Philip straightened up.

“Well then, there we are, all set. You’d better get everyone together as soon as you can. But look here, I’m only consenting to this because it’s the best chance we’ve got of tripping her up. If she brings a case, she’ll have the next few months to find out anything she doesn’t already know-you said that yourself.”

“Wait! She won’t bring a case against you. She told me to tell you that.”

“Bunkum! She wants to get her hands on Anne’s money. In the eyes of the law Anne is dead. She’d be bound to do whatever you have to do to get back on the map again. You’ve told her that already, haven’t you?”

“If unopposed, it would be a mere formality.”

“And I’d be bound to oppose it.”

“Unless the proceedings before the family council happened to convince you.”

Philip shook his head.

“They won’t do that. But if she breaks down, there would be an end to it that way.”

“And if she doesn’t-what are you going to do then? I told you her terms-six months under the same roof.”

“Why?”

“She wants a chance of convincing you. She told me quite frankly that she wanted to try and save the marriage.”

“The marriage ended when Anne died.”

Mr. Codrington made an impatient movement.

“I am putting her terms to you. If there is no reconciliation by the end of six months, she is willing to divorce you.”

Philip laughed.

Mr. Codrington said gravely,

“Think it over. You might find yourself in a very difficult position if she were legally admitted to be Anne Jocelyn, and you were neither reconciled nor divorced. Supposing you desire to remarry, she could prevent your doing so.” He paused and added-“indefinitely.”

They were alone together, the deep red curtains drawn, a red glow from the wood fire on the hearth, a single overhead light shining down upon the writing-table with its scattered papers. For a moment both men were seeing an unseen third between them-Lyndall, little and slight, with her cloudy dark hair and her cloudy eyes-grey eyes, but quite different from the Jocelyn grey. Lyndall’s eyes were smudged with brown and green. They were soft and childish. They had no defences. If she was hurt, they showed it. If she loved anyone, they showed that too. If they grieved, tears rose to brighten them. She was pale because she had been ill. Her colour had been coming back. Now it was all gone again.

Philip walked over to the fire and stood there looking down.

CHAPTER 10

The first headlines appeared next day. The Daily Wire splashed them half across the front page, rather crowding the latest Russian victory.

THREE AND A HALF YEARS DEAD

– COMES BACK TO SEE HER TOMBSTONE

Underneath there was a picture of the white marble cross in Holt churchyard. The lettering stood out clearly:

Anne Wife of Philip Jocelyn

Aged 21

Killed by enemy action June 26th, 1941

The letterpress contained an interview with Mrs. Ramage, cook and housekeeper at Jocelyn’s Holt.

Mrs. Armitage went down to the kitchen with the paper in her hand.

“Oh, Mrs. Ramage-how could you?”

Mrs. Ramage burst into tears which were a good three parts excitement to one of remorse. Her large pale face glistened and she shook like a blanc-mange.

“Never said he’d put it in the paper. Got off his bicycle at the back door when the girls were in the dining-room and asked me civil enough if I could direct him to the churchyard, which I said you couldn’t miss it if you tried, seeing it runs next the park, and I took and showed him the church tower from the back door step, and you’d have done the same or anyone else. Well, there it is, as large as life and you can’t get from it.”

“You seem to have said a good deal more than that, Mrs. Ramage.”

Mrs. Ramage groped for a pocket handkerchief like a small sheet and applied it to her face…

“He arst me how could he find Lady Jocelyn’s grave, and I said-”

“What did you say?”

Mrs. Ramage gulped.

“I said, ‘We don’t want to think about graves or suchlike, not now her ladyship’s come home again.’ ”

Mrs. Armitage gazed resignedly at the front page of the Wire.

“Mrs. Ramage told me she was thunderstruck-” What a pity she wasn’t!-“ ‘I remember Lady Jocelyn coming here as a bride… Such lovely pearls-the same she’s wearing in her picture that was in the Royal Academy. And she came back wearing them, and her lovely fur coat too… ’ Miss Ivy Fossett, parlourmaid at Jocelyn’s Holt, says, ‘Of course I didn’t know who it was when I opened the door, but as soon as I got a good look at her I could see she was dressed the same as the picture in the parlour…’ ”

Mrs. Ramage continued to gulp and mop her face. All at once Milly Armitage relaxed. What was the use anyway? She said in her good-tempered voice,

“Oh, do stop crying. It’s no use-is it? I don’t suppose you had a chance with him really-he was bound to get it all out of you. Only I can’t think how they knew there was anything to get.”

Mrs. Ramage gave a final gulp. She looked about her. The big kitchen was empty, Ivy and Flo were upstairs making beds, but she dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper.

“It was that Ivy-but girls are so hard to get. I had it out of her last night. She’d an aunt got a guinea from a paper for sending up a piece about a cat bringing up a rabbit along with its kittens, and that put it into her head. She took and wrote a postcard to the Wire and said her ladyship had come home after everyone thought she was dead, and a cross in the churchyard and all. And I’m sure I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world, not if it was to vex Sir Philip.”

“Well, I don’t see that it was your fault, Mrs. Ramage. I suppose the papers were bound to get hold of it.”

Mrs. Ramage put her handkerchief away in a capacious apron pocket.

“It’s a lovely photo of the cross,” she said.

Milly Armitage gazed at the paper.

Anne

Wife of Philip Jocelyn

Aged 21

They would have to alter the inscription of course. Philip would have to get it done. Because if it was Anne upstairs in the parlour with Lyn, then it wasn’t Anne’s body under the white marble cross. You can’t be in two places at once. She wished with all her heart that she could be sure that the inscription on the cross was true. It was probably very wicked of her, but she would much rather be sure that Anne was in the churchyard, and not upstairs in the parlour. The trouble was that she couldn’t be sure. Sometimes Philip shook her, and sometimes Anne shook her. She was as honest as she knew how to be. It didn’t really matter whether she wanted Anne to be alive, or whether she wanted her to be dead. What mattered was that they should be sure. It was perfectly frightful to think of Annie Joyce grabbing Anne’s money and getting away with Philip and Jocelyn’s Holt, but it was even more frightful to think of Anne coming back from the dead and finding out that no one wanted her. Her eyes remained fixed upon the page.

Annie

Daughter of Roger Joyce

That was what it would have to be if Anne were alive… What a frightful business!

She looked up, met Mrs. Ramage’s sympathetic gaze, and said with the frankness which occasionally devastated her family,

“It’s a mess-isn’t it?”

“A bit of an upset, as you may say-”

Mrs. Armitage nodded. After all, Mrs. Ramage had been twelve years at Jocelyn’s Holt. She had seen Philip married. You couldn’t keep things from people in your own house, so what was the good of trying-you might just as well make a virtue of necessity. She said,

“Did you recognize her-at once?”

“Meaning her ladyship, ma’am?”

Mrs. Armitage nodded.

“Did you recognize her-” she paused, and once more added-“at once?”

“Didn’t you, ma’am?”

“Of course I did. I never thought of anything else.”