The Key (The Miss Silver Mysteries Book 8)

by Patricia Wentworth

  He was surprised at his own strong resentment at being shepherded by a stranger. Aunt Sophy said in her fooffly voice, ‘You have your old room,’ but the irritation persisted long enough to make him feel ashamed of it.

  Miss Fell had maligned the dinner, or else he was being treated as the prodigal son, for they had a very good soup, an excellent mixed stew, green peas from the garden, and a coffee ice. Afterwards she walked him down the herbaceous border to admire late phloxes and early Michaelmas daisies. He was glad to get her to himself.

  ‘I didn’t know Miss Johnson had gone. How long have you had Miss Brown?’

  She beamed.

  ‘Oh, my dear – it was last year. I thought I had told you – I feel sure I wrote. I really was quite distracted at the time, but it has all turned out for the best – things so often do. Though of course it was all very sad, because Miss Johnson’s sister died and she had to go and keep house for her brother-in-law – three children in their teens, and he was quite inconsolable. But now she has married him, so it has all turned out for the best.’ She beamed again.

  ‘And Miss Brown?’

  ‘My dear boy, I told you about that – the hydropathic and Mrs Holford – I met her there. She had a temporary post, and I was able to persuade her to return with me.’ She laid a hand upon his arm and looked up at him in a confiding manner, her eyes quite round and blue. ‘You know, my dear, it really was a leading. I was missing Miss Johnson so much, and wondering who I could get to live with me. I asked Janice Meade, but of course it would be very dull for a young girl, and I quite understood her preferring to go to Mr Madoc, although he is an exceptionally disagreeable man.’

  So it was Janice who was the girl secretary. That was a stroke of luck. He wondered vaguely how she had turned out, but before the vagueness had time to clear Aunt Sophy was off again about Miss Brown.

  ‘It really was rather wonderful, you know. Mrs Holford had a friend – well, perhaps not exactly a friend, but they had become very friendly – they had been a month at the hydro before I got there. Miss Perry, her name was, and she could do all sorts of entertaining things – telling fortunes from cards, and writing with planchette. All great nonsense of course, or I used to think it was, but really very entertaining. You know, you do get tired of knitting, and the libraries always seem to have so many books that no one can possibly want to read. So it made a change.’

  Garth gave an inward groan. What had the old dear been up to, and what had she let herself in for?

  Miss Sophy patted his arm.

  ‘Dear boy, you looked so like your grandfather then. And I don’t suppose he would have approved, but it has all turned out so well. The very first time I met Miss Perry she was telling all our fortunes with coffee grounds, and she said I had just had a great break in my life. Not that there was anything very surprising about that, because of course Mrs Holford knew all about Miss Johnson having to leave me, and I daresay she had mentioned it.’

  Garth burst out laughing. Aunt Sophy had a shrewd streak which sometimes showed quite unexpectedly. He said, ‘I daresay she had. Well, what happened next?’

  ‘The next evening she had the cards out. She told Mrs Holford that she would be in some anxiety about a relation before long. And that came true, because a cousin’s son was missing for three weeks – but he turned up again all right, I am glad to say.’

  ‘And what did she tell you?’

  ‘That is the marvellous part. She told me I was going to meet someone who would make the greatest difference in my life, and within twenty-four hours I had met Miss Brown.’

  ‘How?’ said Garth.

  ‘How?’

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘I think Miss Perry introduced us,’ said Miss Fell. ‘And oh, my dear boy, you can’t think what a difference she has made! She is so efficient – such a wonderful manager. And so musical. You know how devoted I am to music. She plays the church organ for us, and she is a very fine pianist. She sings delightfully too.’

  ‘You don’t find her gloomy?’

  Miss Fell had a startled look.

  ‘Oh, no. Oh, I know what you mean, but we have all had a very severe shock. You may have seen something about it in the papers. Mr Harsch – such a nice man, and very musical too – was found dead in the church only the day before yesterday. I am afraid – well, I am afraid that he shot himself. It has upset and distressed us all very much.’ She slipped a hand inside his arm and kept it there. ‘If anything could make me more glad to see you than I always am, it would be this distressing affair, because the inquest is tomorrow and it would be a great support to have you with me.’

  ‘Do you mean that you are obliged to go?’

  The blue eyes were round and troubled.

  ‘Oh, yes, my dear. You see, I heard the shot.’

  FIVE

  HE LOOKED BACK on the evening afterwards and wondered about it. Just how dense had he been? Just where had he failed in the uptake? To what extent had he been oblivious of that faint current stirring beneath a surface calm? To what extent had he been misled? It was very hard to say. The calm upon the surface was complete. For the time there was no more talk of Michael Harsch. Miss Brown dispensed coffee, and then sat down to the piano to play the classical music upon which Miss Fell’s taste had been formed. She played extremely well – Scarlatti, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. Nothing more modern than that.

  Aunt Sophy kept up a desultory flow of conversation, interrupting it to listen to a favourite passage and then going on again. She had changed into stiff black satin, with a velvet ribbon tied in a little bow under her third chin, and a diamond brooch catching a piece of Honiton lace across the billowy expanse of her bosom. As long as he could remember she had dressed like that in the evening. There was something very reassuring about it. Europe might go up in flames and the pillars of the world be shaken, but the Rectory drawing-room, the Rectory customs, Aunt Sophy and her fal-lals, were consolingly permanent. The windows stood open to the warm evening air, and the scent of the garden entered with it. Aunt Sophy’s voice came and went through the music.

  ‘Dr Meade is a great loss. Dr Edwards is very nice, but he cannot be expected to take the same interest. He lives at Oak Cottage, and his wife is an invalid. The new rector has Miss Jones’s house. And you will remember the Miss Doncasters. They are still at Pennycott, but Mary Anne is quite an invalid now – she never goes out. There is a Mrs Mottram at the Haven, a widow with a girl of five – very pretty and nice, but not musical. If it were not for that, I really think – but of course we mustn’t gossip, must we?’

  ‘Why mustn’t we?’ said Garth, laughing.

  Miss Sophy bridled.

  ‘Well, my dear, these things get about so. But of course I don’t mean anything in the least scandalous – far from it. It would, in fact, be a most delightful match for both of them. And so nice to have a lady in Meadowcroft again. One’s next-door neighbour always does seem a little nearer than the others.’

  He remembered sitting astride the dividing wall under the sweeping branches of a copper beech and pulling Janice Meade up beside him, little and light, to be out of the way when callers came, especially the Miss Doncasters. It seemed a long time ago. He said quickly, ‘Who did you say was in Meadowcroft?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Everton. That is who I was talking about. I think he admires Mrs Mottram very much, though it is a pity she is not musical. He has a charming baritone voice, and a wife should be able to play her husband’s accompaniments –don’t you think so?’

  ‘Has he got a wife?’

  She leaned forward to tap his arm reprovingly.

  ‘My dear boy, of course not! I was just telling you how much he admired Mrs Mottram. I happen to know for a fact that he has had tea with her three Sundays running. And it would be such a good thing for her – such a nice man, and a delightful neighbour. He often drops in to sing duets with Miss Brown, or to have his accompaniments played. We have quite a musical circle now. And then he is so active
in the village. He gives a prize for the best allotment. They have turned all those fields on the other side of Bourne into allotments. And he is quite a poultry expert. We are registered with him for eggs, and so is the Rector. I believe he was in business, but he had a breakdown and is obliged to lead an open-air life.’

  ‘What is Janice Meade like now she is grown up?’

  ‘Oh, my dear boy, you must meet her.’

  ‘What has she turned out like?’

  Miss Sophy considered.

  ‘Well, I’m so fond of her – don’t you think it is very difficult to describe people when you are fond of them? I don’t suppose you would think she was pretty, but—’ she brightened ‘– she has very fine eyes.’

  Miss Brown, unexpectedly graceful in black lace, sat at the piano and swept the keyboard with a series of flashing runs.

  Miss Fell nodded approvingly.

  ‘That is what I call brilliant execution,’ she said. Then, raising her voice a little, ‘Pray go on, Medora.’

  The well-shaped hands were lifted from the keyboard for a moment, then they came down upon it in the full, soft chords of one of Schumann’s Night Pieces. The room filled with the sound, deep, mysterious and intense. Night in a black forest, utterly dark, utterly dim, utterly withdrawn. Only so much light as a dead reflecting moon could lend to make the darkness visible.

  After a moment Miss Sophy prattled on again.

  ‘She plays so well, does she not? And quite without music. It is the modern way of course. We used never to be allowed to take our eyes from the book.’

  Garth said abruptly, ‘What did you call her?’

  ‘Oh, Medora. So charmingly uncommon.’

  ‘I never heard it before. Is it English?’ And yet the moment he had spoken he knew that if he had never heard the name, he had seen it somewhere. He thought it was a long time ago.

  Miss Sophy looked surprised.

  ‘It is unusual of course, but I like it better than Fedora, which I always think has rather an operatic sound. And then there is Eudora, in that delightful book of Miss Yonge’s The Pillars of the House. It means a happy gift – and I don’t know what Medora means, but I am sure she has been a happy gift to me.’

  From where they sat at the far side of the long drawing-room it was impossible that what they said should reach Miss Brown, yet Garth instinctively lowered his voice. ‘She doesn’t look at all happy.’

  Miss Sophy nodded.

  ‘No, my dear boy. But I told you, we have all had a severe shock.’

  ‘Is there any particular reason why it should be a severe shock to her?’

  ‘Oh, dear me – I hope not. But they were great friends – their music, you know, and both playing the organ. He used often to drop in here for a few minutes on his way to the church, and sometimes afterwards.’

  ‘Did you see him the night he – died?’ For the life of him he couldn’t help that little pause.

  Miss Sophy shook her head.

  ‘Oh, no – he went straight to the church. But then he often did that. You know it is really a very fine instrument, and since we have had electricity in the village it is not necessary to have anyone to blow. So tiresome, I used to think. I remember Tommy Entwhistle used to make the most horrible faces over it, and your grandfather put in Rose Stevens instead. It was considered a great innovation, but of course girls are so much steadier than boys.’

  Garth laughed and said, ‘Oh, much! Who is sexton now?’

  ‘Old Bush died a couple of years ago, but he had not really been up to the work for a long time. Frederick used to help him, and of course he got the post.’

  ‘He hasn’t been called up?’

  ‘Oh, no – he must be nearly fifty. He was all through the last war, you know. I used to wonder how old Bush felt about it, because though of course the children were born over here, he and his wife were both Germans, and they never thought about being naturalised – people in their position didn’t – but they started spelling their name the English way almost at once.’

  Something like a mild electric shock set the palms of his hands tingling.

  ‘I’d forgotten,’ he said.

  ‘I do not suppose you ever knew my dear. But the name was Busch, with an sch – Adolf Busch. And of course Adolf sounds terrible now, but there wasn’t anything worse about it than any other German name then. Still, your grandfather advised his writing it Adolphous in the English way, and he christened all the children himself with proper English names. The two elder boys were killed in the last war. Frederick was the third, and when he was seventeen he was second footman to Sir James Talbot at Wrestinglea. Well, a very curious thing happened not very long before the war broke out – he was approached by German agents. You know, all sorts of people used to come down to Wrestinglea – soldiers, politicians, newspapermen. And they wanted him to listen to what was said whilst he was waiting at table and write it down for them. They offered him quite a lot of money, but of course he said no. He came and told your grandfather all about it, and your grandfather told me. I remember what impressed him so much was the fact that the German Foreign Office should have kept track of a humble family like this. They must have been in England for quite twenty-five years, but the Wilhelmstrasse knew where to find them, and knew that Frederick was in service in a house where he could pick up just the kind of news they wanted. I remember your grandfather walking up and down the room and saying that it disclosed a very alarming state of affairs.’

  ‘He wasn’t far wrong, was he? Well, well – and Frederick is sexton. I must look him up. Let me see – he married one of the Pincott girls, didn’t he?’

  Miss Sophy began at once to tell him all about the Pincotts. As there were a round dozen of them, it took some time.

  At ten o’clock they went to bed, Miss Brown informing him that he could have a bath, but that he must be careful not to take more than five inches of water. Again that absurd resentment flared. But he had the bath, and getting into bed, fell immediately and rather unexpectedly into a dreamless sleep.

  He awoke some time later with a start. The moon was up. The two windows, which had been empty and dark when he had drawn the curtains back before getting into bed, now framed a silvered landscape. The night air was so warm as to give the impression that it was the light that was warming it. He got up and stood at the nearer window, looking out. There was nothing that could be called a breeze – only that warm air just moving against his cheek. Below him the lawn and Miss Sophy’s border lay under the moon. To the right the churchyard wall rose grey behind the flowers until it melted into the shadow of great trees – copper beech, green beech, and chestnut. The shadow deepened away to the left. More trees, with the moon throwing a black image of each on the blanched grass. Lilacs, a tall red thorn, a cedar nearly as old as the church, a single heavy elm – he could still name every tree, though with the light behind them they showed only in silhouette, all detail lost.

  He had stood there for perhaps ten minutes, when he saw that something was moving in the shadows – something, or someone. It moved where the shade was deepest. Only the fact that it moved made it visible. But there was no point at which the shadow extended to the house. The moment was bound to come when there would be an alternative of retreat or emergence. Garth watched with a good deal of interest to see which it would be.

  The moment arrived, and he saw Miss Medora Brown cross the barrier and stand quite plainly revealed. She wore the long black dress she had worn at dinner, covering her to the feet, to the wrists. Over her head she had tied a black lace scarf, the ends brought round to cover her to the chin. Only her hands showed white in the drowning light – her hands, and her lifted face.

  Instinctively Garth drew back, and then stood wondering whether his own movement might not have given him away as hers had done.

  She stood for a moment, and then walked quickly and noiselessly forward until she was lost from view. He had by now no need to watch her. He knew very well that she would come in, as he had
so often done himself, by the glass door of his grandfather’s study. Only there was a trick with that door. If your hand wasn’t perfectly steady, if there was the least interruption in the slow, smooth pressure which opened it, it creaked on you. He knew now that Miss Brown’s hand had not been steady, and that it was this creak which had waked him. He listened for it, and heard it again. Wherever she had been, she had been quick about it. She couldn’t have been out of the house for more than a quarter of an hour. Well, the show was over and she was back.

  He got into bed and lay down. Just as his head touched the pillow, there zigzagged into his mind the recollection of where he had come across the name of Medora.

  In a poem – in the title of a poem. One of those long-winded tales in verse which had been the fashion when the nineteenth century was young. He hadn’t the slightest idea what it was about, or who it was by, but he could see the title as plainly as he had ever seen anything in his life:

  Conrad and Medora

  He jerked up on an elbow and whistled softly. Whether Medora was English or not, there was no doubt at all about Conrad. Conrad was German.

  SIX

  AT HALF-PAST SIX next morning Garth yawned, stretched, and jumped out of bed. There seemed to have been no interval at all. He had remembered about Conrad and Medora, he had looked at his watch and found the time to be half an hour after midnight, and then he had gone to sleep and slept without a break and without a dream. Funny, because sometimes he dreamed like mad.

  Well, now he thought he would get up. The maids had no vice of early rising. Mabel had been house-parlourmaid in Aunt Sophy’s mother’s time, and goodness knew how long ago that was. Florence had cooked the Rectory meals for thirty years. Miss Sophy would get her early morning tea at eight, but very little else would be done before breakfast. He thought he would rather like to walk out into the garden before anyone was up. He felt some curiosity about Miss Brown’s nocturnal excursion, and some inclination to prospect.