The Coldstone

by Patricia Wentworth

  He reached the gap he had made in the hedge, and received a second surprise. A girl in a blue cotton dress was standing in the gap, looking past him up the field. She must have heard him coming, but she did not move until he was within a yard. Then she let go of the thorny trail which she had pushed on one side and sprang back. He followed her. His visit to the Stones seemed to be attracting quite a lot of attention.

  As he emerged from the hedge, he was aware of her, quite close. She wore a blue sun-bonnet that matched her dress; her skirts were a good deal longer than the skirts of the girls he knew. She held her hands together in front of her, as if she was shy. She bobbed a little curtsey and said in a breathless, pretty voice with a marked country accent,

  “I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Anthony supposed that she was one of the girls from the village—his village. He wasn’t quite sure how he ought to talk to her. She was a pretty girl, and she looked fearfully shy, and as if she was afraid she had made a break of some kind. It was rather embarrassing.

  He said, “Why should you beg my pardon?” and he smiled, because he always smiled when he felt shy.

  The girl bent her head so that the wing of the blue sun-bonnet hid her face. He didn’t know village girls ever wore sun-bonnets now. They were awfully becoming.

  He said, “Do you live here?”

  “No,” said the pretty voice. There was a pause. “I’m visiting my granny.” The head began to lift again. “I’ve heard tell of the Stones, and I wanted to see them.”

  He found himself looking into a lovely pair of eyes. He had never seen any eyes quite like them. They were just the colour of sea water when it is rather green; they were blue, and yet not blue. They had a sparkle in them which he found hard to reconcile with her rustic shyness. The lashes were black, and fine, and soft.

  Anthony removed his gaze with an effort. It was possible to do this because the black lashes had swept down suddenly and covered the sparkle.

  “Haven’t you seen the Stones before?”

  “No,” said the girl. Then quickly, “No, sir.”

  “Do you want to go in and look at them?”

  “No, sir—I’ll be getting back.”

  They began to walk along side by side. Anthony felt rather worried about it. If they walked back together into Ford St. Mary, the whole village would probably talk—he hadn’t been brought up in a village for nothing. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be rude. She might think it most awfully rude if he turned back now. Besides, there was the fellow who had glared.

  He had got as far as this, when the girl said,

  “I’ll be getting back now.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Anthony hastily. “You—you’re visiting your grandmother, you said. Does she live in Ford St. Mary?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re Mr. Colstone, sir, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I don’t know anyone in the village yet—I only came to-day. I expect I shall meet your grandmother. What is her name?”

  “Mrs. Bowyer. And now I’ll be getting back, sir.”

  What was she driving at? He suspected a convention of some sort.

  “Yes—rather.”

  The sun-bonnet hid the face rather suddenly. He felt a most uncommon ass. The girl stopped dead and spoke without looking at him:

  “I’ll be getting along by myself, sir. Folks’ll talk if you walk with me, and Gran’ll be in a way.”

  “Look here,” said Anthony, “that’s all right. But there was a man in the hedge just now, up at the top of the field where the Stones are. I didn’t like the look of him. That’s why I thought I had better walk with you.”

  There was a quick lift of the blue sun-bonnet.

  “A man?”

  “In the hedge—staring at me.”

  “What sort of a man?” A complete change had taken place in her manner; she spoke only just above her breath, yet with a certain force that pressed for an answer.

  He found himself speaking as if to someone whom he knew well.

  “Awfully odd sort of fellow. I couldn’t make out what he was up to.”

  “What was he like?”

  This wasn’t the embarrassed village girl he had been walking with. He looked at her in astonishment. He had thought her pretty, and gauche. She was self-possessed enough now, and it wouldn’t have occurred to him to call her pretty; the word didn’t seem to have anything to do with her. It suggests something commonplace, and there was nothing commonplace here. The lovely eyes looked out of an almost colourless face; the lips took an odd irregular curve.

  He said, “Oh—queer—very pale—black hair and staring eyes. He looked as if he’d like to do me in.” He broke off with a short laugh. “That’s nonsense of course. But I thought I’d better see you across the fields.”

  She looked away. He caught her profile. Her nose had a sort of ripple in it—rather nice. She walked on in silence to the edge of the field. Then she turned with downcast eyes and fingers catching at her dress.

  “And now I’ll be getting along, thank you kindly all the same, sir.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Anthony went back to Stonegate across the remaining field and in at a door which took him through a brick wall into the vegetable garden. He did not, therefore, see Mrs. Bowyer’s granddaughter come down the village street and enter the cottage immediately opposite his own front gate. It was the oldest house in the village, and old Susan Bowyer was the oldest inhabitant.

  The front door opened straight into the living-room. It was empty. The girl in the blue dress went to a door on the far side and opened it, calling “Gran!”

  When there was no answer, she went through the kitchen, which was spotlessly clean and neat, and passed out into the garden. There was a border with bright flowers, and a strip of orchard with plums and apples ripening. All along the fence there were bee-hives. Mrs. Bowyer was bent over the nearest hive.

  The girl called “Gran!” again, and she turned and came in, walking briskly, just a little bent, in a black dress with a small alpaca apron and a white net cap with lappets. She was small, and her face was covered with multitudes of tiny lines. A little fluffy white hair showed under the cap. Her dark eyes were full of an amazing dancing vigour.

  “What were you doing, Gran?”

  “Doing?” she said. She gave a little pleased laugh. “I were telling the bees—that’s what I were doing. Now I suppose you’ll say you never heard tell of that.”

  Young Susan put her arm about old Susan’s waist.

  “What were you telling them? Mind the step, Gran!”

  Mrs. Bowyer freed herself.

  “Look you here, Susan! I’ve lived in this here house a hundred years come Christmas. Did I ever tell you as I was a Christmas child? They don’t fear hail, nor snow, nor winter blow. Did you ever hear that? And, as I were saying, if I don’t know there’s a step there by now, I’ll never know it.”

  “What were you telling the bees, Gran?”

  Mrs. Bowyer passed into the living-room and sat down in the oak rocking-chair by the right-hand window. The windows were set on either side of the door. They had latticed panes, behind which bloomed the finest geraniums in Ford St. Mary.

  “What should I ha’ been telling the bees?” said Mrs. Bowyer. Her voice had lost its ring, but it was still full of energy. “Colstone is master here, and when Colstone comes to Stonegate, that’s the master coming home. And when the master comes home, you’re bound to tell the bees. If you don’t, they’ll turn cross on you. Bees has got to be told when things happen to their folks, and if you don’t tell ’em, they goes contrary. And that’s why all these new-fangle folk make such a muck of bee-keeping.”

  Susan stood by the hearth. There was no fire there. The wide black chimney made a background for the pale blue of her dress. She said,

  “I’ve seen him.”

  Mrs. Bowyer’s dancing eyes looked at her with eager interest.

  “What? Colstone? You’ve seen him?”

  “Y
es, up in the fields.”

  “And what were you doing up in the fields?”

  “I went up to see the Coldstone Ring.”

  “You never!”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  A very curious expression came over Mrs. Bowyer’s face.

  “And you met him there—Mr. Anthony Colstone? Oh Lord, ’tis funny to say it! Anthony Colstone! Son of Ralph—son of James—son of Ambrose—” She stopped with a quiver of laughter. “Sir Jervis’ uncle he was—I can remember him. I was a little maid of six when he quarrelled with his father and went away. Jervis and I were playing in the garden—there wasn’t any Sir about him then—three months younger than me, and a limb. We were playing, and we were quarrelling, and Mr. Ambrose come out to us looking like a bit of blued linen, and he says, ‘It’s a pity to quarrel, children. My father’s quarrelled with me.’ And he kissed us and said good-bye, and nobody never saw him any more—and that’s more than ninety years ago.” She began to rock herself slowly. “Ninety-four years ago come Christmas—no, ’twas in the summer, for we were making daisy chains.” She rocked again, her hands folded on the black alpaca apron, then asked suddenly, “What’s he like? Mr. Ambrose wasn’t nothing to look at, but Mr. James, his brother that was Jervis’ father, he was a fine-looking man, six foot and a bit over. What’s the lad like?”

  “Oh, he’s big enough.”

  “Don’t you go and tell me he’s one of they long weeds!”

  Susan laughed softly.

  “Oh, he’s wide enough,” she said.

  “Well, what’s wrong with the lad?”

  “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with him. He’s a very nice, discreet, polite young man, and quite as good-looking as is good for him.”

  “H’m—” said Mrs. Bowyer. “I like ’em bold meself, but not to say outrageous bold. What colour’s his eyes, deary?”

  “Oh, just no colour at all.”

  Mrs. Bowyer sat up straight and stopped rocking.

  “Are you telling me you’re the kind of maid that don’t notice what coloured eyes a lad has got?”

  Susan tilted her chin. The corners of her mouth took an upward quirk, a dimple showed in the curve of her cheek.

  “Of course, Gran. I’m very, very modest.” She broke into a laugh at Mrs. Bowyer’s expression. “Now, Gran, don’t you look like that! Personally I think no-coloured eyes are quite good business. They make a sort of weather gauge, because if he’s in love with you they’ll be blue, and when he’s angry they’ll go grey, and when he starts thinking about somebody else they’ll be hazel. Hazel eyes are the fickle eyes, aren’t they, Gran? And black—” She broke off and shivered.

  “You’d best keep clear of the black, my girl. And Anthony Colstone—have you seen his eyes look blue or grey? For if you have, it’s early days. He didn’t talk bold to you, Susan?” Her voice sharpened.

  “Not a bit of it—he was shy. I could see him wondering how he could get rid of me without hurting my feelings. I told you he was a discreet young man.”

  She took off her sun-bonnet and swung it by the strings. The bare head was beautifully shaped and beautifully held. The shingled hair was very dark and very soft; it curled a little where it was long enough to curl.

  “And you think the worse of him for it?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Maids are all alike! If he’d ha’ kissed you, you’d ha’ thought him a fine fellow.”

  Susan’s lip lifted a little.

  “People don’t kiss me unless I want them to, Gran.” The soft voice was a little haughty.

  Mrs. Bowyer rocked with inward laughter. She made no sound at all; she quivered and put a little wrinkled hand to her side. After a moment Susan laughed too.

  “Gran, you’re a fiend! I wish you’d been there. I did it beautifully. I copied Mary Ann Smithers—you know the way she holds her hands and sort of gives at the knees. And I made him a perfectly lovely bob, and I said ‘sir’ at least once in every sentence.”

  Mrs. Bowyer stopped laughing with great suddenness.

  “The Coldstone Ring’s no place for a lad to meet with a lass,” she said; and then, very sharply, “What took him there?”

  “How should I know? What’s the matter with the Stones, Gran? Why won’t anyone go near them?”

  Mrs. Bowyer gazed abstractedly at her geraniums.

  “Gran, you might tell me!”

  “There’s those that’s best not talked of.”

  Susan knelt down by the rocking-chair and coaxed.

  “In a whisper, Gran!”

  “What’s a whisper to Them?” Susan felt a tingle of excitement.

  “Gran—you might tell me! You told me about the passage”

  Old Susan Bowyer turned on her sharply.

  “And you promised sure and certain you’d never name it to living soul.”

  “Yes, I did, Gran—and I won’t.”

  She was holding one of the work-worn hands. Her own were brown, and smooth, and beautifully shaped. Mrs. Bowyer put her other hand down on them. It pressed them, trembling.

  “You promised sure and certain before I told you. And I wouldn’t ha’ told you, only there’s no one left of all the Bowyers but you. Thomas’ girl I don’t count—she’s Bowyer by name, but she’s Dickson by nature, and a Dickson is what I never could abide, not from the days when Cis Dickson that was her mother’s grandmother made her great sheep’s eyes at my William. No—Jenny’s a Dickson through and through, if she was Thomas’ daughter ten times over.”

  “All right, Gran, next time she comes to see you, you just call her Jenny Dickson and see what happens.”

  “You’re a wicked maid!” said Mrs. Bowyer enjoyably. “I don’t count Jenny, and I don’t count Robert’s grandchildren, if so be he’s got any, because they be all ’Mericans, and it stands to reason I can’t tell what’s got to be told to ’Mericans on the other side of the world. So there’s only you, my dear. And I told you because Bowyers ha’ lived in this house just so long as Colstones ha’ lived at Stonegate, and there’s bound to be a Bowyer that knows the secret—and if I don’t count Jenny and all they ‘Mericans, there’s only you, my dear.”

  “Then tell me about the Coldstone Ring,” said Susan in a whisper.

  Mrs. Bowyer became remote. She took her hand away from Susan’s. Her voice was brisk and matter of fact.

  “Least said, soonest mended,” she said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Anthony dined in a dark, low room that would have accommodated forty people with ease. Lane’s hushed voice, proffering sherry or murmuring “Certainly, sir,” hardly seemed to break the silence. The old-fashioned oil lamp hanging down over the table hardly seemed to break the darkness. Anthony thought he would have electric light put in if there was any money at all. Oil lamps were bad enough in an Indian bungalow where the whitewashed walls gave the light a chance, but one old lamp hanging low in a dark panelled room was a bit too much of a bad thing.

  He ate his dinner sitting just on the edge of the circle of yellow light cast by the lamp. Lane went to and fro in the outer darkness. Over by the door behind him an even older and less efficient lamp smelled to heaven. It was most frightfully depressing.

  “Will you take coffee here, sir?” said Lane. He had the tray in his hand, an old heavy silver tray.

  Anthony swung his chair sideways and put an elbow on the table.

  “Yes, please—just put it down. And look here, sit down yourself—I want to talk to you.”

  “I can stand, sir.”

  “No, sit down. I want to talk, and I can’t talk unless you sit.”

  Lane took a chair under protest. As he sat down on the edge of it, the circle of light just touched his cheek. He drew back from it, but Anthony received a momentary impression of a worried elderly face.

  “Now!” he said, but for a moment no more came. Then he asked quickly, “Who is Mrs. Bowyer?”

  He had an idea that Lane relaxed, and he wondered whether he had been afrai
d that he was going to be asked about the Stones.

  “Mrs. Bowyer, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s Sir Jervis’ foster sister, sir. That is to say she’s older than Sir Jervis was, but her mother nursed him. She’s close on a hundred, and very much respected, sir, by the gentry and all.”

  Anthony thought about that for a moment.

  “I say, people seem to live to a good old age at Ford St. Mary!”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Bowyer’s grandfather, old Tom Bowyer, he lived to be getting on for a hundred too, and so did his father before him, sir. Mrs. Bowyer she was a Bowyer born, and married her cousin. And she’ll tell you how he died young through an accident at no more than seventy-five. She felt it a bit of a disgrace, sir, because Bowyers always reckon to pass ninety. I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Anthony laughed.

  “I’d like to meet Mrs. Bowyer.”

  “She’d take it kindly if you stepped across, sir. She’s only just over the way.”

  “Does she live alone?”

  “She does, and she doesn’t. There’s a girl goes in and does for her—Smithers’ daughter—he’s gardener, sir—Mary Ann Smithers. She looks after her, and when there isn’t anyone there she sleeps in.”

  “When there isn’t anyone there?”

  “She has her granddaughter—that is, I should say, her great-granddaughter—that’s come on a visit a couple of times since Sir Jervis died. She’s there now, I believe.”

  There was a silence. If he were to ask questions about Mrs. Bowyer’s granddaughter, Lane would think it odd. Or would he? There were a whole lot of questions he would like to ask—where she lived; and what she did; and why she had two voices, a slow drawling country voice, and that quick breathless whisper. She puzzled him very much, but he couldn’t ask Lane about her.

  He threw back his head with a jerk and said abruptly,

  “Why won’t anyone talk about the Coldstone Ring, Lane?”