George braced himself as the white-coated attendant, from behind a partition, pulled up the yellowing blind. A light clicked on. Close against the window, on the other side of the partition, stood a cheap, brown-stained pine coffin on trestles. The lid was drawn back a foot from the head of the coffin. George started hack with a shudder of horror as he recognized Sydney Brant.
A comforting hand gripped his arm, but he was scarcely aware of it. He stared down at the waxen face. There was a sneering halfsmile hovering on the hitter mouth. The eyes were closed. A lock of straw-coloured hair lay across the scarred cheek. Even in death, Sydney Brant seemed to jeer at him.
Almost in a state of collapse, George turned shudderingly away.
“It’s a mistake,” he said in a strangled voice. “I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
And out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blind come down in silence, slowly, almost regretfully, like the curtain of the final act of an unsuccessful play.
15
It was growing dusk when George left the Heath. From the mortuary he had walked along the Spaniards Road and had cut across the Heath to parliament Hill. His mind was blank during the walk, and it wasn’t until he reached the deserted handstand perched on Parliament Hill, with its magnificent view of the City of London, that he realized that he had been wandering to no purpose, with no idea where he was going. He sat down on the grass under the shade of a big oak tree and lit a cigarette.
He had sat there brooding for nearly two hours. Sydney was dead. There was no doubt about that. How he met his end was a mystery. George was sure that he hadn’t killed himself. And another thing, why was Sydney in Belsize Park Station? Where had he been going when he met his death? No one seemed to have seen him die. At that time in the morning—George had discovered that Sydney had died at ten-thirty—few if any people used the station. It was a convenient place for murder.
George shuddered. If it had been murder, then Cora and he were in danger. Would Emily and Max and the two Greeks be content with one life? He doubted it.
The obvious thing to do would be to leave London, but he had no intention of doing so, even if they were really hunting for him He would not bring himself to believe that they were. It was all too fantastic. Anyway, he was not going to leave Cora. She might need him.