“Edward-darling-I must see you-I really must! There’s something you ought to know-about your uncle-”
“And there’s someone else on the line! Didn’t you hear the click? I’m ringing off! And I’m not discussing my affairs on the telephone either now or at any other time!” He hung up, and the line was dead.
If someone else had really cut in, he must have put back his receiver at exactly the same moment that Edward did, because there was no second click. Perhaps there had never been a first one. Edward said he had heard it, but she hadn’t heard it herself. She mightn’t have heard it the way her heart was beating. Or it might have been just an excuse to get rid of her. And now the line was dead.
She hung up at her end and went back to the Miss Blakes. As she came into the dark hall, Miss Mildred opened the kitchen door.
“You’ve been a long time posting a letter.”
Clarice remembered that she was supposed to have a limp.
“My-my foot-” she said.
“I thought it was your ankle. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it when you came in. One of those quick recoveries! Well, now that you are here, perhaps you will go up to my sister. She has been ringing her bell.”
CHAPTER XVI
It was a couple of days later that Miss Silver received a letter from the daughter of an old schoolfriend. She had been out all day, and coming in from one of the heavy showers which were so greatly disturbing the weather, she took the time to change her dress and her shoes and stockings before sitting down beside the fire and looking at what the second post had brought. It was pleasant to come in from the wet street to this cheerful room. The carpet and curtains which had replaced the well worn servants of so many years were very bright, very cosy. She had been fortunate in being able to repeat the colour to which she was so much attached, a lively shade of peacock-blue, the carpet embellished by wreaths of roses in a number of pleasing shades. This background set off the contours of her Victorian chairs with their spreading laps, their bow legs, their yellow walnut arms, their acanthus-leaf carving. From the walls engravings of some of her favourite pictures gazed down upon the congenial scene-Hope, by G. F. Watts, Sir John Millais’ Black Brunswicker, Landseer’s Stag at Bay.
To a stranger the only jarring note would have been the large modern writing-table in front of the farther window. To Miss Silver it was so necessary and useful an adjunct to her professional life that it merely added to the pleasure with which she regarded her flat and everything in it, for was it not a visible symbol of her emancipation from what she always alluded to as her scholastic career? For many years she had had no other prospect than to spend her life in other people’s houses teaching their children, and in the end to face retirement upon a pittance. It was her work as a private detective which had made her independent, and in a modest way prosperous. She herself conveyed an impression of belonging to the same period as her pictures and her walnut chairs. The hair with very little grey in it coiled trimly at the back and arranged in a deep curled fringe in front, the whole strictly controlled by a net; the neat ladylike features; the dress of olive-green cashmere with that air of never having been in fashion which pervades the garments considered suitable to the refined dependent-all contributed to this effect. The neck of the green dress was fastened by a formidable brooch upon which the entwined initials of Miss Silver’s parents were raised in high relief upon a solid ground of eighteen-carat gold. It contained locks of their hair, and was a treasured relic. The furniture had been inherited from a great-aunt, and as she looked about her with appreciation and gratitude, she could feel that she was, as it were, in the bosom of her family.
So much for the remoter past. The photographs, framed in silver, in plush, in filagree upon velvet, which thronged the mantelpiece, the bookshelves, and every other available place except the writing-table, formed a record of more recent achievement. They were the gifts of people whom she had assisted in perplexity, freed from unjust suspicion, rescued from some unendurable predicament, and even saved from death. There were young men and girls, and babies who might never have been born if Miss Silver had not intervened to protect or exonerate their parents.
As she picked up her letter, her mind was pleasurably occupied with anticipation of the nice hot cup of tea which her faithful Emma Meadows was preparing. It would come in at any moment now, and whilst she drank it and ate one of Emma’s excellent scones she would enjoy reading what her friend’s daughter had to say. Mary Meredith had really been her dearest friend when they were at school together, but she had married before she was nineteen and become absorbed into the cares and duties of a busy parish. Letters became few and far between, but there was always one at Christmas-until a year ago when Mary’s daughter had written the sad news of her mother’s death. Attending the funeral, Miss Silver had found in Ruth a very strong resemblance to her friend, the likeness extending to their circumstances, since she also had married a clergyman. He had just been offered a country living-“A dear little place, and such a nice vicarage. And it’s really nothing of a journey from town, so you will come down and see us, won’t you, Miss Silver?” The invitation was warmly given, but press of work during the summer months prevented Miss Silver from availing herself of it.
She opened the envelope and unfolded the sheet which it contained. The heading was, “The Vicarage, Greenings, near Embank,” and the date the previous day. Turning her chair so as to bring her chilled feet nearer to the fire, she read what Ruth Ball had written:
“Dear Miss Silver,
How nice to have news of you. I was so hoping that you would have come down to us during the summer, but I know how busy you are. Only you do sometimes take a holiday, do you not? When this happens, do please think of us. This is a small place, but John has a busy time, for the church here serves three parishes and there is a lot of very scattered visiting to do. In some ways we are very primitive here, but in others quite up-to-date. For instance, though the road beyond the village is interrupted by a watersplash-a poor man was actually drowned in it the other day-yet we have the telephone, though it is a party line and so not really at all private. The church is old and considered very interesting-there is a Crusader’s tomb and some good carving and brasses. We inherited the late Vicar’s housekeeper-rather old, but such a good cook. And you will think I am in the lap of luxury when I tell you that I have just engaged a house-parlourmaid! She is the widow of the poor man who was drowned in the splash. You know, John had no private means when we were married, but an old cousin of his who died two years ago left him enough to make us very well off. If only we had children to share it with! But John is the best husband in the world, and we have so much to be grateful for.
Yes, I think I do know the girl you were asking about. If she spoke of a Miss Ora she could hardly be anyone except Clarice Dean who is nursing an elderly lady in the village, Miss Ora Blake. The name is such an uncommon one, and your description of the girl fits Miss Dean very well. She has been down here before. She nursed Mr. Random of the Hall-he died just before we came-so she knows most of the people here. There is some idea that she is having a romance with Mr. Random’s nephew. But that is gossip, and perhaps I ought to cross it out, only if I do it will make my letter so untidy, and I haven’t got time to write it again. Don’t you think it is very difficult to be sure whether one is gossiping or not? In a village you know everybody so well, and naturally you take an interest in what is going on. John is rather strict about it, but one can’t be stiff and unfriendly, can one? And do you think it matters, so long as you only have kind feelings about the people? Dear Miss Silver, it was so nice to hear from you.