Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death

by Hazel Holt

  “When are you going?”

  “That’s what I’ve just been arranging. I’m going next week.”

  “But Phyll will still be away on her honeymoon.”

  “I know. She’d want me to change my mind, ask questions, all sorts of complications. Better to make a clean break. I’ll write to her from Cairo. Isn’t it wonderfully providential that she has Martin? I worried before about her being lonely again. Now they can live here; I was never very happy about them living in Annie’s cottage.”

  “What about the people in the village? What will you tell them?”

  “Oh, anything. I’ll say I’m going to visit Grace, something like that, something that will satisfy them until Phyll comes back.”

  “I hope all goes well for you,” I said stiffly.

  “Please, Sheila,” Rachel said, “please understand.”

  “I do understand—it’s just that I don’t approve.” I got rather unsteadily to my feet.

  “So you won’t be staying to lunch? I can promise you—no mushrooms.” She smiled, and it was the smile of the old Rachel, the one I grew up with, admired for her dash and daring, for her confidence and warmth and for that special something that so few people have—genuine charm.

  Reluctantly I smiled back. At the old Rachel. “Good-bye,” “I said, ”and good luck.

  William picked up a copy of the village book from the pile on the table, opened it at the back, and looked at the list of subscribers.

  “You do realize that this is the most important thing in the whole book,” he said. “I hope you got all the names right.”

  I smiled. “We were very careful. So, what do you think of it?”

  “Quite excellent. You must be very pleased with it.”

  “The printer did a really good job. But, actually, I only did the history bits and chose the items, all rather fun. Mary did the hard work—all the boring stuff.”

  William closed the book and looked at the picture on the jacket, which was of the village in its rural setting, with a view along the village street leading up to the church—charming and picturesque. Then he turned to the dedication. “ ‘For the people of Mere Barton, past and present.’ Yes, that’s right. It’s not the landscape or the historic buildings that matter; it’s the people. The community—to use a word I particularly dislike—people acting together, or, indeed, not together, but all part of a whole.”

  “All involved in mankind,” I said. He looked at me and I smiled. “Yes, I heard it—it made me think. About Annie, especially.”

  “Oh yes, Annie. I take it you have solved our mystery.”

  “Well, yes, I have, but I can’t—”

  “I don’t want to know. Besides, I feel somehow that a kind of resolution has been found.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. ‘A broken and contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.’ ” He spoke very softly so that I could hardly hear the words. Then he went over to the decanter and poured the sherry. We both sat down and he raised his glass. “To absent friends.”

  I hesitated for a moment and then raised mine. “To absent friends,” I said.