Copyright

Harper

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000

Spider’s Web™ is a trade mark of Agatha Christie Limited and Agatha Christie® and the Agatha Christie Signature are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere.

Copyright © 2000 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com

Cover by crushed.co.uk © HarperCollins/Agatha Christie Ltd 2017

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008196660

Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780007423071

Version: 2017-03-30

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

The Plays of Agatha Christie

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

Copplestone Court, the elegant, eighteenth-century country home of Henry and Clarissa Hailsham-Brown, set in gently undulating hilly country in Kent, looked handsome even at the close of a rainy March afternoon. In the tastefully furnished ground-floor drawing-room, with French windows onto the garden, two men stood near a console table on which there was a tray with three glasses of port, each marked with a sticky label, one, two and three. Also on the table was a pencil and sheet of paper.

Sir Rowland Delahaye, a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties with a charming and cultivated manner, seated himself on the arm of a comfortable chair and allowed his companion to blindfold him. Hugo Birch, a man of about sixty and inclined to be somewhat irascible in manner, then placed in Sir Rowland’s hand one of the glasses from the table. Sir Rowland sipped, considered for a moment, and then said, ‘I should think—yes—definitely—yes, this is the Dow ’forty-two.’

Hugo replaced the glass on the table, murmuring ‘Dow ’forty-two’, made a note on the paper, and handed over the next glass. Again Sir Rowland sipped the wine. He paused, took another sip, and then nodded affirmatively. ‘Ah, yes,’ he declared with conviction. ‘Now, this is a very fine port indeed.’ He took another sip. ‘No doubt about it. Cockburn ’twenty-seven.’

He handed the glass back to Hugo as he continued, ‘Fancy Clarissa wasting a bottle of Cockburn ’twenty-seven on a silly experiment like this. It’s positively sacrilegious. But then women just don’t understand port at all.’

Hugo took the glass from him, noted his verdict on the piece of paper on the table, and handed him the third glass. After a quick sip, Sir Rowland’s reaction was immediate and violent. ‘Ugh!’ he exclaimed in disgust. ‘Rich Ruby port-type wine. I can’t imagine why Clarissa has such a thing in the house.’

His opinion duly noted, he removed the blindfold. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he told Hugo.

Taking off his horn-rimmed spectacles, Hugo allowed Sir Rowland to blindfold him. ‘Well, I imagine she uses the cheap port for jugged hare or for flavouring soup,’ he suggested. ‘I don’t imagine Henry would allow her to offer it to guests.’

‘There you are, Hugo,’ Sir Rowland declared as he finished tying the blindfold over his companion’s eyes. ‘Perhaps I ought to turn you around three times like they do in Blind Man’s Buff,’ he added as he led Hugo to the armchair and turned him around to sit in it.

‘Here, steady on,’ Hugo protested. He felt behind him for the chair.

‘Got it?’ asked Sir Rowland.

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll swivel the glasses around instead,’ Sir Rowland said as he moved the glasses on the table slightly.

‘There’s no need to,’ Hugo told him. ‘Do you think I’m likely to be influenced by what you said? I’m as good a judge of port as you are any day, Roly, my boy.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that. In any case, one can’t be too careful,’ Sir Rowland insisted.

Just as he was about to take one of the glasses across to Hugo, the third of the Hailsham-Browns’ guests came in from the garden. Jeremy Warrender, an attractive young man in his twenties, was wearing a raincoat over his suit. Panting, and obviously out of breath, he headed for the sofa and was about to flop into it when he noticed what was going on. ‘What on earth are you two up to?’ he asked, as he removed his raincoat and jacket. ‘The three-card trick with glasses?’

‘What’s that?’ the blindfolded Hugo wanted to know. ‘It sounds as though someone’s brought a dog into the room.’

‘It’s only young Warrender,’ Sir Rowland assured him. ‘Behave yourself.’

‘Oh, I thought it sounded like a dog that’s been chasing a rabbit,’ Hugo declared.

‘I’ve been three times to the lodge gates and back, wearing a mackintosh over my clothes,’ Jeremy explained as he fell heavily onto the sofa. ‘Apparently the Herzoslovakian Minister did it in four minutes fifty-three seconds, weighed down by his mackintosh. I went all out, but I couldn’t do any better than six minutes ten seconds. And I don’t believe he did, either. Only Chris Chataway himself could do it in that time, with or without a mackintosh.’

‘Who told you that about the Herzoslovakian Minister?’ Sir Rowland enquired.

‘Clarissa.’

‘Clarissa!’ exclaimed Sir Rowland, chuckling.

‘Oh, Clarissa.’ Hugo snorted. ‘You shouldn’t pay any attention to what Clarissa tells you.’

Still chuckling, Sir Rowland continued, ‘I’m afraid you don’t know your hostess very well, Warrender. She’s a young lady with a very vivid imagination.’

Jeremy rose to his feet. ‘Do you mean she made the whole thing up?’ he asked, indignantly.

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past her,’ Sir Rowland answered as he handed one of the three glasses to the still blindfolded Hugo. ‘And it certainly sounds like her idea of a joke.’

‘Does it, indeed? You just wait till I see that young woman,’ Jeremy promised. ‘I’ll certainly have something to say to her. Gosh, I’m exhausted.’ He stalked out to the hall carrying his raincoat.

‘Stop puffing like a walrus,’ Hugo complained. ‘I’m trying to concentrate. There’s a fiver at stake. Roly and I have got a bet on.’

‘Oh, what is it?’ Jeremy enquired, returning to perch on an arm of the sofa.

‘It’s to decide who’s the best judge of port,’ Hugo told him. ‘We’ve got Cockburn ’twenty-seven, Dow ’forty-two, and the local grocer’s special. Quiet now. This is important.’ He sipped from the glass he was holding, and then murmured rather non-committally, ‘Mmm-ah.’

‘Well?’ Sir Roland queried. ‘Have you decided what the first one is?’

‘Don’t hustle me, Roly,’ Hugo exclaimed. ‘I’m not going to rush my fences. Where’s the next one?’

He held on to the glass as he was handed another. He sipped and then announced, ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure about those two.’ He sniffed at both glasses again. ‘This first one’s the Dow,’ he decided as he held out one glass. ‘The second was the Cockburn,’ he continued, handing the other glass back as Sir Rowland repeated, ‘Number three glass the Dow, number one the Cockburn’, writing as he spoke.

‘Well, it’s hardly necessary to taste the third,’ Hugo declared, ‘but I suppose I’d better go through with it.’

‘Here you are,’ said Sir Rowland, handing over the final glass.

After sipping from it, Hugo made an exclamation of extreme distaste. ‘Tschah! Ugh! What unspeakable muck.’ He returned the glass to Sir Rowland, then took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips to get rid of the offending taste. ‘It’ll take me an hour to get the taste of that stuff out of my mouth,’ he complained. ‘Get me out of this, Roly.’

‘Here, I’ll do it,’ Jeremy offered, rising and moving behind Hugo to remove his blindfold while Sir Rowland thoughtfully sipped the last of the three glasses before putting it back on the table.

‘So that’s what you think, Hugo, is it? Glass number two, grocer’s special?’ He shook his head. ‘Rubbish! That’s the Dow ’forty-two, not a doubt of it.’

Hugo put the blindfold in his pocket. ‘Pah! You’ve lost your palate, Roly,’ he declared.

‘Let me try,’ Jeremy suggested. Going to the table, he took a quick sip from each glass. He paused for a moment, sipped each of them again, and then admitted, ‘Well, they all taste the same to me.’

‘You young people!’ Hugo admonished him. ‘It’s all this confounded gin you keep on drinking. Completely ruins your palate. It’s not just women who don’t appreciate port. Nowadays, no man under forty does, either.’

Before Jeremy had a chance to reply to this, the door leading to the library opened, and Clarissa Hailsham-Brown, a beautiful dark-haired woman in her late twenties, entered. ‘Hello, my darlings,’ she greeted Sir Rowland and Hugo. ‘Have you settled it yet?’

‘Yes, Clarissa,’ Sir Rowland assured her. ‘We’re ready for you.’

‘I know I’m right,’ said Hugo. ‘Number one’s the Cockburn, number two’s the port-type stuff, and three’s the Dow. Right?’

‘Nonsense,’ Sir Rowland exclaimed before Clarissa could answer. ‘Number one’s the Dow, two’s the Cockburn, and three’s the port-type stuff. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Darlings!’ was Clarissa’s only immediate response. She kissed first Hugo and then Sir Rowland, and continued, ‘Now one of you take the tray back to the dining-room. You’ll find the decanter on the sideboard.’ Smiling to herself, she selected a chocolate from a box on an occasional table.

Sir Rowland had picked up the tray with the glasses on it, and was about to leave with them. He stopped. ‘The decanter?’ he asked, warily.

Clarissa sat on the sofa, tucking her feet up under her. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Just one decanter.’ She giggled. ‘It’s all the same port, you know.’

CHAPTER 2

Clarissa’s announcement produced a different reaction from each of her hearers. Jeremy burst into hoots of laughter, went across to his hostess and kissed her, while Sir Rowland stood gaping with astonishment, and Hugo seemed undecided what attitude to adopt to her having made fools of them both.

When Sir Rowland finally found words, they were, ‘Clarissa, you unprincipled humbug.’ But his tone was affectionate.

‘Well,’ Clarissa responded, ‘it’s been such a wet afternoon, and you weren’t able to play golf. You must have some fun, and you have had fun over this, darlings, haven’t you?’

‘Upon my soul,’ Sir Rowland exclaimed as he carried the tray to the door. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, showing up your elders and betters. It turns out that only young Warrender here guessed they were all the same.’

Hugo, who by now was laughing, accompanied him to the door. ‘Who was it?’ he asked, putting an arm around Sir Rowland’s shoulder, ‘Who was it who said that he’d know Cockburn ’twenty-seven anywhere?’

‘Never mind, Hugo,’ Sir Rowland replied resignedly, ‘let’s have some more of it later, whatever it is.’ Talking as they went, the two men left by the door leading to the hall, Hugo closing the door behind them.

Jeremy confronted Clarissa on her sofa. ‘Now then, Clarissa,’ he said accusingly, ‘what’s all this about the Herzoslovakian Minister?’

Clarissa looked at him innocently. ‘What about him?’ she asked.

Pointing a finger at her, Jeremy spoke clearly and slowly. ‘Did he ever run to the lodge gates and back, in a mackintosh, three times in four minutes fifty-three seconds?’

Clarissa smiled sweetly as she replied, ‘The Herzoslovakian Minister is a dear, but he’s well over sixty, and I doubt very much if he’s run anywhere for years.’

‘So you did make the whole thing up. They told me you probably did. But why?’

‘Well,’ Clarissa suggested, her smile even sweeter than before, ‘you’d been complaining all day about not getting enough exercise. So I thought the only friendly thing to do was to help you get some. It would have been no good ordering you to go for a brisk run through the woods, but I knew you’d respond to a challenge. So I invented someone for you to challenge.’

Jeremy gave a comical groan of exasperation. ‘Clarissa,’ he asked her, ‘do you ever speak the truth?’

‘Of course I do—sometimes,’ Clarissa admitted. ‘But when I am speaking the truth, nobody ever seems to believe me. It’s very odd.’ She thought for a moment, and then continued. ‘I suppose when you’re making things up, you get carried away and that makes it sound more convincing.’ She drifted over to the French windows.

‘I might have broken a blood vessel,’ Jeremy complained. ‘A fat lot you’d have cared about that.’

Clarissa laughed. Opening the window she observed, ‘I do believe it’s cleared up. It’s going to be a lovely evening. How delicious the garden smells after rain.’ She leaned out and sniffed. ‘Narcissus.’

As she closed the window again, Jeremy came over to join her. ‘Do you really like living down here in the country?’ he asked.

‘I love it.’

‘But you must get bored to death,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s all so incongruous for you, Clarissa. You must miss the theatre terribly. I hear you were passionate about it when you were younger.’

‘Yes, I was. But I manage to create my own theatre right here,’ said Clarissa with a laugh.

‘But you ought to be leading an exciting life in London.’

Clarissa laughed again. ‘What—parties and night clubs?’ she asked.

‘Parties, yes. You’d make a brilliant hostess,’ Jeremy told her, laughing.

She turned to face him. ‘It sounds like an Edwardian novel,’ she said. ‘Anyway, diplomatic parties are terribly dull.’

‘But it’s such a waste, your being tucked away down here,’ he persisted, moving close to her and attempting to take her hand.

‘A waste—of me?’ asked Clarissa, withdrawing her hand.

‘Yes,’ Jeremy responded fervently. ‘Then there’s Henry.’

‘What about Henry?’ Clarissa busied herself patting a cushion on an easy chair.

Jeremy looked at her steadily. ‘I can’t imagine why you ever married him,’ he replied, plucking up his courage. ‘He’s years older than you, with a daughter who’s a school-kid.’ He leaned on the armchair, still observing her closely. ‘He’s an excellent man, I have no doubt, but really, of all the pompous stuffed shirts. Going about looking like a boiled owl.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he continued, ‘He’s as dull as ditchwater.’

Still she said nothing. Jeremy tried again. ‘And he has no sense of humour,’ he muttered somewhat petulantly.

Clarissa looked at him, smiled, but said nothing.

‘I suppose you think I oughtn’t to say these things,’ Jeremy exclaimed.

Clarissa sat on one end of a long stool. ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she told him. ‘Say anything you like.’

Jeremy went over to sit beside her. ‘So you do realize that you’ve made a mistake?’ he asked, eagerly.

‘But I haven’t made a mistake,’ was Clarissa’s softly uttered response. Then, teasingly, she added, ‘Are you making immoral advances to me, Jeremy?’

‘Definitely,’ was his prompt reply.

‘How lovely,’ exclaimed Clarissa. She nudged him with her elbow. ‘Do go on.’

‘I think you know how I feel about you, Clarissa,’ Jeremy responded somewhat moodily. ‘But you’re just playing with me, aren’t you? Flirting. It’s another one of your games. Darling, can’t you be serious just for once?’

‘Serious? What’s so good about “serious”?’ Clarissa replied. ‘There’s enough seriousness in the world already. I like to enjoy myself, and I like everyone around me to enjoy themselves as well.’

Jeremy smiled ruefully. ‘I’d be enjoying myself a great deal more at this moment if you were serious about me,’ he observed.

‘Oh, come on,’ she ordered him playfully. ‘Of course you’re enjoying yourself. Here you are, our house-guest for the weekend, along with my lovely godfather Roly. And sweet old Hugo’s here for drinks this evening as well. He and Roly are so funny together. You can’t say you’re not enjoying yourself.’

‘Of course I’m enjoying myself,’ Jeremy admitted. ‘But you won’t let me say what I really want to say to you.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ she replied. ‘You know you can say anything you like to me.’

‘Really? You mean that?’ he asked her.

‘Of course.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Jeremy. He rose from the stool and turned to face her. ‘I love you,’ he declared.

‘I’m so glad,’ replied Clarissa, cheerfully.

‘That’s entirely the wrong answer,’ Jeremy complained. ‘You ought to say, “I’m so sorry” in a deep, sympathetic voice.’

‘But I’m not sorry,’ Clarissa insisted. ‘I’m delighted. I like people to be in love with me.’

Jeremy sat down beside her again, but turned away from her. Now he seemed deeply upset. Looking at him for a moment, Clarissa asked, ‘Would you do anything in the world for me?’

Turning to her, Jeremy responded eagerly. ‘You know I would. Anything. Anything in the world,’ he declared.

‘Really?’ said Clarissa. ‘Supposing, for instance, that I murdered someone, would you help—no, I must stop.’ She rose and walked away a few paces.

Jeremy turned to face Clarissa. ‘No, go on,’ he urged her.

She paused for a moment and then began to speak. ‘You asked me just now if I ever got bored, down here in the country.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I suppose in a way, I do,’ she admitted. ‘Or, rather, I might, if it wasn’t for my private hobby.’

Jeremy looked puzzled. ‘Private hobby? What is that?’ he asked her.

Clarissa took a deep breath. ‘You see, Jeremy,’ she said, ‘my life has always been peaceful and happy. Nothing exciting ever happened to me, so I began to play my little game. I call it “supposing”.’

Jeremy looked perplexed. ‘Supposing?’

‘Yes,’ said Clarissa, beginning to pace about the room. ‘For example, I might say to myself, “Supposing I were to come down one morning and find a dead body in the library, what should I do?” Or “Supposing a woman were to be shown in here one day and told me that she and Henry had been secretly married in Constantinople, and that our marriage was bigamous, what should I say to her?” Or “Supposing I’d followed my instincts and become a famous actress.” Or “Supposing I had to choose between betraying my country and seeing Henry shot before my eyes?” Do you see what I mean?’ She smiled suddenly at Jeremy. ‘Or even—’ She settled into the armchair. ‘“Supposing I were to run away with Jeremy, what would happen next?”’

Jeremy went and knelt beside her. ‘I feel flattered,’ he told her. ‘But have you ever really imagined that particular situation?’

‘Oh yes,’ Clarissa replied with a smile.

‘Well? What did happen?’ He clasped her hand.

Again she withdrew it. ‘Well, the last time I played, we were on the Riviera at Juan les Pins, and Henry came after us. He had a revolver with him.’

Jeremy looked startled. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did he shoot me?’

Clarissa smiled reminiscently. ‘I seem to remember,’ she told Jeremy, ‘that he said—’ She paused, and then, adopting a highly dramatic delivery, continued, ‘“Clarissa, either you come back with me, or I kill myself.”’

Jeremy rose and moved away. ‘Jolly decent of him,’ he said, sounding unconvinced. ‘I can’t imagine anything more unlike Henry. But, anyway, what did you say to that?’

Clarissa was still smiling complacently. ‘Actually, I’ve played it both ways,’ she admitted. ‘On one occasion I told Henry that I was terribly sorry. I didn’t really want him to kill himself, but I was very deeply in love with Jeremy, and there was nothing I could do about it. Henry flung himself at my feet, sobbing, but I was adamant. “I am fond of you, Henry,” I told him, “but I can’t live without Jeremy. This is goodbye.” Then I rushed out of the house and into the garden where you were waiting for me. As we ran down the garden path to the front gate, we heard a shot ring out in the house, but we went on running.’

‘Good heavens!’ Jeremy gasped. ‘Well, that was certainly telling him, wasn’t it? Poor Henry.’ He thought for a moment, and then continued, ‘But you say you’ve played it both ways. What happened the other time?’

‘Oh, Henry was so miserable, and pleaded so pitifully that I didn’t have the heart to leave him. I decided to give you up, and devote my life to making Henry happy.’

Jeremy now looked absolutely desolate. ‘Well, darling,’ he declared ruefully, ‘you certainly do have fun. But please, please be serious for a moment. I’m very serious when I say I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. You must have realized that. Are you sure there’s no hope for me? Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with boring old Henry?’

Clarissa was spared from answering by the arrival of a thin, tallish child of twelve, wearing school uniform and carrying a satchel. She called out ‘Hello, Clarissa’ by way of greeting as she came into the room.

‘Hullo, Pippa,’ her stepmother replied. ‘You’re late.’

Pippa put her hat and satchel on an easy chair. ‘Music lesson,’ she explained, laconically.

‘Oh, yes,’ Clarissa remembered. ‘It’s your piano day, isn’t it? Was it interesting?’

‘No. Ghastly. Awful exercises I had to repeat and repeat. Miss Farrow said it was to improve my fingering. She wouldn’t let me play the nice solo piece I’d been practising. Is there any food about? I’m starving.’

Clarissa got to her feet. ‘Didn’t you get the usual buns to eat in the bus?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Pippa admitted, ‘but that was half an hour ago.’ She gave Clarissa a pleading look that was almost comical. ‘Can’t I have some cake or something to last me till supper?’

Taking her hand, Clarissa led Pippa to the hall door, laughing. ‘We’ll see what we can find,’ she promised. As they left, Pippa asked excitedly, ‘Is there any of that cake left—the one with the cherries on top?’

‘No,’ Clarissa told her. ‘You finished that off yesterday.’

Jeremy shook his head, smiling, as he heard their voices trailing away down the hall. As soon as they were out of earshot, he moved quickly to the desk and hurriedly opened one or two of the drawers. But suddenly hearing a hearty female voice calling from the garden, ‘Ahoy there!’, he gave a start, and hastily closed the drawers. He turned towards the French windows in time to see a big, jolly-looking woman of about forty, in tweeds and gumboots, opening the French windows. She paused as she saw Jeremy. Standing on the window step, she asked, brusquely, ‘Mrs Hailsham-Brown about?’

Jeremy moved casually away from the desk, and ambled across to the sofa as he replied, ‘Yes, Miss Peake. She’s just gone to the kitchen with Pippa to get her something to eat. You know what a ravenous appetite Pippa always has.’

‘Children shouldn’t eat between meals,’ was the response, delivered in ringing, almost masculine tones.

‘Will you come in, Miss Peake?’ Jeremy asked.

‘No, I won’t come in because of my boots,’ she explained, with a hearty laugh. ‘I’d bring half the garden with me if I did.’ Again she laughed. ‘I was just going to ask her what veggies she wanted for tomorrow’s lunch.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I—’ Jeremy began, when Miss Peake interrupted him. ‘Tell you what,’ she boomed, ‘I’ll come back.’

She began to go, but then turned back to Jeremy. ‘Oh, you will be careful of that desk, won’t you, Mr Warrender?’ she said, peremptorily.

‘Yes, of course I will,’ replied Jeremy.

‘It’s a valuable antique, you see,’ Miss Peake explained. ‘You really shouldn’t wrench the drawers out like that.’

Jeremy looked bemused. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he apologized. ‘I was only looking for notepaper.’

‘Middle pigeon-hole,’ Miss Peake barked, pointing at it as she spoke.

Jeremy turned to the desk, opened the middle pigeon-hole, and extracted a sheet of writing-paper.

‘That’s right,’ Miss Peake continued brusquely. ‘Curious how often people can’t see what’s right in front of their eyes.’ She chortled heartily as she strode away, back to the garden. Jeremy joined in her laughter, but stopped abruptly as soon as she had gone. He was about to return to the desk when Pippa came back munching a bun.

CHAPTER 3

‘Hmm. Smashing bun,’ said Pippa with her mouth full, as she closed the door behind her and wiped her sticky fingers on her skirt.

‘Hello, there,’ Jeremy greeted her. ‘How was school today?’

‘Pretty foul,’ Pippa responded cheerfully as she put what was left of the bun on the table. ‘It was World Affairs today.’ She opened her satchel. ‘Miss Wilkinson loves World Affairs. But she’s terribly wet. She can’t keep the class in order.’

As Pippa took a book out of her satchel, Jeremy asked her, ‘What’s your favourite subject?’

‘Biology,’ was Pippa’s immediate and enthusiastic answer. ‘It’s heaven. Yesterday we dissected a frog’s leg.’ She pushed her book in his face. ‘Look what I got at the second-hand bookstall. It’s awfully rare, I’m sure. Over a hundred years old.’

‘What is it, exactly?’

‘It’s a kind of recipe book,’ Pippa explained. She opened the book. ‘It’s thrilling, absolutely thrilling.’

‘But what’s it all about?’ Jeremy wanted to know.

Pippa was already enthralled by her book. ‘What?’ she murmured as she turned its pages.

‘It certainly seems very absorbing,’ he observed.

‘What?’ Pippa repeated, still engrossed in the book. To herself she murmured, ‘Gosh!’ as she turned another page.

‘Evidently a good tuppenny-worth,’ Jeremy commented, and picked up a newspaper.

Apparently puzzled by what she was reading in the book, Pippa asked him, ‘What’s the difference between a wax candle and a tallow candle?’

Jeremy considered for a moment before replying. ‘I should imagine that a tallow candle is markedly inferior,’ he said. ‘But surely you can’t eat it? What a strange recipe book.’

Much amused, Pippa got to her feet. ‘“Can you eat it?”’ she declaimed. ‘Sounds like “Twenty Questions”.’ She laughed, threw the book onto the easy chair, and fetched a pack of cards from the book-case. ‘Do you know how to play Demon Patience?’ she asked.

By now Jeremy was totally occupied with his newspaper. ‘Um’ was his only response.

Pippa tried again to engage his attention. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to play Beggar-my-neighbour?’

‘No,’ Jeremy replied firmly. He replaced the newspaper on the stool, then sat at the desk and addressed an envelope.

‘No, I thought you probably wouldn’t,’ Pippa murmured wistfully. Kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room, she spread out her cards and began to play Demon Patience. ‘I wish we could have a fine day for a change,’ she complained. ‘It’s such a waste being in the country when it’s wet.’

Jeremy looked across at her. ‘Do you like living in the country, Pippa?’ he asked.

‘Rather,’ she replied enthusiastically. ‘I like it much better than living in London. This is an absolutely wizard house, with a tennis court and everything. We’ve even got a priest’s hole.’

‘A priest’s hole?’ Jeremy queried, smiling. ‘In this house?’

‘Yes, we have,’ said Pippa.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Jeremy told her. ‘It’s the wrong period.’

‘Well, I call it a priest’s hole,’ she insisted. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’

She went to the right-hand side of the bookshelves, took out a couple of books, and pulled down a small lever in the wall behind the books. A section of wall to the right of the shelves swung open, revealing itself to be a concealed door. Behind it was a good-sized recess, with another concealed door in its back wall.

‘I know it isn’t really a priest’s hole, of course,’ Pippa admitted. ‘But it’s certainly a secret passage-way. Actually, that door goes through into the library.’

‘Oh, does it?’ said Jeremy as he went to investigate. He opened the door at the back of the recess, glanced into the library and then closed it and came back into the room. ‘So it does.’

‘But it’s all rather secret, and you’d never guess it was there unless you knew,’ Pippa said as she lifted the lever to close the panel. ‘I’m using it all the time,’ she continued. ‘It’s the sort of place that would be very convenient for putting a dead body, don’t you think?’

Jeremy smiled. ‘Absolutely made for it,’ he agreed.

Pippa went back to her card game on the floor, as Clarissa came in.

Jeremy looked up. ‘The Amazon is looking for you,’ he informed her.

‘Miss Peake? Oh, what a bore,’ Clarissa exclaimed as she picked up Pippa’s bun from the table and took a bite.

Pippa immediately got to her feet. ‘Hey, that’s mine!’ she protested.

‘Greedy thing,’ Clarissa murmured as she handed over what was left of the bun. Pippa put it back on the table and returned to her game.

‘First she hailed me as though I were a ship,’ Jeremy told Clarissa, ‘and then she ticked me off for manhandling this desk.’

‘She’s a terrible pest,’ Clarissa admitted, leaning over one end of the sofa to peer down at Pippa’s cards. ‘But we’re only renting the house, and she goes with it, so—’ She broke off to say to Pippa, ‘Black ten on the red Jack,’ before continuing, ‘—so we have to keep her on. And in any case she’s really a very good gardener.’

‘I know,’ Jeremy agreed, putting his arm around her. ‘I saw her out of my bedroom window this morning. I heard these sounds of exertion, so I stuck my head out of the window, and there was the Amazon, in the garden, digging something that looked like an enormous grave.’

‘That’s called deep trenching,’ Clarissa explained. ‘I think you plant cabbages in it, or something.’

Jeremy leaned over to study the card game on the floor. ‘Red three on the black four,’ he advised Pippa, who responded with a furious glare.

Emerging from the library with Hugo, Sir Rowland gave Jeremy a meaningful look. He tactfully dropped his arm and moved away from Clarissa.

‘The weather seems to have cleared at last,’ Sir Rowland announced. ‘Too late for golf, though. Only about twenty minutes of daylight left.’ Looking down at Pippa’s card game, he pointed with his foot. ‘Look, that goes on there,’ he told her. Crossing to the French windows, he failed to notice the fierce glare Pippa shot his way. ‘Well,’ he said, glancing out at the garden, ‘I suppose we might as well go across to the club house now, if we’re going to eat there.’

‘I’ll go and get my coat,’ Hugo announced, leaning over Pippa to point out a card as he passed her. Pippa, really furious by now, leaned forward and covered the cards with her body, as Hugo turned back to address Jeremy. ‘What about you, my boy?’ he asked. ‘Coming with us?’

‘Yes,’ Jeremy answered. ‘I’ll just go and get my jacket.’ He and Hugo went out into the hall together, leaving the door open.

‘You’re sure you don’t mind dining at the club house this evening, darling?’ Clarissa asked Sir Rowland.

‘Not a bit,’ he assured her. ‘Very sensible arrangement, since the servants are having the night off.’

The Hailsham-Browns’ middle-aged butler, Elgin, came into the room from the hall and went across to Pippa. ‘Your supper is ready in the schoolroom, Miss Pippa,’ he told her. ‘There’s some milk, and fruit, and your favourite biscuits.’

‘Oh, good!’ Pippa shouted, springing to her feet. ‘I’m ravenous.’

She darted towards the hall door but was stopped by Clarissa, who told her sharply to pick up her cards first and put them away.

‘Oh, bother,’ Pippa exclaimed. She went back to the cards, knelt, and slowly began to shovel them into a heap against one end of the sofa.

Elgin now addressed Clarissa. ‘Excuse me, madam,’ he murmured respectfully.

‘Yes, Elgin, what is it?’ Clarissa asked.

The butler looked uncomfortable. ‘There has been a little—er—unpleasantness, over the vegetables,’ he told her.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Clarissa. ‘You mean with Miss Peake?’

‘Yes, madam,’ the butler continued. ‘My wife finds Miss Peake most difficult, madam. She is continually coming into the kitchen and criticizing and making remarks, and my wife doesn’t like it, she doesn’t like it at all. Wherever we have been, Mrs Elgin and myself have always had very pleasant relations with the garden.’

‘I’m really sorry about that,’ Clarissa replied, suppressing a smile. ‘I’ll—er—I’ll try to do something about it. I’ll speak to Miss Peake.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ said Elgin. He bowed and left the room, closing the hall door behind him.

‘How tiresome they are, servants,’ Clarissa observed to Sir Rowland. ‘And what curious things they say. How can one have pleasant relations with the garden? It sounds improper, in a pagan kind of way.’

‘I think you’re lucky, however, with this couple—the Elgins,’ Sir Rowland advised her. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘Oh, the local Registry office,’ Clarissa replied.

Sir Rowland frowned. ‘I hope not that what’s-its-name one where they always send you crooks,’ he observed.

‘Cooks?’ asked Pippa, looking up from the floor where she was still sorting out cards.

‘No, dear. Crooks,’ Sir Rowland repeated. ‘Do you remember,’ he continued, now addressing Clarissa, ‘that agency with the Italian or Spanish name—de Botello, wasn’t it?—who kept sending you people to interview, most of whom turned out to be illegal aliens? Andy Hulme was virtually cleaned out by a couple he and his wife took on. They used Andy’s horsebox to move out half the house. And they’ve never caught up with them yet.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Clarissa laughed. ‘I do remember. Come on, Pippa, hurry up,’ she ordered the child.

Pippa picked up the cards, and got to her feet. ‘There!’ she exclaimed petulantly as she replaced the cards on the bookshelves. ‘I wish one didn’t always have to do clearing up.’ She went towards the door, but was stopped by Clarissa who, picking up what was left of Pippa’s bun from the table, called to her, ‘Here, take your bun with you,’ and handed it to her.

Pippa started to go again. ‘And your satchel,’ Clarissa continued.

Pippa ran to the easy chair, snatched up her satchel, and turned again towards the hall door.

‘Hat!’ Clarissa shouted.

Pippa put the bun on the table, picked up her hat, and ran to the hall door.

‘Here!’ Clarissa called her back again, picked up the piece of bun, stuffed it in Pippa’s mouth, took the hat, jammed it on the child’s head, and pushed her into the hall. ‘And shut the door, Pippa,’ she called after her.

Pippa finally made her exit, closing the door behind her. Sir Rowland laughed, and Clarissa, joining in, took a cigarette from a box on the table. Outside, the daylight was now beginning to fade, and the room was becoming a little darker.

‘You know, it’s wonderful!’ Sir Rowland exclaimed. ‘Pippa’s a different child, now. You’ve done a remarkably good job there, Clarissa.’

Clarissa sank down on the sofa. ‘I think she really likes me now and trusts me,’ she said. ‘And I quite enjoy being a stepmother.’

Sir Rowland took a lighter from the occasional table by the sofa to light Clarissa’s cigarette. ‘Well,’ he observed, ‘she certainly seems a normal, happy child again.’

Clarissa nodded in agreement. ‘I think living in the country has made all the difference,’ she suggested. ‘And she goes to a very nice school and is making lots of friends there. Yes, I think she’s happy, and, as you say, normal.’

Sir Rowland frowned. ‘It’s a shocking thing,’ he exclaimed, ‘to see a kid get into the state she was in. I’d like to wring Miranda’s neck. What a dreadful mother she was.’

‘Yes,’ Clarissa agreed. ‘Pippa was absolutely terrified of her mother.’

He joined her on the sofa. ‘It was a shocking business,’ he murmured.

Clarissa clenched her fists and made an angry gesture. ‘I feel furious every time I think of Miranda,’ she said. ‘What she made Henry suffer, and what she made that child go through. I still can’t understand how any woman could.’

‘Taking drugs is a nasty business,’ Sir Rowland went on. ‘It alters your whole character.’

They sat for a moment in silence, then Clarissa asked, ‘What do you think started her on drugs in the first place?’

‘I think it was her friend, that swine Oliver Costello,’ Sir Rowland declared. ‘I believe he’s in on the drug racket.’

‘He’s a horrible man,’ Clarissa agreed. ‘Really evil, I always think.’

‘She’s married him now, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes, they married about a month ago.’

Sir Rowland shook his head. ‘Well, there’s no doubt Henry’s well rid of Miranda,’ he said. ‘He’s a nice fellow, Henry.’ He repeated, emphatically, ‘A really nice fellow.’

Clarissa smiled, and murmured gently, ‘Do you think you need to tell me that?’

‘I know he doesn’t say much,’ Sir Rowland went on. ‘He’s what you might call undemonstrative—but he’s sound all the way through.’ He paused, and then added, ‘That young fellow, Jeremy. What do you know about him?’

Clarissa smiled again. ‘Jeremy? He’s very amusing,’ she replied.

‘Ptscha!’ Sir Rowland snorted. ‘That’s all people seem to care about these days.’ He gave Clarissa a serious look, and continued, ‘You won’t—you won’t do anything foolish, will you?’

Clarissa laughed. ‘Don’t fall in love with Jeremy Warrender,’ she answered him. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

Sir Rowland still regarded her seriously. ‘Yes,’ he told her, ‘that’s precisely what I mean. He’s obviously very fond of you. Indeed, he seems unable to keep his hands off you. But you have a very happy marriage with Henry, and I wouldn’t want you to do anything to put that in jeopardy.’

Clarissa gave him an affectionate smile. ‘Do you really think I would do anything so foolish?’ she asked, playfully.

‘That would certainly be extremely foolish,’ Sir Rowland advised. He paused before continuing, ‘You know, Clarissa darling, I’ve watched you grow up. You really mean a great deal to me. If ever you’re in trouble of any kind, you would come to your old guardian, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course, Roly darling,’ Clarissa replied. She kissed him on the cheek. ‘And you needn’t worry about Jeremy. Really, you needn’t. I know he’s very engaging, and attractive and all that. But you know me, I’m only enjoying myself. Just having fun. It’s nothing serious.’

Sir Rowland was about to speak again when Miss Peake suddenly appeared at the French windows.

CHAPTER 4

Miss Peake had by now discarded her boots, and was in her stockinged feet. She was carrying a head of broccoli.

‘I hope you don’t mind my coming in this way, Mrs Hailsham-Brown,’ she boomed, as she strode across to the sofa. ‘I shan’t make the room dirty, I’ve left my boots outside. I’d just like you to look at this broccoli.’ She thrust it belligerently over the back of the sofa and under Clarissa’s nose.

‘It—er—it looks very nice,’ was all Clarissa could think of by way of reply.

Miss Peake pushed the broccoli at Sir Rowland. ‘Take a look,’ she ordered him.

Sir Rowland did as he was told and pronounced his verdict. ‘I can’t see anything wrong with it,’ he declared. But he took the broccoli from her in order to give it a closer investigation.

‘Of course there’s nothing wrong with it,’ Miss Peake barked at him. ‘I took another one just like this into the kitchen yesterday, and that woman in the kitchen—’ She broke off to add, by way of parenthesis, ‘Of course, I don’t want to say anything against your servants, Mrs Hailsham-Brown, though I could say a great deal.’ Returning to her main theme, she continued, ‘But that Mrs Elgin actually had the nerve to tell me that it was such a poor specimen she wasn’t going to cook it. She said something about, “If you can’t do better than that in the kitchen garden, you’d better take up some other job.” I was so angry I could have killed her.’

Clarissa began to speak, but Miss Peake ploughed on regardless. ‘Now you know I never want to make trouble,’ she insisted, ‘but I’m not going into that kitchen to be insulted.’ After a brief pause for breath, she resumed her tirade. ‘In future,’ she announced, ‘I shall dump the vegetables outside the back door, and Mrs Elgin can leave a list there—’

Sir Rowland at this point attempted to hand the broccoli back to her, but Miss Peake ignored him, and continued, ‘She can leave a list there of what is required.’ She nodded her head emphatically.

Neither Clarissa nor Sir Rowland could think of anything to say in reply, and just as the gardener opened her mouth to speak again the telephone rang. ‘I’ll answer it,’ she bellowed. She crossed to the phone and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello—yes,’ she barked into the mouthpiece, wiping the top of the table with a corner of her overall as she spoke. ‘This is Copplestone Court—You want Mrs Brown?—Yes, she’s here.’

Miss Peake held out the receiver, and Clarissa stubbed out her cigarette, went over to the phone, and took the receiver from her.

‘Hello,’ said Clarissa, ‘This is Mrs Hailsham-Brown.—Hello—hello.’ She looked at Miss Peake. ‘How odd,’ she exclaimed. ‘They seem to have rung off.’

As Clarissa replaced the receiver, Miss Peake suddenly darted to the console table and set it back against the wall. ‘Excuse me,’ she boomed, ‘but Mr Sellon always liked this table flat against the wall.’

Clarissa surreptitiously pulled a face at Sir Rowland, but hastened nevertheless to assist Miss Peake with the table. ‘Thank you,’ said the gardener. ‘And,’ she added, ‘you will be careful about marks made with glasses on the furniture, won’t you, Mrs Brown-Hailsham.’ Clarissa looked anxiously at the table as the gardener corrected herself. ‘I’m sorry—I mean Mrs Hailsham-Brown.’ She laughed in a hearty fashion. ‘Oh well, Brown-Hailsham, Hailsham-Brown,’ she continued. ‘It’s really all the same thing, isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s not, Miss Peake,’ Sir Rowland declared, with very distinct enunciation. ‘After all, a horse chestnut is hardly the same thing as a chestnut horse.’

While Miss Peake was laughing jovially at this, Hugo came into the room. ‘Hello, there,’ she greeted him. ‘I’m getting a regular ticking off. Quite sarcastic, they’re being.’ Going across to Hugo, she thumped him on the back, and then turned to the others. ‘Well, good night, all,’ she shouted. ‘I must be toddling back. Give me the broccoli.’

Sir Rowland handed it over. ‘Horse chestnut—chestnut horse,’ she boomed at him. ‘Jolly good—I must remember that.’ With another boisterous laugh she disappeared through the French windows.

Hugo watched her leave, and then turned to Clarissa and Sir Rowland. ‘How on earth does Henry bear that woman?’ he wondered aloud.

‘He does actually find her very hard to take,’ Clarissa replied. She picked up Pippa’s book from the easy chair, put it on the table and collapsed into the chair as Hugo responded, ‘I should think so. She’s so damned arch! All that hearty schoolgirl manner.’

‘A case of arrested development, I’m afraid,’ Sir Rowland added, shaking his head.

Clarissa smiled. ‘I agree she’s maddening,’ she said, ‘but she’s a very good gardener and, as I keep telling everyone, she goes with the house, and since the house is so wonderfully cheap—’

‘Cheap? Is it?’ Hugo interrupted her. ‘You surprise me.’

‘Marvellously cheap,’ Clarissa told him. ‘It was advertised. We came down and saw it a couple of months ago, and took it then and there for six months, furnished.’

‘Whom does it belong to?’ Sir Rowland asked.

‘It used to belong to a Mr Sellon,’ Clarissa replied. ‘But he died. He was an antique dealer in Maidstone.’

‘Ah, yes!’ Hugo exclaimed. ‘That’s right. Sellon and Brown. I once bought a very nice Chippendale mirror from their shop in Maidstone. Sellon lived out here in the country, and used to go into Maidstone every day, but I believe he sometimes brought customers out here to see things that he kept in the house.’

‘Mind you,’ Clarissa told them both, ‘there are one or two disadvantages about this house. Only yesterday, a man in a violent check suit drove up in a sports car and wanted to buy that desk.’ She pointed to the desk. ‘I told him that it wasn’t ours and therefore we couldn’t sell it, but he simply wouldn’t believe me and kept on raising the price. He went up to five hundred pounds in the end.’

‘Five hundred pounds!’ exclaimed Sir Rowland, sounding really startled. He went across to the desk. ‘Good Lord!’ he continued. ‘Why, even at the Antique Dealers’ Fair I wouldn’t have thought it would fetch anything near to that. It’s a pleasant enough object, but surely not especially valuable.’

Hugo joined him at the desk, as Pippa came back into the room. ‘I’m still hungry,’ she complained.

‘You can’t be,’ Clarissa told her firmly.

‘I am,’ Pippa insisted. ‘Milk and chocolate biscuits and a banana aren’t really filling.’ She made for the armchair and flung herself into it.

Sir Rowland and Hugo were still contemplating the desk. ‘It’s certainly a nice desk,’ Sir Rowland observed. ‘Quite genuine, I imagine, but not what I’d call a collector’s piece. Don’t you agree, Hugo?’

‘Yes, but perhaps it’s got a secret drawer with a diamond necklace in it,’ Hugo suggested facetiously.

‘It has got a secret drawer,’ Pippa chimed in.

‘What?’ Clarissa exclaimed.

‘I found a book in the market, all about secret drawers in old furniture,’ Pippa explained. ‘So I tried looking at desks and things all over the house. But this is the only one that’s got a secret drawer.’ She got up from the armchair. ‘Look,’ she invited them. ‘I’ll show you.’

She went over to the desk and opened one of its pigeon-holes. While Clarissa came and leaned over the sofa to watch, Pippa slid her hand into the pigeon-hole. ‘See,’ she said as she did so, ‘you slide this out, and there’s a sort of little catch thing underneath.’

‘Humph!’ Hugo grunted. ‘I don’t call that very secret.’

‘Ah, but that’s not all,’ Pippa went on. ‘You press this thing underneath—and a little drawer flies out.’ Again she demonstrated, and a small drawer shot out of the desk. ‘See?’

Hugo took the drawer and picked a small piece of paper out of it. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘what’s this, I wonder?’ He read aloud. ‘“Sucks to you”.’

‘What!’ Sir Rowland exclaimed, and Pippa went off into a gale of laughter. The others joined in, and Sir Rowland playfully shook Pippa, who pretended to punch him in return as she boasted, ‘I put that there!’

‘You little villain!’ said Sir Rowland, ruffling her hair. ‘You’re getting as bad as Clarissa with your silly tricks.’

‘Actually,’ Pippa told them, ‘there was an envelope with an autograph of Queen Victoria in it. Look, I’ll show you.’ She dashed to the bookshelves, while Clarissa went to the desk, replaced the drawers, and closed the pigeon-hole.

At the bookshelves, Pippa opened a small box on one of the lower shelves, took out an old envelope containing three scraps of paper, and displayed them to the assembled company.

‘Do you collect autographs, Pippa?’ Sir Rowland asked her.

‘Not really,’ replied Pippa. ‘Only as a side-line.’ She handed one of the pieces of paper to Hugo, who glanced at it and passed it on to Sir Rowland.

‘A girl at school collects stamps, and her brother’s got a smashing collection himself,’ Pippa told them. ‘Last autumn he thought he’d got one like the one he saw in the paper—a Swedish something or other which was worth hundreds of pounds.’ As she spoke, she handed the two remaining autographs and the envelope to Hugo, who passed them on to Sir Rowland.

‘My friend’s brother was awfully excited,’ Pippa continued, ‘and he took the stamp to a dealer. But the dealer said it wasn’t what he thought it was, though it was quite a good stamp. Anyway, he gave him five pounds for it.’

Sir Rowland handed two of the autographs back to Hugo, who passed them on to Pippa. ‘Five pounds is pretty good, isn’t it?’ Pippa asked him, and Hugo grunted his agreement.

Pippa looked down at the autographs. ‘How much do you think Queen Victoria’s autograph would be worth?’ she wondered aloud.

‘About five to ten shillings, I should think,’ Sir Rowland told her, as he looked at the envelope he was still holding.

‘There’s John Ruskin’s here too, and Robert Browning’s,’ Pippa told them.

‘They’re not worth much either, I’m afraid,’ said Sir Rowland, handing the remaining autograph and the envelope to Hugo, who passed them on to Pippa, murmuring sympathetically as he did so, ‘Sorry, my dear. You’re not doing very well, are you?’

‘I wish I had Neville Duke’s and Roger Bannister’s,’ Pippa murmured wistfully. ‘These historical ones are rather mouldy, I think.’ She replaced the envelope and autographs in the box, placed the box back on the shelf, and then began to back towards the hall door. ‘Can I see if there are any more chocolate biscuits in the larder, Clarissa?’ she asked, hopefully.

‘Yes, if you like,’ Clarissa told her, smiling.

‘We must be off,’ said Hugo, following Pippa towards the door and calling up the staircase, ‘Jeremy! Hi! Jeremy!’

‘Coming,’ Jeremy shouted back as he hurried down the stairs carrying a golf club.

‘Henry ought to be home soon,’ Clarissa murmured, to herself as much as to the others.

Hugo went across to the French windows, calling to Jeremy, ‘Better go out this way. It’s nearer.’ He turned back to Clarissa. ‘Goodnight, Clarissa dear,’ he said. ‘Thank you for putting up with us. I’ll probably go straight home from the club, but I promise to send your weekend guests back to you in one piece.’

‘Goodnight, Clarissa,’ Jeremy joined in, as he followed Hugo out into the garden.

Clarissa waved them goodbye, as Sir Rowland came across and put his arm around her. ‘Goodnight, my dear,’ he said. ‘Warrender and I will probably not be in until about midnight.’

Clarissa accompanied him to the French windows. ‘It’s really a lovely evening,’ she observed. ‘I’ll come with you as far as the gate onto the golf course.’

They strolled across the garden together, making no attempt to catch up with Hugo and Jeremy. ‘What time do you expect Henry home?’ Sir Rowland asked.

‘Oh, I’m not sure. It varies. Quite soon, I imagine. Anyway, we’ll have a quiet evening together and some cold food, and we’ll probably have retired to bed by the time you and Jeremy get back.’

‘Yes, don’t wait up for us, for heaven’s sake,’ Sir Rowland told her.

They walked on in companionable silence until they reached the garden gate. Then, ‘All right, my dear, I’ll see you later, or probably at breakfast tomorrow,’ said Clarissa.

Sir Rowland gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek, and walked on briskly to catch up with his companions, while Clarissa made her way back to the house. It was a pleasant evening, and she walked slowly, stopping to enjoy the sights and smells of the garden, and allowing her thoughts to wander. She laughed to herself as the image of Miss Peake with her broccoli came into her mind, then found herself smiling when she thought of Jeremy and his clumsy attempt to make love to her. She wondered idly whether he had really been serious about it. As she approached the house, she began to contemplate with pleasure the prospect of a quiet evening at home with her husband.

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