‘I expect that was the trouble, Aunt Sophy – they didn’t like each other, but they fell in love. It’s the sort of thing that’s likely to make trouble, isn’t it?’
Miss Sophy looked more bewildered than ever.
‘I don’t know, my dear boy. When I was a girl there was no one for me to fall in love with, so I never did – though a Mr Hoathley did propose to poor Papa for me, but it would have been very unsuitable, and Papa said no at once.’
‘Didn’t you get a chance of saying anything?’
She bridled.
‘My dear, I hardly knew him – he was a veterinary surgeon. I remember he had very nice curly hair, and I believe he afterwards had a very good practice in Brighton. But of course all that has nothing to do with this very distressing affair. Poor Medora! And then there’s Miss Madoc – I really can’t bear to think about her – so nice, and such a devoted sister! And Mr Madoc in prison! You know, my dear, I just can’t believe he did anything so dreadful. I don’t mean to say he hasn’t a very bad temper, because everyone knows that he has, but I always did think that he was fond of Mr Harsch – quite a softening influence, if you know what I mean. And if he is innocent, what a terrible, terrible thing for him to be accused of murdering his friend! I find it terribly upsetting. You know, it all seems quite different when you read about it in the papers, but when it is people you know, it doesn’t seem as if it could really be happening. And the dreadful part is that there isn’t anything one can do.’
Inside Janice’s mind something said, ‘Miss Silver.’ She began to tell Miss Sophy what Ida Mottram had said, but before she had got very far she was interrupted.
‘Miss Maud Silver? My dear, how extraordinary!’
‘Oh, Miss Sophy – why? Do you know about her?’
The three black feathers flapped as Miss Sophy nodded. She put up her hands, removed two large jet hatpins, took off the hat, and skewered it to the back of the sofa.
‘Handsome, but heavy,’ she said with a sigh of relief.
‘Mamma’s cousin, Oswald Everett, brought her the feathers from South Africa. They have worn extremely well, though not in fashion now. But Mary Anne Doncaster would take offence if I went to see her in anything but my best hat. Now what were we talking about? Oh, yes – Miss Silver.’
‘Ida says-’
Miss Sophy waved Ida Mottram away.
‘She means well, my dear, but quite between ourselves she’s a goose. Now I know all about Miss Silver.’
‘Aunt Sophy!’
‘Miss Sophy!’
Garth and Janice gazed at her.
She patted a hand of each in a very complacent manner.
‘Sophy Ferrars is a distant cousin of mine – through dear Mamma of course. An aunt of hers, Sophronisba Ferrars, married my grandfather’s brother. I am called after her, and so was she. And of course I don’t suppose you have ever heard of Sophy Ferrars, but her young cousin Laura Fane, a very charming girl, was placed in a most terrible position about eighteen months ago. It didn’t all get into the papers, but some of it did. Another cousin, Tanis Lyle, was murdered-’
Garth made a sudden exclamation.
‘The Prior’s Holt murder!’
Miss Sophy nodded in a pleased sort of way.
‘Yes, my dear. And Laura was very nearly murdered too. Sophy Ferrars wrote and told me all about it. If Miss Silver had not been staying in the house, almost anything might have happened. She was staying there just as an ordinary visitor.’ Her voice died suddenly away. Her mouth remained open, round and surprised, above three quivering chins. She fetched as deep a breath as she could and said, ‘Why shouldn’t she come here and stay with me?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SUNDAY INTERVENED. GARTH accompanied Miss Sophy to church and listened to the new rector’s austere, academic voice with a curious feeling of unreality. Where his grandfather had boomed and thundered – a portly presence with the eagle eye which could detect a napping villager in the farthest pew – this ascetic scholar, whispering the prayers and running through the lesson in a vague, monotonous undertone, sounded unreal.
His thoughts must have communicated themselves to Miss Sophy. She turned and fooffled into his ear.
‘So different from poor Papa.’
When they stood up for the psalms he detected Cyril Bond, singing a piercing quarter of a tone sharp against the native choir who were even flatter than he remembered them. Glancing across the church, his eye lighted upon Mrs Mottram in a flibberty-gibbet hat which matched the very bright blue of her dress. On one side of her a little girl of five with a fuzz of yellow hair and a frilled pink frock. On the other Mr Everton, who looked as if the choir was hurting him quite a lot. The eye roamed farther, and discovered that Janice wasn’t there.
During a dry and practically inaudible sermon Garth searched his mind for reasons why this should be any concern of his. He came to the conclusion that it was not. After which he went on thinking about her until the service was over.
Janice was, and had been for what seemed like a very long time, sitting on the sofa beside Miss Madoc, who passed continuously from self-reproach, through protestations of her brother’s high mindedness and perfect innocence, to the despairing conclusion that everything was against him, and that he would certainly be hanged.
‘If only I hadn’t said anything to them about the key-’
‘But, dear Miss Madoc, he told them about it himself. What you said didn’t make the least bit of difference – it didn’t, truly.’
Two large tears ran down Miss Madoc’s face and dripped miserably upon a peacock-blue scarf which she had put on by accident, and which swore quite horribly at the rather bright purple of her Sunday dress. The skies might fall, Evan might be in prison, she herself far too prostrated to be able to think of going to church, but she had been brought up to wear a different dress on Sunday, and she would have felt quite desperately irreligious in her everyday green serge.
‘That’s what you say, my dear, and I’m sure it’s very kind of you, and I don’t like to feel that I’m keeping you back from church, but really when I think that it was only last Sunday that poor Mr Harsch was with us and the blackberry tart was so particularly good! It isn’t everyone who cares for cold pastry, but Evan never will have any cooking done on Sunday, so what can you do? But last Sunday it really was as light as a feather, and poor Mr Harsch enjoyed it so much, and had a second helping.’ Two more tears ran down, and she wiped them away. ‘Oh, my dear – do you believe in premonitions?’
‘I don’t know-’ said Janice.
‘Nor do I,’ said Mrs Madoc with a gulp. ‘But do you think perhaps Mr Harsch had one? He said such a curious thing to me on Monday night. He’d been over to Marbury, you remember, to get something he wanted for that last experiment, and he came in late because he missed the bus and had to walk from the Halt. And I thought he looked bad when he came in, so I said to him, “Are you very tired, Mr Harsch?” and he said, “I don’t know – I think I must be. I have just seen a ghost.” ’
Janice said, ‘What?’
Miss Madoc nodded.
‘That is what he said, my dear. And I said, “Oh, Mr Harsch!” and he smiled and said, “Did I frighten you? I wouldn’t like to do that. It is nothing for you to be afraid of.” Do you think that he really saw something?’
‘I don’t know-’
Miss Madoc wiped her eyes upon a folk-weave handkerchief which had rough yellow and green threads running across it. Even at a moment like this Janice couldn’t help thinking how uncomfortable it must be.