Heads You Lose Read Online Free Page B

in?”
    Fran applied her ear to the door of James’s room. “He says he’s gone to bed,” she called back, hanging over the banisters; “he’s still got a headache and he wants to go to sleep.”
    Pendock locked the door and came slowly upstairs. “I hope we’re not getting flu or anything,” he said. “I feel rather rotten myself. Ought I to go in and see if he’s all right?”
    “No, no, he’s fine,” said Fran hastily. “You know what it is when you’ve got a headache; he just wants to be left alone.” She made a private resolution to be terribly nice to Pen to-morrow to make up for all these lies.
    “Don’t you want to say good-night to Aziz, Pen?” Venetia was saying, obligingly thrusting a black face up to his. “Kiss your Uncle Pen good-night, angel. There! Isn’t he sweet?”
    “Don’t let him lick people, darling.”
    “Now, Granny, you’re getting like the Morland. Pen likes saying good-night to him, don’t you, Pen?”
    “Couldn’t sleep without it,” said Pen, laughing, retreating to his room. “Good-night, Venetia; goodnight, Lady Hart; good-night, Fran.”
    “Good-night, Aziz,” said Fran, laying her cheek against the soft tan muzzle. “Sleep tight, my sweetie; don’t forget, Venetia, it’s my turn to have him to-morrow. Good-night, darling. Good-night, Henry. Goodnight, Gran…”
    She slipped into her room and stood behind the door.

Chapter 2
    P ENDOCK WAS DREAMING. HE dreamt that he was walking down a long, dim tunnel and that at the end of the tunnel, out in the light, stood the figure of a woman. It seemed to him of terrible importance that he should see the woman’s face. He struggled towards her, dragging his leaden limbs, and, coming out into the sunshine, put his hand under her chin; but just as he was about to lift her face, there was a tremendous thundering in the tunnel behind him. He turned to see what was making the noise, and when he turned back again, the woman was gone… and he was lying in bed with the strangest sense of foreboding in his head and heart. There was a loud, insistent knocking at his door.
    “Come in!” he called, sitting up and switching on his bedside lamp; something must be wrong, for it was not yet midnight.
    Lady Hart came into the room and towards the bed; she was clad in a dressing-gown, and her kind old face was shockingly white and drawn. She said, before he could speak: “Pen, you must come at once. Something dreadful’s happened, and I’m…” She seemed reluctant to say it but at last she burst out: “I’m terrified!”
    “What’s happened?” he said, struggling into his dressing-gown, pushing his feet into slippers.
    “Bunsen has found a girl—has seen a girl—” She was trembling all over and she leant for a moment against the bedpost. “There’s a woman lying in the garden, Pen, down by the drive. She—I—she seems to be wearing Fran’s hat—Fran’s new little hat. …”
    “But Fran—where’s Fran?” he said sharply, his heart like ice.
    “She’s not in her room,” said Lady Hart, swaying, clinging to the bedpost now. “Her—her bed hasn’t been slept in. I went straight there. Pen—she’s not in her room. …” She slid gently into a faint and lay in a huddled heap on the floor beside the bed.
    Pendock did not even see her. He was taking the stairs three at a time, wrestling with the lock of the big front door, leaping the steps and running out into the moonlit garden, sick with a horrible dread. Bunsen came across the lawn to meet him, white-faced, with protruding eyes. “This way, sir; down by the gate. My god, sir, it’s dreadful; she’s—her head…”
    She was lying in a ditch that ran by the side of the drive and down to the little stream; he could see her quite clearly in the moonlight, her legs at a dreadful angle, her arms bent under her, her head—her head had been hacked from her body and then clapped back again on to her neck; and on top of this dreadful, this bloodless,