“Perhaps you don’t believe me? I tell you there were more than Thurza Darke. You never heard of Eileen Tucker, did you? Nor of Agatha Frinton? You don’t know what happened to them? Well, you soon will.” He pushed forward his face till Molly could scarcely refrain from screaming. “They were drowned in the bath, and afterwards their bodies were found in rivers and quarryholes. But yours won’t be found. We’re going to hide it so that it’ll never be seen again. No one will ever know what happened to you. Not even your beloved French will ever know, you—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake dry up and leave the girl till we’re ready for her,” burst in Gwen impatiently. “You’ve something else to do than stand here spouting like a bum actor in a circus! What about those machines?”
There was hatred in the look Style turned on Gwen and something of fear also. But his manner changed at once.
“You’re right. We must get on,” he said sullenly, then he turned again to Molly.
“There’s a bell beside the fireplace. If you want to go back to town ring and we’ll come to hear your statement. If not—there’s the bath in the next room!”
He walked to the door, let himself and Gwen out and locked it. Molly heard their steps descending the stairs and then all was still.
XVII
The Shadows Loom Nearer
For a few minutes after she had been left alone Molly lay motionless, too full of horror even to think. She felt herself near death, and with all the intensity of her being she longed to live. Never had life seemed so sweet. She wanted to get out of this awful room, to see the sun, the fields, the trees, to feel the fresh air blowing on her cheeks, to hear the birds and the sounds of life around her. More than that she wanted to see her friends and to be once again amid her familiar surroundings in London. Even to be back in her box office, weary of it though she often had been, would now be heaven! But death was before her and at the very idea she grew once more sick and faint.
However in the course of time her youth and health once again reasserted themselves. Things perhaps were not so bad after all. For the time being at all events, she had a respite. It was evident that Style and Gwen were profoundly anxious to find out how much French knew. She believed they were going to keep her alive in the hope that they could make her tell. If so, she had only to refuse to speak and her life would be prolonged.
But this mood of optimism soon passed and terrible forebodings once more filled her mind. Was she safe even for the time being? Even if she told them everything, would she be safe? When they got all they wanted out of her, would her fate not still be that of Thurza Darke? For she did not believe their promise to free her if she did their bidding. They had not liberated Thurza Darke or her two unfortunate predecessors. These girls had almost certainly been forced to reveal what they knew, but it hadn’t saved them.
The more she thought over her position the lower sank her heart. There was just one ray of hope. She would be missed immediately. When she didn’t turn up at the cinema they would phone to her boarding house. And her landlady would certainly ring up the Yard. Mr. French would know within an hour or at most two. Then he would begin without delay to trace her. In fact he was probably doing it at that moment. She had only to hold out so as to give him time. That was it. To hold out. She steeled her mind to the idea. No matter what happened, at no matter what cost to herself, she must hold out.
But would he trace her in time? She shivered as the thought forced itself into her mind. Then resolutely she pulled herself together. She must not allow herself to dwell on such a possibility.
To occupy her thoughts she got up from the bed and began to investigate her surroundings. The room was certainly very dilapidated. From the ceiling and walls hung festoons of cobweb, and dust and scraps of old rubbish lay thick on the floor. The chair and table were of the plainest kind and the table rocked on three legs. There was no water in the jug and both it and the basin were thickly covered with dust. The truckle bed bore blankets but no sheets, and one of its legs was broken and tied together with string. In the otherwise empty grate was an accumulation of dirty rubbish. The skylight was out of reach, and there being no other window, she was unable to look out.
The pile of old books in the corner seemed to offer more promise of distraction and on these she tried desperately to fix her attention. All were dusty, but she turned them over in the hope of finding something which she might force herself to read. They formed an extraordinary collection, all very old and all well thumbed. There were two Bibles, a large one with pictures and a small thin one on India paper. There were The Lamplighter, Queechy, The Fairchild Family, The Scarlet Letter, and a number of others of whose names she had never heard. Most of them were without inscription, but in one was written in a thin angular hand, “Christina Wyatt. .” Molly dully wondered who Christina could have been and how her Pilgrim’s Progress had survived during the sixty odd years since she had obtained it.
Among the
