She did not move. She said, faintly, (and could not damp down the little, stabbing thought, half grim, half humorous, that she was behaving not at all unlike the departed Miss Kelly, after all)—‘After last night, Frederick, nothing can ever again be quite “as-was”.’
He released himself, taking her by the shoulders, holding her away from him, looking down, smiling, into her eyes. ‘My dear, don’t take it so desperately! The poor girl’s dead but there’s nothing we can do about it. It—’
She interrupted him. ‘I mean—you and me.’
‘You and me, Stella?’
And she knew: already, at the very sound of his voice as he said it, puzzled, ‘You and me, Stella?’—she knew: it was all or nothing, he did not love her, it was madness to go on. But she went on, she was driven on, she could not help herself. ‘Now that we’ve—found each other, Frederick, don’t let’s go on keeping up this terrible pretence. After all I’ve gone through, honestly I couldn’t bear any more.’ She felt the withdrawal, the repudiation, the shock: but she could not accept it, she could not let the dream go. ‘When you held me in your arms last night, when you said I was marvellous—’
‘So you were marvellous,’ he said, trying to wrench the whole thing back to normality before it was too late, trying to save her from her own shame. ‘You behaved like an angel—’
She thrust herself against him, clinging to his arm. ‘Don’t hold me off, Frederick, don’t let’s pretend any more….’ And her nervous volubility got the better of her, she began to gabble again, pouring out with bitter spite her apologia, the ugly defamation of Ricky, Ricky supposed to be so honourable and upright and all the time betraying her with a dirty little strumpet like that… Her gorge rose as she saw the girl before her, lolling in the chair, the author of all the terror and trouble of the past horrible hours and she poured out her loathing, sicking up from the depths of her soul all the loves and hates and passions and eroticisms of the long, unloving, unlovely years. ‘Why should he stand in our way, what do we owe to him any longer—deceiving me, betraying me, messing about with a trollop like that, getting her into the family way and then when she promises trouble—murdering her, murdering her, honestly I wouldn’t put it past him, to shut her mouth….’ As he tore himself free from her grip, she clutched at him again, yearning up into his face, blind to all but the knowledge that this scene must continue, must go on, go on and never end; because when it was ended, there would be nothing left of hope. ‘Oh, Frederick! At least you and I are free of it all, we do belong to each other….’ She was beyond control, shaking, shuddering, her hands clawing at his arms.
He gave one mighty heave, thrusting her away from him and lifted his hand and hit her across her ashen face; and slammed out of the room.
She fell back on to the sofa, where only last night that hateful, smiling, evil little creature had lolled and taunted and brought the ruin into all their lives. Now indeed she was defeated. She had murdered—and all for nothing. She had betrayed an innocent man, her husband, kindest and best of men, as well in her heart she knew. If last night she had dreaded poverty, with him—what would it be like now, without him, without him, the bread-winner; what would it be like with a husband in prison ‘for life’ for a sordid murder… Divorce? But of what use was a divorce when the dream was gone?—that dream which she now recognised with instant, bitter disillusion as nothing but the figment of her own sick, greedy imagination. She put her hand to her cheek and rising stood staring into the looking-glass over the mantelpiece….
Six little tablets had lain there: six white tablets upon whose innocence she herself had cast the first shadow of doubt—the shadow which now stretched out so dark and dangerous over the life of the only person in the world who cared for her. ‘Oh, God—Ricky!’ she whispered to that white face staring back at her from the mirror. ‘What have I done to him?’
But… She began to see that all might not yet be lost: that she might at one swoop save Ricky and repay that blow across the face. She heard the slam of the door as Frederick burst out of the house, the angry altercation with the policeman stationed outside. She began frantically to tidy her disordered hair, straighten her dress, steady her shaking hands. She went out into the hall. ‘Inspector—could I see you one minute, in here?’
Ricky was standing in the hall. He gave her a look that frightened and puzzled her: a look of incredulous, heart-broken, bitter reproach. Well—she must explain it all away later; she could always manage Ricky. Meanwhile…‘Sit down, Inspector. I’ve got to—tell you something.’ She perched herself, knees nervously locked together, on the edge of the sofa. ‘This is horrible for me, absolutely horrible. May I ask you first—am I right in thinking that you suspect my husband? I mean—the book being altered—’