Free Heads You Lose by Christianna Brand Page A

him, were questions for the police to answer; it was sufficient to know that there was a self-confessed murderer to account for the incredible horrors of the night before and that they were safe. Lady Hart and Fran and Venetia and Henry and James were safe. And Pippi, of course—but who cared for Pippi le May? Pendock leant back in his chair, sick and dizzy with the relief of it.
    Strong black coffee brought Pippi back to normal; she was unashamed of her lapse into insobriety and chattered away full of herself and her doings until Pendock, his head now aching violently, could bear it no longer. Lady Hart was silent and distrait, and he saw that Pippi was getting badly on her nerves. He said at last: “I think the snow’s getting heavier. I hate to speed the parting guest, Miss le May, but you wouldn’t want to get cut off from the Cottage, would you?”
    “I shouldn’t mind in the least,” said Pippi, laughing.
    “Well, no, of course, we could always put you up; but my housemaid is down there with Trotty, and she’s got to get home.”
    Pippi could hardly ignore so broad a hint; she swathed her head in the scarf and wriggled into her cheap little ocelot coat. “Come on, then; who’s going to see me home?”
    “I am, of course,” said Pendock, unhooking his coat from the stand in the hall.
    “Remember what happened to the last person you saw home!” said Pippi brightly. At the sight of their faces she had the grace to look ashamed of herself, and added apologetically: “Oh, well, I’m sorry; perhaps that was rather an unfortunate remark.” She went on, turning to Pendock: “But honestly, don’t bother to come. I shan’t get mislaid between here and the Cottage, and the snow’s not quite at the lost-for-days-in-a-drift stage.”
    “Of course I’m coming,” said Pendock testily; but as he caught her arm and marched her out in the middle of her farewells, he saw something in her face that all of them had missed that night: a shadow of weariness, of loneliness, perhaps of fear, under the cocky smile, and for the first time he warmed to her a little and said apologetically: “I’m sorry, my dear; I’m afraid I’ve been rather abrupt. It’s been a dreadful day, and, of course, last night…”
    “It must have been a shock for you especially,” said Pippi, more gently than he had ever heard her speak.
    “I thought it was Fran,” he explained, as though he were telling her for the first time, as though she had not heard, over and over again, the details of last night’s discovery. “God help me, I thought it was Fran. I ran through the hall and down these very steps and out over the grass, and all the time I was thinking that I should find Fran there in the ditch, with her head hacked off her body…” He shuddered violently and buried his face in his hands.
    Pippi said nothing, and they continued on their way in silence. Gladys, all of a dither at the thought of walking home with the master, opened the door to them. “Where’s Trotty?” said Pippi, looking past her into the little hall.
    “She’s gone off to bed, Miss. She was ever so tired, and she thought you wouldn’t mind. I took her a nice cup of milk…” (‘The girl’s sweet smile and kindly thought quite won the heart of the proud, rich man,’ thought Gladys, showing all her teeth for the benefit of Pendock.) “I tucked her up comfortable…”
    Pippi was searching in her handbag and through the pockets of her coat. “Dash it—I believe I’ve left my gigs up at the house; I’ll have to come back with you and get them.”
    “Will you want them to-night?” said Pendock.
    “My dear, yes, I must; I mean I can’t read a word without them…”
    “Is it your glasses, Miss?” said Gladys, returning in her best coat from the kitchen quarters. “Because Trotty found them on the droring-room mantelpiece, and she took them up to your room; she said you’d want them if you were going to read in bed.”
    “Oh, good! Thank you,