years ago. They were living together for almost a year before he killed her-'
THEO-- 'Good God, that was him? How many others has he-'
?-- 'We're not sure. There's the six that we know of, but we suspect there are more. As
to the other matter: are you sure keeping her here is wise? He may try again-'
THEO-- 'I'm sure. He's slipped through CID's fingers once too often for my comfort. Not that
I'm blaming CID, mind you. It's just that . . . '
?-- (kindly) 'There's no need to explain. Well, with any luck the moor will take care of
Mr. Albert Askrigg, and that will be the end of it. Pity, though. I'd rather we had him. I'd think nothing of roasting him alive over hot coals just to find out what he knows, so that the families of those poor girls he killed can get some sense of closure.'
Pamela woke to a sunny day, and Mrs. Dewhurst, who was sitting in a chair by the window. Hearing the girl stir, she left her chair, came and sat on the edge of the bed, felt the girl's forehead with her wrist, then took her hands. Her manner was grave, concern erasing all the habitual humour from her mien.
'That's quite a shiner you've got. Does your lip still hurt? Doctor Morris put a stitch in it last night. Do you remember?'
Pamela shook her head, reluctant to speak for fear of tearing her lip, but grateful for Mrs. Dewhurst's presence.
Looking at once more serious than Pamela could ever remember seeing her, Mrs. Dewhurst said gently, 'Do you remember anything beyond getting away from that animal?'
At once there was a small flood of memory, of new uniforms and broken eggs, of herself laying on the bed being tended by Ellie, but no more. She shook her head.
'Well,' Mrs. Dewhurst said quietly, 'it's just as well, I guess.' At last she smiled, though it did nothing to conceal her sadness. 'Your timing's not as good as it used to be. Look, your breakfast is still sitting here, and . . . what do you know! It's still warm. D'you think you could manage a bite? It's poached eggs on toast- the perfect food for an invalid.'
Pamela smiled, and winced at the pain in her lip. And then-
Her own eyes wet, Mrs. Dewhurst said, 'Oh, my dear . . . isn't there anything that doesn't make you cry?' She caressed the girl's face fondly, and for a long moment the two shared a look as intimate as that of mother and daughter, saying nothing: no words were needed. 'All right, now,' Mrs. Dewhurst said at last, 'sit up and eat your breakfast before it gets any colder.'