Cruel as the Grave by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

Author:Meg Elizabeth Atkins [Atkins, Meg Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2019-02-21T05:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Liz sat numbly, her only emotion relief for her solitude. She did not feel she was deserting Helen, she had, for the moment, nothing left to give her. And there were good people, only too willing to care...

She thought of going up and comforting herself with beautifully useless jobs in her workroom, but she was too tired and continued to sit, in the shelter and peace of her house, her mind doing nothing at all. Late in the day an angry wind had come up, she could hear it, battering about in the darkness.

The doorbell rang. She thought she would not answer, but the lights were on — whoever was there would persist. She went reluctantly to the front door, switched on the porch light, looked through the spyhole, blinked. Opened the door.

‘Hallo, Liz,’ Hunter said.

The night was wild about him, the wind tossing moon-silvered shrubs. Eventually, Liz said, ‘Um.’

‘I know. Annette told me you needed to be alone. She also said you were exhausted, she was worried about you. I thought you wouldn’t mind if I hung around very quietly for a while. I won’t even speak if you don’t want me to.’

She would never have believed this tough, impersonal man could speak and smile so kindly. Tears threatened. ‘Oh, bugger.’

‘Yes,’ he said, struggling with a laugh.

‘You’re going to make me cry. Please come in.’

They sat in silence for a while. The fire was dying low. Hunter efficiently piled on logs, dusted his hands, looked at Liz — who was gazing in the flames. No golden aura now; her face was white and strained, her hair had lost its sheen. He wanted to fold her quietly, securely, in his arms. ‘Liz, have you had anything to eat?’

‘Oh, yes. Bits of things on and off all day. You know funerals. Moveable feasts. I know — let’s open a bottle of wine.’

They went into the kitchen. To him, her house was a jewel casket, glowing with soft colours, delicate, welcoming. Even the occasional untidiness seemed to be artistically arranged. In an automatic way, she set a tray with glasses, bowls of crisps and nuts, a plate of savoury biscuits. He opened the wine. ‘Do not have anything in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’

‘William Morris. Have you just paid my house a compliment?’

‘Several.’

‘Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector — do I have to call you all that?’

‘Sheldon.’

She received the name with interest. ‘That’s nice.’

He carried the tray for her into the sitting room and put it on a small table; she sat on the rug in front of the fire, long legs curled under her. The wine brought a little colour to her face. She said, ‘That note was all wrong. I know. I know he wrote it, you proved that with all your tests. But the phrasing — that wasn’t Reggie. You don’t know — he waffled and wandered; he couldn’t write a note to the milkman without taking an entire page. He’d never expressed himself so clearly — so briefly.

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