Turret Room by Charlotte Armstrong

Author:Charlotte Armstrong
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781453245729
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

Chapter Nine

THE old lady was demanding, very demanding, picky and choosy about every single thing. But Mrs. Beck was humble and strong to endure. Finally the meal was over and the old lady was left with her extra cup of coffee and the morning newspaper, which she seemed to enjoy. She habitually read every line on the society pages, and never made a comment.

Mrs. Beck felt free, at last, to scurry back into the big room.

Wendy was lying on her face, on the sofa.

“Now, lamb,” crooned Mrs. Beck, “you see? Wasn’t Becky right, lamb? Now, you should come and take your breakfast. And make our fine Mr. Ronnie Mungo wait a little bit?”

Wendy lifted up like a lizard, and said hoarsely, “What did you tell me last night?”

“I said there was no need to worry. Didn’t I say that, lamb?”

Wendy got to her knees. “What … did you do?”

Poor lamb. Afraid? “Sssh,” Mrs. Beck gave warning.

“Oh, I … You see my white uniform?” She had been very clever, very resourceful, and it was pleasant to explain. “And I made me a little nurse’s cap, out of a white paper napkin.” She hadn’t been able to find that napkin, this morning, in this room. No matter. It belonged in the house. “Nobody stopped me,” she crooned. “They won’t know. They’ll blame the madman.”

She had been very very careful. She had had to wait a long time, in the hospital, for a safe chance. But she had taken care to arrive after Mr. Whitman would have left. She had hidden her dark coat and had felt forced to go check on it, every now and then, to be sure that no one had put it helpfully elsewhere. She had walked in the corridors, testing her disguise. Carefully. No one had questioned her. But it had taken a long time for her chance to come. Not easy, to have been so patient and careful.

But around midnight, there had been a lot of excitement. By that time, the corridors were quite dim, and when everyone was suddenly so busy, then Mrs. Beck had slipped along and into Miss Myra’s room.

It had been too bad, in a way. Miss Myra had not looked as if she would ever say anything. But if she did, then a long dream died and Mrs. Beck knew how to save it, surely and carefully, and put an end to worry. It was simple, although chancy for a short time, of course. They had left Myra’s door propped open and Mrs. Beck had not dared to close it all the way. But she had dared to put the thing over Myra’s head and step into a shadow and wait. That was all it took. She had been a little nervous, waiting—and afterwards, tearing at it with her nails, to split it and get it off. But she had done it. Quick and easy, once she had wisely waited for her chance.

Then she had found her coat and walked four blocks to a bus, shredding the pliofilm bag as she went and getting rid of pieces.

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