I had a perfect hell of a night, hot-branding Kim Bennett as all kinds of a crazy fool.
Why, I cried silently, why oh why had I let Gwen land me in this idiotic mess? Not only foisted upon people who didn’t want me, but looking as if I was in on the act, too. They might even be thinking that I’d put her up to it.
Was this unheedful bulldozing of her family typical of Gwen? Or had she deliberately presented Drew and Corinne with a fait accompli, doubting if she could otherwise sell them the idea of turning a speech-therapist loose on their little daughter?
I blamed myself too for the unprofessional weakness of allowing my heart to be hooked by a stammering five-year-old. I’d seen so many pathetic children in my work. Why should this particular one have got right under my skin?
I slept after a fashion, and at last the soft early sunlight of September came to wake me. And with it came a sharp lifting of my spirits. It was eight o’clock. I got up and dressed, choosing a flame-colored sweater to help me brave a difficult day.
I didn’t go down at once. I stood at the open window, hanging on to the quiet beauty of the morning. The smooth lawn was silvered with autumn dew, and ringed with a feathery forest that steamed lazily in the warming sun. And above that rose the soft skyline of hills, almost lost in the purple haze.
Downstairs nobody was around, only Miss Pink plumping cushions and emptying the ashtrays.
“Mrs. Hearne has taken her breakfast up to the nursery,” she told me, adding with distaste: “The rest of them will be waiting for it in their beds, as usual.”
“Can I get mine for myself?” I offered, following her to the kitchen. “Just some toast.”
“You’ll have a proper breakfast, lovey,” she declared. “But you can give me a hand, if you like. “Now then, two rashers and an egg. No less.”
“But I never eat much ....”
She was already opening the fridge. As she slapped bacon onto the kitchen table, she affected a loud sniff of disapproval.
“There’s only one in this house has a real breakfast, and that’s Mr. Drew. But then he’s the only one in the house who does any real work—’cepting for Mrs. Hearne, that is, and she never has much appetite these days.”
I reconciled myself to hearty eating because I saw a chance of a free-and-easy chat with Miss Pink. It might not come again. Under her guidance I sliced a grapefruit in half and cut the segments.
I began carefully. “I met little Jane yesterday. It’s very sad, isn’t it?”
“The poor little soul,” she tutted. “Fill the kettle for me, will you, lovey?”
“Has Jane always had a stammer?”
“Not this bad, she hasn’t.”
Above the gushing water, I asked, “When did it start getting worse then?”
Miss Pink sucked in a slow thoughtful breath. “About a couple of years ago, I should say.”
“You mean in the autumn?” Casually I threw in as an extra bait. “I seem to remember we had a real Indian summer that year.”
“Yes, that’s right. Lovely it was, here at Mildenhall.” But then her bright little eyes clouded over. “ ’Cepting, of course, for...”
“Except for what?” I knew, but I wanted it to come from her.
Pinky hesitated, then suddenly darted away to a store room leading off the kitchen. A minute later she emerged bearing an egg in her hand.
“Thought I must have run out of the blessed things,” she muttered.
And that was very odd indeed because I’d noticed a rack full of eggs when she’d opened the fridge. But was it my business to point this out?
She shooed me off to the morning room then, urging me to get on with the grapefruit while she cooked bacon and eggs. When a few minutes later she brought it in to me, the little woman was all hurry and bustle,
“Got to get on,” she said severely. “No time to stop and chat.”
At an oval table big enough to seat ten or more, I ate my breakfast in solitary state, pondering upon the mysterious taboo at Mildenhall - the death by drowning of Tansy Hearne’s son, Brian.
Neither the accident nor the man himself was allowed to be mentioned.
Why not?
“A thoroughly bad lot,” Gwen had called him, and Felix had banged a critical nail in too. Even when Drew was issuing his stern warning, he’d not attempted to contradict this unfavorable verdict on his cousin Brian.
It was well past nine and nobody else had as yet shown a face downstairs. I fetched a tray and carried my breakfast things out to the kitchen. There was a bunch of morning papers on a table in the hall, and on the way back I grabbed one and took it out to the terrace. It was pleasant to sit in the sun like this. I’d hardly had a chance to relax these last few weeks since I’d come rushing back from the United States when Hilary became ill.
I only skimmed the paper and then sat on lazily, lapping up the warmth of the sun and the peace and quiet of rural Sussex. I forgot about time until I heard the sound of someone on the gravel path, coming towards the house.
Shielding my eyes against the sun glare, I saw it was Drew. He was walking slowly—not very eagerly, I thought. He spotted me and immediately switched direction, coming across the grass diagonally and up the terrace steps.
“Good morning, Miss Bennett.”
“Good morning. Is this your newspaper I’ve got?”
“You’re welcome to it.” He stood with his strong brown hands on the back of a chair, leaning forwards against it. “I thought we could have a talk about Jane.”
“Yes, I’d be glad to, Mr. Barrington.”
He glanced around. “Shall we go to my study? We won’t be interrupted there.”
“Yes, of course.” As I got to my feet I remembered Bill Wayne and looked at my watch. It was nine-forty-five already. “I wonder ... could I leave a message for Mr. Wayne that I won’t be free? He was going to call for me at ten, to show me round the trout farm.”
There was surprise in Drew’s expression. And I thought I detected annoyance too.
“When did you arrange this?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“I see.” His voice sounded cool. “There’s not the slightest need for you to change your plans oh my account. We can talk some other time.”
“Oh, but I ...”
“Don’t let it worry you, Miss Bennett. I’ll tell Bill you’re waiting for him.”
With the briefest nod he swung round and walked back the way he had come.
I was furious with myself for somehow getting off on the wrong foot with Drew Barrington. And all because my position in this house was still ambiguous. What exactly was I supposed to be? A weekend guest of Gwen’s? Or a paid employee?
My eyes must still have been alight with anger-and frustration when Bill Wayne came strolling up a few minutes later.
“Hey, what’s biting you, Kim?”
It was hardly his fault. I tried to soften, smiling back at his friendly grin. “Sorry, Bill. It’s not you, though. Just my own black thoughts.”
“Then I pity whoever it is you’re thinking about.” He dropped into the chair beside me. “Now then, ready for the conducted tour?”
“I’m looking forward to it. By the way, I hope Mr. Barrington didn’t tell you to hurry up just now. It’s not quite ten o’clock yet.”
“Drew?” he said vaguely. “He’ll be around somewhere ...”
We wandered off down the steps and across the grass. Where the trees came to meet the lawn I stopped for a moment to look back.
From here the whole wide rear facade of Mildenhall could be seen, the morning sunlight glowing on its mossy yellow-gray stonework. It would have been such a beautiful old house but-for the dark forest encroaching too close on every side.
High up at a barred gable window I saw a tiny figure gazing out. I waved my hand and a white handkerchief fluttered in response.
The metal bars across the window were a sensible safeguard for a nursery so high off the ground. But the bars locking Jane a prisoner within herself had somehow got to be sawn through. She had to be let out of her cage. Led out.
With another wave Bill and I turned to go on. “Poor little Jane,” I said.
He shrugged his hefty shoulders, ready to show sympathy, but making it clear he was uninvolved.
“I expect she’ll grow out of it.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said with prudent caution.
The path dived down between tall straight fir trees. Dry pine needles made a squeaky carpet underfoot,
It struck me that I could try Bill with the question the rest of them had never got around to answering.
“When did this stammering of Jane’s begin?”
“Oh, I imagine the child’s always had trouble.”
Trying to sound utterly casual, I asked, “When did you first notice it yourself?”
“I dunno.” He wrinkled up his nose as he considered. “I remember Drew mentioning it to me one day. He was beginning to get worried.”
“When was that?”
Bill twisted a sharp look at me. “You seem to be mighty interested.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” I said lightly.
I didn’t get any feeling that Bill was being evasive though, merely that he thought my questions unanswerable.
For a few moments we walked on in silence. Very soon we’d reach the trout ponds, perhaps be among other people. Drew would be somewhere around, too. If I wanted information from Bill Wayne, I’d better be quick about getting it,
I went plunging straight in, the question raw at .the edges, quite untrimmed. “Why does everyone here dry up when Brian Hearne’s name is mentioned?”
Bill didn’t falter, didn’t look more than faintly surprised.
“Do they? I hadn’t noticed.”
Again we walked on in silence, and I began to think he wasn’t going to take the bait on that subject either. But then he said in a leveled-off tone: “The poor devil was drowned in one of the ponds right here. It can’t be very pleasant for them.”
“How did it happen, Bill?”
“The coroner said it was a tragic accident.”
I noted the cautious qualification. “Didn’t you agree with that verdict, then?”
“Oh, yes, of course I did. But the coroner politely avoided mentioning that Brian was well tanked-up at the time.”
“Drunk, you mean?”
Bill pulled a long face. “You can bet he’d had a few. Trust old Brian!”
“What was he like? How did you get on with him?”
He laughed, an amused sort of snort. “Brian was all right, really. Fond of a drink, of course. But you might say his chief hobby was women.”
“Yes, I’d rather gathered that already.”
He glanced at me sharply, and then dropped the subject like a hot potato. Raising his arm, he pointed ahead.
“Look, there are the ponds.”
I saw shimmering silvery pools, sharp-drawn through a mist of conifer fronds and tall browning bracken. But the impact of their beauty came as no more than a feather touch. My mind still brooded around the death of Brian Hearne, the tragic accident that had sealed the lips of everyone at Mildenhall.
We broke through the trees at last and came out into the open.
At first glance the trout farm was a maze of sparkling water, bewilderingly complex. Nearest us was a battery of strict rectangles, separated by narrow concrete paths. But as they descended in steps down through the valley, the ponds grew larger and less regular in shape. At the far end were big natural-looking pools including, I guessed, the one I could see from my bedroom window.
I wondered in which pond Brian Hearne had met his death.
The macadam drive from the house struck right through this layout to a sprawling group of concrete-block buildings. Our path curved leftwards to join this roadway, and soon there was water on either side of us. I stopped to take a closer look. The crystal ponds teemed with trout—dark fluent shapes that quivered with electrical energy. A swarming multitude of fish.
“There are upwards of five thousand rainbows in here,” Bill told me with careless pride. “We raise these for the table. But that next lot are brown trout which we send out to restock fishing rivers.”
I looked around to see if I could spot Drew, but he was nowhere in sight. Some way off two men were busy at one of the smaller ponds, apparently catching fish in a huge net.
“We have to grade the trout periodically,” Bill explained. “Sort out the big ’uns from the little ’uns.”
Bill was very enthusiastic about the whole set-up. He explained each operation in detail as we toured first the ponds and then the buildings. But I wasn’t really in the mood to take much in. My mind was too occupied elsewhere.
“Did Mr. Barrington start all this himself?”
“Yes. About eight years ago now. Drew realized that if he was ever to keep Mildenhall going, he’d have to develop something new. Not being a fish man himself, it was clever of him to see the potential of all this good spring water he’s got here for free,”
We had reached the food store, a small lean-to. Bill opened a bin and took up a tin scoopful of pellet feed.
“Come and see them eat.”
We went out again and walked across the grass to the edge of the rainbow pond. With a broad sweeping movement Bill flicked the crumby feed far across the water.
I expected to see the surface break as the fish rose to take it. But I was not prepared for the sudden boiling turmoil of the water, the savagely writhing bodies. And then in seconds it was over, the food pellets all gone, the pond settling back to calm serenity.
I shivered. “There’s something ... oh I don’t know—so primeval about them.”
Bill was amused. “Yes, they like their grub all right.”
When I thanked him for showing me round, he suggested walking back to the house with me.
“There’s no need, thank you, Bill.”
“But I want to.” He was very definite about it, and when we got to where the path branched off, he stuck to the road—the longer way back. He fixed our pace at a slow stroll and went into the old routine of getting-to-know-you-better. I had to be evasive.
As we neared the house, he asked, “When are you going back to town, Kim? Monday morning?”
Uncomfortably I avoided giving him a flat answer. “Well, it’s not quite settled yet.”
“I hope I’ll be seeing you again, anyway.”
“Oh, I expect you will.”
I tried to say it lightly because his eyes were trying to make the situation very meaningful indeed.