She was rather surprised by the lack of hospitality which the question implied and, as she hesitated over an answer, Mrs Harman-Foote appeared at her side.
‘Why, of course Miss Lambe must remain here, my dear,’ she said firmly. ‘We cannot think of moving her.’ She took Dido’s arm and led her off into one of the deep bay windows. ‘An invalid must be disturbed as little as possible,’ she declared firmly. ‘There must always be complete calm in a sickroom, you see. Complete calm. It is a principle of mine. Miss Crockford should ensure there is no noise and as little light as possible …’
She continued to talk for some time, settling Harriet’s duties to her own satisfaction, the comfortable authority of her voice only a little impaired by its having to rise continually above the dreadful noise which her son was making.
The doll was now being made to climb the back of a chair in lively imitation of Penelope mounting the gallery steps. As it reached the top, it cried out (in Master Georgie’s stentorian tones): ‘Ah! There’s a ghost!’ There followed a scream so loud it interrupted the conversations of everyone in the room, and the unfortunate thing was dashed down violently onto the floor. There was an ominous cracking sound from its china head.
‘Poor Georgie,’ murmured his affectionate mother. ‘He has been excessively upset by this terrible accident. He must be comforted and reassured.’
Dido could not quite think that it was comfort or reassurance which the child required just now. As she watched him begin once more upon the game and steeled herself for a repetition of the scream, she had some rather different ideas …
‘It is of the first importance,’ continued Mrs Harman-Foote, ‘that he should be brought to believe that there was no ghost upon the gallery.’
‘Yes …’ said Dido doubtingly, ‘but, in the meantime, do you not think …’ She was prevented from continuing by a scream even louder than the first and an even more ominous crashing and cracking of china.
‘Oh! Poor child!’ grieved the mother and turned confidingly to Dido. ‘He is so easily upset. And by no means so strong as he looks – as I always tell his father when he argues for his going away to school.’
‘Indeed!’ said Dido, who, though not having a very high opinion in general of public education, was beginning to wonder whether, in certain circumstances, it might be of some utility.
‘Now, Miss Kent,’ continued Mrs Harman-Foote briskly. ‘Is it true that Miss Lambe saw … believed that she saw the Grey Nun in the ruins?’
‘Well,’ said Dido cautiously, ‘I would not put it down for a certainty. Though Lucy seems quite convinced of it.’
‘I should very much value your opinion. Was it shock at seeing something frightening which made her fall?’ A very earnest look accompanied the question. ‘It is of great consequence. As you see, poor Georgie is so very distressed; he must not be frightened by this talk of ghosts.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Dido, glancing at the poor sensitive child who was now absentmindedly beating the doll’s head against the leg of a chair. ‘But I do not see how he is to be protected. Lucy is so very sure that the ghost appeared, and I daresay that by now half your household is talking about it.’
‘And, if they are, they must be stopped,’ Mrs Harman-Foote said firmly, and watched with a look of tender concern as her son began to wrench the limbs from the broken doll.
Anne Harman-Foote was a tall woman with features which were too well marked for beauty and she lacked that grace which makes height becoming. Her smile was not unpleasant; but there was such a forbidding air of knowing always that she was right, as made her seem older than her eight and twenty years – and her belief in her children’s talents and virtues was unassailable. The consciousness of being Madderstone’s heiress was very deeply ingrained: she was a woman who had not even surrendered her surname on marriage, but had merely added her husband’s name to hers – as the substantial Foote fortune had been added to the even more substantial acres of the Harmans.
‘Miss Kent,’ she continued earnestly, ‘you have not yet told me what your opinion is of this sad accident. I know I can rely upon you to speak good sense and not be carried away by fancies.’
‘My opinion …’ Dido hesitated, for she found that she must consider the events again before she could give an answer deserving of the compliment. Everything that had intervened: the bringing of Penelope to the house, the terrible suspense they had all been in while they awaited the surgeon’s pronouncement, the writing of a hurried note to be sent express to Mrs Nolan, Penelope’s guardian; all these things were already confusing and weakening her recollection of the terrible moments in the abbey ruins.
‘I was not very close to Penelope when she fell,’ she began carefully. ‘I was at the bottom of the steps. But I saw her … She started to come down. She turned – when she was on the second step …’ Dido remembered the hesitation, one little hand clutching at the wall. ‘She seemed to be about to say something to Harriet and she was looking up at her – and into the gallery. And suddenly she looked so shocked …’
‘As if she had seen something frightening on the gallery?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Dido with reluctance. ‘That is how it appeared. Or, at least, if it was not a look of positive fright, it was one of very great surprise …’ She struggled to remember, and to speak, exactly. ‘As if she had seen something which ought not to be there. There was a kind of involuntary recoil. I am sure that step backward – which was the cause of her fall – was made quite unconsciously.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Harman-Foote with a dismissive wave of the hand, ‘there was no ghost. But what was it that Miss Lambe saw?’
‘It is a great puzzle,’ acknowledged Dido. ‘But I daresay we shall only be in suspense for a day or two. For then Penelope will be sufficiently recovered to tell us all about it.’
‘But I have spoken to Mr Paynter on the subject,’ said Mrs Harman-Foote anxiously, ‘and it his opinion that, after such an injury, it may be several weeks before the patient is well enough to recall the exact circumstances of her accident. Indeed, he tells me that he has known cases where these memories are lost for ever and that even after a perfect recovery, the time of the accident remains a kind of blank in the brain.’
‘Oh dear!’ cried Dido. ‘How very inconvenient!’
Mrs Harman-Foote laid a hand upon her arm and gazed tenderly across the room to Georgie who had now abandoned the doll and was standing between Lucy and Laurence, teasing them with questions. ‘It is a great deal more than inconvenient,’ she said, ‘for here is my poor Georgie – and his sisters too – wanting so very much to know the whole story. And children must always be told the truth. It is a principle of mine. I must have a rational account to give them. I cannot allow their heads to be filled with stories of ghosts.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Dido anxiously. She might care little about young Georgie’s delicate sensibilities, but she cared a great deal about unsolved conundrums. ‘There must be something we can do to come at the truth,’ she said eagerly. ‘It cannot be so very obscure. Perhaps if I were to return to the ruins and look into the gallery again …’
‘Yes. That is precisely what is needed. So you will enquire into the matter and find out the truth?’
‘Well, I shall try, but …’
‘It is extremely kind of you Miss Kent. I am very grateful indeed.’
‘But I cannot promise …’
The protest went unheard. The carriage was announced and everyone was on the move.
And, as she watched Lucy cross the hall still flushed with heightened imagination, Dido could not help but think that a cool sensible explanation of events might benefit her as much as Georgie. In fact, the sooner the spectre of the Grey Nun was laid to rest, the better it would be for all concerned.