I took his hat and bag and dropped them in the road. I don’t know about the money. Somebody must have stolen it. I left the bag nearer the house than that.
Darling, I don’t think we could ever have been happily married: I always knew I was too old for you. It doesn’t make any difference now. Either they will arrest you or they will arrest me. Either way, there is nothing more in life for me; but there may be for you.
I am posting this so that you will get it in the morning, when I will have been dead some hours. I wanted to die in what I have always thought of as our bed. But it is too difficult to seal that room and I shall have to go down to the kitchen and turn on the gas oven. I shall be lying almost exactly where Henry was. I kissed you good-bye, though you did not know it.
Forgive me and forget me. R.
At the station at which Hugh got out there was one taxi. The driver was going to refuse to take him on the unprofitable journey out to Croxburn, alleging shortage of petrol, but after glancing at his distorted face he said nothing.
The taxi ran fairly quickly through the suburban streets. Each semi-detached villa, with its neat garden, looked exactly the same as usual. A few tradesmen were about, one or two dogs prowled in the sun, a few wives were on their way to the shops. There was nothing to mark the fact that this morning was different from all others—not until the taxi turned into the Graylings’ road and Hugh saw a white van drawn up there. As he watched, a tall man standing at the Graylings’ gate gave a signal, and the van started towards him. As it came near he could see the Red Cross and knew it was an ambulance.
When he got out, he recognised the tall man: Inspector Holly. He tried to speak, but found he could not say anything. The Inspector pitied him. “They are taking her to the mortuary,” he said gently. “If you want to see her, they will let you see her there.” He looked away as Hugh turned round stumbling, and hung on to the door of the taxi, unable to answer, to stand, or to think. He stood there waiting long after the taxi had taken Hugh away. He found he was unconsciously twisting in his hand the note that the charwoman had found that morning. It was written in a firm, fine hand, unwavering, folded in three as Mrs. Grayling’s messages for the charwoman invariably were, and equally deliberately ordinary in its phrasing. Mrs. Adams: Do not go near the kitchen: it will be full of gas and dangerous. You should call the police as soon as you have read this. You may tell them I killed my husband. She had not left any other message.
A Note on the Author
Raymond Postgate (1896–1971) was English social historian, journalist and author. He was the eldest son of the classical scholar and fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, John Percival Postgate. During WWI he was a conscientious objector and was jailed in 1916 for two weeks. After the war he started a journalist career and worked on the Daily Herald and Lansbury’s Weekly; between 1927 and 1928 he was an editor for Encyclopaedia Britannica. Despite his pacifist beliefs displayed during the WWI, he served in WWII with the Finchley Home Guard.
He was a prolific and lucid writer with wide interests encompassing topics from food and history to crime and mystery fiction.
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book.
The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader.
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc,
50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain in 1943 by Michael Joseph Ltd.
Copyright © 1943 Raymond Postage
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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eISBN: 9781448214297
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Somebody at the Door Page 22
