‘I’m sure I hope you’ll be happy, Mrs. Smith. And I’m sure Mr. Smith is one that anyone could be happy with. Believe it or not, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him out of temper, and when you think how most men are – well, it’s bound to make a difference, isn’t it? Mr. Bastable had a very hasty temper. And particular about his food – well you’d hardly believe it. Always talking about his mother’s cooking too, and if there’s anything more likely to make unpleasantness in the home, well, I don’t know what it is. I’ve always been considered sweet-tempered myself, but when he used to look at my scones and say how much lighter his mother made them, it used to come up on the tip of my tongue to say, “Then why didn’t you stay home with her?” But I never said it. I don’t know what he might have done if I had – being so hasty you know.’ She dabbed her eyes and sniffed again. ‘Oh, well, we must let bygones be bygones, mustn’t we? And Mr. Bastable’s been gone getting on for twenty years.’

Abigail Salt had much fewer words. She said, ‘I hope you will be very happy, and Mr. Tattlecombe hopes so too.’

Chapter Seventeen

That same evening Frank Abbott dropped in on Miss Maud Silver at her flat at Montague Mansions. Whatever happened in the outer world, here time stood still. But not in any sluggish, lotus-eating manner – ‘Oh dear, no,’ as Miss Silver herself might have said. He found in her a constant stimulus to thought, and whilst her idiosyncrasies were a continual entertainment, he did actually and in sober truth revere the little woman who, beginning her working life in what she herself termed the private side of the scholastic profession, was now a much sought-after enquiry agent.

Where time had been halted was on the threshold of this room. The furniture inherited from more than one great-aunt was of the type strangely popular in the sixties of the previous century. The chairs, with their walnut frames, bow legs, and spreading upholstered laps, suggested long-departed crinolines and peg-top trousers. Engravings of famous Victorian pictures in yellow maple frames looked down upon a carpet not of contemporary age but of a truly contemporary pattern. The pictures, interchanged from time to time with those in her bedroom, included the late Sir John Millais’ Bubbles, Mr. G. F. Watts’ Hope, together with The Stag at Bay and The Soul’s Awakening. The carpet, new a year ago, was of a lively shade of peacock-blue, with a pattern of pink and white roses in wreaths caught together with bows of green ribbon. The curtains, of the same blue but duller in tone, had survived the war, and though not actually shabby were due to be replaced as soon as Miss Silver felt justified in spending so much money upon herself. Two of her niece Ethel Burkett’s boys were now at school, and a baby girl had been added to the family during the past year. School outfits were expensive, and much as the Burketts rejoiced over having a daughter after three boys in succession, the year had placed a considerable strain on their finances, and it was not in Miss Silver’s nature to allow them to bear it unaided. The curtains could very well do another year, or even two.

As she sat in her comfortable chair beside her comfortable fire, her heart was full of gratitude. She had lived for twenty years in other people’s houses, and had expected to live twenty more before retiring on a pittance. The hand of Providence had, however, translated her into a new profession, and to circumstances of modest comfort. The mantelshelf, the bookcase, two occasional tables, and a whatnot were crowded with photographs of grateful clients incredibly framed in fretwork, in hammered or patterned silver, in silver filigree upon plush. A good many of them were photographs of young men and girls, and of the babies who would never have been born if this little old maid had not brought her intelligence and skill to bear upon their parents’ problems.

Frank Abbott was received very much as if he had been a nephew. He accepted the cup of coffee brought him by Emma Meadows, Miss Silver’s valued housekeeper, and sat back sipping it and feeling pleasantly at home. On the other side of the hearth Miss Silver was knitting a pair of infant’s leggings in pale blue wool. After completing three pairs of stockings each for Johnny, Derek and Roger, she was now equipping little Josephine for the coming spring – so treacherous and changeable. With four children to make and mend for, to say nothing of her husband and all the household work, Ethel really had no time for knitting.

There was a pleasant silence in the room. A coal fell in the fire. Miss Silver’s needles clicked above the pale blue wool. Frank finished his coffee and leaned sideways to put down the cup. Then he said,

‘How did you find out that the way to make people talk is to sit there knitting and make them feel everything is as safe as houses and it doesn’t matter what they say?’

A faint smile just touched her lips. She went on knitting.

He laughed.

‘You know, I’ve been here hundreds of times and it’s only just come to me that the thing you conjure with is security. That’s what you’re putting across. Your pictures, your furniture – they’ve come down from a settled past. They belong to the time when there practically wasn’t an income tax and European wars were just something you read about in The Times. There’s all that – and then the one practical modern touch, your office table. That makes them feel that the security doesn’t just exist in the past – it can be brought up to date and put to work for them.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘I find that a little fanciful.’

He smiled.

‘How many frightened people have you had in this room?’

Her eyes dwelt on him for a moment.

‘A good many.’

He nodded.

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind betting that very few of them went away as frightened as they came.’

Her needles clicked, the pale blue wool revolved. She said,

‘I think you have something on your mind. What is it?’

He did not speak at once, but leaned back, looking at her. No one could have suited her room better – the small neat features, the rather pale smooth skin, washed twice a day with soap and water, belonged to a period when a lady did not use make-up and even powder was considered ‘fast’. Her hair conformed more to the Edwardian than the Victorian age, being banked up in a fringe like the late Queen Alexandra’s and coiled neatly at the back, the whole controlled by an invisible net. During the years he had known her Frank had not observed that she had any more grey hairs than the few which he remembered to have been there at their first meeting, nor did she seem to be older in any other way. She might have stepped out of any family group at the end of the last century or at the beginning of this. It was her practice to wear a summer silk in the winter evenings. The current garment, of the type sold by pushing saleswomen to elderly ladies who are not very much interested in dress, was of a boiled spinach colour with an orange pattern of dots and dashes which suggested Morse. It came modestly to the ankles and revealed black woollen stockings and glacé shoes with beaded toes. The V-neck had been rendered high by the insertion of a net front with a boned collar. The pince-nez, used only for fine print, was looped to the bosom of the dress by a gold bar brooch set with pearls, and the base of the V was decorated by Miss Silver’s favourite ornament, a rose carved in black bog oak with an Irish pearl at its heart. Since the January evening was cold, a black velvet coatee reinforced the thin silk of the dress. It was a cherished garment – so comfortable, so warm – but it must be confessed that its better days were definitely past and gone, and that it was now a mere relic. No self-consciousness on that score, however, disturbed Miss Silver’s appreciation of its comfort.