3
Anne Ferens was much too busy for the remainder of that morning to think any more about Sister Monica. Being a methodical woman and a bit of a genius at homemaking, Anne had thought out the position of all her belongings beforehand, and she was kept busy running round after the van men, seeing that everything was placed where she wanted it placed. At intervals she paused to sing songs of praise to herself because she and Raymond had furnished with old pieces and not modern ones. It had been a toss-up when they started as to whether to invest in modern “functional” style or to collect old furniture, and Anne’s decision had been made partly because she had inherited a few beautiful old pieces from her parents, partly because she found modern furniture boring and lacking in character. When everything was in place, Anne had to admit that the big rooms looked a bit empty, but it was a very pleasant emptiness. The floors were all of beautiful wood, and if carpets and rugs were rather like islands on the parquet or oak boards, it didn’t seem to matter, and spaciousness was dear to Anne’s heart.
At lunch time, Raymond took her out to have a meal at the Milham Arms, and they fed in style on very excellent salmon caught in Sir James’s waters. They were waited on most ceremoniously by the ex-butler, Simon Barracombe, who was almost pontifical in his slow solemnity, and the meal was rounded off by that rarest of pleasures in an English inn, first-class coffee. After the meal, Anne went and stood outside the inn while Raymond paid the bill, and she studied the village street with delight. She stood on a plateau; there was a little open square in front of her backed by the lovely stonework of church, Manor, and Dower House. To right and left the street ran steeply downhill between cottages which were mostly thatched and colour-washed, built straight on to the street, but each cottage had a strip of flower bed below its front windows, where aubrietia and arabis and saxifrage made vivid carpets and cushions of mauve and white and yellow and pink around the daffodils and narcissi. To Anne, who had been inured for four years to the drab sootiness of an industrial town, the vivid colouring of flower beds, cottages, and thatches was as exciting as music or poetry, and she stared with delight, her eyes gay with happiness, so that the villagers who passed smiled back at her.
When her husband joined her, they stood for a while, while Raymond pointed out the places he knew: “Post office to your right, the pink cottage; smithy farther down the hill, also on your right; Sanderson’s house is the white one, and the mill is at the bottom of the hill, near the bridge. The vicarage is behind the church and Gramarye just below that. There’s also a garage and another small shop and the village institute. That’s about the lot, except the infant school. The older children are taken to Milham Prior, much to the fury of their parents.”
As they strolled back across the little square, Anne said: “That was a very good lunch, Ray. Did it cost the earth?”
Raymond screwed up his face. “Well, for a village inn, it was a bit steep, but, as you said, it was a very good lunch, and a very good sherry and the best coffee I’ve had in years, apart from yours.”
“He’s a wicked old man, that Simon the Cellarer. I felt it in my bones,” said Anne. “Thank you very much for my good lunch, but we won’t do that again.”
Raymond Ferens laughed as they strolled in through the wrought-iron gates of the Dower blouse. “I’ve always thought of you as a kindly, charitable sort of woman, Anne, very tolerant of the backslidings of poor humanity. You’ve only met four people in this village: our noble landlord, whom you confidently expect to overcharge us for all produce supplied; poor old Brown, whom you described as a bad old man at the first glance; Simon Barracombe, whom you say is wicked, and Sister Monica, who, according to you, is bogus.”
“Oh, she’s plain wicked. I know she is,” said Anne. “And it looks such a virtuous village, Ray: could anything be more innocent-looking?” She paused and looked back at the sunny coloured cottages, and her husband laughed.
“Human nature’s never innocent, angel. Whenever you get a group of people living together, whether in town or village, you find the mixed characteristics of humanity—envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness mingled with neighbourliness and unselfishness and honest-to-God goodness. This place is beautiful: Stourton was hideous, but if a social statistician could get busy in both, he’d find the same percentages of human virtues and human failings. But I like humanity, and even its sins are sometimes endearing.”
“Yes. You’re perfectly right,” said Anne soberly, but he laughed.
“No one is ever perfectly right, my wench, neither you, nor I, nor anybody else. And remember this: the country looks innocent and towns often look the reverse, but human nature is the same whether in town or country—it’s a mixture of good and bad. The only people who really get my goat are the ones who kid themselves they’re a hundred per cent good. Now do you want me to do any heaving or shoving or manhandling this afternoon, or can I go and get the bits and pieces fixed in my surgery?”
“You go-along to your surgery, Ray, or go and talk shop with that snuffy old mass of iniquity in his surgery. I know you’re panting to get started on a nice pneumonia or obstructed twins. All manhandling’s done; I’m going to make beds and get rid of the mess. Tea at five and don’t be late. And I won’t criticise anybody else or say anybody’s wicked.”
“Leave the aspersions to the village.” He laughed. “They’ve had a good look at you, and they’ll all have a few words to say on the subject of Jezebel, bless them.”
4
It was just as Anne had produced broom and dustpan that the old-fashioned bell jangled at the front door, and Anne found a strangely assorted group awaiting her: Lady Ridding stood in the porch, a picture of gracious benevolence and dignity; behind her was a buxom village woman, and in the drive an aged man standing by a wheelbarrow, with a tow-haired boy beside him.
“Welcome to the Dower House, Mrs. Ferens, and may you and your husband be very happy here,” smiled the great lady. “Now I haven’t come to interrupt you: I know how busy you must be, but I’ve brought Mrs. Beer to introduce her, and if you would like someone to help, she will stay now. She’s a great stand-by with polishing these old wooden floors. Thomas has brought you some flowers from the greenhouses as our moving-in gift. The arum lilies look so beautiful in this house, and he’ll collect the pots again when the flowers are over. And young Dick will bring your milk and cream and take any orders for vegetables. Now I won’t stay. I know you’re busy—and do send for Sanderson at once if you want anything done in the house.”
Anne tumbled out a breathless “Thank you . . . thank you very much, Lady Ridding,” as she looked at the noble pots of arums and primulas, and the older lady smiled back.
“Not at all. Ids a great pleasure—and how nice to have someone so young and pretty for a neighbour! I’m delighted to have you here, my dear.”
She sailed away like a galleon in full rig, her ample coat billowing out in the wind, and Mrs. Beer greeted Anne serenely.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Her ladyship’s like that, rather sudden but so goodhearted. Now if you’re not wanting me, I’ll just go straight home, but I’ve got some time free if so be you’d like me to sweep and polish.”
“I should like it very much, Mrs. Beer, so do come in,” said Anne, and the buxom body turned to old Thomas.
“Now do you ask Mrs. Ferens if she’d like them pots stood in the porch meanwhiles and how much milk she wants this evening, and don’t you step inside in them mucky boots, young Dick.”
Mrs. Beer turned out to be the sort of body whom overworked housewives pray for but seldom attain. She set to work clearing up the debris the van men had left and was soon polishing the floors, while Anne got the beds made and tidied up the bedroom, realising how much easier it was to work in big rooms rather than in small ones. It was nearly four o’clock when she went into a drawing room already shining and tidy with the pots of arum lilies standing on the wide window sills. Mrs. Beer was just putting the posy from Gramarye on the mantelshelf,
and she said to Anne: “I see you’ve had Sister Monica here, ma’am. I’d know her little bunches of flowers anywhere; she’s clever the way she arranges them.”
“I think they’re beautiful,” said Anne. “I expect you’ve known Sister Monica a long time, Mrs. Beer.”
“Indeed I have, ma’am. I mind her when she first came, thirty years ago that be, and her cap and veil just the same as she wears today, never altered one bit, she hasn’t, except her white hair. Maybe she do look odd and old-fashioned to people from away, but we’re so used to her we never notice. I had my niece to stay with me at Christmas—she’s a Plymouth girl—and she was proper startled when she saw Sister. But there, she’s a wonderful woman. Old Dr. Brown, he do think the world of her, and so do Vicar and Lady Ridding.” Mrs. Beer looked around the room and then said: “And now, ma’am, if you’d like me to light Aga, I’m used to they. Two they’ve got at the Manor, and I know them’s little ways.”
“Then you know more than I do,” laughed Anne. “I’ve got everything to learn about them.”
“They’re easy if so be you treat them proper,” said Mrs. Beer. “Wonders, I call them.”
“Like Sister Monica,” said Anne.
Mrs. Beer stared at her a moment and then said, “I’d rather have Aga—but there, Sister’s worked here a powerful long time and she has her little ways too, maybe.”
Anne’s final visitor that day was John Sanderson, the estate manager. He was a tall, quiet fellow of about forty, and both the Ferenses liked him and judged him to be trustworthy and kindly.
“I just came in to see if there was anything you wanted done, Mrs. Ferens. There are often odd jobs to be attended to in these old houses and we’ve got a couple of old chaps who’re very handy at small repairs.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Anne. “In fact everybody has been so good I can’t be grateful enough. Everything you have done is quite beautiful and I’m simply delighted with it all. The only thing I’ve noticed is that one of the drawing-room windows won’t open. I think it’s stuck.”
“We’ll soon see to that. I meant to have sent in a man to look at them. The woodwork’s very old and they do tend to shrink and swell.” He went across the drawing room to examine the window, and Anne saw him glance at the posy on the mantelpiece.
“Sister Monica brought me those flowers,” said Anne, and he nodded.
“Sol see. Her specialty.”
“She looks a character,” said Anne innocently.
“Yes. I think she is a character,” he replied. “You can’t live in this village without knowing that.” He paused, and then added: “Sister Monica either likes you or doesn’t, and I’m one of the people she doesn’t like. I’ll send in a man to put these windows to rights, Mrs. Ferens. Sure there’s nothing else?”
“Nothing, thank you very much,” said Anne, “not in the house, anyway.”
He turned and looked at her, his eyes intelligent and amused. “If you want to know anything more about Sister Monica——”
“—you can only say she’s a wonder,” laughed Anne.
“You never said a truer word,” he replied. “Good-bye, and I hope you’ll find everything works. If not, just let me know.”
5
Raymond came in at five o’clock to find tea ready and his wife in a pretty frock, sitting like a lady in the big drawing room. “Well, angel, I hand it to you for energy. You’ve got straight in just about record time.”
“It was easy,” said Anne. “Everyone’s been falling over themselves to be kind and helpful. Lady Ridding brought a treasure of a woman to help clean up, to say nothing of the flowers: don’t those arums give us an air of chaste superiority? This is a wonderful village.”
He cocked an eyebrow at the word, his lean, pale face crinkled in a grin. “D’you know, I think we’ll delete that word from our vocabulary, Anne.”
“As we deleted the word ‘culture’ after its redefinition by an eminent poet,” murmured Anne. “For the same reason, Ray? Because it implies too much and is understood too little?”
“Let us not be controversial,” he said, sitting down luxuriously in a chair which offered comfort and yet avoided engulfing him. “If we are not careful, the word ‘wonderful’ will become a gag.”
“How right you are,” she laughed. “Have you been collecting evidence about the person the word is applied to locally? I don’t believe I’m far wrong, Ray. She’s a menace, only nobody daresay so out loud.”
“According to my informant, being old Brown, she’s the noblest creature the Almighty ever made,” said Raymond. “Judging by more indirect evidence, she’s the focus point of most of the village bickerings. The fact is they’ve all been here too long, Anne—doctor and parson, landlord and warden, postman and postmistress. Venner, down at the mill, hit the nail on the head. ‘Time we had some fresh blood,’ he said. You must go and see the mill, Anne. It’s amazing the power they get from that fall.”
“All in good time, sir. To begin with, I’m going to have my work cut out. A. Not to be managed by our noble landlady: she’ll be ordering my dinner if I don’t look out. B. Not to be hypnotised by Sister Monica. She’s mistress of the evil eye. C. Not to be bullied by old Thomas, the gardener. He wants to have control over our garden. Now come and see the Aga. It’s functioning. So is the central heating. It’s really rather . . . impressive,” she ended, after a rhetorical pause.
“I am duly impressed,” replied Ray. “It’s a grand day’s work you’ve done, angel. How do you feel about it all?”
“It’s lovely,” said Anne, “but we shall have to work hard to avoid using that newly banned word. How were the pneumonias?”
“They weren’t. But Sir James has rather a nice asthma. That’s the real reason why we’re here.”
“How useful of him,” said Anne.
CHAPTER III
Anne Ferens was a friendly soul, and she was soon on good terms with her neighbours, both villagers and “quality”; she found the former much more attractive than the latter. “The quality are always grumbling while the village folk are always cheerful,” she said to her husband, and Raymond replied:
“Perfectly reasonable. The villagers are better off than they’ve ever been before and the gentry are worse off. Some of them, like our Lady Ridding, are adaptable enough to develop a business sense, but most of them, like the poor old Staveleys, just sit and moan over the injustices and hardships of ‘England—now.’ Incidentally, ‘England—now’ is doing us pretty well. You’re getting to be a nut-brown maid. You’re looking prettier every day, Anne.”
“Thank you for those kind words. May I say in my turn that you’re looking much less like something grown in a cellar, Ray? I shall admire your manly beauty if you continue the good work.”
The villagers of Milham in the Moor were by nature conservative and tended to be suspicious of newcomers. When they first saw Anne Ferens, they were almost startled by her vividness and vitality. She was a gypsy type in colouring: black hair, smoothly parted and plaited into a big bun low down on her neck, dark eyes and amusingly tilted dark eyebrows, a brown skin and lips that were red even without her habitual cherry lipstick. Her eyes were bright and expressive, her cheeks dimpled and her lips curved easily to a wide smile, and she loved bright colours, scarlet and orange and yellow, emerald green and cerise; no colour was too bright for Anne to wear. If the villagers were a bit startled at first by both the modernity and the vividness of the new doctor’s young wife, they soon got to enjoy the look of her, as well as her gaiety and spontaneous interest in everything.
It was a few weeks after the Ferenses had settled into the Dower House that Anne received a note from Sister Monica, conveying a courteous old-fashioned invitation “to take tea” at Gramarye. Anne tossed the note across to Raymond at breakfast time. “I suppose I’ve got to go sometime, so I might as well go and get it over. I shall jolly well keep my eyes open while I’m there.”
“I shouldn’t, angel,” he replied. “T
reat it as you would treat any other not very welcome social occasion. Be polite and dignified—you’re very good at both—and come away as soon as you can, having uttered nothing but courteous platitudes.”
Anne sat and thought. Then she said: “I don’t believe that woman’s fit to be trusted with the care of little children, Ray.”
“Anne, let’s get this clear,” he replied. “Gramarye is not our business. The home has a qualified medical man in charge; it is regularly inspected by the committee of management and it is known to the county authorities, who see fit to send homeless or maladjusted children there. It’s nothing to do with you or with me.” He paused, and then went on: “I think we’ve got to be very careful, Anne. Sister Monica has held a position of trust here for thirty years. I have said I don’t like her. I think she has all the bad qualities of an ageing, dominating, and narrow-minded woman, but she is woven into the very fabric of the life of this village and she has a lot of influence here. If I thought that the situation was such as to warrant interference from me, I would interfere and devil take the consequences, but I don’t think such interference is indicated.”
“Would you feel the same if a child you were fond of was there, Ray?”
“I don’t know, and I’m not going to debate a hypothetical case. To the best of my knowledge and belief those small kids at Gramarye are well housed, well fed, and well clothed. Their health is supervised by Brown and their general welfare supervised by a committee of whom Lady Ridding is chairman. Don’t go tilting at windmills, Anne.”
Anne suddenly grinned. “All right, but do just tell me this. What do you mean by windmills?”
“You know, my child. We both believe that Sister Monica has the defects of her qualities—a very useful phrase. I think she’s deceitful, and she deceives herself as well as other people. I’m prepared to believe she’s a liar, a fomenter of trouble, a sneak, and a hypocrite. I also believe she’s a very competent nurse and an excellent manager. May I have some more coffee?”
Murder in the Mill-Race Page 3
