It is because I admire Abijah’s skill and artistry that I am anxious to speak to him for it seems to me that a man who can create beauty must be interesting in himself. I want to find out about the man, to ask him where he learnt his trade, and to thank him for the pleasure I am deriving from the garden. There is nothing else I want to say; a basket of vegetables, ample for my needs, appears daily at the kitchen window and Abijah receives his pay from the owner of the house—Miss Stroude, one presumes.
Thursday, 19th July
Miss Crease’s injunction to cut off the withered violas has disturbed my peace of mind; it is impossible to sit comfortably in the garden with the violas looking at me reproachfully from their bed. This being so, and today being cloudy and cooler, I arm myself with a basket and a pair of gardening scissors and set to work. The task is not as arduous as I expected and I am getting on quite well when the side-gate opens and Miss Carlyle appears.
Miss Carlyle is carrying a large volume under her arm (a volume which I rather suspect deals with Landscape Gardening). She hurries towards me down the path and then, as I go forward to meet her, she hesitates suddenly and stands still. I notice she is pale and breathing quickly as if something had startled her.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Oh dear—I’m sorry! I mean I thought for a moment—but of course it was quite absurd.”
“What did you think?” I ask, taking her arm and leading her to the oak seat which stands near the viola bed.
“I thought—but it was—so stupid of me.”
The book which she was carrying has fallen onto the path and as I pick it up I see that it is indeed the book on Landscape Gardening.
“So stupid,” she repeats. “But—but she often wore that colour—she was so fond of her violas, you know, and—and she used to pick off the withered heads. I’ve seen her doing it—often—I used to help her sometimes. Oh dear,” says Miss Carlyle, struggling to keep back her tears. “Oh dear—I don’t know what you can be thinking of me—but when I saw you—and I do miss her so dreadfully.” She blows her nose violently and pulls herself together. “But that’s no reason why I should bother you, Mrs. Christie,” she says valiantly. “No reason at all. I came to bring you the book on Landscape Gardening. You forgot to take it with you and I thought you might want something to read.”
The matter is now explained and I forbear to offer sympathy because it is obvious she would rather I did not. Instead, I suggest tea and ask her if she will help me to make it. We go in together, set out the cups and boil the kettle. I observe with interest that Miss Carlyle is thoroughly at home in The Small House and knows exactly where everything is kept.
“Yes,” she says when I comment upon the fact. “Yes, I often helped Lorna. I always felt The Small House was my spiritual home.”
These words have an unfortunate association. I have always disliked them and thought them smug and self-righteous but on Miss Carlyle’s lips they take a different complexion for they are uttered with innocent sincerity and express exactly what she means.
By the time tea is ready my guest has recovered her equanimity; she is ready to talk and she wants to talk about her friend.
“Lorna was so good,” says Miss Carlyle. “I don’t mean she was solemn and sober—she was just the reverse—but deep down beneath the surface there was a fundamental core of goodness. St. Paul says the fruits of the spirit are love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith. Somehow those words describe her better than any words of mine. She had absolute faith and it made her happy in spite of all the difficulties of her life. She made other people happy too. If you were feeling blue it was a tonic to see her and talk to her. Perhaps I’ve made her sound a prig,” says Miss Carlyle. “She wasn’t, of course. She was gay and amusing. We used to laugh together over silly things . . . I hope you aren’t bored with all this. You did say you were interested in Lorna?”
“I am interested,” I assure her. “I couldn’t fail to be interested in her. The house is so beautiful and, as I told you before, I have a feeling that she likes my being here.”
Miss Carlyle nods understandingly. She says, “I hope you don’t mind my asking: did you get that dress from Miss Phipps?”
“Yes I did. She had the material in stock. She showed it to me and said she could make it up for me in a few days and, as I was in a hurry for something to wear, I decided to have it. Of course I didn’t know—”
“Of course not,” agrees Miss Carlyle. “And of course there’s no reason why you shouldn’t wear it. Lorna wouldn’t mind.”
We are silent for a few moments while the tea-cups are refilled.
“A friendship like that is an adventure,” says Miss Carlyle thoughtfully. “She was so much bigger and better than I am in every way—and yet she was my friend. Nobody can take that away from me.”
“Surely nobody would want to!” I exclaim.
“Miss Stroude would like to if she could,” says Miss Carlyle in a low voice. “You see—but I don’t want to bore you with my private affairs.”
She is not boring me in the least for I am so interested in my fellow human-beings that I am practically unborable when they talk about their private affairs. I urge her to continue and at last she consents.
“I have never spoken to anyone about this, but it seems so odd that Lorna didn’t mention me in her Will. I mean,” says Miss Carlyle in troubled tones, “I mean—she used to talk about her Will sometimes—in a vague sort of way—but there was no Will.”
“No Will?”
“Only a very old one which she made years ago when her husband died. Of course I didn’t expect her to leave me anything valuable, but if she had just left me some little personal thing—a little brooch or—or something, I should have valued it so much. Of course it’s very sentimental, isn’t it?” adds Miss Carlyle apologetically.
“I think it’s natural.”
“Miss Stroude didn’t think it natural. I asked Miss Stroude if she would give me some little thing that had belonged to Lorna but she refused.”
“Refused?”
“It was dreadful,” says Miss Carlyle in a low voice. “I couldn’t tell you what she said. I suppose I had laid myself open to—to what she said—but—but it was a great shock to me.”
“I hope I shall never meet that woman!”
“No,” agrees Miss Carlyle with a sudden and unexpected twinkle of humour. “No, I don’t think you would like her, Mrs. Christie.” She rises as she speaks and says that she must go.
“Come again,” I tell her as I see her off at the door. “Come whenever you like. The Small House and I will be pleased to see you.”
“Really?” she asks, pausing and looking back.
“Yes, really and truly. Come and help me to pick the violas.”
“I will!” she cries and runs off quickly down the path.
Friday, 20th July
Mrs. Daulkes and the postman arrive as usual; I can hear them exchanging items of local news on the doorstep and presently Mrs. Daulkes comes in with two letters in her hand. One is from Betty, and is short but sweet; saying she is looking forward immensely to the holidays and will travel as far as London with two school friends. She can easily change and come on to Old Quinings alone. Miss Humble says it will be good for her. This relieves my mind a good deal. Miss Humble is the Head Mistress of Dinwell Hall (where Betty is at school) and what Miss Humble says is Law. There is no humility about Miss Humble. If Miss Humble says Betty is capable of changing stations in London, and travelling to Old Quinings by herself, Betty can and will carry out the manoeuvre without difficulty.
Next I turn to the other letter which is written upon hand-made paper in an unknown hand. It runs as follows:
King William Hotel, London, W.
19th July.
Dear Madam,
Owing to the fact that my arrangements for the summer have fallen through I must ask you to vacate The Small House on 1st August. I find I shall need the house myself. I shall be in Old Quinings tomo
rrow morning and will call and see you and make the necessary arrangements about taking over the house.
Yours faithfully, Olivia Stroude.
I can hardly believe my eyes. In fact I have to read the letter three times before I can take in its import. “Vacate The Small House on 1st August”! But how can I? Bryan and Betty are arriving next week! What am I to do? Where am I to go? I feel quite dizzy—as if the solid world were rocking beneath my feet. How can I possibly vacate the house so soon with nowhere to go? I have settled down in The Small House and although I have been here only three weeks it has begun to feel like a home. Now I am homeless again. I shall have to pack up all my belongings and leave. The prospect fills me with despair.
This sort of thing has happened to me before, of course; the wives of serving officers, who are forced to move about the world following the drum, can never be really settled. There is always the fear that people will want their own houses to live in and will give their tenants notice to leave. It has happened before and I ought to be used to it by now; but the fact is I am not used to it, Miss Stroude’s letter is like a bolt from the blue . . . and Miss Stroude is coming this morning! She may be here at any moment!
Mrs. Daulkes is sympathetic but not very comforting. “Well!” she exclaims. “Isn’t that just like Miss Stroude? No consideration for nobody! And you thinking you were settled ’ere till October!”
“Do you think I could persuade her to let us stay on?”
“Not Miss Stroude,” replies Mrs. Daulkes. “Nobody could persuade ’er to do nothing. Very forceful, she is.”
“We had better tidy up the house,” I suggest.
Mrs. Daulkes does not take kindly to the idea, in fact she is slightly offended. She says the house is tidy already—quite tidy enough for anyone to see—and as this is perfectly true, and my suggestion was due to a feeling of panic, I smooth her ruffled feathers and retire upstairs to tidy myself.
Miss Stroude arrives shortly before eleven. I hear a car drive up to the gate and, peering from behind the dining-room curtains, I watch Miss Stroude coming up the path. Her figure is tall and angular—as Miss Phipps told me—with wide shoulders and a long neck. She is dressed in checked tweeds and a green felt hat, beneath the brim of which there juts a bony nose. I decide that I like her even less than I expected and, rushing back to the drawing room, I settle myself at the desk in the window leaving Mrs. Daulkes to open the door. A few moments later Miss Stroude walks in and glances round the room with a proprietary air.
I rise and say, “Good morning.”
“Oh, good morning,” she replies. “You’re Mrs. Christie, I suppose. Do you mind if I pull down this blind,” she adds, pulling down the blind without waiting for an answer.
“But, Miss Stroude—”
“The sunshine will fade the carpet,” explains Miss Stroude. “Perhaps you will be good enough to see that the blind is drawn when the sun is strong—as it is today. Did you get my letter?”
“Yes, I got it this morning. Miss Stroude, this is going to be very difficult for me,” I tell her, plunging into the speech I have prepared. “I wondered if you could possibly let me stay on here a little longer, until I can find somewhere else to go. You see I’ve made all my plans. I thought I could stay here until October.”
“My plans have changed,” replies Miss Stroude, sitting down on the sofa.
“But I have nowhere to go! My son and daughter are coming here next week. How can I find other accommodation at such short notice?”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I suppose you have some friends or relations who could put you up.”
“Couldn’t we stay until the end of August? That would give me time—”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I like the house so much—”
“Mrs. Christie,” says Miss Stroude firmly. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came to make arrangements for taking over the house on the first of August. I can’t help it if it causes you inconvenience to move. The Small House belongs to me and I intend to live here.”
There is no more to be said so I say nothing.
“I shall send a man to take the inventory,” she informs me. “I shall be obliged if you will give him every facility. The representative of the Electricity Board will call and read the meter. The house must be thoroughly cleaned, of course. I have engaged my own charwoman to do that . . .”
Miss Stroude continues to enumerate the various arrangements she has made—most comprehensive arrangements—and I realise that, whatever else she may be, she is extraordinarily capable.
“There are some boxes in the attic,” says Miss Stroude at last. “Would you have any objection if I went upstairs and looked through them?”
“No, of course not,” I reply.
“They are full of papers,” she explains. “When my stepmother died I put all her private papers away and I have a feeling there may be a valuable letter amongst them.” Miss Stroude takes a bunch of keys from her bag and adds scornfully, “My step-mother was very unbusiness-like.”
There is no need to conduct Miss Stroude upstairs to her own attic and this is fortunate for I am so shaky about the knees that it is doubtful if I could. I stand in the hall and watch her disappear from view and, as I do so, it crosses my mind that if by chance Miss Stroude should fall and injure herself severely I should not feel very sorry about it. In fact, such is my unchristian frame of mind, I should be quite pleased. Naturally I would do what I could to render first aid; I would ring up the doctor and arrange for the unfortunate lady to be removed to the hospital . . . but Miss Stroude is not likely to do anything so foolish as to fall down her own stairs, her character is much too well regulated.
Miss Stroude has no sooner vanished than the door into the back premises opens and Mrs. Daulkes announces in guarded tones that there is a cup of tea waiting for me in the kitchen.
“I wasn’t going to give ’er tea,” explains Mrs. Daulkes, as she drags the basket-chair up to the table and settles me in it comfortably. “’Orrible old cat—as ugly as a root—and no lady!”
It is always pleasant to hear somebody else voicing one’s own opinions and this, combined with strong tea, helps me to recover.
“Impudent thing!” continues Mrs. Daulkes. “When I ’eard ’er say ‘the house must be thoroughly cleaned’ it was all I could do to keep silent.” (Mrs. Daulkes quotes the unforgivable words in accents which are so like those of Miss Stroude that in spite of my agitation I can hardly help smiling.) “The very idea!” exclaims Mrs. Daulkes. “She’s engaged old Mrs. Kempton to come ’ere and clean up after me!”
Obviously there is no need to give Mrs. Daulkes any information about my interview with Miss Stroude. She has heard all—whether because the walls of The Small House are thinner than I thought or because she happened to be polishing the floor in the hall while the interview was in progress.
“You’re too soft, that’s what,” says Mrs. Daulkes. “You didn’t ought to ’ave let ’er go up to the attic. ’Ow do we know what she’s doing?”
“She’s looking for something.”
“But ’ow do we know she won’t take something and then say we’ve stolen it?” enquires Mrs. Daulkes.
This seems unlikely to me for, although I disliked Miss Stroude intensely, I cannot see her stooping to such Machiavellianism.
“You’re too soft,” repeats Mrs. Daulkes. “You’re too much of a lady to deal with ’ussies like ’er; it needs a gentleman. If you take my advice, you’ll go and telephone to the General straight off.”
“He couldn’t do anything,” I object.
“You’d wonder,” replies Mrs. Daulkes. “The General knows what’s what. ’E’d get ’er out of that attic in double-quick time.”
Already it has become a habit to take the advice of Mrs. Daulkes and this piece of advice chimes with my inclination. Tony is a tower of strength and even if he can do nothing to help me it will be comforting to hear his voice.
“Straigh
t off,” says Mrs. Daulkes eagerly. “You go into the dining room and telephone and I’ll keep guard in the ’all; just in case ’er ’ighness comes down before you’ve finished.”
The manoeuvre is carried out and after a period of waiting, which seems like hours, I find myself in communication with Tony.
“Hullo, Hester,” he says. “How are things going?”
Somewhat incoherently I plunge into an explanation of all that has happened. “I know you can’t do anything,” I tell him. “Nobody can. It’s quite silly to bother you like this. It was Mrs. Daulkes really. She said to ring you up . . . and of course I wanted to. She’s so beastly, Tony—I mean Miss Stroude—and we don’t know what she’s doing in the attic.”
“Don’t panic,” says Tony firmly.
“I’m not panicking,” I reply hysterically. “It’s just—the idea of packing up—and where are we to go? Bryan and Betty will be—”
“Listen,” says Tony. “Will you stop panicking and listen! I’m coming now. I shall be there in ten minutes—not much more, anyhow. Keep the woman until I come.”
“Keep the woman?”
“Keep Miss Stroude. Don’t let her go until I’ve seen her.”
“But how can I?”
“Make some excuse—any excuse—but hold onto her until I come.”
“But, Tony—”
“Lock her in the attic if necessary.”
The line is cut off suddenly and I realise that Tony has replaced the receiver and is on his way. This is such a cheering and encouraging thought that I am able to giggle feebly over his parting words; the idea of imprisoning that masterful woman in her own attic is ludicrous in the extreme. Tony has not seen her, of course, and unless one had seen her and felt the weight of her personality one could not appreciate the joke.
Mrs. Tim Flies Home Page 11