Free The Witness on the Roof by Annie Haynes Page B

even be that she was dead, but Joan found it impossible to believe that she could be jealous of or spiteful towards her little sister. That would not be like Evie.
    Joan shrank from the thought of her sister’s death. She looked round. Warchester had been away longer than she thought. The gardeners were leaving off work; the horizon was overclouded. She felt suddenly cold in her thin dress.
    As she stepped on the broad gravel walk that wound round the house she saw Mr. Knight walking down the avenue. Paul had forgotten his promise to come back to her as soon as possible, she said to herself. She would go and remind him of his broken word and administer a scolding.
    The small library, so called, in which Warchester transacted most of his business, opened level with the morning-room, having only the library proper between.
    Joan ran lightly along. The windows stood open, and as she came up she saw that, as she had surmised, Warchester was alone. His back was towards her; he was bending over his writing-table, tearing up some papers. As she stood on the threshold he turned, threw the torn papers into the empty fireplace, and then, catching up something from the mantelpiece, tore that up too, and tossed it after the others. Then he stepped quickly back to his table and took up his blotting-book.
    Joan watched him, struck anew with the sense of familiarity that had haunted her when they first met. At length he threw the book on the table, and, straightening himself and partly turning so that he stood with his side face towards her, he took up one of her photographs that, framed in silver, stood on the little shelf of the escritoire. The light caught the great ruby in his ring. Then, as she waited, memory rushed over Joan like an overwhelming flood. A curious, bewildering sense of having watched like this before gave way to a fearful certainty the nightmare that had haunted her childhood took shape before her.
    She saw herself, a lonely, terrified child, peeping in at a window, held to the spot by fright, watching a man in a grey suit like Paul’s, with a bunch of violets in his buttonhole, tearing up photographs, throwing them into the fire, bending over a lifeless form on the rug. She heard herself again give that sob of horror —met for an instant those eyes.
    Were they Paul’s eyes? Was that why she had always felt that somehow—somewhere she and Paul had looked at one another before?
    The horror of the thought drove the colour from her cheeks, threatened to stop the beating of her heart. Her knees felt weak; she swayed uncertainly. It seemed to be growing dark around her. She put up her hands and clutched at the lace at her throat.
    Warchester turned to the window.
    â€œWhy, Joan, my darling!” he cried in joyful surprise. “Come in! Were you tired of waiting? Knight kept me longer than I expected, and he brought me bad news. Baron has given notice, and he is the oldest tenant on the estate. I was annoyed. Forgive me.”
    Joan stared at him miserably, her lips parted dumbly. They were the same eyes that had gazed at her across the dead girl—over the window-sill, she told herself—that were looking at her now with love and longing. A low sob came from her lips. She had the old wild instinct of flight to get away anywhere, anyhow from this horror that was possessing her. But the darkness seemed to swallow her up; her feet, numbed by fear, refused to do her bidding.
    â€œJoan, my dear,” said Warchester, coming towards her, “what is the matter? You are ill—faint!”
    The horror in the girl’s eyes deepened as he tried to take her in his arms.
    She backed on to the grass behind, putting out her hands, as if to keep him off. But a thick darkness was rising and overwhelming her, blotting out Warchester’s face; there was a strange, unaccustomed ringing in her ears; she felt as if a grey mist was closing about her and stifling her; she was conscious only of slipping