CHAPTER 4
Something in his tone emphasized the tense he used. She shrank back.
“Was?” Her voice was a whisper. “He’s not dead . . . oh, my God! he’s not dead?”
Mr Reeder smoothed his chin.
“Yes, I’m afraid—um—he is dead.”
She clutched the edge of the table for support. Mr Reeder had never seen such horror, such despair in a human face before.
“Was it . . . an accident—or—or——”
“You’re trying to say ‘murder’,” said Reeder gently. “Yes, I’m very much afraid it was murder.”
He caught her in his arms as she fell, and, laying her on the sofa, went in search of water. The taps were frozen, but he found some water in a kettle, and, filling a glass with this, he returned to sprinkle it on her face, having a vague idea that something of the sort was necessary; but he found her sitting up, h
