The Stranger Came (76 page)

In
here
at
least
would
be
warm.

Climbing
upstairs,
she
could
tell
on
her
skin
how
little
time
it
had
taken
for
the
heat
to
drain
out
of
the
house.
Just
behind
the
door
in
Maitland's
study,
a
shelf
of
the
bookcase
had
been
cleared
for
the
answerphone
and
a
calendar
and
phonebooks
and
a
clutter
of
papers.
She
sifted
through
them
without
finding
the
list
of
tradesmen
that
was
usually
kept
by
the
phone
in
the
kitchen.
The
shutter
cover
of
Maitland's
desk
was
rolled
down
and
she
hesitated
about
opening
it;
but
more
papers
were
distributed
along
the
flat
top
and
she
had
a
look
through
them.
Even
that
felt
uncomfortably
like
snooping.

About
to
leave,
she
noticed
the
tell-tale
light
on
the
answerphone
signalling
a
message.
She
had
been
so
intent
on
her
search
she
hadn't
noticed
it
before.
Smiling
at
that
she
pressed
the
play
button.
The
light
flickered
as
the
tape
ran
back
then
a
woman's
voice
spoke.

'Maitland,'
the
woman's
voice
said,
'it's
Beth.
Don't
die
of
surprise
or
anything
but
I've
been
offered
an
exhibition
in
Edinburgh.
I
want
you
there.
No
excuses.
Ring
me
the
first
chance
you
get.
Love
you.’

When
it
finished
she
pressed
the
stop
button
to
keep
the
message
and
then
played
it
once
more;
and
again.
She
was about
to
listen
to
it
for
the
fourth
time
when
she
heard
the
ringing
of
the
doorbell.

'I
was
on
the
point
of
giving
up,'
Janet
said,
moving
forward
into
the
hall.
Her
cheeks
were
flushed
with
the
cold
and
as
she
came
in
she
tugged
off
the
wool
ski
cap
and
shook
out
her
hair.
That
gesture,
the
mane
of
red
hair
swinging
loose,
reminded
Lucy
of
something,
someone,
a
stirring
of
memory,
so
tenuous
yet
bitter
as
death,
gone
before
she
could
grasp
it.

'The
back
door
isn't
locked.’
That
was
stating
the
obvious.
It
was
the
way
things
were
in
the
village.

Janet
frowned
as
if
at
a
diversion.
'I
didn't
think.’

She
wanted
it
to
be
like
this,
the
thought
came
to
Lucy,
at
the
front
door,
ringing
the
bell
like
a
stranger.
She
hasn't
come
as
a
friend.
All
the
more
necessary
to
treat
her
as
if
she
had.

Yet
the
moment
went
by
for
that,
and
it
was
Janet
tired
of
waiting
who
led
the
way
into
the
kitchen.

'We
can't
stop
in
here,'
Lucy
said,
coming
no
further
than
the
doorway.

Janet
looked
at
her
in
silence,
then
took
a
seat
at
the table.

'Why
not?'

She
spoke
as
if
issuing
a
challenge.

'Don't
you
feel
the
cold?'
And
it
was
cold.
Become
cold
so
quickly
that
she
could
see
her
breath
as
she
spoke.
'The
heating's
gone
off.
I
don't
know
what's
gone
wrong
with
it.’

'Yes
.’
Janet
glanced
around.
'Yes
…
’For
the
first
time she
seemed
uncertain.

'Can't
stay
here,'
Lucy
said
again.
Surely
it
should
be
plain
to
her
it
would
be
better
if
she
went?

'You've
a
smudge,'
Janet
touched
her
own
cheek
with
a finger,
'of
soot
or
something.’

'I
was
lighting
the
fire.’
That
was
an
admission.
She
had
looked
at
her
hands
and,
yes,
they
were
dirty,
licked
the
side
of
a
knuckle
and
begun
scrubbing
her
cheek
clean
when
the
admission
slipped
out.
That
was
stupid.
Anyway the
words
once
said,
there
seemed
no
choice
but
to
go
on…‘In
the
living-room.
We
could
go
in
there.’

'Hmm.
Let's.’

As
they
came
out
of
the
kitchen,
Lucy
indicated
by
a
touch
the
picture
hung
in
this
darkest
corner
of
the
hall.

'Do
you
like
this?'

Janet
had
moved
past
her
and,
turning,
seemed
still
poised
to
go
on.

'Like
it?
Is
it
new?'

'No.
No
…
Maitland
used
to
have
it
in
his
study.’

Four
potatoes
on
a
rumpled
cloth,
a
dull-seeming
thing,
a
study
made
with
a
dark
palette.
Certainly
it
might
have
been
easy
to
overlook;
it
made
no
obvious
demands.

'Can
we
get
on?'
Janet
asked,
and
shivered,
seeming
to
say,
It's
cold,
as
if
by
way
of
explanation.
Apology?
If
it
was
a
sign
of
weakness,
it
was
the
only
one
she
gave.