"Hurry up," said Molly. "Go and see."
Casting a reproachful glance at her, Giles wrapped his dressing-gown round him and descended the stairs. Molly . heard the bolts being drawn back and a murmur of voices in the hall. Presently, driven by curiosity, she crept out of bed and went to peep from the top of the stairs. In the hall below, Giles was assisting a bearded stranger out of a snow-covered overcoat. Fragments of conversation floated up to her.
}THREE }BLIND }MICE }27}
"Brrr." It was an explosive foreign sound.,"My fingers are so cold I cannot feel them. And my feet—" A stamping sound was heard.
"Come in here." Giles threw open the library door. "It's warm. You'd better wait here while I get a room ready."
"I am indeed fortunate," said the stranger politely.
Molly peered inquisitively through the banisters. She saw an elderly man with a small black beard and Mephistophelean eyebrows. A man who moved with a young and jaunty step in spite of the gray at his temples.
Giles shut the library door on him and came quickly up the stairs. Molly rose from her crouching position.
"Who is it?" she demanded.
Giles grinned. "Another guest for the guest house. Car overturned in a snowdrift. He got himself out and was making his way as best he could—it's a howling blizzard still, listen to it—along the road when he saw our board. He said it was like an answer to prayer."
"You think he's—all right?"
"Darling, this isn't the sort of night for a housebreaker to be doing his rounds."
"He's a foreigner, isn't he?"
"Yes. His name's Paravicini. I saw his wallet—I rather think he showed it on purpose—simply crammed with notes. Which room shall we give him?
"The green room. It's all tidy and ready. We'll just have to make up the bed."
"I suppose I'll have to. lend him pajamas. All his things are in the car. He said he had to climb out through the window."
Molly fetched sheets, pillowcases, and towels.
As they hurriedly made the bed up, Giles said, "It's coming down thick. We're going to be snowed up, Molly, completely cut off. Rather exciting in a way, isn't it?"
}28 THREE }BLIND }MICE}
"I don't know," said Molly doubtfully. "Do you think I can make soda bread, Giles?"
"Of course you can. You can make anything," said her loyal husband.
"I've never tried to make bread. It's the sort of thing one takes for granted. It may be new or it may be stale but it's just something the baker brings. But if we're snowed up there won't be a baker."
"Nor a butcher, nor a postman. No newspapers. And probably no telephone."
"Just the wireless telling us what to do?"
"At any rate we make our own electric light."
}"You must run the engine again tomorrow. And we must keep the central heating well stoked."}
"I suppose our next lot of coke won't come in now. We're very low."
"Oh, bother. Giles, I feel we are in for a simply frightful time. Hurry up and get Para—whatever his name is. I'll go back to bed."
Morning brought confirmation of Giles's forebodings. Snow was piled five feet high, drifting up against the doors and windows. Outside it was still snowing. The world was white, silent, and—in some subtle way—menacing.
Mrs. Boyle sat at breakfast. There was no one else in the dining-room. At the adjoining table, Major Metcalf s place had been cleared away. Mr. Wren's table was still laid for breakfast. One early riser, presumably, and one late one. Mrs. Boyle herself knew definitely that there was only one proper time for breakfast, nine o'clock.
Mrs. Boyle had finished her excellent omelette and was champing toast between her strong white teeth. She was in a grudging and undecided mood. Monkswell Manor was not at all what she had imagined it would be. She
}THREE BLIND }MICE }29}
had hoped for bridge, for faded spinsters whom she could impress with her social position and connections, and to whom she could hint at the importance and secrecy of
her war service.
The end of the war had left Mrs. Boyle marooned, as it were, on a desert shore. She had always been a busy woman, talking fluently of efficiency and organisation. Her vigor and drive had prevented people asking whether she was, indeed, a good or efficient organizer. War activities had suited her down to the ground. She had bossed people and bullied people and worried heads o£ departments and, to give her her due, had at no time spared herself. Subservient women had run to and fro, terrified of her slightest frown. And now all that exciting hustling life was over. She was back in private life, and her former private life had vanished. Her house, which had been requisitioned by the army, needed thorough repairing and redecorating before she could return to it, and the difficulties of domestic help made a return to it - impracticable in any case. Her friends were largely scattered and dispersed. Presently, no doubt, she would find her niche, but at the moment it was a case of marking time. A hotel or a boardinghouse seemed the answer. And she had chosen to come to Monkswell Manor. She looked round her disparagingly. }Most dishonest, }she said to herself, }not to have told me they were only just starting.}
She pushed her plate farther away from her. The fact that her breakfast had been excellently cooked and served, with good coffee and homemade marmalade, in a curious way annoyed her still more. It had deprived her of a legitimate cause of complaint. Her bed, too, had been comfortable, with embroidered sheets and a soft pillow. Mrs. Boyle liked comfort, but she also liked to find fault. The latter was, perhaps, the stronger passion
}30 THREE BLIND MICE}
of the two.
Rising majestically, Mrs. Boyle left the dining-room, passing in the doorway that very extraordinary young man with the red hair. He was wearing this morning a checked tie of virulent green—a woolen tie.
}Preposterous, }said Mrs. Boyle to herself. }Quite preposterous.}
The way he looked at her, too, sideways out of those pale eyes of his—she didn't like it. There was something upsetting—unusual—about that faintly mocking glance.
}Unbalanced mentally, I shouldn't wonder, }said Mrs. Boyle to herself.}
She acknowledged his flamboyant bow with a slight inclination of her head and marched into the big drawing-room. Comfortable chairs here, particularly the large rose-colored one. She had better make it clear that that was to be }her }chair. She deposited her knitting on it as a precaution and walked over and laid a hand on the radiators. As she had suspected, they were only warm, not hot. Mrs. Boyle's eye gleamed militantly. She could have something to say about }that.}
She glanced out of the window. Dreadful weather-quite dreadful. Well, she wouldn't stay here long—not unless more people came and made the place amusing.
Some snow slid off the roof with a soft whooshing sound. Mrs. Boyle jumped. "No," she said out loud. "I shan't stay here long."
Somebody laughed—a faint, high chuckle. She turned her head sharply. Young Wren was standing in the doorway looking at her with that curious expression of his.
"No," he said, "I don't suppose you will."
Major Metcalf was helping Giles to shovel away snow from the back door. He was a good worker, and Giles was quite vociferous in his expressions of gratitude.
}THREE BLIND MICE31}
"Good exercise," said Major Metcalf. "Must get exercise every day. Got to keep fit, you know."
So the major was an exercise fiend. Giles had feared as much. It went with his demand for breakfast at half past seven.
As though reading Giles's thoughts, the major said, "Very good of your missus to cook me an early breakfast. Nice to get a new-laid egg, too."
Giles had risen himself before seven, owing to the exigencies of hotelkeeping. He and Molly had had boiled eggs and tea and had set to on the sitting-rooms. Everything was spick-and-span. Giles could not help thinking that if he had been a guest in his own establishment, nothing would have dragged him out of bed on a morning such as this until the last
possible moment.
The major, however, had been up and breakfasted, and roamed about the house, apparently full of energy seeking an outlet.
}Well, }thought Giles, }there's plenty of snow to shovel.}
He threw a sideways glance at his companion. Not an easy man to place, really. Hard-bitten, well over middle age, something queerly watchful about the eyes. A man who was giving nothing away. Giles wondered why he - had come to Monkswell Manor. Demobolized, probably, and no job to go to.
}Mr. Paravicini came down late. He had coffee and a piece of toast—a frugal Continental breakfast.
He somewhat disconcerted Molly when she brought it to him by rising to his feet, bowing in an exaggerated manner, and exclaiming, "My charming hostess? I am right, am I not?"
Molly admitted rather shortly that he was right. She was in no mood for compliments at this hour.
"And why," she said, as she piled crockery recklessly
}32THREE BLIND MICE}
in the sink, "everybody has to have their breakfast at a different time— It's a bit hard."
She slung the plates into the rack and hurried upstairs to deal with the beds. She could expect no assistance from Giles this morning. He had to clear a way to the boiler house and to the henhouse.
Molly did the beds at top speed and admittedly in the, most slovenly manner, smoothing sheets and pulling them up as fast as she coidd.
She was at work on the baths when the telephone rang.
Molly first cursed at being interrupted, then felt a slight feeling of relief that the telephone at least was still in action, as she ran down to answer it.
She arrived in the library a little breathless and lifted the receiver.
"Yes?"
A hearty voice with a slight but pleasant country burr
asked, "Is that Monkswell Manor?" "Monkswell Manor Guest House." "Can I speak to Commander Davis, Please?" "I'm afraid he can't come to the telephone just now,"
said Molly. "This is Mrs. Davis. Who is speaking,
please?"
"Superintendent Hogben, Berkshire Police." Molly gave a slight gasp. She said, "Oh, yes—er—yes?" "Mrs. Davis, rather an urgent matter has arisen. I don't
wish to say very much over the telephone, but I have sent
Detective Sergeant Trotter out to you, and he should be
there any minute now."
"But he won't get here. We're snowed up—completely
snowed up. The roads are impassable."
There was no break in the confidence of the voice at
the other end.
"Trotter will get to you, all right," it said. "And please
}33}
}THREE BLIND MICE}
impress upon your husband, Mrs. Davis, to listen very carefully to what Trotter has to tell you, and to follow his instructions implicitly. That's all." "But, Superintendent Hogben, what—" But there was a decisive click. Hogben had clearly said all he had to say and rung off. Molly waggled the telephone rest once or twice, then gave up. She turned as the door opened.
"Oh, Giles darling, there you are." Giles had snow on his hair and a good deal of coal grime on his face. He looked hot.
""What is it, sweetheart? I've filled the coal scuttles and brought in the wood. I'll do the hens next and then have a look at the boiler. Is that right? What's the matter, Molly? You looked scared." "Giles, it was the }police." }"The police?" Gilts sounded incredulous. "Yes, they're sending out an inspector or a sergeant or something."
"But why? What have we done?"
"I don't know. Do you think it could be that two pounds of butter we had from Ireland?"
Giles was frowning. "I did remember to get the wireless license, didn't I?"
"Yes, it's in the desk. Giles, old Mrs. Bidlock gave me five of her coupons for that old tweed coat of mine. I suppose that's wrong—but / think it's perfectly fair. I'm a coat less so why shouldn't I have the coupons? Oh, dear, what else is there we've done?"
"I had a near shave with the car the other day. But it was definitely the other fellow's fault. Definitely." "We must have done }something," }wailed Molly. "The trouble is that practically everything one does *nowadays is illegal," said' Giles gloomily. "That's why one has a permanent feeling of guilt. Actually I expect
}34 THREE }BLIND MICE}
it's something to do with running this place. Running a guest house is probably chock-full of snags we've never heard of."
"I thought drink was the only thing that mattered. We haven't given anyone anything to drink. Otherwise, why shouldn't we run our own house any way we please?"
"I know. It sounds all right. But as I say, everything's more or less forbidden nowadays."
"Oh, dear," sighed Molly. "I wish we'd never started. We're going to be snowed up for days, and everybody will be cross and they'll eat all our reserves of tins—"
"Cheer up, sweetheart," said Giles. "We're having a bad break at the moment, but it will pan out all right."
He kissed the top of her head rather absent-mindedly and, releasing her, said in a different voice, "You know, Molly, come to think of it, it must be something pretty serious to send a police sergeant trekking out here in all this." He waved a hand toward the snow outside. He said, "It must be something really }urgent—"}
As they stared at each other, the door opened, and Mrs. Boyle came in.
"Ah, here you are, Mr. Davis," said Mrs. Boyle. "Do you know the central heating in the drawing-room is practically stone-cold?"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Boyle. We're rather short of coke and—"
Mrs. Boyle cut in ruthlessly. "I am paying seven guineas a week }here—seven }guineas. And I do }not }expect to freeze."
Giles flushed. He said shortly, "I'll go and stoke it
up."**
He went out of the room, and Mrs. Boyle turned to Molly.
"If you don't mind my saying so, Mrs. Davis, that is a very extraordinary young man you have staying here.
}THREE BLIND MICE 35}
His manners—and his ties— And does he never brush his
hair?" "He's an extremely brilliant young architect," said
Molly.
"I beg your pardon?" "Christopher Wren is an architect and—" "My dear young woman," snapped Mrs. Boyle, "I have naturally heard of Sir Christopher Wren. O£ course he was an architect. He built St. Paul's. You young people seem to think that education came in with the Education
Act."
"I meant this Wren. His name is Christopher. His parents called him that because they hoped he'd be an architect. And he is—or nearly—one, so it turned out all
right."
"Humph," Mrs. Boyle snorted. "It sounds a very fishy story to me. I should make some inquiries about him if I were you. What do you know about him?"
"Just as much as I know about you, Mrs. Boyle—which is that both you and he are paying us seven guineas a week. That's really all that I need to know, isn't it? And all that concerns me. It doesn't matter to me whether I like my guests, or whether—" Molly looked very steadily at Mrs. Boyle—"or whether I don't,"
Mrs. Boyle flushed angrily. "You are young and inexperienced and should welcome advice from someone more knowledgeable than yourself. And what about this queer foreigner? When did }he }arrive?"
"In the middle of the night."
"Indeed. Most peculiar. Not a very conventional
hour."
"To turn away bona fide travelers would be against the law, Mrs. Boyle." Molly added sweetly, ''You may not be aware of that."
"All I can say is that this Paravidni, or whatever he
}36 THREE BLIND MICE}
}calls himself, seems to me—"}
}"Beware, beware, dear lady. You talk of the devil and then—"}
}Mrs. Boyle jumped as though it had been indeed the devil who addressed her. Mr. Paravicini, who had minced quietly in without either of the two women noticing him, laughed and rubbed his hands together with, a kind of elderly satanic glee.}
}"You start
led me," said Mrs. Boyle. "I did not hear you come in."}
}"I come in on tiptoe, so," said Mr. Paravicini. "Nobody ever hears me come and go. That I find very amusing. Sometimes I overhear things. That, too, amuses me." He added softly, "But I do not forget what I hear."}
}Mrs. Boyle said rather feebly, "Indeed? I must get my knitting—I left it in the drawing-room."}
Three Blind Mice and Other Stories Page 3