Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [84]
“Sybilla,” she said quietly, “I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t sleep. I need to talk to you. I believe you know who murdered George, and—” She was at the end of the bed now and she could see Sybilla more clearly. She was sitting very awkwardly, her back rigid against the bedpost and her head a little to one side, as if she had fallen asleep.
Emily came round the far edge of the bed and leaned forward.
Then she saw Sybilla’s face and felt the horror rising inside her, robbing her of breath, freezing her heart. Sybilla was staring with blind, bulging eyes out of swollen flesh, her mouth open, tongue out; the black hair was knotted tight round her throat and swept back round the bedpost and tied again.
Emily opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came at all, only a violent dry ache in her throat. She found she had her hands to her lips, and there was blood on her knuckles where she had bitten them. She must not faint! She must get help! Quickly! And she must get out of here—she must not be alone.
At first she was shaking so much her legs would not obey her. She knocked into the corner of the bed and bruised herself, felt for the chair to regain her balance and nearly upset it. There was no time to be sick—someone else might come and find her here. They blamed her already for George’s death—they would be sure to blame her for this too.
The doorknob was stiff now; twice she turned it and her sweaty fingers let it slip back before she pulled the door open and almost fell out into the corridor. Thank God there was no one else there, no housemaid hurrying down to clean grates or prepare the dining room. Almost running, she made her way to the dressing room where Charlotte was, and without knocking, fumbled for the handle and threw it open.
“Charlotte! Charlotte! Wake up. Wake up and listen to me—Sybilla is dead!” She could dimly make out the form of Charlotte, her hair a dark cloud on the white pillow.
“Charlotte!” She could hear her voice rising hysterically and could not help it. “Charlotte!”
Charlotte sat up, and her whisper came out of the cool grayness. “What is it, Emily? Are you ill?”
“No ... no ...” She gulped painfully. “Sybilla is dead! I think she’s been murdered. I just found her ... in her bedroom ... strangled with her own hair!”
Charlotte glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “Emily, it’s twenty past five. Are you sure you didn’t have a nightmare?”
“Yes! Oh, God! They’re going to blame me for this too!” And in spite of all the strength of will she thought she had, she began to weep, crumpling slowly into a little heap on the end of the bed.
Charlotte climbed out and came to her, putting her arms round her and holding her, rocking her like a child. “What happened?” she said quietly, trying to keep her voice calm. “What were you doing in Sybilla’s room at this time in the morning?”
Emily understood Charlotte’s urgency; she dared not indulge in misery and fear. Only thought, rational and disciplined, could help. She tried to iron out the violence in her mind and grasp the elements that mattered.
“I saw her face at dinner the night before last. For a moment, there was such a look of hatred on it as she turned to Eustace. I wanted to know why. What did she know about him, or did she fear he was going to do something? Charlotte, they are convinced I murdered George, and they are going to make sure Thomas has no choice but to arrest me. I have to find out who did—to save myself.”
For a moment Charlotte was silent; then she stood up slowly. “I’d better go and see, and if you’re right I’ll waken Aunt Vespasia. We’ll have to call the police again.” She pulled on a shawl and hugged it round herself. “Poor William,” she said almost under her breath.
When she had gone Emily sat curled up on the end of the bed and waited. She wanted to think, to see the pattern falling clearly, but it was too soon. She was shivering—not with cold, because the air was warm; the chill was inside, just as the darkness was. Whoever had murdered George had now