Seven Dead by J Jefferson Farjeon

Author:J Jefferson Farjeon [Farjeon, J. Jefferson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781464209093
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press, Inc.
Published: 2017-09-29T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter XIV

Marie

From beyond the parlour door came the sound of footsteps, and yellow light glowed and augmented in the crack. Before the door opened, thoughts raced through Hazeldean’s mind in disorderly procession, tripping over each other’s heels:

“He didn’t tell her. He didn’t tell her about the seven dead people at Haven House. She’s no knowledge of this. She’s sitting here, and she doesn’t know. Why hasn’t Bob turned up yet? I’ll have to tell her. Shouldn’t he be here? She thinks I called to give the news of Dr. Jones’s accident. Why did Fenner let her think that? Why did he let her think he was going to return to-night? What did he tell Madame Paula? Where’s the silk merchant? I suppose it was his face at the window. Marie is walking very quickly with the lamp. Still, she always does. Pierre. What about Pierre? He speaks English. Madame Paula’s back, and in her room. We’re not to disturb her. So Dora’s father painted that picture. And they had fun. Does she have any fun with her uncle? South Africa. Aeroplane. Jones crashed. Dead cat. What was that about the dead cat? Why didn’t Fenner tell her about seven dead people?…”

The door was open. Lamp-light entered the room. It re-developed objects that had faded, made shadows as it moved across the carpet, picked out the hands of Marie, who was grasping the lamp-pedestal. Marie’s face, above the lamp-shade, looked like a little orange mist.

No one spoke. Was there any reason, in this fragment of ordinary domestic routine, why one should? Hazeldean studied the little orange mist, moving above the moving shadows. There was disturbance in it. It was not a serene mist. Why was Marie disturbed? Well, of course she was disturbed! Her master had been killed, and her mistress was locked in her room. Wasn’t that enough to disturb anybody? But why was she more disturbed than she had been before—than when she had drawn the curtains and taken away the tray? Yes, and what was that scratch on the clearly illuminated right hand? The back of the hand. Had it been there before? Had Marie been a long time bringing in the lamp?

The scratch vanished as the lamp was placed on the little table where the tray had been and the hand was withdrawn.

“Have you had an accident?” asked Hazeldean.

“Pardon?” answered the maid. “Qu’est-ce c’est—accident?”

“Le meme en Français, n’est-ce pas? Accident?”

“Ah! Accident!” repeated Marie, while Hazeldean thought: “This is Pierre’s trick—she understood the first time! ‘Mais non!’”

“Votre main?” he insisted.

She looked at her hand.

“Oh, cela! C’est rien!” Avoiding Hazeldean’s sceptical eye, she transferred her gaze to Dora and explained, “I break ze cup.”

The next instant she had gone.

“Something’s the matter, isn’t it?” said Dora.

“I’m not sure,” he replied.

“Aren’t you? I am. You’ll have to trust me in the end, you know.”

“Trust you? Of course I trust you!”

“I mean—with anything I don’t yet know. I suppose you’re thinking I can’t stand it?”

“I’m sure you’ll stand anything you have to,” he answered, while her eyes searched his.

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