Your Secret Friend (Timothy Herring)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “I’ve had your letter. I already knew, of course. I’m at the George. Do you think I might come and see you?”

  “I think not, Tim. I don’t need you. It’s been a shock, but I’m getting over it. It’s no good pretending I’m sorry about Vere’s death. I don’t know what I feel, but it certainly isn’t grief. It’s only a few weeks now until the end of the term. I’ll meet you then, if you like.”

  “What are you doing about a holiday?”

  “I haven’t made any plans.”

  “The Parsons are going to Yorkshire. There’s some stuff Tom and I want to look at. You would be a companion for Diana while we’re at work. It would be a real kindness to her if you’d come.”

  “Is yours a Phisbe job?”

  “Yes, we’re hoping to find something good. Do think it over. We shan’t be staying at hotels. We’ve taken a house. Diana is bringing maids and I’m supplying my cook. You’d like it, I think, unless you can think of anything better to do.”

  His voice, although friendly, was impersonal. Alison promised to think about his suggestion and agreed, in a casual tone which matched his, that she thought it sounded fascinating. It took her less than the next day and night to decide that she would accept the invitation. The fact that Timothy had made little effort to get in touch with her meant that his lighthearted references to marriage were merely part of his play-boy attitude to the world in general. She had never, she told herself that night, she had never even begun to take him seriously.

  Nor did she need to do so until they had been on holiday for almost three weeks, for, except at meal-times and sometimes, even then, only at breakfast and dinner, she saw little of either of the men, especially as early bed appeared to be their custom.

  The house, which had been rented for a month, was in the new part of Robin Hood’s Bay, above the maze of steps and narrow streets which led down to the shore. One evening, towards the end of the third week, Tom Parsons announced that he and Timothy had concluded their survey and that on the morrow he proposed to devote himself to his wife.

  “And about time,” said Diana. “You can take me to Harrogate for the day, and give me lunch at the Majestic. I want to do some shopping.”

  “That leaves us to ourselves,” said Timothy to Alison. “What is your pleasure, ma’am?”

  “I’d like to go for a good long walk,” she replied. “Do you know of one where we need not retrace our steps? I do hate having to come back the same way as I went out.”

  “It looks quite different the other way round, though,” argued Timothy. Suspecting, rightly, that this innocent-sounding statement had double meaning, she did not contest it, and he went on, “We could take the cliff path into Whitby and come back on the bus.”

  “Diana and I have been to Whitby twice.”

  “All right, then. We’ll descend to the shore when the tide is on the ebb, and walk along the sands as far as we can, and then climb up to Ravenscar. That’s about four miles. From there we can make our way on to the moors, if you like.”

  Tom and Diana left in Tom’s car at ten. Timothy, who had gone with them in order to hand-signal Tom on to the road, as the turning to it from the drive was a blind one, looked critically at the sky before he returned to the house.

  “It’s going to rain,” he told Alison. “If we’re walking, you’d better put on gum-boots and a waterproof. Anyway, there’s no particular hurry. The tide isn’t on the turn until eleven. Personally, I think a trip by car will turn out to be a better proposition than a walk.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Diana and I have been out in her car every day. I’m aching for a good long walk. What does a drop of rain matter? I like being out in the wet.”

  “Yes, you do, don’t you?” said Timothy. She glanced at him sharply, but he was not even looking at her. “Well, I’ve dozens of pages of notes to sort out, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll get on with the job until we start for our walk. Have you anything which will keep you going for an hour?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I have lots of things I can do. I want to write some letters. I’ll go to my room, then you can have the whole of the table.”

  “Good-o,” said Timothy carelessly. “I do like to spread myself out. I’ll yell for you when I’m ready, unless you come down before that.”

  They left the house at ten minutes to eleven, but by the time they had to abandon the beach and take a zig-zag path which would bring them eventually to the hotel where they proposed to have lunch, the weather had made up its mind and the rain began.

  A wind, keen and strong, blew in from the sea and drove the rain on to their backs as they climbed the cliff. The path became slippery and difficult, and soon the rain turned it into a miniature stream. By the time they reached the hotel they were so extremely wet that Alison said:

  “We can’t go in there and have lunch.”

  “I agree. We’ll have a quick drink, and I’ll get them to order a car.”

  He said nothing during the short journey back to the house, except to answer the only question she put to him.

  “You said I ought to have worn a raincoat. Are you very angry because I didn’t?”

  “No,” he said. “After all, I didn’t take my own advice, did I?”

  “We’d better toss for first bath when we get back. I’m not only wet through, I’m covered in mud,” she said, laughing. He made no reply until they were standing in the hall.

  “Up you go,” he said. Realising that, until she had had her bath, he would refuse to have his, she gave one look at his sopping-wet trouser-legs, and did not stop to argue.

  Timothy followed her up the stairs, switched on the electric fire in his room, pulled off his saturated clothes and shoes, put on his dressing-gown and lit a cigarette. By the time he had tossed the stub out of the window there came a tap on the door.

  “Tim, I’m through. You’d better give the immersion heater another few minutes, perhaps.”

  By the time, comfortable, dry, and dressed, he got downstairs, she was seated on a stool by the fire and was drying her hair.

  “Let me,” he said. He pulled an armchair up, behind the stool. “Lean back against me. It will be more comfortable for you.”

  “Nobody has dried my hair for me since I was a child,” she said.

  “No?” His tone indicated that he had no interest in the subject. “You ought to let it grow a bit. Why don’t you?”

  “Oh, for school it’s handier to have it short.”

  “I suppose so.” There was silence between them for the next ten minutes. “Well, there you are. I don’t know whether I’d call it absolutely dry, but at least it won’t drip,” he said, handing her the towel.

  “Thank you. I’d better go and comb it.”

  “Not for a minute. Do you remember I asked you to keep something in mind?” He took the towel from her, dropped it on to the floor and put his arms over her shoulders with a hand on each of her breasts. She did not move, neither did she ask him what he meant. She said, in a low tone:

  “Yes, Tim. It’s quite impossible.”

  “Of course it isn’t. Give me one reason why.”

  “I’m nearly thirty.”

  “Well, I’m thirty-three. What could be fairer than that?”

  “I should only spoil your life.”

  Timothy crossed his arms over one another so that she was completely imprisoned. He put his cheek against her damp hair, and said softly:

  “Don’t be so damned conceited!”

  About the Author

  Gladys Mitchell was born in the village of Cowley, Oxford, in April 1901. She was educated at the Rothschild School in Brentford, the Green School in Isleworth, and at Goldsmiths and University Colleges in London. For many years Miss Mitchell taught history and English, swimming, and games. She retired from this work in 1950 but became so bored without the constant stimulus and irritation of teaching that she accepted a post at the Matthew Arnold School in Staines, where she taught English and history, wrote the annual
school play, and coached hurdling. She was a member of the Detection Club, the PEN, the Middlesex Education Society, and the British Olympic Association. Her father’s family are Scots, and a Scottish influence has appeared in some of her books.