"You are being watched." What horrible ominous words!
I looked over my shoulder. I could almost Peel eyes peering at me, even in my own room. I read the note again and again.
The evening was spoilt for me. I was being drawn farther and farther into this turmoil of deceit. Where was Marcia Martindale? If only she would come back and show herself! Nothing short of that would stop this gossip.
I looked again at the paper. Could it be Mrs. Baddicombe? No. Surely she would not go so far as that. Hers was over-the-counter gossip. She was not the sort to write anonymous letters. Who was? One could never be sure. That was at the root of the whole nasty procedure. One could never be sure.
I tucked the letter inside my bodice. I could hear the sounds of bustle below. The carriages were waiting.
I was hardly aware of driving to the Hall.
"You're dreaming," said Eileen Eccles. "Is it of delights to come?"
I roused myself and tried to smile.
Jason was receiving his guests. He took my hand and kissed it. Nothing very unusual about that as it seemed to be his mode of greeting to most of the ladies.
"Cordelia," he whispered, "it's wonderful to have you here.
I wanted to cry out, I have a letter... a horrible... horrible letter and it is all due to you.
Instead I said nothing and heard myself being introduced to a gentleman whose name I was too bemused to catch. There was a great deal of talk about last evening's entertainment and the excellence of the production.
"I understand from Jason that you were responsible for that, Miss Grant," said one young woman. "How very clever you must be."
I acknowledged the appreciation and the gentleman whose name I did not catch said that the most thrilling moment was when the monks suddenly appeared among the ruins chanting.
"I got quite a frisson," said the lady.
"I suppose that was what was intended," replied the man. "In any case, you brought the atmosphere alive."
"It was really quite creepy. Look, Serge Polenski has arrived. They say he is one of the greatest pianists of the time."
"That is why Jason has him here. He's taking London by storm and I hear he has just come from Paris where he was a great success."
"He's such a little man. I imagined him taller. But perhaps he looks small beside Jason."
"When is he going to perform?" I asked, feeling it was time I said something.
"Very soon, I should imagine. Jason is taking him to the music room now. Shall we follow?"
I walked with them into a smaller room where there was a grand piano on a dais. The room was decorated in white and scarlet and there was a high bowl of red roses on a marble consul table. Their scent filled the room. The windows were wide open to the moonlit lawns. I could see a fountain and flower-beds and the trees of the shrubbery in the distance. There was an atmosphere of complete peace in great contrast to my state of mind.
I noticed a group of our girls together. There were eight of them. Fiona and Eugenie had been allowed to ask three each. I saw Charlotte Mackay, Patricia Cartwright and Gwendoline Grey among them.
Teresa had told me that she had not been invited but she didn't care.
Charlotte looked up and smiled at me. So did the other girls.
I went over to them and said: "This is going to be wonderful."
"Oh yes, Miss Grant. We are looking forward to it," said Gwendoline, who longed to play the piano professionally, an ambition which Mr. Crowe regarded with some scepticism.
"You'll be able to see how it should be done," I said.
"Oh yes, Miss Grant."
I left them and went back to my seat.
The concert was indeed wonderful and for a few moments I forgot the horrible implications of that letter as I listened to Serge Polenski playing some pieces of Chopin and Schumann.
Too soon it was over. He was taking his bow to rapturous applause and Jason was thanking him and leading him from the room.
Conversation broke out and everyone said: "How marvellous!" And then we were all drifting into the ball-room. I was still with my unknown lady and gentleman and another man had joined us. He talked knowledgeably of the magnificent performance of Serge Polenski and we seated ourselves close to a pot of palms. Flowers from the greenhouses had been brought in and because of the time of the year there was a spectacular display. Servants in livery of blue and silver flitted in and out, most of them making their way through a door which I presumed to be the supper room.
I could not see Jason and supposed he was still with the pianist. From the minstrels' gallery the music began and one of our party asked me to dance.
We talked as we danced. He came from Cornwall. "Some fifteen miles away. Just over the border, you understand. My brother is with me. We have been visiting Colby all our lives. Of course, during the last years of poor Sylvia Verringer's life it was not easy. She was such an invalid."
"Yes," I said.
"Jason had rather a bad time. Perhaps now. Well, it's a year since Sylvia went. Poor soul."
I wanted to tell Jason about the letter. I wanted him to know what harm he was doing me by his rash actions. It was almost supper time before he came my way.
"Cordelia," he said. "It's wonderful to have you here. I've been trying to get to you the whole evening. Let's dance."
It was another waltz. At Schaffenbrucken there had been great emphasis on dancing, and I was quite good at it.
He said: "What do you think of the Hall?"
"It's very grand. I have seen it before."
"Not properly. I want to show it to you. Not tonight but come over tomorrow."
"I've had a letter," I cried.
"A letter?"
"It's horrible. It's accusing me ..."
"Of what?"
"Of murdering Marcia Martindale."
"Good God! There must be a madman here. Why... why you?"
"Isn't it obvious? People are thinking she was my rival. It's all so sordidly horrible."
"Have you got the letter?"
"Yes, I brought it with me."
"Have you any idea who sent it?"
"None. It's in block letters."
"I want to see it." He had whirled me to an alcove where we were slightly sheltered from the bail-room by tall potted greenery.
He looked at the letter.
"Malicious," he said.
"I wondered if it was the postmistress. She says some scandalous things."
"This printing could be anyone. It is obviously meant to disguise the handwriting. What about the girl who found the earring?"
"Teresa! She would never do anything to upset me. She sets herself out to protect me." "Nevertheless she has ideas."
"Only because she is afraid for me. She would never deliberately upset me."
"Girls can behave oddly. There is obviously talk about you and me. The best thing to stop it would be to announce our engagement."
"Scandal doesn't stop with engagements. The only way to stop this is to produce Marcia Martindale."
There was a cough behind us. I spun round. Charlotte Mackay was standing there.
"Charlotte!" I cried.
"I came to find you or one of the mistresses, Miss Grant." She was looking from me to Jason with just a hint of amusement in her expression. I thought, surely they can't be talking at school, and yet they must be because Teresa had been disturbed by it.
"Well," I said sharply, "what is it, Charlotte?" "It's Fiona," she said. "She's got a headache. She wants to go back."
"She can lie down here," said Jason. "She has her room."
"She said it was nothing and she would be all right in the morning, but she does want to leave now."
"Emmet is waiting, I think. He can take her back."
"I'll go with her, Miss Grant, and Eugenie will too."
"Oh, but Miss Hetherington said you could stay to supper if you went immediately afterwards."