‘You don’t find her gloomy?’
Miss Fell had a startled look.
‘Oh, no. Oh, I know what you mean, but we have all had a very severe shock. You may have seen something about it in the papers. Mr Harsch – such a nice man, and very musical too – was found dead in the church only the day before yesterday. I am afraid – well, I am afraid that he shot himself. It has upset and distressed us all very much.’ She slipped a hand inside his arm and kept it there. ‘If anything could make me more glad to see you than I always am, it would be this distressing affair, because the inquest is tomorrow and it would be a great support to have you with me.’
‘Do you mean that you are obliged to go?’
The blue eyes were round and troubled.
‘Oh, yes, my dear. You see, I heard the shot.’
CHAPTER FIVE
HE LOOKED BACK on the evening afterwards and wondered about it. Just how dense had he been? Just where had he failed in the uptake? To what extent had he been oblivious of that faint current stirring beneath a surface calm? To what extent had he been misled? It was very hard to say. The calm upon the surface was complete. For the time there was no more talk of Michael Harsch. Miss Brown dispensed coffee, and then sat down to the piano to play the classical music upon which Miss Fell’s taste had been formed. She played extremely well – Scarlatti, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. Nothing more modern than that.
Aunt Sophy kept up a desultory flow of conversation, interrupting it to listen to a favourite passage and then going on again. She had changed into stiff black satin, with a velvet ribbon tied in a little bow under her third chin, and a diamond brooch catching a piece of Honiton lace across the billowy expanse of her bosom. As long as he could remember she had dressed like that in the evening. There was something very reassuring about it. Europe might go up in flames and the pillars of the world be shaken, but the Rectory drawing-room, the Rectory customs, Aunt Sophy and her fal-lals, were consolingly permanent. The windows stood open to the warm evening air, and the scent of the garden entered with it. Aunt Sophy’s voice came and went through the music.
‘Dr Meade is a great loss. Dr Edwards is very nice, but he cannot be expected to take the same interest. He lives at Oak Cottage, and his wife is an invalid. The new rector has Miss Jones’s house. And you will remember the Miss Doncasters. They are still at Pennycott, but Mary Anne is quite an invalid now – she never goes out. There is a Mrs Mottram at the Haven, a widow with a girl of five – very pretty and nice, but not musical. If it were not for that, I really think – but of course we mustn’t gossip, must we?’
‘Why mustn’t we?’ said Garth, laughing.
Miss Sophy bridled.
‘Well, my dear, these things get about so. But of course I don’t mean anything in the least scandalous – far from it. It would, in fact, be a most delightful match for both of them. And so nice to have a lady in Meadowcroft again. One’s next-door neighbour always does seem a little nearer than the others.’
He remembered sitting astride the dividing wall under the sweeping branches of a copper beech and pulling Janice Meade up beside him, little and light, to be out of the way when callers came, especially the Miss Doncasters. It seemed a long time ago. He said quickly, ‘Who did you say was in Meadowcroft?’
‘Oh, Mr Everton. That is who I was talking about. I think he admires Mrs Mottram very much, though it is a pity she is not musical. He has a charming baritone voice, and a wife should be able to play her husband’s accompaniments – don’t you think so?’
‘Has he got a wife?’
She leaned forward to tap his arm reprovingly.
‘My dear boy, of course not! I was just telling you how much he admired Mrs Mottram. I happen to know for a fact that he has had tea with her three Sundays running. And it would be such a good thing for her – such a nice man, and a delightful neighbour. He often drops in to sing duets with Miss Brown, or to have his accompaniments played. We have quite a musical circle now. And then he is so active in the village. He gives a prize for the best allotment. They have turned all those fields on the other side of Bourne into allotments. And he is quite a poultry expert. We are registered with him for eggs, and so is the Rector. I believe he was in business, but he had a breakdown and is obliged to lead an open-air life.’
‘What is Janice Meade like now she is grown up?’
‘Oh, my dear boy, you must meet her.’
‘What has she turned out like?’
Miss Sophy considered.
‘Well, I’m so fond of her – don’t you think it is very difficult to describe people when you are fond of them? I don’t suppose you would think she was pretty, but-’ she brightened ‘-she has very fine eyes.’
Miss Brown, unexpectedly graceful in black lace, sat at the piano and swept the keyboard with a series of flashing runs.
Miss Fell nodded approvingly.
‘That is what I call brilliant execution,’ she said. Then, raising her voice a little, ‘Pray go on, Medora.’
The well-shaped hands were lifted from the keyboard for a moment, then they came down upon it in the full, soft chords of one of Schumann’s Night Pieces. The room filled with the sound, deep, mysterious and intense. Night in a black forest, utterly dark, utterly dim, utterly withdrawn. Only so much light as a dead reflecting moon could lend to make the darkness visible.
After a moment Miss Sophy prattled on again,
‘She plays so well, does she not? And quite without music. It is the modern way of course. We used never to be allowed to take our eyes from the book.’
Garth said abruptly, ‘What did you call her?’
‘Oh, Medora. So charmingly uncommon.’
‘I never heard it before. Is it English?’ And yet the moment he had spoken he knew that if he had never heard the name, he had seen it somewhere. He thought it was a long time ago.
Miss Sophy looked surprised.
‘It is unusual of course, but I like it better than Fedora, which I always think has rather an operatic sound. And then there is Eudora, in that delightful book of Miss Yonge’s The Pillars of the House. It means a happy gift – and I don’t know what Medora means, but I am sure she has been a happy gift to me.’
From where they sat at the far side of the long drawing-room it was impossible that what they said should reach Miss Brown, yet Garth instinctively lowered his voice. ‘She doesn’t look at all happy.’
Miss Sophy nodded.
‘No, my dear boy. But I told you, we have all had a severe shock.’
‘Is there any particular reason why it should be a severe shock to her?’
‘Oh, dear me – I hope not. But they were great friends – their music, you know, and both playing the organ. He used often to drop in here for a few minutes on his way to the church, and sometimes afterwards.’
‘Did you see him the night he – died?’ For the life of him he couldn’t help that little pause.
Miss Sophy shook her head.
‘Oh, no – he went straight to the church. But then he often did that. You know it is really a very fine instrument, and since we have had electricity in the village it is not necessary to have anyone to blow. So tiresome, I used to think. I remember Tommy Entwhistle used to make the most horrible faces over it, and your grandfather put in Rose Stevens instead. It was considered a great innovation, but of course girls are so much steadier than boys.’
Garth laughed and said, ‘Oh, much! Who is sexton now?’
‘Old Bush died a couple of years ago, but he had not really been up to the work for a long time. Frederick used to help him, and of course he got the post.’
‘He hasn’t been called up?’
‘Oh, no – he must be nearly fifty. He was all through the last war, you know. I used to wonder how old Bush felt about it, because though of course the children were born over here, he and his wife were both Germans, and they never thought about being naturalised – people in their position didn’t – but they started spelling their name the English way almost at once.’