It was at about the same moment that Margaret, returning from a brisk tramp over the fields, emerged on to the right-of-way, and made her way past the ruined chapel towards the house. The sight of someone kneeling by one of the half-buried tombs apparently engaged in trying to decipher the inscription, made her stop and look more closely. Her feet had made no sound on the turf, but the kneeling figure looked round quickly, and she saw that it was Michael Strange.
She came slowly towards him, an eyebrow raised in rather puzzled inquiry. "Hullo!" she said. "Are you interested in old monuments?"
Strange rose, brushing a cake of half-dry mud from his ancient flannel trousers. "I am rather," he said. "Do you mind my having a look round?"
"Not at all," Margaret said. "But I'm afraid you won't find much of interest." She sat down on the tomb, and dug her hands into the pockets of her Burberry. "I didn't know you were keen on this sort of thing."
"I know very little about it," he said, "but I've always been interested in ruins. It's a pity this has been allowed to go. There's some fine Norman work."
She agreed, but seemed to be more interested in the contemplation of one of her own shoes. "Are you staying here long?" she asked.
"Only for another week or so," he replied. "I'm on holiday, you know."
"Yes, you told me so." She looked up, smiling. "By the way, what do you do, if it isn't a rude question?"
"I fish mostly."
"I meant in town."
"Oh, I see. I have my work, and I manage to get some golf over the week-ends. Do you play?"
"Very badly," Margaret answered, feeling baulked. She tried again. "What sort of work do you do?"
"Mostly office-stuff, and very dull," he said.
Margaret decided that further questioning would sound impertinent, and started a fresh topic. "If you're interested in old buildings," she said, "you ought to go over the Priory itself. It's the most weird place, full of nooks and crannies, and rooms leading out of one another."
"I noticed some very fine panelling when I took you home the other night," he said. "Have you any records of the place, I wonder?"
"No, funnily enough we haven't," she answered. "You'd think there ought to be something, and as far as I know my uncle didn't take anything out of the house when Aunt Flora died, but we can't find anything."
"Nothing amongst the books?"
"There aren't many, you know. No, nothing. Celia was awfully disappointed, because she thought there was bound to be a history, or something. And we should rather like to find out whether there's any foundation for the story of the haunting."
Strange sat down beside her on the tomb. "How much store do you set by that tale?" he asked. "Do you really believe in it?"
"I don't really know," she said, wrinkling her brow. "I haven't seen the famous Monk, and until I do - I'll reserve judgment."
"Very wise," he approved. "And if you do see it I wish you'd tell me. I should like to have first-hand evidence of a real ghost." He chanced to glance up as he spoke, and his eyes narrowed. "Oh!" he said, in rather a curt voice. "So you did call in the police after all?"
Margaret looked quickly in the same direction. Mr. Flinders was tramping down one of the paths, very obviously on his way from the house back to the village. Without quite knowing why, she felt slightly guilty. "Yes. We - we thought we'd try and get to the bottom of our ghost."
He turned his head, and looked directly at her. "You've made up your minds to keep whatever you've seen, or heard, to yourselves," he said abruptly. "You're scared of this place, aren't you?"
She was startled. "Well, really, I - yes, a bit, perhaps. It's not surprising considering what tales they tell about it round here."
"You'll think me impertinent," he said, "but I wish you'd leave it."
It was her turn now to look at him, surprised, rather grave. "Why?" she said quietly. "Because if the place is haunted, and you saw anything, it might give you a really bad fright. Where's the sense in staying in a house that gives you the creeps?"
"You're very solicitous about me, Mr. Strange. I don't quite see why."
"I don't suppose you do," he said, prodding the ground between his feet with his walking stick. "And I daresay I've no right to be - solicitous about you. All the same, I am."
She found it hard to say anything after this, but managed after a short pause to remark that a ghost couldn't hurt her.
He made no answer, but continued to prod the ground, and with a nervous little laugh, she said: "You look as though you thought it could."
"No, I'm not as foolish as that," he replied. "But it could scare you badly."
"I didn't think you believed in the Monk. You know, you're being rather mysterious."
"I believe in quite a number of odd things," he said. "Sorry if I sounded mysterious."
She pulled up a blade of grass, and began to play with it. "Mr. Strange."
He smiled. "Miss Fortescue?"
"It isn't what you sound," she said, carefully inspecting her blade of grass. "It's — things you do."
There was an infinitesimal pause. "What have I done?" Strange asked lightly.
She abandoned the grass, and turned towards him. "Last night, at about one o'clock when we had summer lightning, I - it woke me."
"Did it? But what has that got to do with my mysterious behaviour?"
She looked into his eyes, and saw them faintly amused. "Mr. Strange, I got up to close my window, in case it came on to rain. I saw you in one of the flashes."
"You saw me?" he repeated.
"Yes, by the big rose bush just under my window. I saw you quite clearly. I didn't say anything about it to the others."
"Why not?" he said.
She flushed. "I don't quite know. Partly because I didn't want to frighten Celia."
"Is that the only reason?" She was silent.
"I was in the Priory garden last night," he said. "I can't tell you why, but I hope you'll believe that whatever I was doing there - I'd - I'd chuck it up sooner than harm you in any way, or - or even give you a fright." He paused, but she still said nothing. "I don't know why you should trust me, but you seem to have done so, and I'm jolly grateful. Can you go on trusting me enough to keep this to yourself?"
She raised troubled eyes. "I ought not to. I ought to tell my brother. You see, I - I don't really know anything about you, and - you must admit - it's rather odd of you to be in our grounds at that hour. I suppose you can't tell me anything more?"
"No," he said. "I can't. I wish I could."
She got up. "I shan't say anything about having seen you. But I warn you - you may be found out, another time. You want to get us out of the Priory - and we aren't going. So - so it's no use trying to frighten us away. I - I expect you know what I mean."
He did not answer, but continued to watch her rather closely. She held out her hand. "I must go, or I shall be too late for tea. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," Strange said, taking her hand for a moment in his strong clasp. "And thank you."
The rest of the family noticed that Margaret was rather silent at tea-time, and Mrs. Bosanquet asked her if she were tired. She roused herself at that, disclaimed, and, banishing Strange from her thoughts for a while, gave her attention to Celia, who was recounting the proceedings of Constable Henry Flinders.
"And as far as I can see," Celia said, "there those scratches will remain."
"You would have him," Charles reminded her. "You despised our efforts, and now that you've got a trained sleuth on to the job you're no better pleased."
"What I'd really like," Celia said, "and what I always had in mind was a detective, not an ordinary policeman."