing it was Donald McIntosh, opened the door to her murderer? All of these thoughts flashed through Fanny’s mind as quickly as lightning.
She blew out her candle, and was enveloped in blackness, straining to listen, too frightened to move.
How could she escape? There was but one flight of stairs in the building, one that would lead her to the killer, or the killer to her.
Could she hide herself behind a screen? Under some bolts of fabric? To do so, she would have to move, and the creaking floorboards would betray her location.
She could hear footsteps which did not belong to Madame Orly. Yes, there was someone else in the building!
A man’s footsteps. A slow, cautious step. Then another. Then another.
He was climbing the stairs!
Despite her terror of discovery, Fanny could not remain in the open classroom, awaiting her death. Instinct told her to run, to hide, in the darkest corner she could find. Groping her way across the classroom, she scurried to the dumbwaiter, opened the door, and climbed inside. Perhaps the killer would not be able to find her in the dark, although she feared he would be able to locate her by following the sound of her pounding heart.
The footsteps grew louder.
She sent up a silent prayer for herself and Madame Orly.
A man’s voice calling hesitantly: “Hello?.... Hello?”
It was not Mr. McIntosh’s thick Scottish brogue.
“Miss Price? Are you here? Miss Price?”
Joy! Utter joy and relief!
“Oh! Mr. Gibson! Mr. Gibson! Is that you?”
“Miss Price? Where are you?”
Fanny climbed out of the dumbwaiter as quickly as she had climbed in and moved blindly toward the sound of his voice, her arms outstretched. “I am here, Mr. Gibson. I blew out my candle when I heard the noises downstairs.”
“Oh. Miss Price. I am so sorry, I must have alarmed you.” His fingertips found hers, and somehow—she knew not quite how—she found herself wrapped securely in his embrace. Her fear disappeared, to be replaced by new sensations. She clung to his tall frame; he tightened his grip around her slender one.
“Miss Price, I—I—I am afraid we must hurry downstairs,” he said. “Madame Orly has fainted.”
Fanny looked up—she could barely make out the outline of Mr. Gibson’s face in the dark. “Is she all right?”
“I trust so. I attempted to revive her—patted her hands and so forth, but she did not respond, so I thought I had better look for you, and see if you had any smelling salts. But the building was so silent and dark, I thought it impossible that you could
