Old House had, since Mrs. Former’s death, become just a roof to Judy. She never from choice went inside the drawing-room. The old lady’s armchair was still in the window, and though Clara had tidied the room, no tidying could sweep away that frail ghost. It seemed to Judy that she must hear the old lady’s voice saying, “Here you are, dear,” and that she herself would answer in the raised voice which could reach deaf ears, “How have you been behaving to-day?” To-night she walked into the house on tiptoe, hoping that no one would hear her arrive. Clara must have her note as soon as possible and she must be given it when Miss Rose was not about.
Clara, Miss Rose and Desmond were in the kitchen. Judy turned towards the stairs, meaning to tidy up first and catch Clara alone later on, but at the bottom of the stairs a scrap of conversation coming from the kitchen stopped her. Clara was speaking apparently to Desmond.
“Don’t pick that up yourself, Desmond, let your great-aunt do it. If she doesn’t do it quick enough, give her a kick.”
There seemed to be no answer from Miss Rose to this. Presently Desmond spoke in his usual inconsequent manner.
“I kicked a sheep once.”
Clara answered him slowly and carefully, obviously intending her words to sink in.
“That’s a clever boy, and the sheep made a baa and it ran, didn’t it? But your great-aunt won’t baa and run, you kick hard and try. Go on, do as Mother says.”
There was silence and then a little grunting moan. Judy felt quite sick. What on earth could Clara be up to? Had she gone mad? Poor darling old Miss Rose! In a fury Judy stalked along the passage and flung open the kitchen door.
Miss Rose was on her knees scrubbing the floor. Clara was leaning on the kitchen table looking at her. As Judy came in Desmond, making baaing noises, ran forward and gave Miss Rose what was clearly one of a series of kicks. Judy forgot about tact and keeping on good terms with Clara. She seized Desmond by the arm and shook him till the child’s teeth rattled in his head.
“Don’t you dare do that, you loathsome little horror!” Clara shot round the table and pulled Desmond away from Judy.
“Leave him alone. How dare you touch him!”
Judy, stammering with rage, faced Clara.
“I like that! How dare he kick Miss Rose?” She knelt down beside Miss Rose and put an arm round her. “It’s a shame, but you shouldn’t be such a meek mouse. Why didn’t you kick back again? I would.” Miss Rose did not seem to hear what Judy was saying, but went on scrubbing the floor. Judy gave her a shake. “Listen to me, Miss Rose darling, you should stand up for yourself in your own house.” Still there was no response from Miss Rose. Judy gave her another gentle shake. “Do stop scrubbing and listen to me.” She looked up at Clara.
“She shouldn’t do this heavy work after all she’s been through. Never mind, Miss Rose darling, you’re going to have a holiday, aren’t you?”
Clara led Desmond to the back door and pushed him outside, then she turned to Miss Rose.
“I think you want to say something to Judy, don’t you?” There was no word from Miss Rose. Clara raised her voice. “You want to say something to Judy, don’t you?”
Miss Rose clambered awkwardly to her feet. She looked at the floor while she was speaking.
“I don’t want a holiday. I want to stop here.”
Clara nodded approvingly.
“And why do you want to stop here?”
Miss Rose still eyed the floor, fidgeting with her scrubbing apron. She stammered a little, looking at Clara anxiously out of the corner of her eyes.
“I want to stop here to be with Clara and dear Desmond.”
“Go on,” Clara ordered, “there’s more than that.”
Miss Rose looked nervous. There was a question in her voice, as if she were making sure she was getting her statement right.
“And I don’t want a holiday.”
“Go on,” said Clara. “What about Judy?”
Miss Rose flushed and there was quite a pause before she spoke again.
“And I don’t want Judy to go on living in my house. I’d rather she found a billet somewhere else.”
Judy was so stunned at the whole scene that for a second she did not quite know what to do. Then common sense came to her rescue. Whatever all this did or did not mean, it was certainly not Miss Rose’s fault. She went up to her and put an arm round her.
“Look at me.”
There was a pause.
“Look at her,” said Clara.
Another pause and then Miss Rose raised her eyes. Judy gave an exclamation and tightened the grip of her arm.
“Miss Rose, sweet, what on earth’s the matter? You look scared to death. There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s a free world, you’re living in your own house, nobody can make you say or do anything you don’t want to do.”
For one second it looked as if Miss Rose were going to be her natural self and break down and cry, or at least hug Judy and tell her what was wrong. Then Clara broke in again.
“Go on, Aunt Rose. You don’t want Judy to think you’re being bullied, do you?” Her voice changed, there was a meaning behind it which Judy could not place. “It would be very unfortunate for you if Judy thought that.”
Miss Rose visibly pulled herself together. She jerked herself out of Judy’s arm.
“Nobody is making me do anything I don’t wish to do.”
“And all you want,” Clara prompted, “is to be left alone to manage your own affairs and Judy to leave the house as soon as possible. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Miss Rose kept her face turned from Judy.
“That’s right.”
Judy went up to her room. She opened the window wide and leant on the sill and gazed out at the gate. It was nice to look at the gate, for through it lay freedom from this queer, unwholesome house, and through it lay Nicholas. This, however, was no time to think of Nicholas or how nice it would be to live somewhere else, this was the time for clear thinking. Nicholas was wiring for his mother, but what good could Lady Parsons do with Miss Rose saying it was her wish that she should not go away? Why was Miss Rose behaving like this? What, in heaven’s name, had Clara got hold of to scare the old girl, for that Miss Rose was too scared to do anything but what she was told was certain. Accepting the fact that Miss Rose was scared of something, what was Clara going to get out of it? Fond she might be of Desmond, but nobody but a lunatic could wish to show their fondness for their child by teaching it to kick its elderly relatives. Then the sentence she had heard at the bottom of the stairs came back to her: “Don’t pick that up yourself, Desmond, let your great-aunt do it. If she doesn’t do it quick enough, give her a kick.”
“Don’t pick that up yourself, Desmond, let your great-aunt do it.” It was all very frightening. It simply did not make sense. It sounded like the worst sort of story you heard about the Gestapo. What should she do now? She could walk out of the house and find Nicholas and ask his advice, or she could go on as if nothing had happened. Obviously the walking out of the house and finding Nicholas would be the pleasantest thing to do, but what about the right thing to do? If she walked out and stayed out to supper it was the first step towards giving in to Clara. Miss Rose was a gullible, dear old silly, she was scared stiff, no one but a cad and a coward would give in one inch. Sighing, Judy turned from the window and began tidying her hair.
It was the most repulsive evening. Judy, determined not to yield an inch to Clara, kept up a gay and cheerful chatter over supper, to which neither Miss Rose nor Clara made any answer whatsoever. As soon as her last mouthful of food was finished, Clara nodded at Miss Rose.
“Clear the table and wash up.”
Judy jumped to her feet.
“I’ll help. Time you had a holiday, Clara.”
Clara turned with apparent politeness to Miss Rose. “Would you like Judy to help?”
Miss Rose, who was nervously shovelling the plates together, shook her head.
“No. No. I prefer to do it alone.”
Judy was in two minds whether to agree to this ridiculous situation, then she decided that really it was kinder to Miss Rose to leave her to herself. Tackling her troubles for her probably fussed the old pet. She went upstairs and fetched Mrs. Edwards’ letter.
Ever since Judy had been in the house the immensity of hard work that Clara had got through had been a marvel. Up first thing in the morning, to bed late at night, there never seemed to be a moment when she had not found something about the house which needed doing. One of her favourite sayings was, “Other people may have time to sit down, but it’s more than I have.” It was, therefore, a shock to Judy when she came down the stairs to see through the half-open drawing-room door Clara in Mrs. Former’s arm-chair. Not the usual Clara, stiff of back, with a piece of sewing in her hand, but a Clara lolling with her legs stretched out straight in front of her. She looked up as Judy came in and slid further into the chair.
“Surprised to see me resting?”
“Well, it’s not like you. It certainly won’t do you any harm.”
“That’s what I think.” She took the envelope Judy held out. “From Mrs. Edwards, I suppose.” She read it through. “Can’t you get into The Bull while they’re waiting for a new billet? It should be handy for you, I should think.”
Judy was not going to be led into an argument on that point.
“I’ll see what can be done. Anyway, Mrs. Edwards will have somewhere for me by next week.”
“I should hope so. After all, my aunt is not as young as she was and she’s been through a shock.”
Judy, eyeing the new Clara, wandered round the room. Would it be the faintest use asking her what she was up to? Why, apparently in a day, everything in the house had changed? Why Miss Rose, who now owned everything, seemed suddenly to have become a slave?
Then out of the window she saw Desmond. It was impossible to hold a sane conversation with Desmond, but might he, in his inconsequent way, let some little clue drop? It was worth trying.
Desmond was sitting under a tree playing with an extremely decayed bird. Judy took the bird from him and threw it into some long grass.
“You mustn’t touch that, it’s not nice.”
Desmond looked at the spot where the bird had fallen.
“I had a fish in a box went bad like that once.”
Judy was thankful to find the child sticking to a topic of conversation.
“Things do go bad,” she agreed, “if you keep them long enough.” Desmond got up and began searching in the long grass where Judy had thrown his bird. Judy called him back. “Come on, leave it alone. I’ll play a game with you if you like.”
Desmond seemed not to hear what she said. He went on grubbing in the grass, and at the same time singing in a high, tuneless voice. Presently he found his bird, he held it by one leg and returned to Judy. She spoke severely.
“If you bring that horrid thing here I shall only throw it away again.”
The child sat down. He spoke as if he were repealing a nursery rhyme.
“Everything belongs to Desmond. Desmond can have anything he likes. Everybody has to do what Desmond says.”
Judy gaped at him.
“Good gracious, Desmond! What a way to talk! Everything does not belong to Desmond, in fact nothing here does, it belongs to your great-aunt. Desmond can’t have everything he likes, specially he can’t have maggoty birds because maggots make Judy sick. And nobody has to do what Desmond says. Children do what grown-up people say, and I tell you to give that bird to me or, for probably the first time in your life, you’ll know what it feels like to be smacked.”
Desmond swung the bird to and fro like the pendulum of a clock.
“Everything belongs to Desmond. Desmond can have everything he likes. Everybody has to do what Desmond says.”
Judy got to her feet.
“All right, my son, you asked for it and you shall have it. Just come to the other side of this tree where dear Mummy can’t see you from the window, and then you shall learn what discipline is like.” Judy had been brought up on the principle that no child should be punished unless it clearly understood what it was being punished for. Desmond, gazing at the sky and swinging his disgusting bird, had clearly not got his mind on punishment. Judy dragged him behind a good thick laurel, then, keeping her nose as far from the bird as possible, she knelt down so as to bring her face near to Desmond’s. “I am going to spank you, Desmond, because I told you to throw away that bird and you haven’t. Have you understood?”
Desmond gazed at the bird.
“There’s a maggot dropped off him.”
Judy snatched at the bird and flung it on to the top of the laurel, and at the same time pulled Desmond across her knee and gave him three firm smacks on his behind. Then she pulled him up straight.
“Now, why did I spank you?”
It would not have surprised Judy what the child answered. She hoped that he realized that he had been punished because he deserved it. Desmond surprised her. He made no protest at the spanking to which she was sure he was totally unused, but regarded her with almost a gleam of intelligence.
“Because of dirty old bird.”
“For goodness’ sake run away. If you stay here one minute longer I shall spank you for all the times that you’ve answered rubbish when you could have answered sense.” Then a thought struck her. “Why did you kick your Great-aunt Rose?”
Desmond was staring at the top of the laurel.
“Old bird on the top of a tree. Old bird on the top of a tree.”
Judy tried to turn him to face her.
“Why did you kick your great-aunt?”
It was clear there was no further sane conversation to be had from Desmond. He wriggled away from her and danced off singing some strange rigmarole about a mouse.
Lady Parsons with Scylla and Charybdis on either side of her was sitting on a plush seat in the lounge of The Bull.
“My dear children, I can’t possibly get up because the inn says that dogs shouldn’t run about the hotel. Hotel indeed! Just a little country inn, and what could be nicer than a country inn? Why call yourself an hotel when you’re not?”
Nicholas kissed his mother.
“But, my lamb, why bring Scylla and Charybdis?”
Lady Parsons gave Judy a woman-to-woman look. “Isn’t that exactly like a man? Taking it for granted that Dibble won’t mind being left with two dogs on top of everything else. As a matter of fact, it was not at all easy for me to get away. Dibble said, ‘It’s not that I’m complaining, my lady, nor would wish to stand in Mr. Nick’s way, but there’s a nasty creak on the top stair which is not accounted for by human feet, and though I’ll put up with it without complaint when you’re in the house, I couldn’t seem to fancy it on my own’.”
“What are you going to do with Scylla and Charybdis if they mayn’t walk about the inn?” Judy asked.
“Carry them and sit them on the sofas. It only says walk, not sit, on the notice.” She turned to Nicholas. “What a funny little bedroom, Nick, and where are you going to sleep, may I ask, while I’m in it?”
Nicholas picked up Scylla.
“Come up to the room and I’ll see if I can make more space for you. I expect there are too many of my things about, which makes the room seem smaller than it is.” Inside the bedroom Lady Parsons sat on the bed. She turned an eager face to Nicholas.
“Now, what is all this? Why am I here? What good work do you want me to do?”
Nicholas sat down by his mother.
“When Judy and I came up to you for the week-end I told you that I didn’t like Judy’s billet, that I thought there was something queer about the granddaughter by marriage of the owner. Well, since then the owner’s died and both Judy and I are very uneasy about her death, and about the death of the husband, old Mr. Former, which happened some time ago, and about the death of the dog. The doctor, who’s also uneasy, has held a post-mortem on old Mrs. Former and he can’t find anything the matter, but nobody’s satisfied and we all want to get Mrs. Former’s daughter, Miss Rose Former, out of the house.”
Lady Parsons sighed, and played with one of Charybdis’ ears.
“I do hope she will get on with Dibble. Shall I have to keep her for long? And when will she be ready to travel? You couldn’t have asked me to come at a more awkward moment, because it seems there’s being a census taken of the lectures that all the W.V.S. housewives have been through, and I know I’ve let some people slip by that I ought not to have done, and I should like to get the whole situation cleaned up before the training officer looks into things too closely.” Nicholas glanced at Judy.
“Tell Mother about the new snag.”
Judy leant on the rail at the foot of the bed and told Lady Parsons about the events of yesterday evening. Without being aware of it, her fear and disgust at the atmosphere in the house came out in her voice. When she had finished, Lady Parsons held out a hand to her.
“Come here, my child. This is nonsense, you know. All the courage in the world should not make a child of your age stop on in a house like that.”
Judy opened her mouth to argue, but Lady Parsons stopped her.
“No, don’t argue with me. I know what you’re going to say, but I know what I’m going to say. I can stay till next Monday and not a day longer, and on Monday your Miss Rose will travel with me. I shall arrange it.”
“But how?” Judy asked. “You see, she won’t speak to me. I haven’t got the faintest idea what Clara’s holding over her. Miss Rose is a silly old pet and almost any bit of nonsense will do, but this is more than some little thing. She must have frightened her into fits in some way, otherwise why should she change all in a moment into a humble, cowed creature doing exactly what Clara tells her?”
Lady Parsons’ voice was comfortingly firm.
“I’ve no idea what this very unpleasant sounding Mrs. Roal can be up to, but I’m accustomed to having my own way. I shall see Miss Rose. From the sound of the story I think probably the doctor could arrange that for me. I’ll have a talk with him. Please fix that, Nicholas. Now, what are your immediate plans? When this Miss Rose is out of the house and we’ve found Judy somewhere else to live, are you going to let the matter rest?” Nicholas gave the hand he was holding an affectionate pat.
“Not on your life! Would you?”
“Certainly not,” agreed Lady Parsons. “Apart from the fact that I always did hate seeing people get away with things, it’s a bit exciting to be mixed up in a murder. It’s like shipwrecks and being left on desert islands; something you read about but never expect to happen to you.”
Nicholas got up and began walking up and down the room.
“Judy and I are going to London on Saturday to see the incident officer who looked after the chemist’s shop when it was bombed. There might be a clue in what was saved there.”
“If there is a clue,” Judy broke in, “Nick wants me to search for whatever it is in Clara’s bedroom.”
Lady Parsons looked sympathetic.
“How extraordinarily unpleasant for you. We had a kitchen-maid once who was supposed to have stolen some silver, but I said to my housekeeper, Well, if she did, she’ll have to take it with her. I really can’t have rummaging in her box, it’s so sordid’.”
Nicholas had apparently not listened to this sidetracking of the conversation.
“Our other hope is Mr. Joseph Bloomfield. Doctor Mead says he’s sure he’s heard the name somewhere.” He broke off. “I rather think I’ll go and ring him now and fix about your seeing him, and see if his memory has stirred at all.”
When the door had shut on Nicholas, Lady Parsons got up off the bed and went to the mirror to tidy her hair. She made a face in the glass.
“Aren’t men extraordinary? What woman would put up with a bedroom for months on end in which you can’t see a thing in the glass. Where’s Nick sleeping? He looks most shockingly tired.”
Judy explained about the outhouse and how it had become untenable.
“I’m very afraid he doesn’t sleep much. He carries his ground-sheet about, I believe, but that’s not a lot of use.”
“Well, dear, he wouldn’t sleep much if he was in his bed here. In fact, I shan’t sleep much myself thinking of you in that house with that unpleasant creature though I know that Nick is within call. Like so many delicate people, you know, he’s able to stand any amount more than one would suspect. My Lionel, who was immensely strong, could not miss even a day’s sleep without going all to pieces. I do so hope the boy’s being sensibly brought up.”
Judy spoke without thinking.
“His boy! But I never knew . . .”
“Yes, dear, he married. She’s French, a refugee over here. Lionel never told us about the marriage, we only knew when his will was found, and then Nick went to see her and she said she was having Lionel’s baby. Nicholas didn’t feel I should care for her much, but, of course, I shouldn’t have allowed that to enter into the question. I should have made myself care for the mother of my grandchild, but as it happens she’s refused to see me. I could, of course, press the point, but I understand the child’s being brought up all right, if not in the way I should choose, so there’s been no need to interfere.”
Judy was full of pity. How sickening for Lady Parsons! What a difference it would make if she had a child of Lionel’s to take an interest in! Because she could not think of anything else to say, yet felt she must say something, she said gently:
“How odd, I never knew about the little boy.”
“If there hadn’t been one Nick would have succeeded to the title.” Lady Parsons sighed. “I expect everything’s for the best, but I should have liked that. However, when Nick marries perhaps I shall be allowed to see something of his children. At least I hope so.”
She said these last words so obviously in a questioning way that Judy flushed. Why on earth did Nick’s mother so misjudge her son? Why did she think he was in love with her? If only she could see the casual, friendly, almost brotherly way in which Nicholas regarded her. Because she liked Lady Parsons so much she felt she must disillusion her.
“You mustn’t think that Nick is fond of me . . .” Lady Parsons swung round in her chair.
“Mustn’t I? You know, Judy my child, strictly between ourselves, though I’m perfectly willing to lend a hand in this little affair of yours and Nick’s with a murderess, I really wanted an excuse to come down here. You and I must have a little confidential heart-to-heart talk.” She put her finger on her lips. “Sssh. I hear Nick coming.”
Nicholas flung open the door. His face was excited and his eyes shining. He spoke to Judy.
“Doctor Mead has remembered. Mr. Joseph Bloomfield is the headmaster of a school run on experimental lines for the training of special children. Get out a piece of paper, Judy, and write to him straight away. Doctor Mead says sign the letter ‘Rose Former’ and have it sent here care of Mother.”
Lady Parsons opened her blotter, found a piece of notepaper and pulled out a chair.
“Come on, dear, here’s a pen. Now, Nicholas, tell her what to say.”
Nicholas leant against the door gazing into space. Judy sat with her pen poised.
“Dear Mr. Bloomfield,” Nicholas dictated, “I am writing to you about my great-nephew, Desmond Roal. My father, who died shortly after he wrote to you, made arrangements about your receiving this child in your school. Owing to my father’s, and, more recently, my mother’s death the matter of Desmond’s education has been allowed to drop, but now that I have inherited my parents’ money I feel I should take this matter up again, and I would be glad if you could let me know, by return if possible, what the exact arrangements were that you made with my father. I would be grateful if you would reply in the enclosed stamped addressed envelope as I expect my father told you there is some slight difficulty with the boy’s mother, and before he is sent to you I may need to exercise a little tact and persuasion. Yours sincerely, Rose Former.”