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She had killed him! Well, she had known she would sometime. He had died in her house. What time they had moved him, she didn't know. But she knew from the look on his face and the way he had been lying with his blood flowing out that his body was wrecked; the body that he wouldn't give to her. And now because she had done it, they would come and take her away. They would say she was mad. Well, perhaps she was a bit mad.

But she wasn't so mad that she would let them have the last word as to what she would do r*"...1*

The Obsession 363

bar with her life. Her life was her own, and this house iwas hers. Oh, yes, this house was hers.

But what would happen when she was dead? Because he

"wouldn't inherit now, would he? Oh no. But her sister could. Oh, yes. Yes, Dearest Helen could. The very thought sent her running into the drawing-room again and there, throwing herself onto the couch, she ,ybeat her hands into the cushions, yelling aloud, 'Oh, Ino! No! Never! Never!" For what would she do with

aSS-II! rielen would take a delight in selling all this lovely jiTT-NFTFE and then the house; or turning it into flats
@. for common people;

or... or...

,1 She was on her feet again, running now from one bar "iHave)" to another: the dining-room, the study, the bil bar ard-room, the smoke-room that had been her fait ther's room, and sacrosanct. And she repeated to herself, the smoke-room, the smoke-room, as she ran up bar the stairs and into her bedroom, where she stood bar panting as she held on to the rail at the foot of the

* bed. She was sweating. Her body wanted release, it I wanted to be free. Free. She tore off her clothes until S she reached her whalebone corsets and, looking

sf

I down on them, she said, "After, after; do the shutters f first."

bar She now ran down the stairs and, starting in the drawing-room, she tugged hard to release the shutI ters that were packed and pressed close against the I side of the deep bay window. They hadn't been I drawn into place for years, and she was panting heavily by the time she had covered the three wint dows.

It took her a full half hour to go through the rest of the ground floor of the house. The only windows without shutters were those in the kitchen; and with the exception of one, these were barred on the outside.

Only the cracks in the shutters let in the early morning daylight; the whole of the downstairs was dark, except for the drawing-room where the gaslight was still glowing.

She now sat on the third step of the stairs and, as a child might have done, she hugged her knees as if she had succeeded in doing something clever.

And then she started to laugh; but the sound was not of childish laughter, for she was yelling in her head that she was going to fool them, fool them all, especially her. She would never get this house, her beautiful house, her child. And it had always been her child: when she was very young the house had been her doll's house; in her "teens, through her mother's death, her goal had been achieved, and from then she had tended it with pride. This house was hers and would always remain hers. It would never belong to her sister, whom she had disliked in her 'teens, then hated in her womanhood.

She now got to her feet, then stepped down into the hall. She felt gay, she wanted to dance. She had been dancing on and off of late. The bedroom restricted her, but here there was plenty of room. Not yet though. Not yet. There was something she must do.

She now ran into the kitchen. They kept paraffin somewhere. Yes; yes, in the boot-room; it had been kept there following a gas leak, when they'd had to

(light the lamps.

j The can was full and heavy, but she managed to

I carry it into the kitchen and to heave it up onto the i bar table. And there, she grabbed two wide-mouth brass bar jugs from the mantelpiece and filled them from the " can. Then, as gaily as if she had been carrying jugs

to of ale, she hurried into the drawing-room and sprinkled the paraffin over the curtains, moving from one t window to another. This done, she did the same on t the couch and chairs. She dealt similarly with the other rooms, not forgetting the annexe. Oh, she were.

sprayed the annexe well.

I The last jug of paraffin she used on the stairs and J on the bedroom curtains. disi Had she locked all the doors? Yes. t It was still not fully daylight when, downstairs bar again, she made a number of torches from tightly bar rolled paper, and now, starting with the annexe, she t went tripping from one room to another, setting them alight.

I Lastly, amid the strange patterns of flames and f smoke she ran up the stairs and into her bedroom. less-than There she tore off her corsets and her chemise, then bar her shoes and stockings. And now flinging her arms
@. above her head,

she pranced round the room. Of a I sudden she stopped in front of the cheval mirror and put out her hand towards her reflection, crying, "It's i a good body, a young body, but he didn't want it, J did he? I should have given it away to someone else.

I Just as Mrs Wallace did." Strangely at this moment I she was feeling no animosity towards that woman,

rather a feeling of sorrowful envy. And she didn't want to be put away like Aunt Ally. She put her hands above her head and started to sway as in a dancing movement; then she was overtaken by a fit of coughing, and she whimpered, "I'm cold; I must put on my dressing-gown."

She was making for the foot of the bed on which her drssing-gown lay when the whole house was rocked by an explosion. She was lifted off her feet and flung flat onto the floor under the window.

By the time Robbie returned with the fire brigade, the house was ablaze from end to end, with Rosie and torn Needier standing helplessly by. Crying bitterly, Rosie rushed to the fire chief as he jumped down from the engine and she cried, "My...

my sister, she... she must be in there. Please!

Please!"

"All right! miss. All right!" He tamed and gazed at the house, then shook his head. "We'll do what we can."

It was the following day, as the house smoldered, that the body of Mrs Beatrice Falconer was found beneath the window of her bedroom. She was lying across a number of charred beams.

The newspapers used big headlines to report the tragedy of husband and wife. The reporter, waxing eloquent, also revealed that while the house was burning Dr Falconer hiself was lying at death's door in a hospital.

Helen and Rosie stood by Beatrice's grave.

Although they were both dry-eyed, they were full of pity for Beatrice and the way she had died. But that she had planned her own death was now evident. As Dr Comwallis had said, the love of her life had been the house, and she had taken it with her; but not before she had, as she imagined, killed her husband. The evidence given by the four staff had verified this fact, together with that of Mrs Freeman Wheatland, who had apparently had to wrestle with Beatrice to bring her under control.

As they both turned from the grave, Helen put her arms around Rosie's shoulders, for she knew that this young girl, or woman that she was now, had more reason to hate Beatrice than had she.

Beatrice had heartlessly aimed to ruin her life, and in the pro cess had changed the course of that of the man who might now have been her own husband. Yet there was no-one happier than Rosie now, with her lovely baby and the doting affection of Robbie.

Outside the churchyard they stopped and looked at each other and Helen said, "I...I must get back to the hospital."

"Robbie says he's fully conscious now."

"Yes; yes, he is."

"I'll look in tonight," said Rosie; and Helen answered, "Yes, do that, dear. Do that."

And they turned together and joined the mouers gathered at the door of the church.

Dr Comwallis was standing near John's bedside and he was not talking to him, or with him, but at him.

"Now you can hear what I'm saying, laddie, so take it in. You're all right, as I've told you.

Your back was unscathed. Badly bruised, yes, but no bones were broken. You were lucky. By God! you were lucky. Your leg is smashed, but after they have operated again, it'll likely be al right. The other leg is healing fine. Now you listen to me." He bent closer to John, his voice soft and insistent now: "You've got to make a stand. You know as well as I do what I mean. In seventy-five cases out of a hundred, you can make your mind up to go or stay. Now you've got a lot to stay for. There's that girl out there, that woman, that lady becoming ill herself because of you. You understand what I'm saying? You must, because your head's all right. You were concussed, but no serious damage was done. But this dead-pan attitude isn't good enough. You've got the idea into your head that you won't walk again, haven't you? Well, you'll walk all right. Oh, it'll take weeks, perhaps months, but you'll walk.

And anyway, I want you back on the job. Young Rees is all right, but

Ihe's not you. And I didn't realise that you were more

popular than I am: all those people coming in and asking for a rundown on your condition. I'm very tjealous of my practice and my patients, but there bethey are in streams. So, do as I say. You'll make a J: stand and if my latest piece of news doesn't do the J trick, nothing will." His voice dropped lower still. "I've been into it and so has my solicitor. A law has recently been passed enabling a man to marry his left-brace deceased wife's sister, so everything could be plain bar sailing that way."

John's eyelids fluttered. He felt they were gummed. He looked at this man, this dear friend, but said nothing. Matters were not registering properly I in his mind. Vaguely he recalled someone telling I him that she had burned the house down and that she had died with it. But he hadn't seemed to be able to take it in, because there she was, as she had been bar since he had come round, standing at the top of the lttTT-ANNIGTITIGITT-IBILSITL

be; in his back. As long as he lived, which woudn'

be very long, he would feel that foot in his hack. But be now Dr Cornwallis had been saying thai she was . dead, and the house was dad, and he was free. But Histo what was h fre for? Not to liv like this. a cripple,

at best in a whcelchair and a burden on Helen.

Oh ., no. She'd had one sick man and she wasn" going to . have another through him. Dr Cornwallis had just , been saying it was up to him: he could either stay

Daisy looked across the hospital bed towards Helen and asked, "Did you know that they can cure ingrowing toe nails with cigar bands?"'

Helen closed her eyes and bit on her lip, lowered her head and as she did so she squeezed John's hand. And it was he who replied, "No; I've never heard that one, Daisy."

"Well, nor had I until I was sitting on the upper deck of one of those new-fangled electric trams. There were two women sitting in front of me and one was telling the other about the cigar band."

"Yes," said John, with a tremble in his voice, "and what happened to the cigar band? What about the cigar band Daisy?"'

"Well, I'll give you it word for word, it's true, honestly. One said to the other, "Eeh! that ingrowing big toenail of mine's nearly driven me mad," and the other one said, "Well, I told you, you should go and see one of those foot men about it." "And pay them half a crown?" said the first one; "not on your life. But I'm going to try May Thorpe's reffl-bar edy. She says it works. All you've got to do is to W, t" cut the toenail straight across-not fancy round, you "will. know-just straight across.

Then, you take a piece ir bar of cigar band, just a little piece, and it must be a bar bar bar cigar band, because there must be something in it bar be that helps, like nicotine or something. You cut a tiny be t bit of that and you wedge it under the edge of the

?"' bar nail, where you've cut it square across like." Listen. bar right-brace bar Listen,"

Daisy broke in now; "it's true, I'm telling dis**." bar you. Listen, as she said, you cut the nail right across, then you take a small bit of a cigar band and press I i j it under the nail between that and the flesh. And I then, quite candidly, I nearly burst out laughing me- c bar self because the other one said, "Then you set light bar to your big toe.""

i As the bed shook, John pleaded, 'Daisy!

Daisy! 11 Please!"

bar That m not making it up. Believe me that's what hap- bar bar tt"...ful

* ,, y i pened. It[*reg]

It was Helen now, tears running down her face, gU;

bar who said, "But how do all these funny things always Si to happen to you Daisy? They never happen to me or bar bar But j anyone else I know."

IN I "Well, you don't listen.

That's the point, you must :

j listen." bar . :;;

John laid his head back on the pillow and closed l j his eyes. For all the side-blessings in this world bar Daisy was one. It was she who had, over the painful l t months, brought some lightness into the situation. bar And strangely, too, some days when the pain had been excruciating, the touch of her hand had brought him some relief; in fact, this dear individual, besides

being a laugh-maker, possessed, in some strange way, the power of a healer.

"I must be off. There's a lot to be seen to.

I'm attending a wedding tomorrow."

"A wedding? Do I know them?"'

Daisy paused, then screwed up her eyes before saying, "Well, not really. No, not really;" and looking across at Helen, she said, "I'll be back for you in half an hour. And mind, I'm not coming in here again; just be at the gate. He takes up too much of your time" comshe nodded towards the bed without looking at John- "and you've got other things to do."

At this Helen smiled, saying, "Yes, dear, I've other things to do, especially today."

As Daisy went out laughing, John looked at Helen and asked, "What do you have to do especially today?"' His eyes were soft on her.

She did not return his gaze, but looked down at the hand she was holding; then, bringing it to her chest and pressing it there, she said quietly, "Prepare for the wedding."

"The wedding? The one Daisy was talking about?"'

"Yes, the same one."

"D'you know the couple?"'