The Lake of Darkness by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online Page A

had been extraordinarily kind to him, that he felt he owed the world a living and a debt to the fates. He didn’t answer. He smiled and lifted his shoulders.
    “What does Dad say?”
    “I haven’t told him—yet.”
    They exchanged a glance of veiled complicity, a glance which implied that while they could they would keep this, to him highly disconcerting, information from Walter Urban. Martin refilled their sherry glasses. Later, after they had eaten, Mrs. Urban said:
    “You know, when you said what you were going to spend that money on I couldn’t help thinking of Mrs. Finn.”
    “Who’s Mrs. Finn?”
    “Oh,
Martin.
You remember Mrs. Finn. She was my cleaner. It must have been—oh, while you were still at school, when you were a teen-ager. A very thin fair woman, looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away. You must remember.”
    “Vaguely.”
    “I’ve made a point of keeping in touch with her. I go there regularly. She lives in such a dreadful place, it would break your heart. A room smaller than this one divided into
three
, and where the bathroom is goodness knows. I was dying to spend a penny last time I was there, but I didn’t dare ask. There are such strange people in the house. It’s a real warren. There’s a son who’s a bit backward, I think, and he’s got a room downstairs. He’s a plumber or a builder’s labourer or something. Of course, Mrs. Finn herself has had mental trouble. The misery and squalor they live in, you can hardly imagine it.”
    There was a good deal more of this and Martin put on ashow of listening attentively, but he felt that since Mrs. Finn had a son whose responsibility she was, she hardly qualified for his bounty. Besides, he had two elderly women on his list already. Wouldn’t it be better to complete it with perhaps a young couple and a baby?
    It surprised him that he hadn’t yet heard from either. Miss Watson or Mr. Deepdene. There was nothing from them in the morning. Mr. Cochrane and the newspapers arrived simultaneously, and Martin leafed quickly through the
North London Post
, looking for a story about Suma Bhavnani or, worse, about Suma Bhavnani in connection with himself.
    “I said it was a nice morning, Martin,” said Mr. Cochrane severely, putting on his ironmonger’s coat. “I said it was considerably warmer than it has been of late. I suppose you don’t think it’s worth answering the pleasantries of a mere servant.” His eyes bulged dangerously in their bony sockets.
    “I’m sorry,” Martin said. The newspaper made no mention of the Bhavnanis or himself. Its front page was devoted to the murder of a girl in Kilburn, a story which carried Tim’s by-line. “It
is
a nice day. You’re quite right, it’s a lovely day.” He saw that he had just managed to deflect Mr. Cochrane’s incipient rage. It was like looking at some kind of meter on which, when oil or water is poured into the appropriate orifice, a needle oscillates, wavers and finally sinks away from danger level. “How’s your sister-in-law?”
    “Much the same, Martin, much the same.” Mr. Cochrane, applying silver polish to the tea and coffee spoons, seemed to brood with suspicion on this question. When Martin came back with his overcoat on he said sharply, “I don’t know what accounts for your interest, Martin. She’s not a nubile young lady, you know. She’s not one of your pin-up girls. Just a poor old woman who went out into service when she was fourteen. You wouldn’t trouble to pass the time of day with the likes of her, Martin.”
    If it hadn’t been for the fact that he knew Mr. Cochrane, by the time he left at noon, would have made the flat more immaculate than even the house in Copley Avenue, would have ironed with exquisite finesse seven shirts, cleaned three picture windows, and polished a whole canteen of cutlery, Martin would have booted him out on the spot. He only sighed and said he was off now.
    “Good-bye, Martin,” said Mr. Cochrane in the tones of a