CHAPTER 4Fredericka pounded on the thin door of the prefabricated hut. The sound echoed like hollow drum beats in the silent night.
“Good God!” Peter said opening the door quickly. “No need to wake the dead. Who the devil is it?”
“It’s me, Peter. Oh, Peter, Peter she is dead. Margie must be a witch.”
“Fredericka, it’s you. What are you talking about?” Then, seeing her white face, he grasped her arm and found that she was trembling. “Here, come in and tell me what’s the matter. There can’t really be anything wrong, Fredericka. You’re having a nightmare because we talked too much nonsense.”
“No. No. Peter, I can’t come in. You must come back with me. It’s—it’s Catherine Clay. She’s dead. There—at the bookshop. In my hammock, in my yard.” Fredericka forced herself to say the words slowly
