“Do you remember how we used to picnic up there, Lucy? Nobody’s ever made rock buns as good as yours were. And you’re the only woman I’ve ever met who put enough butter into a sandwich.”

Mrs. William Crisp, who had been cook at Tanfield eighteen years before, emitted a gratified chuckle.

“Always one for sandwiches, you were, Mr. Dale.”

The whole thing was very well done. Dale had reason to feel pleased with himself. By the time he and Alicia came to give their evidence at the inquest every soul in the village would already know that they had re-visited their old picnic place to see the sun go down. Robbed of any appearance of secrecy, laughed over in Lisle’s presence, the episode would suggest only one possible point of interest, their encounter with Pell.

They found Miss Cole in her parlour behind the shop. One of her brother James’ daughters was with her, a pretty, plump girl whose eyes were red with weeping, not because she and Cissie had ever been particular friends, but because it was the first time she had met the violence of passion and death at closer quarters than the cinema screen or the headlines of the penny press.

Miss Cole herself sat in her armchair, rocking herself and weeping aloud. She got up for Mr. and Mrs. Jerningham, transferred her handkerchief to her left hand, and, pressing it to her eyes, greeted them with a fresh burst of sobbing.

“Such a shock as it’s been! Oh, Mrs. Jerningham – who’d have thought it – when we were talking so comfortable only yesterday, and poor Cissie so pleased to go up and see you. I’m sure I don’t know what I’d have felt if I’d known that was the last I’d see of her. ‘It’s no good my going, Aunt,’ she said. ‘Talking to anyone doesn’t stop you being fond of a person – I only wish it did,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t go, only Mrs. Jerningham’s that sweet I’d go anywhere if it was to see her.’ Oh dear – and I said, ‘It’s a lovely evening for a walk, and do you good to get a bit of fresh air, sticking indoors the way you do. And don’t you be late, Cissie,’ I said – and I was thinking of that Pell when I said it. And she stood just over there by the door and looked back over her shoulder, and, ‘Who’s going to be late?’ she said. And that was the last I saw of her.” She dabbed fiercely at her eyes, blew her nose, and caught Dale by the sleeve. “Mr. Jerningham, they’ll get him, won’t they – that Pell?”

“I should think so,” said Dale. “But you know, Miss Cole, you mustn’t make up your mind that he had anything to do with it. She may have fallen.”

Her grasp tightened. She stopped crying and her voice took on an angry tone.

“Are you going to tell me you think Cissie would throw herself over? And no call to do it, Mr. Jerningham, because she was a good girl, Cissie was, and I’m not going to have anyone saying she wasn’t! He made her fond of him, that Pell did, but that’s as far as it went. And I don’t say she wasn’t unhappy, but she’d no call to throw herself over any cliffs. Always after her, that Pell was, and when he couldn’t get what he wanted he pushed her over. I knew just such another case when I was a girl over at Ledstock visiting my granny – pushed her in a pond, the man did, because she wouldn’t give in to him. And that’s what Pell did to poor Cissie – you can’t get from it. All I want is to know that the police have got him.” She turned back to Lisle and began to cry again. “I’m sure it’s very kind of you and Mr. Jerningham, and you must excuse me. They won’t even let me have her here, not till after the inquest. I’m sure I never thought anyone in our family would come to be a police case. There’s been a gentleman here from the Ledlington Gazette wanting her photograph, and I gave him the snapshot Mr. Rafe took of her and me when you had the church fête in June. It was the best photo Cissie ever had, so I let the gentleman have it. I’m sure it’s wonderful how clever Mr. Rafe is with that camera – and no bigger than the palm of your hand. Oh, Mrs. Jerningham, it doesn’t seem possible when you think about the fête and what a nice time we had! I’m sure it was so kind of you and Mr. Jerningham-”

Lisle had very little to say. She held Miss Cole’s hand, and sometimes spoke softly to her. She had a saddened sense of what a lonely future the poor thing would have now that Cissie was gone. There were tears in her own eyes when she kissed her and came away.

As they walked back, Dale said in a curious tone,

“You did her good.”

“I didn’t do anything. I’m so sorry for her.”

“That’s what she liked. You let her talk, you were sorry for her, and you kissed her when you came away. It was all just right.”

Was it? Lisle wondered if it was. Things had left off being right. They were confused, difficult, unendurable, but they had to be endured.

She walked home in silence. Just before they reached the house Dale put his hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you, darling,” he said.

Chapter 25

LISLE went up early to bed. All the way through dinner and whilst the evening was slowly dragging on she had thought of going up to her own room as escape, release, but when she was there with the doors locked it seemed to her that she had evaded one generation of Jerninghams only to find herself surrounded by all those other generations which had gone before. She had never felt that the room was really hers, but never before tonight had she experienced so completely the sense of being a passing guest in this place where so many others had lived, and ruled, and played their fleeting parts.

The heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows. The atmosphere of the room seemed old and stale. The hangings, the carpet, the old-fashioned wallpaper with its embossed design, the massive furniture, all sent out a faint something to tang the air.

She undressed quickly and pulled the curtains back. At once the night was in the room, silver with moonlight and fresh with a breeze from the sea. She stripped back the bedclothes, leaving only a sheet to cover her. Then she lay against the pillows with her cheek on her hand and watched the tops of the trees below the Italian garden, and the dark, secret glitter of the distant sea. She had come to the end of her strength. She couldn’t think any more. From the moment when she had made her appointment with Miss Maud Silver her mind had been in a state of ceaseless conflict. One most terrible thought had come and gone continually. It was so dreadful that she blenched away from it, but as soon as it was out of sight she began to fear it so much that her whole consciousness was in suspense, waiting until the horrible thing should show itself again. Now all that was over. For the moment at least strain had defeated itself. Thought came to a standstill. Out of all the confusion one certainty emerged. Dale had asked her to help him, and she had said she would. She couldn’t go and see Miss Silver after all. She would have to go into Ledlington in the morning and ring her up. She needn’t give any reason. She need only say that she was sorry she could not come. Her thoughts went no farther than that. She couldn’t go and see Miss Silver, because Dale had asked her to help him and she had said yes. She couldn’t go and see Miss Silver because it might be hurting Dale. It – wouldn’t – help – him. It – might – harm – him.

She fell asleep and had strange dreams. She was in an aeroplane, loud with the roar of its engines and the wind going by like a hurricane. All the winds of the world went by, and the clouds strung out to a thread because of the lightning speed. And there was no pilot. She was quite alone…

The dream was gone. Between sleep and waking she saw the moonlight, turned away from it, and slipped into another dream. There was a place where there was no one at all. Not even Lisle was there. It was the dreadful heart of loneliness, the place where you lost everything, even your own self. She cried out and woke, shuddering and cold with sweat.