Dead In The Morning by Margaret Yorke Page A

various means, like going through the alphabet reciting to herself the names of plants, beginning with Anchusa and so on down, by way of Mignonette, at last to Zinnia. Then she would try shrubs, starting with Azalea, and cheating sometimes, for they were harder, and finally on to fruit and vegetables, often enough, before sleep came at last. All this time, as a rule, Derek would be solidly beside her, a large, gently pulsating hump, comforting merely by his presence.
    But recently, as she lay staring at the ceiling, or at the patch of paler darkness where the window was, or at coloured patterns shooting across the blackness of her tightly shut eyes, she had known that he was not sleeping either. He would lie unnaturally still, feigning the even breath of slumber, unwilling to acknowledge that he was disturbed, and for the first time in their long marriage inhibiting her. Was it a business worry, or was it worse: some other woman?
    Last night, they both had a clear-cut reason for their sleeplessness, and the invisible barrier that had grown up between them in the past few weeks had been dissolved. They lay awake, talking about Mrs Mackenzie and about their boys for quite a time. This was a consolation.
    Betty gently eased a clump of iris up, so that the rhizomes showed above the ground. As she bent to her work again, a large black police car turned in at the gate and drove slowly up to the front door.

 
II
     
    “I hate leaving you to all this on your own, darling,” Gerald said. He stood in the hall of the Stable House with his arms round Helen. “I wish I could stay with you.”
    “So do I, but there it is,” said Helen. She gave him a quick kiss. “Don’t worry. There’s plenty to do. All our unpacking, for a start, and Phyllis may like some help during the day. Then there’s Cathy. Maybe she could show me the village this afternoon, if she’s not too busy.”
    “That’s a good idea,” said Gerald. It would do both of them good to get away from the atmosphere up at Pantons for a time. Gerald let her go and picked up his briefcase. “I’ll be back as early as I can make it, sweetheart, but I’ve been away from the office for so long that there are things I must attend to. And I’m sure to have to take more time off before this business is finally cleared up. I must be here for the inquest, at least.”
    “I know, dear,” Helen said.
    “After everything that’s happened, to think there should be this to face now,” said Gerald bitterly.
    “I keep telling you not to worry,” Helen said. She kissed him again. “Soon we shall forget it all.”
    “Yes. Oh, damn it all to hell,” Gerald said. He put his briefcase down again and caught her to him once more.
    “I wanted to make up to you for everything,” he told her.
    “You do, darling. You have, and you will,” she insisted.
    He started to kiss her again, until at last she broke away from him.
    “Darling, you must go,” she said gently.
    But when he had gone, she felt alone and afraid. She occupied herself for a time by clearing away the breakfast dishes and making a list of stores that she must get. Perhaps there was a grocery in Winterswick where she could buy them. She had just found the vacuum sweeper, stowed away in a closet under the stairs, when there was a contrived cough in the background and she looked up to see a small woman with bright red hair standing in the hall.
    Helen’s heart thumped. Ridiculous to be so terrified.
    “Beg pardon, Mrs Ludlow, if I startled you. I’m Mrs Bludgen, come to clean,” said the stranger.
    The pounding in Helen’s temples slowed. Mrs Bludgen from the lodge. Phyllis had said something about a woman to help with the housework, but that had been on Friday night: so long ago, it seemed.
    “Oh, good morning, Mrs Bludgen. I hadn’t realised you’d be here today,” said Helen, speaking calmly.
    “Mondays and Thursdays are my days,” Mrs Bludgen said. “I oblige Mrs Medhurst on the other mornings.