One

COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE

ITo use police terms: at 2:59 p.m. on September 9th, I was proceeding alongWilbraham Crescent in a westerly direction. It was my first introductionto Wilbraham Crescent, and frankly Wilbraham Crescent had me baffled.

I had been following a hunch with a persistence becoming more doggedday by day as the hunch seemed less and less likely to pay off. I’m likethat.

The number I wanted was 61, and could I find it? No, I could not. Havingstudiously followed the numbers from 1 to 35, Wilbraham Crescent thenappeared to end. A thoroughfare uncompromisingly labelled Albany Roadbarred my way. I turned back. On the north side there were no houses,only a wall. Behind the wall, blocks of modern flats soared upwards, theentrance of them being obviously in another road. No help there.

I looked up at the numbers I was passing. 24, 23, 22, 21. Diana Lodge(presumably 20, with an orange cat on the gatepost washing its face), 19—The door of 19 opened and a girl came out of it and down the path withwhat seemed to be the speed of a bomb. The likeness to a bomb was in-tensified by the screaming that accompanied her progress. It was high andthin and singularly inhuman. Through the gate the girl came and collidedwith me with a force that nearly knocked me off the pavement. She didnot only collide. She clutched—a frenzied desperate clutching.

“Steady,” I said, as I recovered my balance. I shook her slightly. “Steadynow.”

The girl steadied. She still clutched, but she stopped screaming. Insteadshe gasped—deep sobbing gasps.

I can’t say that I reacted to the situation with any brilliance. I asked herif anything was the matter. Recognizing that my question was singularlyfeeble I amended it.

“What’s the matter?”

The girl took a deep breath.

“In there!” she gestured behind her.

“Yes?”

“There’s a man on the floor … dead … She was going to step on him.”

“Who was? Why?”

“I think—because she’s blind. And there’s blood on him.” She lookeddown and loosened one of her clutching hands. “And on me. There’s bloodon me.”

“So there is,” I said. I looked at the stains on my coat sleeve. “And on meas well now,” I pointed out. I sighed and considered the situation. “You’dbetter take me in and show me,” I said.

But she began to shake violently.

“I can’t—I can’t … I won’t go in there again.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” I looked round. There seemed nowhere verysuitable to deposit a half-fainting girl. I lowered her gently to the pave-ment and sat her with her back against the iron railings.

“You stay there,” I said, “until I come back. I shan’t be long. You’ll be allright. Lean forward and put your head between your knees if you feelqueer.”

“I—I think I’m all right now.”

She was a little doubtful about it, but I didn’t want to parley. I gave her areassuring pat on the shoulder and strode off briskly up the path. I wentin through the door, hesitated a moment in the hallway, looked into thedoor on the left, found an empty dining room, crossed the hall and enteredthe sitting room opposite.

The first thing I saw was an elderly woman with grey hair sitting in achair. She turned her head sharply as I entered and said:

“Who’s that?”

I realized at once that the woman was blind. Her eyes which looked dir-ectly towards me were focused on a spot behind my left ear.

I spoke abruptly and to the point.

“A young woman rushed out into the street saying there was a deadman in here.”

I felt a sense of absurdity as I said the words. It did not seem possiblethat there should be a dead man in this tidy room with this calm womansitting in her chair with her hands folded.

But her answer came at once.

“Behind the sofa,” she said.

I moved round the angle of the sofa. I saw it then—the out-flung arms—the glazed eyes—the congealing patch of blood.

“How did this happen?” I asked abruptly.

“I don’t know.”

“But—surely. Who is he?”

“I have no idea.”

“We must get the police.” I looked round. “Where’s the telephone?”

“I have not got a telephone.”

I concentrated upon her more closely.

“You live here? This is your house?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Certainly. I came in from shopping—” I noted the shopping bag flungon a chair near the door. “I came in here. I realized at once there wassomeone in the room. One does very easily when one is blind. I asked whowas there. There was no answer—only the sound of someone breathingrather quickly. I went towards the sound—and then whoever it was criedout—something about someone being dead and that I was going to treadon him. And then whoever it was rushed past me out of the room scream-ing.”

I nodded. Their stories clicked.

“And what did you do?”

“I felt my way very carefully until my foot touched an obstacle.”

“And then?”

“I knelt down. I touched something—a man’s hand. It was cold—therewas no pulse … I got up and came over here and sat down — to wait.

Someone was bound to come in due course. The young woman, whoevershe was, would give the alarm. I thought I had better not leave the house.”

I was impressed with the calm of this woman. She had not screamed, orstumbled panic-stricken from the house. She had sat down calmly to wait.

It was the sensible thing to do, but it must have taken some doing.

Her voice inquired:

“Who exactly are you?”

“My name is Colin Lamb. I happened to be passing by.”

“Where is the young woman?”

“I left her propped up by the gate. She’s suffering from shock. Where isthe nearest telephone?”

“There is a call box about fifty yards down the road just before youcome to the corner.”

“Of course. I remember passing it. I’ll go and ring the police. Will you—”

I hesitated.

I didn’t know whether to say “Will you remain here?” or to make it “Willyou be all right?”

She relieved me from my choice.

“You had better bring the girl into the house,” she said decisively.

“I don’t know that she will come,” I said doubtfully.

“Not into this room, naturally. Put her in the dining room the other sideof the hall. Tell her I am making some tea.”

She rose and came towards me.

“But—can you manage—”

A faint grim smile showed for a moment on her face.

“My dear young man. I have made meals for myself in my own kitchenever since I came to live in this house—fourteen years ago. To be blind isnot necessarily to be helpless.”

“I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. Perhaps I ought to know your name?”

“Millicent Pebmarsh—Miss.”

I went out and down the path. The girl looked up at me and began tostruggle to her feet.

“I—I think I’m more or less all right now.”

I helped her up, saying cheerfully:

“Good.”

“There—there was a dead man in there, wasn’t there?”

I agreed promptly.

“Certainly there was. I’m just going down to the telephone box to reportit to the police. I should wait in the house if I were you.” I raised my voiceto cover her quick protest. “Go into the dining room—on the left as you goin. Miss Pebmarsh is making a cup of tea for you.”

“So that was Miss Pebmarsh? And she’s blind?”

“Yes. It’s been a shock to her, too, of course, but she’s being very sens-ible. Come on, I’ll take you in. A cup of tea will do you good whilst you arewaiting for the police to come.”

I put an arm round her shoulders and urged her up the path. I settledher comfortably by the dining room table, and hurried off again to tele-phone.