Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by Collins, The Crime Club 1943

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Source ISBN: 9780008196547

Ebook Edition © December 2016 ISBN: 9780007422470

Version: 2017-04-12

Dedication

To my Friends Sidney and Mary Smith

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

When at last I was taken out of the plaster, and the doctors had pulled me about to their hearts’ content, and nurses had wheedled me into cautiously using my limbs, and I had been nauseated by their practically using baby talk to me, Marcus Kent told me I was to go and live in the country.

‘Good air, quiet life, nothing to do—that’s the prescription for you. That sister of yours will look after you. Eat, sleep and imitate the vegetable kingdom as far as possible.’

I didn’t ask him if I’d ever be able to fly again. There are questions that you don’t ask because you’re afraid of the answers to them. In the same way during the last five months I’d never asked if I was going to be condemned to lie on my back all my life. I was afraid of a bright hypocritical reassurance from Sister. ‘Come now, what a question to ask! We don’t let our patients go talking in that way!’

So I hadn’t asked—and it had been all right. I wasn’t to be a helpless cripple. I could move my legs, stand on them, finally walk a few steps—and if I did feel rather like an adventurous baby learning to toddle, with wobbly knees and cotton wool soles to my feet—well, that was only weakness and disuse and would pass.

Marcus Kent, who is the right kind of doctor, answered what I hadn’t said.

‘You’re going to recover completely,’ he said. ‘We weren’t sure until last Tuesday when you had that final overhaul, but I can tell you so authoritatively now. But—it’s going to be a long business. A long and, if I may so, a wearisome business. When it’s a question of healing nerves and muscles, the brain must help the body. Any impatience, any fretting, will throw you back. And whatever you do, don’t “will yourself to get well quickly”. Anything of that kind and you’ll find yourself back in a nursing home. You’ve got to take life slowly and easily, the tempo is marked Legato. Not only has your body got to recover, but your nerves have been weakened by the necessity of keeping you under drugs for so long.

‘That’s why I say, go down to the country, take a house, get interested in local politics, in local scandal, in village gossip. Take an inquisitive and violent interest in your neighbours. If I may make a suggestion, go to a part of the world where you haven’t got any friends scattered about.’

I nodded. ‘I had already,’ I said, ‘thought of that.’

I could think of nothing more insufferable than members of one’s own gang dropping in full of sympathy and their own affairs.

‘But Jerry, you’re looking marvellous—isn’t he? Absolutely. Darling, I must tell you—What do you think Buster has done now?’

No, none of that for me. Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.

So it came about that Joanna and I, sorting wildly through house-agents’ glowing eulogies of properties all over the British Isles, selected Little Furze, Lymstock, as one of the ‘possibles’ to be viewed, mainly because we had never been to Lymstock, and knew no one in that neighbourhood.

And when Joanna saw Little Furze she decided at once that it was just the house we wanted.

It lay about half a mile out of Lymstock on the road leading up to the moors. It was a prim low white house, with a sloping Victorian veranda painted a faded green. It had a pleasant view over a slope of heather-covered land with the church spire of Lymstock down below to the left.

It had belonged to a family of maiden ladies, the Misses Barton, of whom only one was left, the youngest, Miss Emily.

Miss Emily Barton was a charming little old lady who matched her house in an incredible way. In a soft apologetic voice she explained to Joanna that she had never let her house before, indeed would never have thought of doing so, ‘but you see, my dear, things are so different nowadays—taxation, of course, and then my stocks and shares, so safe, as I always imagined, and indeed the bank manager himself recommended some of them, but they seem to be paying nothing at all these days—foreign, of course! And really it makes it all so difficult. One does not (I’m sure you will understand me, my dear, and not take offence, you look so kind) like the idea of letting one’s house to strangers—but something must be done, and really, having seen you, I shall be quite glad to think of you being here—it needs, you know, young life. And I must confess I did shrink from the idea of having Men here!’

At this point, Joanna had to break the news of me. Miss Emily rallied well.

‘Oh dear, I see. How sad! A flying accident? So brave, these young men. Still, your brother will be practically an invalid—’

The thought seemed to soothe the gentle little lady. Presumably I should not be indulging in those grosser masculine activities which Emily Barton feared. She inquired diffidently if I smoked.

‘Like a chimney,’ said Joanna. ‘But then,’ she pointed out, ‘so do I.’

‘Of course, of course. So stupid of me. I’m afraid, you know, I haven’t moved with the times. My sisters were all older than myself, and my dear mother lived to be ninety-seven—just fancy!—and was most particular. Yes, yes, everyone smokes now. The only thing is, there are no ash-trays in the house.’

Joanna said that we would bring lots of ash-trays, and she added with a smile, ‘We won’t put down cigarette ends on your nice furniture, that I do promise you. Nothing makes me so mad myself as to see people do that.’

So it was settled and we took Little Furze for a period of six months, with an option of another three, and Emily Barton explained to Joanna that she herself was going to be very comfortable because she was going into rooms kept by an old parlourmaid, ‘my faithful Florence’, who had married ‘after being with us for fifteen years. Such a nice girl, and her husband is in the building trade. They have a nice house in the High Street and two beautiful rooms on the top floor where I shall be most comfortable, and Florence so pleased to have me.’

So everything seemed to be most satisfactory, and the agreement was signed and in due course Joanna and I arrived and settled in, and Miss Emily Barton’s maid Partridge having consented to remain, we were well looked after with the assistance of a ‘girl’ who came in every morning and who seemed to be half-witted but amiable.

Partridge, a gaunt dour female of middle age, cooked admirably, and though disapproving of late dinner (it having been Miss Emily’s custom to dine lightly off a boiled egg) nevertheless accommodated herself to our ways and went so far as to admit that she could see I needed my strength building up.

When we had settled in and been at Little Furze a week Miss Emily Barton came solemnly and left cards. Her example was followed by Mrs Symmington, the lawyer’s wife, Miss Griffith, the doctor’s sister, Mrs Dane Calthrop, the vicar’s wife, and Mr Pye of Prior’s End.

Joanna was very much impressed.

‘I didn’t know,’ she said in an awestruck voice, ‘that people really called—with cards.’

‘That is because, my child,’ I said, ‘you know nothing about the country.’

‘Nonsense. I’ve stayed away for heaps of week-ends with people.’

‘That is not at all the same thing,’ I said.

I am five years older than Joanna. I can remember as a child the big white shabby untidy house we had with the fields running down to the river. I can remember creeping under the nets of raspberry canes unseen by the gardener, and the smell of white dust in the stable yard and an orange cat crossing it, and the sound of horse hoofs kicking something in the stables.

But when I was seven and Joanna two, we went to live in London with an aunt, and thereafter our Christmas and Easter holidays were spent there with pantomimes and theatres and cinemas and excursions to Kensington Gardens with boats, and later to skating rinks. In August we were taken to an hotel by the seaside somewhere.

Reflecting on this, I said thoughtfully to Joanna, and with a feeling of compunction as I realized what a selfish, self-centred invalid I had become:

‘This is going to be pretty frightful for you, I’m afraid. You’ll miss everything so.’

For Joanna is very pretty and very gay, and she likes dancing and cocktails, and love affairs and rushing about in high-powered cars.

Joanna laughed and said she didn’t mind at all.

‘As a matter of fact, I’m glad to get away from it all. I really was fed up with the whole crowd, and although you won’t be sympathetic, I was really very cut up about Paul. It will take me a long time to get over it.’

I was sceptical over this. Joanna’s love affairs always run the same course. She has a mad infatuation for some completely spineless young man who is a misunderstood genius. She listens to his endless complaints and works like anything to get him recognition. Then, when he is ungrateful, she is deeply wounded and says her heart is broken—until the next gloomy young man comes along, which is usually about three weeks later!

So I did not take Joanna’s broken heart very seriously. But I did see that living in the country was like a new game to my attractive sister.

‘At any rate,’ she said, ‘I look all right, don’t I?’

I studied her critically and was not able to agree.

Joanna was dressed (by Mirotin) for le Sport. That is to say she was wearing a skirt of outrageous and preposterous checks. It was skin-tight, and on her upper half she had a ridiculous little short-sleeved jersey with a Tyrolean effect. She had sheer silk stockings and some irreproachable but brand new brogues.

‘No,’ I said, ‘you’re all wrong. You ought to be wearing a very old tweed skirt, preferably of dirty green or faded brown. You’d wear a nice cashmere jumper matching it, and perhaps a cardigan coat, and you’d have a felt hat and thick stockings and old shoes. Then, and only then, you’d sink into the background of Lymstock High Street, and not stand out as you do at present.’ I added: ‘Your face is all wrong, too.’

‘What’s wrong with that? I’ve got on my Country Tan Make-up No. 2.’

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘If you lived in Lymstock, you would have on just a little powder to take the shine off your nose, and possibly a soupçon of lipstick—not very well applied—and you would almost certainly be wearing all your eyebrows instead of only a quarter of them.’

Joanna gurgled and seemed much amused.

‘Do you think they’ll think I’m awful?’ she said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Just queer.’

Joanna had resumed her study of the cards left by our callers. Only the vicar’s wife had been so fortunate, or possibly unfortunate, as to catch Joanna at home.

Joanna murmured:

‘It’s rather like Happy Families, isn’t it? Mrs Legal the lawyer’s wife, Miss Dose the doctor’s daughter, etc.’ She added with enthusiasm: ‘I do think this is a nice place, Jerry! So sweet and funny and old-world. You just can’t think of anything nasty happening here, can you?’

And although I knew what she said was really nonsense, I agreed with her. In a place like Lymstock nothing nasty could happen. It is odd to think that it was just a week later that we got the first letter.

I see that I have begun badly. I have given no description of Lymstock and without understanding what Lymstock is like, it is impossible to understand my story.

To begin with, Lymstock has its roots in the past. Somewhere about the time of the Norman Conquest, Lymstock was a place of importance. That importance was chiefly ecclesiastical. Lymstock had a priory, and it had a long succession of ambitious and powerful priors. Lords and barons in the surrounding countryside made themselves right with Heaven by leaving certain of their lands to the priory. Lymstock Priory waxed rich and important and was a power in the land for many centuries. In due course, however, Henry the Eighth caused it to share the fate of its contemporaries. From then on a castle dominated the town. It was still important. It had rights and privileges and wealth.

And then, somewhere in seventeen hundred and something, the tide of progress swept Lymstock into a backwater. The castle crumbled. Neither railways nor main roads came near Lymstock. It turned into a little provincial market town, unimportant and forgotten, with a sweep of moorland rising behind it, and placid farms and fields ringing it round.

A market was held there once a week, on which day one was apt to encounter cattle in the lanes and roads. It had a small race meeting twice a year which only the most obscure horses attended. It had a charming High Street with dignified houses set flat back, looking slightly incongruous with their ground-floor windows displaying buns or vegetables or fruit. It had a long straggling draper’s shop, a large and portentous iron-monger’s, a pretentious post office, and a row of straggly indeterminate shops, two rival butchers and an International Stores. It had a doctor, a firm of solicitors, Messrs Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington, a beautiful and unexpectedly large church dating from fourteen hundred and twenty, with some Saxon remains incorporated in it, a new and hideous school, and two pubs.

Such was Lymstock, and urged on by Emily Barton, anybody who was anybody came to call upon us, and in due course Joanna, having bought a pair of gloves and assumed a velvet beret rather the worse for wear, sallied forth to return them.

To us, it was all quite novel and entertaining. We were not there for life. It was, for us, an interlude. I prepared to obey my doctor’s instructions and get interested in my neighbours.

Joanna and I found it all great fun.

I remembered, I suppose, Marcus Kent’s instructions to enjoy the local scandals. I certainly didn’t suspect how these scandals were going to be introduced to my notice.

The odd part of it was that the letter, when it came, amused us more than anything else.

It arrived, I remember, at breakfast. I turned it over, in the idle way one does when time goes slowly and every event must be spun out to its full extent. It was, I saw, a local letter with a typewritten address.

I opened it before the two with London postmarks, since one of them was a bill and the other from a rather tiresome cousin.

Inside, printed words and letters had been cut out and gummed to a sheet of paper. For a minute or two I stared at the words without taking them in. Then I gasped.

Joanna, who was frowning over some bills, looked up.

‘Hallo,’ she said, ‘what is it? You look quite startled.’

The letter, using terms of the coarsest character, expressed the writer’s opinion that Joanna and I were not brother and sister.

‘It’s a particularly foul anonymous letter,’ I said.

I was still suffering from shock. Somehow one didn’t expect that kind of thing in the placid backwater of Lymstock.

Joanna at once displayed lively interest.

‘No? What does it say?’

In novels, I have noticed, anonymous letters of a foul and disgusting character are never shown, if possible, to women. It is implied that women must at all cost be shielded from the shock it might give their delicate nervous systems.

I am sorry to say it never occurred to me not to show the letter to Joanna. I handed it to her at once.

She vindicated my belief in her toughness by displaying no emotion but that of amusement.

‘What an awful bit of dirt! I’ve always heard about anonymous letters, but I’ve never seen one before. Are they always like this?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ I said. ‘It’s my first experience, too.’

Joanna began to giggle.

‘You must have been right about my make-up, Jerry. I suppose they think I just must be an abandoned female!’

‘That,’ I said, ‘coupled with the fact that our father was a tall, dark lantern-jawed man and our mother a fair-haired blue-eyed little creature, and that I take after him and you take after her.’

Joanna nodded thoughtfully.

‘Yes, we’re not a bit alike. Nobody would take us for brother and sister.’

‘Somebody certainly hasn’t,’ I said with feeling.

Joanna said she thought it was frightfully funny.

She dangled the letter thoughtfully by one corner and asked what we were to do with it.

‘The correct procedure, I believe,’ I said, ‘is to drop it into the fire with a sharp exclamation of disgust.’

I suited the action to the word, and Joanna applauded.

‘You did that beautifully,’ she added. ‘You ought to have been on the stage. It’s lucky we still have fires, isn’t it?’

‘The waste-paper basket would have been much less dramatic,’ I agreed. ‘I could, of course, have set light to it with a match and slowly watched it burn—or watched it slowly burn.’

‘Things never burn when you want them to,’ said Joanna. ‘They go out. You’d probably have had to strike match after match.’

She got up and went towards the window. Then, standing there, she turned her head sharply.

‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘who wrote it?’

‘We’re never likely to know,’ I said.

‘No—I suppose not.’ She was silent a moment, and then said: ‘I don’t know when I come to think of it that it is so funny after all. You know, I thought they—they liked us down here.’

‘So they do,’ I said. ‘This is just some half-crazy brain on the borderline.’

‘I suppose so. Ugh—Nasty!’

As she went out into the sunshine I thought to myself as I smoked my after-breakfast cigarette that she was quite right. It was nasty. Someone resented our coming here—someone resented Joanna’s bright young sophisticated beauty—somebody wanted to hurt. To take it with a laugh was perhaps the best way—but deep down it wasn’t funny …

Dr Griffith came that morning. I had fixed up for him to give me a weekly overhaul. I liked Owen Griffith. He was dark, ungainly, with awkward ways of moving and deft, very gentle hands. He had a jerky way of talking and was rather shy.

He reported progress to be encouraging. Then he added:

‘You’re feeling all right, aren’t you. Is it my fancy, or are you a bit under the weather this morning?’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘A particularly scurrilous anonymous letter arrived with the morning coffee, and it’s left rather a nasty taste in the mouth.’

He dropped his bag on the floor. His thin dark face was excited.

‘Do you mean to say that you’ve had one of them?’

I was interested.

‘They’ve been going about, then?’

‘Yes. For some time.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I see. I was under the impression that our presence as strangers was resented here.’

‘No, no, it’s nothing to do with that. It’s just—’ He paused and then asked, ‘What did it say? At least—’ he turned suddenly red and embarrassed—‘perhaps I oughtn’t to ask?’

‘I’ll tell you with pleasure,’ I said. ‘It just said that the fancy tart I’d brought down with me wasn’t my sister—not ’alf! And that, I may say, is a Bowdlerized version.’

His dark face flushed angrily.

‘How damnable! Your sister didn’t—she’s not upset, I hope?’

‘Joanna,’ I said, ‘looks a little like the angel off the top of the Christmas tree, but she’s eminently modern and quite tough. She found it highly entertaining. Such things haven’t come her way before.’

‘I should hope not, indeed,’ said Griffith warmly.

‘And anyway,’ I said firmly. ‘That’s the best way to take it, I think. As something utterly ridiculous.’

‘Yes,’ said Owen Griffith. ‘Only—’

He stopped, and I chimed in quickly: ‘Quite so,’ I said. ‘Only is the word!’

‘The trouble is,’ he said, ‘that this sort of thing, once it starts, grows.’

‘So I should imagine.’

‘It’s pathological, of course.’

I nodded. ‘Any idea who’s behind it?’ I asked.

‘No, I wish I had. You see, the anonymous letter pest arises from one of two causes. Either it’s particular—directed at one particular person or set of people, that is to say it’s motivated, it’s someone who’s got a definite grudge (or thinks they have) and who chooses a particularly nasty and underhand way of working it off. It’s mean and disgusting but it’s not necessarily crazy, and it’s usually fairly easy to trace the writer—a discharged servant, a jealous woman—and so on. But if it’s general, and not particular, then it’s more serious. The letters are sent indiscriminately and serve the purpose of working off some frustration in the writer’s mind. As I say, it’s definitely pathological. And the craze grows. In the end, of course, you track down the person in question—it’s often someone extremely unlikely, and that’s that. There was a bad outburst of the kind over the other side of the county last year—turned out to be the head of the millinery department in a big draper’s establishment. Quiet, refined woman—had been there for years. I remember something of the same kind in my last practice up north—but that turned out to be purely personal spite. Still, as I say, I’ve seen something of this kind of thing, and, quite frankly, it frightens me!’

‘Has it been going on long?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think so. Hard to say, of course, because people who get these letters don’t go round advertising the fact. They put them in the fire.’

He paused.

‘I’ve had one myself. Symmington, the solicitor, he’s had one. And one or two of my poorer patients have told me about them.’

‘All much the same sort of thing?’

‘Oh yes. A definite harping on the sex theme. That’s always a feature.’ He grinned. ‘Symmington was accused of illicit relations with his lady clerk—poor old Miss Ginch, who’s forty at least, with pince-nez and teeth like a rabbit. Symmington took it straight to the police. My letters accused me of violating professional decorum with my lady patients, stressing the details. They’re all quite childish and absurd, but horribly venomous.’ His face changed, grew grave. ‘But all the same, I’m afraid. These things can be dangerous, you know.’

‘I suppose they can.’

‘You see,’ he said, ‘crude, childish spite though it is, sooner or later one of these letters will hit the mark. And then, God knows what may happen! I’m afraid, too, of the effect upon the slow, suspicious uneducated mind. If they see a thing written, they believe it’s true. All sorts of complications may arise.’

‘It was an illiterate sort of letter,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘written by somebody practically illiterate, I should say.’

‘Was it?’ said Owen, and went away.

Thinking it over afterwards, I found that ‘Was it?’ rather disturbing.

CHAPTER 2

I am not going to pretend that the arrival of our anonymous letter did not leave a nasty taste in the mouth. It did. At the same time, it soon passed out of my mind. I did not, you see, at that point, take it seriously. I think I remember saying to myself that these things probably happen fairly often in out-of-the-way villages. Some hysterical woman with a taste for dramatizing herself was probably at the bottom of it. Anyway, if the letters were as childish and silly as the one we had got, they couldn’t do much harm.

The next incident, if I may put it so, occurred about a week later, when Partridge, her lips set tightly together, informed me that Beatrice, the daily help, would not be coming today.

‘I gather, sir,’ said Partridge, ‘that the girl has been Upset.’

I was not very sure what Partridge was implying, but I diagnosed (wrongly) some stomachic trouble to which Partridge was too delicate to allude more directly. I said I was sorry and hoped she would soon be better.

‘The girl is perfectly well, sir,’ said Partridge. ‘She is Upset in her Feelings.’

‘Oh,’ I said rather doubtfully.

‘Owing,’ went on Partridge, ‘to a letter she has received. Making, I understand, Insinuations.’

The grimness of Partridge’s eye, coupled with the obvious capital I of Insinuations, made me apprehensive that the insinuations were concerned with me. Since I would hardly have recognized Beatrice by sight if I had met her in the town so unaware of her had I been—I felt a not unnatural annoyance. An invalid hobbling about on two sticks is hardly cast for the role of deceiver of village girls. I said irritably:

‘What nonsense!’

‘My very words, sir, to the girl’s mother,’ said Partridge. ‘“Goings On in this house,” I said to her, “there never have been and never will be while I am in charge. As to Beatrice,” I said, “girls are different nowadays, and as to Goings On elsewhere I can say nothing.” But the truth is, sir, that Beatrice’s friend from the garage as she walks out with got one of them nasty letters too, and he isn’t acting reasonable at all.’

‘I have never heard anything so preposterous in my life,’ I said angrily.

‘It’s my opinion, sir,’ said Partridge, ‘that we’re well rid of the girl. What I say is, she wouldn’t take on so if there wasn’t something she didn’t want found out. No smoke without fire, that’s what I say.’

I had no idea how horribly tired I was going to get of that particular phrase.

That morning, by way of adventure, I was to walk down to the village. (Joanna and I always called it the village, although technically we were incorrect, and Lymstock would have been annoyed to hear us.)

The sun was shining, the air was cool and crisp with the sweetness of spring in it. I assembled my sticks and started off, firmly refusing to permit Joanna to accompany me.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I will not have a guardian angel teetering along beside me and uttering encouraging chirrups. A man travels fastest who travels alone, remember. I have much business to transact. I shall go to Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington, and sign that transfer of shares, I shall call in at the baker’s and complain about the currant loaf, and I shall return that book we borrowed. I have to go to the bank, too. Let me away, woman, the morning is all too short.’

It was arranged that Joanna should pick me up with the car and drive me back up the hill in time for lunch.

‘That ought to give you time to pass the time of day with everyone in Lymstock.’

‘I have no doubt,’ I said, ‘that I shall have seen anybody who is anybody by then.’

For morning in the High Street was a kind of rendezvous for shoppers, when news was exchanged.

I did not, after all, walk down to the town unaccompanied. I had gone about two hundred yards, when I heard a bicycle bell behind me, then a scrunching of brakes, and then Megan Hunter more or less fell off her machine at my feet.

‘Hallo,’ she said breathlessly as she rose and dusted herself off.

I rather liked Megan and always felt oddly sorry for her.

She was Symmington the lawyer’s step-daughter, Mrs Symmington’s daughter by a first marriage. Nobody talked much about Mr (or Captain) Hunter, and I gathered that he was considered best forgotten. He was reported to have treated Mrs Symmington very badly. She had divorced him a year or two after the marriage. She was a woman with means of her own and had settled down with her little daughter in Lymstock ‘to forget’, and had eventually married the only eligible bachelor in the place, Richard Symmington. There were two boys of the second marriage to whom their parents were devoted, and I fancied that Megan sometimes felt odd man out in the establishment. She certainly did not resemble her mother, who was a small anaemic woman, fadedly pretty, who talked in a thin melancholy voice of servant difficulties and her health.

Megan was a tall awkward girl, and although she was actually twenty, she looked more like a schoolgirlish sixteen. She had a shock of untidy brown hair, hazel green eyes, a thin bony face, and an unexpected charming one-sided smile. Her clothes were drab and unattractive and she usually had on lisle thread stockings with holes in them.

She looked, I decided this morning, much more like a horse than a human being. In fact she would have been a very nice horse with a little grooming.

She spoke, as usual, in a kind of breathless rush.

‘I’ve been up to the farm—you know, Lasher’s—to see if they’d got any duck’s eggs. They’ve got an awfully nice lot of little pigs. Sweet! Do you like pigs? I do. I even like the smell.’

‘Well-kept pigs shouldn’t smell,’ I said.

‘Shouldn’t they? They all do round here. Are you walking down to the town? I saw you were alone, so I thought I’d stop and walk with you, only I stopped rather suddenly.’

‘You’ve torn your stocking,’ I said.

Megan looked rather ruefully at her right leg.

‘So I have. But it’s got two holes already, so it doesn’t matter very much, does it?’

‘Don’t you ever mend your stockings, Megan?’

‘Rather. When Mummy catches me. But she doesn’t notice awfully what I do—so it’s lucky in a way, isn’t it?’

‘You don’t seem to realize you’re grown up,’ I said.

‘You mean I ought to be more like your sister? All dolled up?’

I rather resented this description of Joanna.

‘She looks clean and tidy and pleasing to the eye,’ I said.

‘She’s awfully pretty,’ said Megan. ‘She isn’t a bit like you, is she? Why not?’

‘Brothers and sisters aren’t always alike.’

‘No. Of course. I’m not very like Brian or Colin. And Brian and Colin aren’t like each other.’ She paused and said, ‘It’s very rum, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

Megan replied briefly: ‘Families.’

I said thoughtfully, ‘I suppose they are.’

I wondered just what was passing in her mind. We walked on in silence for a moment or two, then Megan said in a rather shy voice:

‘You fly, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s how you got hurt?’

‘Yes, I crashed.’

Megan said:

‘Nobody down here flies.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I suppose not. Would you like to fly, Megan?’

‘Me?’ Megan seemed surprised. ‘Goodness, no. I should be sick. I’m sick in a train even.’

She paused, and then asked with that directness which only a child usually displays:

‘Will you get all right and be able to fly again, or will you always be a bit of a crock?’

‘My doctor says I shall be quite all right.’

‘Yes, but is he the kind of man who tells lies?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘In fact, I’m quite sure of it. I trust him.’

‘That’s all right then. But a lot of people do tell lies.’

I accepted this undeniable statement of fact in silence.

Megan said in a detached judicial kind of way:

‘I’m glad. I was afraid you looked bad tempered because you were crocked up for life—but if it’s just natural, it’s different.’

‘I’m not bad tempered,’ I said coldly.

‘Well, irritable, then.’

‘I’m irritable because I’m in a hurry to get fit again—and these things can’t be hurried.’

‘Then why fuss?’

I began to laugh.

‘My dear girl, aren’t you ever in a hurry for things to happen?’

Megan considered the question. She said:

‘No. Why should I be? There’s nothing to be in a hurry about. Nothing ever happens.’

I was struck by something forlorn in the words. I said gently: ‘What do you do with yourself down here?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘What is there to do?’

‘Haven’t you got any hobbies? Do you play games? Have you got friends round about?’

‘I’m stupid at games. And I don’t like them much. There aren’t many girls round here, and the ones there are I don’t like. They think I’m awful.’

‘Nonsense. Why should they?’

Megan shook her head.

‘Didn’t you go to school at all?’

‘Yes, I came back a year ago.’

‘Did you enjoy school?’

‘It wasn’t bad. They taught you things in an awfully silly way, though.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well—just bits and pieces. Chopping and changing from one thing to the other. It was a cheap school, you know, and the teachers weren’t very good. They could never answer questions properly.’

‘Very few teachers can,’ I said.

‘Why not? They ought to.’

I agreed.

‘Of course I’m pretty stupid,’ said Megan. ‘And such a lot of things seem to me such rot. History, for instance. Why, it’s quite different out of different books!’

‘That is its real interest,’ I said.

‘And grammar,’ went on Megan. ‘And silly compositions. And all the blathering stuff Shelley wrote, twittering on about skylarks, and Wordsworth going all potty over some silly daffodils. And Shakespeare.’

‘What’s wrong with Shakespeare?’ I inquired with interest.

‘Twisting himself up to say things in such a difficult way that you can’t get at what he means. Still, I like some Shakespeare.’

‘He would be gratified to know that, I’m sure,’ I said.

Megan suspected no sarcasm. She said, her face lighting up:

‘I like Goneril and Regan, for instance.’

‘Why these two?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. They’re satisfactory, somehow. Why do you think they were like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like they were. I mean something must have made them like that?’

For the first time I wondered. I had always accepted Lear’s elder daughters as two nasty bits of goods and had let it go at that. But Megan’s demand for a first cause interested me.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter. I just wondered. Anyway, it’s only English Literature, isn’t it?’

‘Quite, quite. Wasn’t there any subject you enjoyed?’

‘Only Maths.’

‘Maths?’ I said, rather surprised.

Megan’s face had lit up.

‘I loved Maths. But it wasn’t awfully well taught. I’d like to be taught Maths really well. It’s heavenly. I think there’s something heavenly about numbers, anyway, don’t you?’

‘I’ve never felt it,’ I said truthfully.

We were now entering the High Street. Megan said sharply:

‘Here’s Miss Griffith. Hateful woman.’

‘Don’t you like her?’

‘I loathe her. She’s always at me to join her foul Guides. I hate Guides. Why dress yourself up and go about in clumps, and put badges on yourself for something you haven’t really learnt to do properly? I think it’s all rot.’

On the whole, I rather agreed with Megan. But Miss Griffith had descended on us before I could voice my assent.

The doctor’s sister, who rejoiced in the singularly inappropriate name of Aimée, had all the positive assurance that her brother lacked. She was a handsome woman in a masculine weather-beaten way, with a deep hearty voice.

‘Hallo, you two,’ she bayed at us. ‘Gorgeous morning, isn’t it? Megan, you’re just the person I wanted to see. I want some help addressing envelopes for the Conservative Association.’

Megan muttered something elusive, propped up her bicycle against the kerb and dived in a purposeful way into the International Stores.

‘Extraordinary child,’ said Miss Griffith, looking after her. ‘Bone lazy. Spends her time mooning about. Must be a great trial to poor Mrs Symmington. I know her mother’s tried more than once to get her to take up something—shorthand-typing, you know, or cookery, or keeping Angora rabbits. She needs an interest in life.’

I thought that was probably true, but felt that in Megan’s place I should have withstood firmly any of Aimée Griffith’s suggestions for the simple reason that her aggressive personality would have put my back up.

‘I don’t believe in idleness,’ went on Miss Griffith. ‘And certainly not for young people. It’s not as though Megan was pretty or attractive or anything like that. Sometimes I think the girl’s half-witted. A great disappointment to her mother. The father, you know,’ she lowered her voice slightly, ‘was definitely a wrong ’un. Afraid the child takes after him. Painful for her mother. Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world, that’s what I say.’

‘Fortunately,’ I responded.

Aimée Griffith gave a ‘jolly’ laugh.

‘Yes, it wouldn’t do if we were all made to one pattern. But I don’t like to see anyone not getting all they can out of life. I enjoy life myself and I want everyone to enjoy it too. People say to me you must be bored to death living down there in the country all the year round. Not a bit of it, I say. I’m always busy, always happy! There’s always something going on in the country. My time’s taken up, what with my Guides, and the Institute and various committees—to say nothing of looking after Owen.’

At this minute, Miss Griffith saw an acquaintance on the other side of the street, and uttering a bay of recognition she leaped across the road, leaving me free to pursue my course to the bank.

I always found Miss Griffith rather overwhelming, though I admired her energy and vitality, and it was pleasant to see the beaming contentment with her lot in life which she always displayed, and which was a pleasant contrast to the subdued complaining murmurs of so many women.

My business at the bank transacted satisfactorily, I went on to the offices of Messrs Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington. I don’t know if there were any Galbraiths extant. I never saw any. I was shown into Richard Symmington’s inner office which had the agreeable mustiness of a long-established legal firm.

Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled Lady Hope, Sir Everard Carr, William Yatesby-Hoares, Esq., Deceased, etc., gave the required atmosphere of decorous county families and legitimate long-established business.

Studying Mr Symmington as he bent over the documents I had brought, it occurred to me that if Mrs Symmington had encountered disaster in her first marriage, she had certainly played safe in her second. Richard Symmington was the acme of calm respectability, the sort of man who would never give his wife a moment’s anxiety. A long neck with a pronounced Adam’s apple, a slightly cadaverous face and a long thin nose. A kindly man, no doubt, a good husband and father, but not one to set the pulses madly racing.

Presently Mr Symmington began to speak. He spoke clearly and slowly, delivering himself of much good sense and shrewd acumen. We settled the matter in hand and I rose to go, remarking as I did so:

‘I walked down the hill with your step-daughter.’

For a moment Mr Symmington looked as though he did not know who his step-daughter was, then he smiled.

‘Oh yes, of course, Megan. She—er—has been back from school some time. We’re thinking about finding her something to do—yes, to do. But of course she’s very young still. And backward for her age, so they say. Yes, so they tell me.’

I went out. In the outer office was a very old man on a stool writing slowly and laboriously, a small cheeky-looking boy and a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and pince-nez who was typing with some speed and dash.

If this was Miss Ginch I agreed with Owen Griffith that tender passages between her and her employer were exceedingly unlikely.

I went into the baker’s and said my piece about the currant loaf. It was received with the exclamation and incredulity proper to the occasion, and a new currant loaf was thrust upon me in replacement—‘fresh from the oven this minute’—as its indecent heat pressed against my chest proclaimed to be no less than truth.

I came out of the shop and looked up and down the street hoping to see Joanna with the car. The walk had tired me a good deal and it was awkward getting along with my sticks and the currant loaf.

But there was no sign of Joanna as yet.

Suddenly my eyes were held in glad and incredulous surprise.

Along the pavement towards me there came floating a goddess. There is really no other word for it.

The perfect features, the crisply curling golden hair, the tall exquisitely shaped body! And she walked like a goddess, without effort, seeming to swim nearer and nearer. A glorious, an incredible, a breath-taking girl!

In my intense excitement something had to go. What went was the currant loaf. It slipped from my clutches. I made a dive after it and lost my stick, which clattered to the pavement, and I slipped and nearly fell myself.

It was the strong arm of the goddess that caught and held me. I began to stammer:

‘Th-thanks awfully, I’m f-f-frightfully sorry.’

She had retrieved the currant loaf and handed it to me together with the stick. And then she smiled kindly and said cheerfully:

‘Don’t mention it. No trouble, I assure you,’ and the magic died completely before the flat, competent voice.

A nice healthy-looking well set-up girl, no more.

I fell to reflecting what would have happened if the Gods had given Helen of Troy exactly those flat accents. How strange that a girl could trouble your inmost soul so long as she kept her mouth shut, and that the moment she spoke the glamour could vanish as though it had never been.

I had known the reverse happen, though. I had seen a little sad monkey-faced woman whom no one would turn to look at twice. Then she opened her mouth and suddenly enchantment had lived and bloomed and Cleopatra had cast her spell anew.

Joanna had drawn up at the kerb beside me without my noticing her arrival. She asked if there was anything the matter.

‘Nothing,’ I said, pulling myself together. ‘I was reflecting on Helen of Troy and others.’

‘What a funny place to do it,’ said Joanna. ‘You looked most odd, standing there clasping currant bread to your breast with your mouth wide open.’

‘I’ve had a shock,’ I said. ‘I have been transplanted to Ilium and back again.

‘Do you know who that is?’ I added, indicating a retreating back that was swimming gracefully away.

Peering after the girl Joanna said that it was the Symmingtons’ nursery governess.

‘Is that what struck you all of a heap?’ she asked. ‘She’s good-looking, but a bit of a wet fish.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Just a nice kind girl. And I’d been thinking her Aphrodite.’

Joanna opened the door of the car and I got in.

‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Some people have lots of looks and absolutely no S.A. That girl has. It seems such a pity.’

I said that if she was a nursery governess it was probably just as well.

CHAPTER 3

That afternoon we went to tea with Mr Pye.

Mr Pye was an extremely ladylike plump little man, devoted to his petit point chairs, his Dresden shepherdesses and his collection of bric-à-brac. He lived at Prior’s Lodge in the grounds of which were the ruins of the old Priory.

Prior’s Lodge was certainly a very exquisite house and under Mr Pye’s loving care it showed to its best advantage. Every piece of furniture was polished and set in the exact place most suited to it. The curtains and cushions were of exquisite tone and colour, and of the most expensive silks.

It was hardly a man’s house, and it did strike me that to live there would be rather like taking up one’s abode in a period room at a museum. Mr Pye’s principal enjoyment in life was taking people round his house. Even those completely insensitive to their surroundings could not escape. Even if you were so hardened as to consider the essentials of living a radio, a cocktail bar, a bath and a bed surrounded by the necessary walls. Mr Pye did not despair of leading you to better things.

His small plump hands quivered with sensibility as he described his treasures, and his voice rose to a falsetto squeak as he narrated the exciting circumstances under which he had brought his Italian bedstead home from Verona.

Joanna and I being both fond of antiquities and of period furniture, met with approval.

‘It is really a pleasure, a great pleasure, to have such an acquisition to our little community. The dear good people down here, you know, so painfully bucolic—not to say provincial. They don’t know anything. Vandals—absolute vandals! And the inside of their houses—it would make you weep, dear lady, I assure you it would make you weep. Perhaps it has done so?’

Joanna said that she hadn’t gone quite as far as that.

‘But you see what I mean? They mix things so terribly! I’ve seen with my own eyes a most delightful little Sheraton piece—delicate, perfect—a collector’s piece, absolutely—and next to it a Victorian occasional table, or quite possibly a fumed oak revolving bookcase—yes, even that—fumed oak.’

He shuddered—and murmured plaintively:

‘Why are people so blind? You agree—I’m sure you agree, that beauty is the only thing worth living for.’

Hypnotized by his earnestness, Joanna said, yes, yes, that was so.

‘Then why,’ demanded Mr Pye, ‘do people surround themselves with ugliness?’

Joanna said it was very odd.

‘Odd? It’s criminal! That’s what I call it—criminal! And the excuses they give! They say something is comfortable. Or that it is quaint. Quaint! Such a horrible word.’

‘The house you have taken,’ went on Mr Pye, ‘Miss Emily Barton’s house. Now that is charming, and she has some quite nice pieces. Quite nice. One or two of them are really first class. And she has taste, too—although I’m not quite so sure of that as I was. Sometimes, I am afraid, I think it’s really sentiment. She likes to keep things as they were—but not for le bon motif—not because of the resultant harmony—but because it is the way her mother had them.’

He transferred his attention to me, and his voice changed. It altered from that of the rapt artist to that of the born gossip.

‘You didn’t know the family at all? No, quite so—yes, through house agents. But, my dears, you ought to have known that family! When I came here the old mother was still alive. An incredible person—quite incredible! A monster, if you know what I mean. Positively a monster. The old-fashioned Victorian monster, devouring her young. Yes, that’s what it amounted to. She was monumental, you know, must have weighed seventeen stone, and all the five daughters revolved round her. “The girls”! That’s how she always spoke of them. The girls! And the eldest was well over sixty then. “Those stupid girls!” she used to call them sometimes. Black slaves, that’s all they were, fetching and carrying and agreeing with her. Ten o’clock they had to go to bed and they weren’t allowed a fire in their bedroom, and as for asking their own friends to the house, that would have been unheard of. She despised them, you know, for not getting married, and yet so arranged their lives that it was practically impossible for them to meet anybody. I believe Emily, or perhaps it was Agnes, did have some kind of affair with a curate. But his family wasn’t good enough and Mamma soon put a stop to that!’

‘It sounds like a novel,’ said Joanna.

‘Oh, my dear, it was. And then the dreadful old woman died, but of course it was far too late then. They just went on living there and talking in hushed voices about what poor Mamma would have wished. Even repapering her bedroom they felt to be quite sacrilegious. Still they did enjoy themselves in the parish in a quiet way … But none of them had much stamina, and they just died off one by one. Influenza took off Edith, and Minnie had an operation and didn’t recover and poor Mabel had a stroke—Emily looked after her in the most devoted manner. Really that poor woman has done nothing but nursing for the last ten years. A charming creature, don’t you think? Like a piece of Dresden. So sad for her having financial anxieties—but of course all investments have depreciated.’

‘We feel rather awful being in her house,’ said Joanna.

‘No, no, my dear young lady. You mustn’t feel that way. Her dear good Florence is devoted to her and she told me herself how happy she was to have got such nice tenants.’ Here Mr Pye made a little bow. ‘She told me she thought she had been most fortunate.’

‘The house,’ I said, ‘has a very soothing atmosphere.’

Mr Pye darted a quick glance at me.

‘Really? You feel that? Now, that’s very interesting. I wondered, you know. Yes, I wondered.’

‘What do you mean, Mr Pye?’ asked Joanna.

My Pye spread out his plump hands.

‘Nothing, nothing. One wondered, that is all. I do believe in atmosphere, you know. People’s thoughts and feelings. They give their impression to the walls and the furniture.’

I did not speak for a moment or two. I was looking round me and wondering how I would describe the atmosphere of Prior’s Lodge. It seemed to me that the curious thing was that it hadn’t any atmosphere! That was really very remarkable.

I reflected on this point so long that I heard nothing of the conversation going on between Joanna and her host. I was recalled to myself, however, by hearing Joanna uttering farewell preliminaries. I came out of my dream and added my quota.

We all went out into the hall. As we came towards the front door a letter came through the box and fell on the mat.

‘Afternoon post,’ murmured Mr Pye as he picked it up. ‘Now, my dear young people, you will come again, won’t you? Such a pleasure to meet some broader minds, if you understand me. Someone with an appreciation of Art. Really you know, these dear good people down here, if you mention the Ballet, it conveys to them pirouetting toes, and tulle skirts and old gentlemen with opera glasses in the Naughty Nineties. It does indeed. Fifty years behind the times—that’s what I put them down, as. A wonderful country, England. It has pockets. Lymstock is one of them. Interesting from a collector’s point of view—I always feel I have voluntarily put myself under a glass shade when I am here. The peaceful backwater where nothing ever happens.’

Shaking hands with us twice over, he helped me with exaggerated care into the car. Joanna took the wheel, she negotiated with some care the circular sweep round a plot of unblemished grass, then with a straight drive ahead, she raised a hand to wave goodbye to our host where he stood on the steps of the house. I leaned forward to do the same.

But our gesture of farewell went unheeded. Mr Pye had opened his mail.

He was standing staring down at the open sheet in his hand.

Joanna had described him once as a plump pink cherub. He was still plump, but he was not looking like a cherub now. His face was a dark congested purple, contorted with rage and surprise.

And at that moment I realized that there had been something familiar about the look of that envelope. I had not realized it at the time—indeed it had been one of those things that you note unconsciously without knowing that you do note them.

‘Goodness,’ said Joanna. ‘What’s bitten the poor pet?’

‘I rather fancy,’ I said, ‘that it’s the Hidden Hand again.’

She turned an astonished face towards me and the car swerved.

‘Careful, wench,’ I said.

Joanna refixed her attention on the road. She was frowning.

‘You mean a letter like the one you got?’

‘That’s my guess.’

‘What is this place?’ asked Joanna. ‘It looks the most innocent sleepy harmless little bit of England you can imagine—’

‘Where to quote Mr Pye, nothing ever happens,’ I cut in. ‘He chose the wrong minute to say that. Something has happened.’

‘But who writes these things, Jerry?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘My dear girl, how should I know? Some local nitwit with a screw loose, I suppose.’

‘But why? It seems so idiotic.’

‘You must read Freud and Jung and that lot to find out. Or ask our Dr Owen.’

Joanna tossed her head.

‘Dr Owen doesn’t like me.’

‘He’s hardly seen you.’

‘He’s seen quite enough, apparently, to make him cross over if he sees me coming along the High Street.’

‘A most unusual reaction,’ I said sympathetically. ‘And one you’re not used to.’

Joanna was frowning again.

‘No, but seriously, Jerry, why do people write anonymous letters?’

‘As I say, they’ve got a screw loose. It satisfies some urge, I suppose. If you’ve been snubbed, or ignored, or frustrated, and your life’s pretty drab and empty, I suppose you get a sense of power from stabbing in the dark at people who are happy and enjoying themselves.’

Joanna shivered. ‘Not nice.’

‘No, not nice. I should imagine the people in these country places tend to be inbred.’

‘Somebody, I suppose, quite uneducated and inarticulate? With better education—’

Joanna did not finish her sentence, and I said nothing. I have never been able to accept the easy belief that education is a panacea for every ill.

As we drove through the town before climbing up the hill road, I looked curiously at the few figures abroad in the High Street. Was one of those sturdy country-women going about with a load of spite and malice behind her placid brow, planning perhaps even now a further outpouring of vindictive spleen?

But I still did not take the thing seriously.

Two days later we went to a bridge party at the Symmingtons.

It was a Saturday afternoon—the Symmingtons always had their bridge parties on a Saturday, because the office was shut then.

There were two tables. The players were the Symmingtons, ourselves, Miss Griffith, Mr Pye, Miss Barton and a Colonel Appleton whom we had not yet met and who lived at Combeacre, a village some seven miles distant. He was a perfect specimen of the Blimp type, about sixty years of age, liked playing what he called a ‘plucky game’ (which usually resulted in immense sums above the line being scored by his opponents) and was so intrigued by Joanna that he practically never took his eyes off her the whole afternoon.

I was forced to admit that my sister was probably the most attractive thing that had been seen in Lymstock for many a long day.

When we arrived, Elsie Holland, the children’s governess, was hunting for some extra bridge scorers in an ornate writing desk. She glided across the floor with them in the same celestial way I had first noticed, but the spell could not be cast a second time. Exasperating that it should be so—a waste of a perfectly lovely form and face. But I noticed now only too clearly the exceptionally large white teeth like tombstones, and the way she showed her gums when she laughed. She was, unfortunately, one of your prattling girls.

‘Are these the ones, Mrs Symmington? It’s ever so stupid of me not to remember where we put them away last time. It’s my fault, too, I’m afraid. I had them in my hand and then Brian called out his engine had got caught, and I ran out and what with one thing and another I must have just stuffed them in somewhere stupid. These aren’t the right ones, I see now, they’re a bit yellow at the edges. Shall I tell Agnes tea at five? I’m taking the kiddies to Long Barrow so there won’t be any noise.’

A nice kind bright girl. I caught Joanna’s eye. She was laughing. I stared at her coldly. Joanna always knows what is passing in my mind, curse her.

We settled down to bridge.

I was soon to know to a nicety the bridge status of everyone in Lymstock. Mrs Symmington was an exceedingly good bridge player and was quite a devotee of the game. Like many definitely unintellectual women, she was not stupid and had a considerable natural shrewdness. Her husband was a good sound player, slightly over-cautious. Mr Pye can best be described as brilliant. He had an uncanny flair for psychic bidding. Joanna and I, since the party was in our honour, played at a table with Mrs Symmington and Mr Pye. It was Symmington’s task to pour oil on troubled waters and by the exercise of tact to reconcile the three other players at his table. Colonel Appleton, as I have said, was wont to play ‘a plucky game’. Little Miss Barton was without exception the worst bridge player I have ever come across and always enjoyed herself enormously. She did manage to follow suit, but had the wildest ideas as to the strength of her hand, never knew the score, repeatedly led out of the wrong hand and was quite unable to count trumps and often forgot what they were. Aimée Griffith’s play can be summed up in her own words. ‘I like a good game of bridge with no nonsense—and I don’t play any of these rubbishy conventions. I say what I mean. And no postmortems! After all, it’s only a game!’ It will be seen, therefore, that their host had not too easy a task.

Play proceeded fairly harmoniously, however, with occasional forgetfulness on the part of Colonel Appleton as he stared across at Joanna.

Tea was laid in the dining-room, round a big table. As we were finishing, two hot and excited little boys rushed in and were introduced, Mrs Symmington beaming with maternal pride, as was their father.

Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.

‘Oh,’ said her mother. ‘Here’s Megan.’

Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.

The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.

‘I’m afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,’ said Mrs Symmington. ‘Miss Holland and the boys took theirs out with them, so there’s no nursery tea today. I forgot you weren’t with them.’

Megan nodded.

‘That’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.’

She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.

Mrs Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:

‘My poor Megan. She’s just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when they’ve just left school before they’re properly grown up.’

I saw Joanna’s fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.

‘But Megan’s twenty, isn’t she?’ she said.

‘Oh, yes, yes. She is. But of course she’s very young for her age. Quite a child still. It’s so nice, I think, when girls don’t grow up too quickly.’ She laughed again. ‘I expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.’

‘I can’t think why,’ said Joanna. ‘After all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.’

‘Oh, you mustn’t take things so literally, Miss Burton,’ said Mrs Symmington.

It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:

‘My poor Megan. She’s rather a difficult child, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to find something for her to do—I believe there are several things one can learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmaking—or she might try and learn shorthand and typing.’

The red glint was still in Joanna’s eye. She said as we sat down again at the bridge table:

‘I suppose she’ll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you going to give a dance for her?’

‘A dance?’ Mrs Symmington seemed surprised and amused. ‘Oh, no, we don’t do things like that down here.’

‘I see. Just tennis parties and things like that.’

‘Our tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow up—Oh, Megan will find plenty to do. She’s quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal? Two No Trumps.’

As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:

‘I feel awfully sorry for that girl.’

‘Megan?’

‘Yes. Her mother doesn’t like her.’

‘Oh, come now, Joanna, it’s not as bad as that.’

‘Yes, it is. Lots of mothers don’t like their children. Megan, I should imagine, is an awkward sort of creature to have about the house. She disturbs the pattern—the Symmington pattern. It’s a complete unit without her—and that’s a most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to have—and she is sensitive.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think she is.’

I was silent a moment.

Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously.

‘Bad luck for you about the governess.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said with dignity.

‘Nonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you. It is a waste.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘But I’m delighted, all the same. It’s the first sign of reviving life. I was quite worried about you at the nursing home. You never even looked at that remarkably pretty nurse you had. An attractive minx, too—absolutely God’s gift to a sick man.’

‘Your conversation, Joanna, I find definitely low.’

My sister continued without paying the least attention to my remarks.

‘So I was much relieved to see you’d still got an eye for a nice bit of skirt. She is a good looker. Funny that the S.A. should have been left out completely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some women have and others haven’t? What is it makes one woman, even if she only says “Foul weather” so attractive that every man within range wants to come over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providence makes a mistake every now and then when sending out the parcel. One Aphrodite face and form, one temperament ditto. And something goes astray and the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain-faced creature, and then all the other women go simply mad and say, “I can’t think what the men see in her. She isn’t even good looking!”’

‘Have you quite finished, Joanna?’

‘Well, you do agree, don’t you?’

I grinned. ‘I’ll admit to disappointment.’

‘And I don’t see who else there is here for you. You’ll have to fall back upon Aimée Griffith.’

‘God forbid,’ I said.

‘She’s quite good looking, you know.’

‘Too much of an Amazon for me.’

‘She seems to enjoy her life, all right,’ said Joanna. ‘Absolutely disgustingly hearty, isn’t she? I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had a cold bath every morning.’

‘And what are you going to do for yourself?’ I asked.

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You’ll need a little distraction down here if I know you.’

‘Who’s being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.’ Joanna heaved up a not very convincing sigh.

‘I shan’t forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten days you’ll be saying, “Paul? Paul Who? I never knew a Paul.”’

‘You think I’m completely fickle,’ said Joanna.

‘When people like Paul are in question, I’m only too glad that you should be.’

‘You never did like him. But he really was a bit of a genius.’

‘Possibly, though I doubt it. Anyway, from all I’ve heard, geniuses are people to be heartily disliked. One thing, you won’t find any geniuses down here.’

Joanna considered for a moment, her head on one side.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said regretfully.

‘You’ll have to fall back upon Owen Griffith,’ I said. ‘He’s the only unattached male in the place. Unless you count old Colonel Appleton. He was looking at you like a hungry bloodhound most of the afternoon.’

Joanna laughed.

‘He was, wasn’t he? It was quite embarrassing.’

‘Don’t pretend. You’re never embarrassed.’

Joanna drove in silence through the gate and round to the garage.

She said then:

‘There may be something in that idea of yours.’

‘What idea?’

Joanna replied:

‘I don’t see why any man should deliberately cross the street to avoid me. It’s rude, apart from anything else.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘You’re going to hunt the man down in cold blood.’

‘Well, I don’t like being avoided.’

I got slowly and carefully out of the car, and balanced my sticks. Then I offered my sister a piece of advice.

‘Let me tell you this, my girl. Owen Griffith isn’t any of your tame whining artistic young men. Unless you’re careful you’ll stir up a hornet’s nest about your ears. That man could be dangerous.’

‘Oo, do you think so?’ demanded Joanna with every symptom of pleasure at the prospect.

‘Leave the poor devil alone,’ I said sternly.

‘How dare he cross the street when he saw me coming?’

‘All you women are alike. You harp on one theme. You’ll have Sister Aimée gunning you, too, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘She dislikes me already,’ said Joanna. She spoke meditatively, but with a certain satisfaction.

‘We have come down here,’ I said sternly, ‘for peace and quiet, and I mean to see we get it.’

But peace and quiet were the last things we were to have.

CHAPTER 4

It was, I think, about a week later, that Partridge informed me that Mrs Baker would like to speak to me for a minute or two if I would be so kind.

The name Mrs Baker conveyed nothing at all to me.

‘Who is Mrs Baker?’ I said, bewildered—‘Can’t she see Miss Joanna?’

But it appeared that I was the person with whom an interview was desired. It further transpired that Mrs Baker was the mother of the girl Beatrice.

I had forgotten Beatrice. For a fortnight now, I had been conscious of a middle-aged woman with wisps of grey hair, usually on her knees retreating crablike from bathroom and stairs and passages when I appeared, and I knew, I suppose, that she was our new Daily Woman. Otherwise the Beatrice complication had faded from my mind.

I could not very well refuse to see Beatrice’s mother, especially as I learned that Joanna was out, but I was, I must confess, a little nervous at the prospect. I sincerely hoped that I was not going to be accused of having trifled with Beatrice’s affections. I cursed the mischievous activities of anonymous letter writers to myself at the same time as, aloud, I commanded that Beatrice’s mother should be brought to my presence.

Mrs Baker was a big broad weather-beaten woman with a rapid flow of speech. I was relieved to notice no signs of anger or accusation.

‘I hope, sir,’ she said, beginning at once when the door had closed behind Partridge, ‘that you’ll excuse the liberty I’ve taken in coming to see you. But I thought, sir, as you was the proper person to come to, and I should be thankful if you could see your way to telling me what I ought to do in the circumstances, because in my opinion, sir, something ought to be done, and I’ve never been one to let the grass grow under my feet, and what I say is, no use moaning and groaning, but “Up and doing” as vicar said in his sermon only the week before last.’

I felt slightly bewildered and as though I had missed something essential in the conversation.

‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Won’t you—er—sit down, Mrs Baker? I’m sure I shall be glad to—er help you in any way I can—’

I paused expectantly.

‘Thank you, sir.’ Mrs Baker sat down on the edge of a chair. ‘It’s very good of you, I’m sure. And glad I am that I came to you, I said to Beatrice, I said, and her howling and crying on her bed, Mr Burton will know what to do, I said, being a London gentleman. And something must be done, what with young men being so hot-headed and not listening to reason the way they are, and not listening to a word a girl says, and anyway, if it was me, I says to Beatrice I’d give him as good as I got, and what about that girl down at the mill?’

I felt more than ever bewildered.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I don’t quite understand. What has happened?’

‘It’s the letters, sir. Wicked letters—indecent, too, using such words and all. Worse than I’ve ever seen in the Bible, even.’

Passing over an interesting side-line here, I said desperately:

‘Has your daughter been having more letters?’

‘Not her, sir. She had just the one. That one as was the occasion of her leaving here.’

‘There was absolutely no reason—’ I began, but Mrs Baker firmly and respectfully interrupted me:

‘There is no need to tell me, sir, that what was wrote was all wicked lies. I had Miss Partridge’s word for that—and indeed I would have known it for myself. You aren’t that type of gentleman, sir, that I well know, and you an invalid and all. Wicked untruthful lies it was, but all the same I says to Beatrice as she’d better leave because you know what talk is, sir. No smoke without fire, that’s what people say. And a girl can’t be too careful. And besides the girl herself felt bashful like after what had been written, so I says, “Quite right,” to Beatrice when she said she wasn’t coming up here again, though I’m sure we both regretted the inconvenience being such—’

Unable to find her way out of this sentence, Mrs Baker took a deep breath and began again.

‘And that, I hoped, would be the end of any nasty talk. But now George, down at the garage, him what Beatrice is going with, he’s got one of them. Saying awful things about our Beatrice, and how she’s going on with Fred Ledbetter’s Tom—and I can assure you, sir, the girl has been no more than civil to him and passing the time of day so to speak.’

My head was now reeling under this new complication of Mr Ledbetter’s Tom.

‘Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘Beatrice’s—er—young man has had an anonymous letter making accusations about her and another young man?’

‘That’s right, sir, and not nicely put at all—horrible words used, and it drove young George mad with rage, it did, and he came round and told Beatrice he wasn’t going to put up with that sort of thing from her, and he wasn’t going to have her go behind his back with other chaps—and she says it’s all a lie—and he says no smoke without fire, he says, and rushes off being hot-like in his temper, and Beatrice she took on ever so, poor girl, and I said I’ll put my hat on and come straight up to you, sir.’

Mrs Baker paused and looked at me expectantly, like a dog waiting for reward after doing a particularly clever trick.

‘But why come to me?’ I demanded.

‘I understood, sir, that you’d had one of these nasty letters yourself, and I thought, sir, that being a London gentleman, you’d know what to do about them.’

‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I should go to the police. This sort of thing ought to be stopped.’

Mrs Baker looked deeply shocked.

‘Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t go to the police.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve never been mixed up with the police, sir. None of us ever have.’

‘Probably not. But the police are the only people who can deal with this sort of thing. It’s their business.’

‘Go to Bert Rundle?’

Bert Rundle was the constable, I knew.

‘There’s a sergeant, or an inspector, surely, at the police station.’

‘Me, go into the police station?’

Mrs Baker’s voice expressed reproach and incredulity. I began to feel annoyed.

‘That’s the only advice I can give you.’

Mrs Baker was silent, obviously quite unconvinced. She said wistfully and earnestly:

‘These letters ought to be stopped, sir, they did ought to be stopped. There’ll be mischief done sooner or later.’

‘It seems to me there is mischief done now,’ I said.

‘I meant violence, sir. These young fellows, they get violent in their feelings—and so do the older ones.’

I asked:

‘Are a good many of these letters going about?’

Mrs Baker nodded.

‘It’s getting worse and worse, sir. Mr and Mrs Beadle at the Blue Boar—very happy they’ve always been—and now these letters comes and it sets him thinking things—things that aren’t so, sir.’

I leaned forward:

‘Mrs Baker,’ I said, ‘have you any idea, any idea at all, who is writing these abominable letters?’

To my great surprise she nodded her head.

‘We’ve got our idea, sir. Yes, we’ve all got a very fair idea.’

‘Who is it?’

I had fancied she might be reluctant to mention a name, but she replied promptly:

‘’Tis Mrs Cleat—that’s what we all think, sir. ’Tis Mrs Cleat for sure.’

I had heard so many names this morning that I was quite bewildered. I asked:

‘Who is Mrs Cleat?’

Mrs Cleat, I discovered, was the wife of an elderly jobbing gardener. She lived in a cottage on the road leading down to the Mill. My further questions only brought unsatisfactory answers. Questioned as to why Mrs Cleat should write these letters, Mrs Baker would only say vaguely that ‘’Twould be like her.’

In the end I let her go, reiterating once more my advice to go to the police, advice which I could see Mrs Baker was not going to act upon. I was left with the impression that I had disappointed her.

I thought over what she had said. Vague as the evidence was, I decided that if the village was all agreed that Mrs Cleat was the culprit, then it was probably true. I decided to go and consult Griffith about the whole thing. Presumably he would know this Cleat woman. If he thought advisable, he or I might suggest to the police that she was at the bottom of this growing annoyance.

I timed my arrival for about the moment I fancied Griffith would have finished his ‘Surgery’. When the last patient had left, I went into the surgery.

‘Hallo, it’s you, Burton.’

‘Yes. I want to talk to you.’

I outlined my conversation with Mrs Baker, and passed on to him the conviction that this Mrs Cleat was responsible. Rather to my disappointment, Griffith shook his head.

‘It’s not so simple as that,’ he said.

‘You don’t think this Cleat woman is at the bottom of it?’

‘She may be. But I should think it most unlikely.’

‘Then why do they all think it is her?’

He smiled.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you don’t understand. Mrs Cleat is the local witch.’

‘Good gracious!’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, sounds rather strange nowadays, nevertheless that’s what it amounts to. The feeling lingers, you know, that there are certain people, certain families, for instance, whom it isn’t wise to offend. Mrs Cleat came from a family of “wise women”. And I’m afraid she’s taken pains to cultivate the legend. She’s a queer woman with a bitter and sardonic sense of humour. It’s been easy enough for her, if a child cut its finger, or had a bad fall, or sickened with mumps, to nod her head and say, “Yes, he stole my apples last week” or “He pulled my cat’s tail.” Soon enough mothers pulled their children away, and other women brought honey or a cake they’d baked to give to Mrs Cleat so as to keep on the right side of her so that she shouldn’t “ill wish” them. It’s superstitious and silly, but it happens. So naturally, now, they think she’s at the bottom of this.’

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