A Pinch of Snuff by Reginald Hill Read Free Book Online Page B

pointing to her hearing aid.
    'An advantage of this thing is that I need hear only what I want to. It's very useful at night and when I'm with extremely boring people.'
    'So you heard nothing?' persisted Pascoe.
    'I've said so.'
    'Miss Alice?'
    'Oh no. I switched off too,' said Alice, evidently retrieved to the present moment by her sister's command.
    'Which side of the house do you sleep?' asked Pascoe, causing a time-slip in Miss Alice who put her hand to her mouth in horror at his indelicacy.
    'First floor on the Wilkinson House side,' said Miss Annabelle. 'Alice is at the back, I'm at the front.'
    'It's a very large house,' said Pascoe. 'May I have a look upstairs just to get an impression of where you'd be in relation to next door?'
    'By all means,' said Miss Annabelle. 'Follow me.'
    They set off in procession up the gloomy stairs, the older woman leading, the two men close behind and the younger sister trailing.
    On the first floor they halted and Miss Annabelle flung open doors.
    'These are our bedrooms. Mine here and that's Alice's. As you can see, they abut on to Wilkinson House, but we weren't disturbed. Over there are another couple of rooms, used to be our parents' bedroom and dressing-room. We don't use them now. Bathroom, boxroom. We use this as a sewing-room or rather Alice does. Me, I was never a hand with the needle. But Alice is an expert. Makes all our clothes in here. Gets the best light, you see.'
    Pascoe peered in. The room was full of material, some of it draped around a dressmaker's dummy. On a smooth polished table stood an ancient foot-operated sewing machine and a work basket with all the tools of the art, needles, cotton reels, buttons, pinking shears, edging tape, everything.
    'A hive of industry,’ he said brightly. 'It's a big house. You live here alone?'
    'Not quite,' said Miss Annabelle and flinging back her head she cried, 'Una! Duessa! Medina! Acrasia! Archimago! Satyrane! Guyon! Britomart!'
    A moment later the room was filled with cats. They were all Siamese, of various ages and pointings, but all possessing in common an extremely loud voice.
    'Apart from these, we live alone,' said Miss Annabelle. 'Do you want to go higher?'
    'If I may.'
    They set off again.
    'Careful,’ said Miss Annabelle. 'The carpet's a bit tatty here. Well, here we are. Nothing much to see. These were servants' rooms. Empty now. The age of the servant is past, I fear.'
    'And this one?'
    'Ah, yes. That's our old nursery.'
    She pushed open the door. Spring sunlight fell through a dusty casement window into the long, quiet room, bringing life and colour once more to the shabby old-fashioned wallpaper with a design of rather menacing fairies. Everything was still there. A rocking-horse, white and scarlet piebald. An antique play-pen. A four-feet-high doll's house with detachable front, which Pascoe was certain would be worth a small fortune in an antique shop. A stack of picture books. A gaggle of dolls.
    'Makes you wonder what on earth happened, doesn't it?' said Miss Annabelle.
    Pascoe glanced round. Miss Alice was hanging back, not even looking through the door. He felt a pang of desperate pity for her. The past must call her like a drug, but she was trying to turn away from it, probably because there were strangers present.
    'Well, thank you very much,' he said, walking from the room into the corridor once again. 'Now, let me get my bearings. Wilkinson House is there, right? Now, let me see.'
    There was a narrow corridor between the two servants' bedrooms. At the end was a door. He approached it and turned the handle, but it was locked.
    'Now I bet that goes into Mr Haggard's kitchen,' he said half to himself. 'How interesting.'
    'Right you are,' said Miss Annabelle. 'It's been there years. It was very useful when I helped out in the school. How's Dr Haggard taking it, by the way?'
    Pascoe looked at Wield realizing he had not mentioned Haggard's injuries. Wield's face was impassive.
    'I'm sorry,' said Pascoe. 'I