Free Blood Sinister by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

‘No, I’m all right now. Would you like to come upstairs to the drawing-room?’ She led the way, walking with a peculiar, rigid gait and holding on to the banister carefully. ‘I’ve put my back out,’ she said, evidently feeling some explanation was due.
    ‘Backs are bastards,’ Swilley acknowledged with bare sympathy. ‘How did you do it?’
    ‘It’s an old problem. Comes and goes,’ said Mrs Prentiss.
    The drawing-room, on the first floor, ran the full depth of the house from front to back, with folded-back doors in the middle. The double room was panelled, had two vast marble fireplaces, and was furnished with large and well-used antique pieces. The panelling had been painted in the dull greyish-green that the National Trust had vouched for as authentic eighteenth century; the drops of the chandelier had that dim lustre, like slightly soapy water, that proved them original; and even Swilley’s uninformed and unappreciative glance could tell that the paintings on the walls hadn’t been bought or sold in a very, very long time. There was real money here, old-established money, the sort that took no notice of fashion. This room had probably not looked much different in all theyears it had existed. Swilley couldn’t think how they could bear it.
    Mrs Prentiss crossed to a side table on which stood a tray of decanters and glasses. ‘I think I will have something. What about you?’ she asked with her back to Swilley. Her voice sounded strained.
    ‘No, thanks. Not on duty,’ Swilley said.
    Mrs Prentiss poured something brown – whisky or brandy – into a glass and threw back half of it, and only then turned to face her. ‘Please, won’t you sit down? I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ Swilley said, sitting down. ‘I suppose I can look a bit scary.’
    Mrs Prentiss lowered herself carefully onto one of the hard settles, opposite her, and sat on the edge of the seat, very upright, nursing the oversized tumbler in her lap. Everything about her seemed neat and complete, from her short-cropped, thick, shining hair to her slender, well-shod feet. Now, with the aid of light, Swilley could see she had the beautiful skin – colourless but glowing, like alabaster – that sometimes went with dark hair. Together with her small, symmetrical features it made her look unnaturally young, though she was obviously in her forties. No, not young so much as un-aged, out of step with the stream of time. A ruined child, Swilley thought unexpectedly: like something out of an old black-and-white film, the beloved but neglected only child, maintaining, in its well-stocked nursery, the exquisite manners that concealed a brooding sorrow. There was a feather of blue shadow under her eyes, as though she were very tired or unhappy.
    ‘It isn’t that,’ she said. She gave Swilley a searching look. ‘I suppose you’ve come about – about Phoebe?’
    ‘Oh, you’ve heard?’
    ‘My husband told me. He rang me this morning. I’m just so shocked.’
    ‘You’ve known her a long time, haven’t you?’ Swilley asked.
    ‘She was my oldest friend. We were at university together.’
    ‘Oh, really? Which one?’
    ‘University College, London. We were both reading English,’ Mrs Prentiss said. ‘We took a liking to each other the first day, when we were all milling about wondering where to go andwhat to do. You know what it’s like – if you’re lost, you always want to latch on to someone, so that at least there are two of you in the wrong place. Not that Phoebe was, for long. She always knew exactly what she should be doing. I tagged along with her, and after that we always hung around together.’ She smiled with an effort. ‘We used to sit on the sofa in the corner of the English Common Room in Foster Court all day, and make terrible critical comments about the other students. Phoebe was frightfully left-wing and radical, and they all seemed so conventional: tweedy sixth-formers, Young