Free The Case Is Closed by Patricia Wentworth

grate. He hadn’t really seen Hilary this afternoon, he had only caught that one teasing, tantalising, unsatisfying glimpse. It had left him with the impression that she was pale. His heart contracted at the thought of Hilary pale, of Hilary ill. His brain instantly reminded him that she never had very much colour on a cold day. It was, of course, possible that she had caught sight of him before he had caught sight of her, and that the pallor was due to a smitten conscience. Henry’s brain here produced a sardonic ‘I don’t think!’ He had no reason to suppose that Hilary’s conscience was taking a hand in the affair at all. It had always struck him as a very spritely and resilient conscience. He somehow didn’t see it being pale and remorseful over having disregarded his wishes.
    At this point two conflicting comments emerged as it were from opposite sides of his mind. ‘Little beast!’ was one. And the other, ‘Oh, Hilary — darling!’ Very disturbing to the feelings, to be so mixed up about a girl as not to be able to think of her as the darling of your heart without being irritatingly conscious that she was a little beast, or to dismiss her as a little beast without the instant and poignant reminder that she was the darling of your heart. From this quite common dilemma there is no escape alone. Two may sometimes find the way out hand-in-hand. Henry had no hand to hold. He continued to gloom at the grate, where the ash had settled into an almost impalpable dust.
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    Hilary opened her eyes and blinked at the light. It was very bright for London sun in November, and it was surprisingly high over head. She blinked again. It wasn’t the sun, it was the electric light shining down on her from the bowl in the ceiling. And she wasn’t in bed, she was in the living-room of the flat, in Geoff’s big chair, with something heavy weighing her down. She sat up, the heavy thing fell off with a bang on the floor, and she saw that it was the file of the Everton Murder.
    Of course — she had been reading it. She had read the inquest, and then she must have dropped asleep, because the clock was striking seven and a horrid cold, foggy light was seeping in through the curtains. She was cold, and stiff, and sleepy — not comfortably sleepy, but up-all-night, train-journey tired.
    ‘Bath,’ said Hilary to herself very firmly. She stretched, got out of the chair, and picked up the file, and as she did so the door opened and Marion stood looking at her with surprise and something else — anger.
    ‘Hilary! What are you doing?’
    Hilary clutched the file. Her funny short curls were all on end. She looked rather like a ghost that has forgotten how to vanish, a guilty and dishevelled ghost. She said in a casual, murmuring voice,
    ‘I went to sleep.’
    ‘Here?’
    ‘Um.’
    ‘You haven’t been to bed?’
    Hilary glanced down at her pyjamas. She couldn’t remember whether she had been to bed or not. She had undressed, because here she was in her pyjamas. Then she began to remember.
    ‘Um — I went to bed — but I couldn’t sleep — so I came in here.’ She shivered and pulled her dressing-gown round her. Marion had the frozen look again. It was enough to make anyone feel cold.
    ‘Reading that?’ said Marion, looking at the file.
    ‘Yes. Don’t look like that, Marion. I only wanted — I’ve never read—the inquest.’
    ‘And you’ve only to read it for the whole thing to be cleared up!’ Marion’s voice had a sharp edge of anger on it.
    Hilary came wide awake. It wasn’t fair of Marion to talk like that when she was only trying to help. And then she was full of compunction. Poor darling, it was only because everything to do with the case just got her on the raw. She said with a quick rush of pity,
    ‘Don’t! I did want to help — I did. I’ll put it away. I didn’t mean you to see it, but I went to sleep.’
    Marion went to the window and pulled back the curtains. The daylight showed beyond