“My sweet, you’re a spineless worm! And she tramples accordingly!”
Lucy Cunningham shook her head.
“It doesn’t do to have rows, and she’s a very good cook.”
“Aunt Lucy’s a peace-at-any-pricer! She’d give in to anything rather than have a row-wouldn’t you, Lu?”
“Nicholas, how often am I to tell you-”
“That you won’t have that silly, undignified nickname? Well, I don’t know, darling-it just depends. We might go into a huddle and arrive at a compromise-say once a day as a rule, and twice on high days and holidays.”
She broke into an unwilling smile. Jenny said in a considering voice,
“People don’t call you silly names unless they are fond of you, and if you managed to stop them, perhaps they wouldn’t be fond of you any more, so I suppose it’s really better to put up with it. I’d much, much rather be called Jennifer, only nobody will.”
“Well, I should go the whole hog and stick out for Guinevere,” said Nicholas. “It’s the same name and much more high-sounding.”
Jenny was obviously taken with the idea.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it.”
“Of course you would have to braid your hair into two long plaits and wear a wimple.”
Her colour flamed.
“You’re just laughing at me!”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
The angry tears were in her eyes. Her voice rose high.
“You’re doing it-you’re doing it all the time!”
Rosamond’s soft “Jenny!” and Miss Lucy’s “Nicholas, dear, don’t tease her!” were lost in the sudden opening of the door. Craig Lester looked across at it and saw Lydia Crewe standing there, very tall and black. She waited for the hush that fell upon the room, and said in a most forbidding voice,
“You were all making a great deal of noise. Especially Jenny! Were you engaged in some game? How do you do, Lucy? How do you do, Mr. Lester. Nicholas?” Her eyebrows rose. “Quite a party! I hope I am not intruding.”
The two men were on their feet, Nicholas with his agreeable smile unchanged. But it was Rosamond who spoke.
“Can I get you some tea, Aunt Lydia?”
Miss Crewe surveyed the old papier mâché tray, the teapot with its broken spout, the odd cups and saucers.
“Your tea equipage is hardly worthy of the occasion, Rosamond. Am I to suppose that we no longer have five cups which match one another? And I seem to remember a silver teapot. It had at least the virtue of being unbreakable, and on that score alone I should like to commend it. Appearances naturally do not matter any longer, but from the most utilitarian standpoint that broken spout must waste a good deal of the tea.”
Jenny had a bright spot of colour on either cheek. She said in a high childish voice,
“It hadn’t anything to do with Rosamond. Miss Holiday brought up the tray.”
Miss Crewe addressed Craig Lester in a condescending manner.
“One of our kitchen helps, and as you see, a very inefficient one. She had, of course, no business to leave the back premises. Rosamond will see that it does not occur again.” She was aware of Miss Cunningham getting to her feet, a performance accompanied by some effort. “You are not going, Lucy?”
Lucy Cunningham flushed. She did not like rows, but Lydia being sarcastic was even worse. She said,
“Well, I think I’d better. I really didn’t come to tea-I just looked in to have a word with you. If you can spare the time. But I had better collect all my things first. Now let me see- what did I have? A scarf-no, two, because you can’t tell what the wind is like until you are out in it, can you?”
Lydia Crewe said scornfully,
“You coddle yourself, Lucy. The more clothes you wear, the more you will feel the cold. I’ve been telling you that for years.”
Miss Cunningham arranged the two scarves carefully about her neck, assumed her thick tweed coat, and thrust her arms into the sleeves of a voluminous waterproof.
“I like to be warm,” she said briefly. And then, “Thank you, Mr. Lester. Now is that all? No, no, my umbrella-I mustn’t forget my umbrella!”
As Craig handed it to her on one side, Nicholas retrieved a bulging handbag and offered it on the other.
“There you are-all complete! At least I hope so. No other unconsidered trifles? All right. I’ll be seeing you.”
“If you are quite ready, Lucy-” said Lydia Crewe.
CHAPTER 13
The hours of Sunday passed. The church bells rang. Miss Silver and Mrs. Merridew attended the evening service. There were very few people there. The Vicar’s wife played the organ, a memorial to the fallen in the first world war. The Vicar raised a robust baritone in the psalms and canticles, the District Nurse sustained a rather uncertain soprano. The old beautiful words hung in the cold, close air. The church had been old when the Wars of the Roses were fought. There were the tombs of two Crusaders, one with his legs crossed at the knees to show that he had ridden out on his pious errand twice. There were worn brasses and a clutter of monuments. It came into Miss Silver’s mind that the dead were better represented than the living. When they had prayed that the darkness might be lightened, and to be defended from the perils and dangers of the night, the Vicar went up into the pulpit and preached for five minutes on the duty of loving one’s neighbour as oneself. He had a vigorous, resonant voice, and he said that the world would be a much nicer place to live in if we all took a little more trouble about being kind. After which they sang “Sun of my Soul,” and came out into the windy dark.
Florrie Hunt had Sunday afternoon and evening off, so the two ladies prepared their own supper and washed up after it. Peaceful hours slipping by with nothing to mark them, a peaceful village settling to its Sunday rest, church bells and evensong, Sunday supper, a quiet hour or two by the fireside, a little talk, a pleasant book, music to be summoned with the turning of a knob, and then good-nights exchanged and a leisurely preparation for bed.
But within a stone’s throw of the White Cottage there was a bed that was not slept in that Sunday night.
Florrie came in with the news at eight o’clock on Monday morning. She set a tray down on the table by Mrs. Merridew’s bed and said in her gloomiest tones,
“Miss Holiday never come home last night, nor her bed wasn’t slept in.”
Mrs. Merridew blinked.
“Florrie, what do you mean?” Florrie swished the curtains back, and Mrs. Merridew blinked again, at the light this time. Very cold and grey, and not at all the sort of thing you wanted to look at if something unpleasant had happened. That cold light showed Florrie in a flowered overall very clean but a good deal faded. Even though the colours were not as bright as they had been, they did not go at all well with what was by no means a shining morning face. Lank black hair drawn back above sallow bony features, pale thin lips, and a set expression, were not flattered by the pinks and blues and greens of what had once been a gay summery pattern. There were four curtains, and it wasn’t till they had all been drawn that Florrie repeated what she had said.
“She didn’t come home, and she didn’t sleep in her bed. Mrs. Maple is in a terrible taking. Says she’s never known her to be out of her usual before-and that would be nine o’clock if it wasn’t for the evenings she’d go over to Melbury for the pictures and come back on the last bus, and then she’d always let her know beforehand and Mrs. Maple would let her have the key so as not to be kept about.”
There was at this juncture a slight tap upon the half open door. It was followed by the entrance of Miss Silver in the warm bright blue dressing-gown which had replaced the crimson one long worn and only parted with when it had begun to show serious signs of dilapidation. The hand-made crochet trimming with which it had been adorned had been very successfully transferred to the new gown, and her niece Dorothy’s gift of a pair of black felt slippers trimmed with blue pompoms completed a most comfortable outfit. Her hair, neatly coiled, was confined by a strong silk net. Her expression was one of concern.