Free Death in Kashmir by M. M. Kaye Page B

shade of emerald green. Her silk-clad legs ended in green shoes with rhinestone buckles, and there were a pair of large rhinestone clips at the neck of her dress, and matching ones on her ears.
    This was another woman who, like Meril, could have been pretty, perhaps even beautiful, if her face had not been marred by its expression: in her case one of chronic boredom and discontent that no amount of cleverly applied make-up could conceal. A lavish use of lipstick failed to disguise the bitterness of the sullen mouth or the downward droop of its corners, while the glittering, scarlet nail-polish that she favoured only seemed to emphasize the restlessness of the hands that fidgeted ceaselessly with an endless chain of cigarettes, lit one from the other and thrown away half smoked.
    All in all, decided Sarah, Mrs Warrender struck a strident and incongruous note on the rough-and-ready surroundings of the ski-hut. A note as artificial and out of place as the rhinestone ornaments that twinkled and flashed in the smoky light from the kerosene lamps.
    The room was very hot, and the waves of heat from the crude iron stove, allied to the thick haze of cigarette smoke, the babble of voices and the fumes of Johnnie’s ‘Hell’s Belle’, combined to make Sarah very sleepy, and as soon as possible after the meal, although it was still barely past nine o’clock she retired, yawning, to her bunk.
    The others were not long in following her example, for they had risen early and it had been a long and healthily tiring day. Moreover, the best skiing tomorrow would be before breakfast while the snow was still crisp and dry from the night frost. By ten o’clock the last oil lamp had been extinguished and the ski-hut was dark and quiet.
    It must have been an hour before midnight when Sarah awoke, for the moon was well clear of the heights above Khilanmarg, and its cold clear light, intensified by the glittering wastes of snow, lent a queer luminous quality to the darkness in the little ski-hut.
    She lay still for a minute or two, gazing out at the shadowy, unfamiliar outlines of the narrow room with its dimly seen tier of bunks, and listening to the muffled and rhythmical rumble of snores proceeding from the other side of the partition, where Mr Reginald Craddock was presumably sleeping on his back. A wandering breath of wind from Apharwat soughed under the snow-hung eaves and whispered its way across the empty white levels, and down in the pine forest a branch cracked sharply, breaking under the weight of snow.
    A moment later that distant sound was repeated from somewhere inside the hut. And of a sudden the darkness thinned, and Sarah found herself looking at the clear outlines of the little iron stove which less than an instant before had been a dark blur. A second later she realized why this was so: someone had opened the hut door.
    For a moment or two she lay still, listening. But beyond that sudden creak of a hinge there was no further sound, and she sat up cautiously and peered out over the edge of her bunk.
    There was only one entrance to the ski-hut, and that was by the door that led into the living-room. But the inner door between the women’s side and the living-room was open; and so also was the outer door of the hut, for the living-room was bright with moonlight and by its reflected glow Sarah could just see the faintly snoring bundle in the next bunk that was Meril Forbes.
    The bunk beyond it was Janet’s, but it was empty, and the reflected light from the open doorway of the room beyond showed the tumbled blankets and glinted faintly on the sides of the little stove. And suddenly, horribly, Sarah remembered again that line of footprints on the empty verandah, and the way the light had glinted along the barrel of the little automatic in Janet Rushton’s hand …
    The next moment she was out of bed and thrusting her feet into her ski-boots. Pulling her heavy coat off the bunk, she dragged it