From Doon With Death

Call once yet, In a voice that she will know, "Margaret, Margaret!" --Matthew Arnold,The Forsaken Merman "I think you're getting things a bit out of proportion, Mr. Parsons," Burden said. He was tired and he'd been going to take his wife to the pictures. Besides, the first things he'd noticed when Parsons brought him into the room were the books in the rack by the fireplace. The titles were enough to give the most level-headed man the jitters, quite enough to make a man anxious where no ground for anxiety existed: Palmer the Poisoner, The Trial of Madeleine Smith, Three Drowned Brides, Famous Trials, Notable British Trials. "Don't you think your reading has been preying on your mind?" "I'm interested in crime," Parsons said. "It's a hobby of mine." "I can see that." Burden wasn't going to sit down if he could avoid it. "Look, you can't say your wife's actually missing. You've been home one and a half hours and she isn't here. That's all. She's probably gone to the pictures. As a matter of fact I'm on my way there now with my wife. I expect we'll meet her coming out." "Margaret wouldn't do that, Mr. Burden. I know her and you don't. We've been married nearly six years and in all that time I've never come home to an empty house." "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll drop in on my way back. But you can bet your bottom dollar she'll be home by then." He started moving toward the door. "Look, get on to the station if you like. It won't do any harm." "No, I won't do that. It was just with you living down the road and being an inspector. . . ." And being off duty, Burden thought. If I was a doctor instead of a policeman I'd be able to have private patients on the side. I bet he wouldn't be so keen on my services if there was any question of a fee. Sitting in the half-empty dark cinema he thought: Well, it is funny. Normal ordinary wives as conventional as Mrs. Parsons, wives who always have a meal ready for their husbands on the dot of six, don't suddenly go off without leaving a note. "I thought you said this was a good film," he whispered to his wife. "Well, the critics liked it." "Oh, critics," he said. Another man, that could be it. But Mrs. Parsons? Or it could be an accident. He'd been a bit remiss not getting Parsons to phone the station straight away. "Look, love," he said. "I can't stand this. You stay and see the end. I've got to get back to Parsons." "I wish I'd married that reporter who was so keen on me." "You must be joking," Burden said. "He'd have stayed out all night putting the paper to bed. Or the editor's secretary." He charged up Tabard Road, then made himself stroll when he got to the Victorian house where Parsons lived. It was all in darkness, the curtains in the big bay downstairs undrawn. The step was whitened, the brass kerb above it polished. Mrs. Parsons must have been a house-proud woman. Must have been? Why not, still was? Parsons opened the door before he had a chance to knock. He still looked tidy, neatly dressed in an oldish suit, his tie knotted tight. But his face was greenish gray. It reminded Burden of a drowned face he had once seen on a mortuary slab. They had put tRendell, Ruth is the author of 'From Doon With Death ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780345498458 and ISBN 0345498453.