She looked up sharply. “I suppose so. They could break a window if they really wanted to get in, couldn’t they?” Her inside rumbled loudly and she giggled. “Collywobbles,” she said. “I’m a yellow little hitch, aren’t I?” And she squeezed her stomach with her crossed arms and scowled down at her feet. “I saw him this afternoon, all tucked up in a coffin. He looked filthy. I hope I don’t look like that when I’m dead.” A sob jerked in her throat. “I was terribly, terribly fond of him, George, although he was such a rotten bastard.”
“I saw him, too,” George said, not looking at her.
She sat for a little while as if she hadn’t heard, then she said, “You’re not such a fool, are you, George? They must have pushed him in front of the train. He was running away from me.” She flicked ash onto the carpet and rubbed it in with her foot. “And I loved him so. I never thought he’d do that to me. He wouldn’t let me touch the money. And I had helped him. If I hadn’t ’ve helped him he’d ’ve never got the money. He never gave me a penny of it: not a damn penny. And as soon as he was sure they weren’t after him, he skipped. He took the money and left me without even a word.” She beat her clenched fists together. “After all I’ve done for him!”
George crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He felt a little sick.
A cheap clock ticked excitedly on the mantelpiece. The distant traffic rumbled up the High Street.
“I told him he was playing with fire,” she went on, after a pause, “but he wouldn’t listen. He thought he was smart. Over and over again I told him they wouldn’t stand for it. He never did think they had any brains. He was so pleased with his plan—his stupid, silly little plan. What a fool I’ve been! I should never have listened to him. But he was mad. I know he was mad. After Crispin burnt him, he was never the same. He brooded all day and half the night; looking at himself in the mirror, his hand to his face, planning revenge. I warned him, I told him it wouldn’t succeed. But he wouldn’t listen. And now he’s dead.” She got up and wandered round the room. “And I’ll be dead, too, before very long. They won’t rest until they’ve killed me, and they won’t rest until they’ve killed you.”
While she had been talking, George had been looking round the sordid little room, his mind listening to her words, his eyes unconsciously seeing the various articles in the room. He found himself looking at a cheap fabric suitcase; from it was hanging a luggage tag, and on the tag, printed in bold letters, was the name Cora Nichols.
It only wanted that to confirm his suspicions. Very quietly, suppressing the sick dismay that rose inside him, he said, “Then you’re not his sister?”
“Sister?” she said bitterly. “Do I look like anyone’s sister? I wasn’t even his wife.”
George shivered. So all the time he had been dreaming about Cora, all the time she had promised to be very nice to him, she had been sleeping with Sydney.