“What are you looking at?” asked Sarah curiously.
“Oh—just things,” uttered Jeanie vaguely. “The bracken. The green grass. Things.”
“You look at things like that, and then you paint them?”
“Sometimes.”
“There’s so much stuff in the world I don’t see how you ever know what to paint.”
“Ah well!”
“There was an artist staying at the White Lion the summer before last. He was thin, and rather old, and had a beard.”
“Hubert Southey. I know him. He used to teach at an art school I went to.”
“I suppose you know all the artists in the world,” uttered Sarah, climbing like a spider up the worn silvery steps of the loft-ladder.
“Not quite all. Have I to go up there?”
“Aye, aye, me hearty!”
“Heave ho, then, mates!”
The loft, with its dry, warm, enticing scent of hay, its pale rafters heavily hung with cobwebs, its grey boards strewn with old faded wisps and empty husks of grain, enchanted her. She went to the large window at the end, and cleaned the smeared glass with a sack that hung beside it.
“This’d make a splendid studio, if you put a skylight in. You get a good view from here, don’t you? There’s your Uncle Robert going into the orchard.”
“Pruning his apple-trees. He was at it all the morning.” A sleepy tabby kitten emerged from its nest in a dark corner, exposed the elegant pink ribbings of the roof of its mouth in a yawn and then, sitting down and neatly bringing its tail around its fore-paws, made gleaming crescents of its eyes and silently mewed.
“That’s a sweet one!”
Sarah swallowed.
“Timkins was the sweetest!”
“Never mind, my pet. One casualty out of four kittens isn’t too bad.”
“Yes, but he was the only white one! He was rare!”
“It can’t be helped now.”
“That’s what Uncle Robert said,” muttered Sarah. “People seem to think a kitten doesn’t want its life. How’d Uncle Robert like it if somebody went shooting at him while he was catching beetles and butterflies and playing in the sun?”
Jeanie stifled an ill-timed giggle, and Sarah looked at her with cold reproach over her lapful of assorted kittens. Jeanie said hastily:
“May I have this one? What’s his name?”
The vivid image which her picture-forming mind had presented to her of the burly, tweed-clad Molyneux pouncing on beetles and leaping after butterflies among the orchard grasses, amused Jeanie a good deal.
“Her name is Petronella,” said Sarah pointedly.
“Her! Oh dear!”
“They make the best mousers.”
“I know, but—”
“She might not have kittens more than once a year.”
“All right. I’ll risk it. But Petronella! Must I call her that?”
“She was called after Peter, you see. Peter Johnson.” Jeanie recalled to mind the dark-eyed youth who had been Molyneux’s secretary when she was staying at Cleedons in the summer.
“What’s happened to him?”
“He left,” said Sarah rather grimly. “About three weeks ago, all of a sudden. There was some row; I don’t know what. Miss Wills said he was never coming back, and I wasn’t to write to him. But I did write to him,” added she, flushing defiantly, “because I knew he’d want to know about the Field Club outing this afternoon, and I didn’t see why he shouldn’t come if he liked.”
“Oh, is the Handleston Field Club outing this afternoon?”
“Yes. I shall have to go in and wash soon. I’ve got to help with tea. I didn’t want to, but Aunt Agnes said I must. She was cross because Uncle Robert said he must prune his trees while it was fine, and couldn’t meet the Field Club at the tumulus. Sir Henry Blundell is coming,” said the child.
“I see,” said Jeanie. Sir Henry Blundell, Chief Constable of the county, a landowner in whose mansion Cleedons might be swallowed almost unnoticed, was certainly a personage of some importance. Agnes, a snob of the more simple and whole-hearted kind, as Jeanie was reluctantly coming to realise, would certainly make a special occasion of the Field Club’s visit to Cleedons if Sir Henry Blundell were of the company.
“She was cross,” pursued the child. “And so was Miss Wills.”
“Miss Wills? Why on earth should she be cross?”
“She’s always cross when Aunt Agnes is cross.”
“Dear me, how awkward!”
“She adores Aunt Agnes. When Aunt Agnes said she might call her Agnes, her nose went all pink.”
“Is that a sign of adoration?”
“I don’t think she’s staying much longer,” said the little girl with satisfaction. “I hope not, anyway. Uncle Robert says I’m beyond her and must go to school.”
“Little wretch! I wouldn’t be your governess for a million a year! What are the Field Club looking at this afternoon?”
“Oh, the usual things, I expect,” replied the blasé dweller in a historic house. “Black Ellen’s tower, and the medieval kitchen where the wine-cellar is now, and Grim’s Grave.”
“I thought your Uncle Robert was talking of opening Grim’s Grave.”
“He is. Aunt Agnes is cross about that too. She says it’s a waste of money and there’s nothing in it but a few nasty bones and a bit of broken crockery.”
Jeanie smiled.
“Probably, but then how thrilling nasty bones are to those that like nasty bones! Mr. Fone, for instance. He’d be delighted.”
Sarah opened her greenish eyes very wide.
“No!” she said with bated breath. “He’s furious! He says if Uncle Robert opens Grim’s Grave there’ll be a curse on everyone for miles! He says Grim’s Grave is sacred ground. He says if we open it Awful Forces’ll come out and destroy us!”
“Oh dear, how you make my flesh creep!”
“Well, he’s a poet, you see,” explained Sarah. “But Uncle Robert says he’s no confounded poet and he’s going ahead, and old Funnybone can put his poetic frenzies in a book if he likes, but he won’t have him going round upsetting all the local people.”
“Why, does he?”
Sarah looked vague. Her quotation from Uncle Robert stopped there.
“Quite a lot of people wouldn’t like Grim’s Grave opened,” she admitted. A slight uneasiness came into her young eyes. “After all, Jeanie, people don’t usually go digging up people’s graves. And it’s just as much a grave, even if it’s a very old grave. What’s that?”
She sat up suddenly, and the kitten, grasped too tightly, gave a plaintive mew. Jeanie listened. Somebody was talking in the yard below, and she heard the clump of heavy boots on cobbles, but there was nothing in this to bring that look of apprehension into the child’s eyes. With a gesture Sarah silenced her. Listening, with her eyes curiously on the little girl’s face, Jeanie heard a drawling female voice.
“Well, thank you, but I know my way to the house, when I want to go!”
The cowman’s boots clumped heavily away.
Sarah stood up softly, putting the kitten down on the floor. She tiptoed to the doorway which overlooked the yard, and of which the half-door stood open. Jeanie rose and went softly to look out beside her at the woman who was standing irresolutely in the yard, as if undetermined where to look next for something she was seeking.
“Surely this isn’t a member of the Handleston Field Club!” remarked Jeanie.
The woman below had pulled off her little velvet cap and her thick, mechanically-waved hair, strangely bleached to an unnatural gold for half its length, looked like a head-piece of some coarse woven fabric. Her cheeks were brightly pink, her lips crudely red. The cool November sunlight smiled at the youthful pretensions of her lined and weary face. Her mackintosh coat hung gracefully on her slim figure, but her neck stooped, her hands were thrust stiffly into her pockets, she stood heavily with bent knees on the high heels of her thin town shoes.
“That’s a v
ery lively bit of painting,” murmured Jeanie to herself, “but not much technique about it. Ought we to go down and offer to help her, I wonder?”
“No,” said Sarah in the queerest little hard voice. Glancing at her in surprise, Jeanie saw that her eyes were dark, her upper lip drawn to a straight line. She added: “That’s my mother.”
“Your mother!” echoed Jeanie, with an involuntary unflattering surprise.
So this was the much-talked-of Mrs. Peel, Robert’s sister-in-law, Agnes’s bête noire!
“Did your aunt know she was coming?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Don’t you think we ought to do something?”
“No!”
“Not go down and speak to her?”
“No!”
“But she is your mother, my kid!”
“It isn’t my fault I was born, is it?”
Jeanie, about to combat this somewhat elementary view of filial duty, suddenly caught her breath. The woman in the yard below had taken her right hand out of her pocket, and glancing furtively around the yard, had taken a long look at that right hand and what it held. What it held gleamed darkly in the November sunlight. It was a heavy service revolver.
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
Copyright © 1948 Ianthe Jerrold
Introduction copyright © 2016 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
The right of Ianthe Jerrold to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her estate in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1948 by Aldus Publications
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 911095 00 2
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
There May Be Danger Page 25