Free The Long Shadow by Celia Fremlin Page B

that bothered—and the subject was dropped, except for Dot saying “I told you so!”
    She hadn’t, of course, how could she? But it turned out that she wasn’t referring specifically to Timmie’s recent implausible recital, but to an earlier, and more generalised prediction of hers to the effect that whatever Herbert did, he always managed to make a mess of it. Apparently not dressing up as Father Christmas came into this category; he couldn’t even not do that without making a mess of it.
    Well, this seemed to be the gist of it, anyway, as far as Imogen could make out through the open door. Most of the time, she tried to keep out of the way when Herbert and Dot were quarrelling, but it was difficult when they quarrelled on the stairs: which they often did, because it was commonly Herbert’s attempt toescape unobtrusively up to their room that jogged Dot’s memory about whatever it was that he had or hadn’t done.
    And that, to all intents and purposes, was the end of the episode. For some reason, Imogen could not bring herself to tell the rest of them about the small additional shock she had received while they weren’t noticing. Leaning over to put the Lexicon back on the shelf, she had caught a whiff of whisky: and on investigating more closely, she discovered a whisky bottle and a recently-used glass standing exactly where Ivor used to stand them—on the floor between the armchair and the bookshelves.
    Someone had been sitting in Ivor’s chair this afternoon, drinking whisky and reading Greek, just as he used to drink and read. Downing glass after glass, perhaps, as he had been wont to do while he waited for the bloody visitors to go…. For a moment, leaning heavily over the chair arm, Imogen could have sworn she smelt traces of his pipe as well, and heard him clearing his throat: but that, of course, was fantasy.
    Who had it been, sitting here? Obviously, she could have questioned them all, but somehow she knew already that they were all going to say No, and what would be the point of that?
    Why look for trouble—Easier by far just to wash up the glass, throw away the empty bottle, and then the whole mystery would cease to exist. Just as the mystery of the Lexicon had ceased to exist the moment she had put it back on the shelf where it belonged. How safe it looked, how settled, big and shabby and solid, next to the Classical Dictionary, just where ithad always been.
    *
    It was nearly a week later when the next peculiar thing happened. “You must have got a poltergeist here, darling,” Cynthia had said, half-laughing, half-scared. But then, Cynthia was by nature given to exaggeration. In actual fact, the whole thing might have been just some silly kind of a muddle. With all these ill-assorted people in the house, brought together by nothing more unifying than a need to get away from somewhere else, there were bound to be misunderstandings.
    Once again, it was Timmie who had first stumbled upon the thing, but this time his brother Vernon had been with him. It had been a grey, not-quite-freezing afternoon just before the New Year, and the first Imogen knew of anything being amiss was the sound of shrill, childish voices, furiously protesting, just beneath her window. Then a deeper voice—a man’s voice—interrupting, overriding easily the high, indignant chirping.
    For a while, Imogen paid no attention. Lying idly on her bed, half-reading, half-day-dreaming, she felt a vast reluctance to bestir herself. Although it was barely three o’clock, the winter afternoon was already on the wane. For some time now, she had been noticing the shadows gathering in the angles of the ceiling. The sharp rectangle of light from the dormer window was a silvery purple now instead of white; soon it would be too dark to read.
    It was the front attic that was “her” room for the time being—the smallest of the three attics that spanned the width of the house under the roof. The adjoining one was Piggy’s; and the third,