Susan lay in bed and waited for sleep to come. It had been a long
day and she was tired. She had been quite sure that she would go to
sleep at once. She never had any difficulty in going to sleep. And yet
here she lay, hour after hour, wide awake, her mind racing.
She had said she did not, mind sleeping in this room, in this bed. This bed where Cora Abernethie -
No, no, she must put all that out of her mind. She had always
prided herself on having no nerves. Why think of that afternoon less
than a week ago? Think ahead the future. Her future and Greg's. Those
premises in Cardigan Street - just what they wanted. The business on the
ground floor and a charming flat upstairs. The room out at the back a
laboratory for Greg. For purposes of income tax it would be an excellent
set-up. Greg would get calm and well again. There would be no more of
those alarming brainstorms. The times when he looked at her without
seeming to know who she was. Once or twice she'd been quite
frightened... And old Mr Cole - he'd hinted - threatened: "If this
happens again..." And it might have happened again - it would have
happened again. If Uncle Richard hadn't died just when he did...
Uncle Richard - but really why look at it like that? He'd nothing
to live for. Old and tired and ill. His son dead. It was a mercy really.
To die in his sleep quietly like that. Quietly... in his sleep... If
only she could sleep. It was so stupid lying awake hour after hour...
hearing the furniture creak, and the rustling of trees and bushes
outside the window and the occasional queer melancholy hoot - an owl,
she supposed. How sinister the country was, somehow. So different from
the big noisy indifferent town. One felt so safe there - surrounded by
people - never alone. Whereas here...
Houses where a murder had been committed were sometimes
haunted. Perhaps this cottage would come to be known as the haunted
cottage. Haunted by the spirit of Cora Lansquenet... Aunt Cora. Odd,
really, how ever since she had arrived she had felt as though Aunt Cora
were quite close to her... within reach. All nerves and fancy. Cora
Lansquenet was dead, tomorrow she would be buried. There was no one in
the cottage except Susan herself and Miss Gilchrist. Then why did she
feel that there was someone in this room, someone close beside her...
She had lain on this bed when the hatchet fell... Lying there
trustingly asleep... Knowing nothing till the hatchet fell... And now
she wouldn't let Susan sleep...
The furniture creaked again... was that a stealthy step? Susan
switched on the light. Nothing. Nerves, nothing but nerves. Relax...
close your eyes...
Surely that was a groan - a groan or a faint moan... Someone in pain - someone dying...
"I mustn't imagine things, I mustn't, I mustn't," Susan whispered to herself.
Death was the end - there was no existence after death. Under no
circumstances could anyone come back. Or was she reliving a scene from
the past - a dying woman groaning...
There it was again... stronger... someone groaning in acute pain...
But - this was real. Once again Susan switched on the light, sat up
in bed and listened. The groans were real groans and she was hearing
them through the wall. They came from the room next door.
Susan jumped out of bed, flung on a dressing-gown and crossed to
the door. She went out on to the landing, tapped for a moment on Miss
Gilchrist's door and then went in. Miss Gilchrist's light was on. She
was sitting up in bed. She looked ghastly. Her face was distorted with
pain.
