Miss Silver said in a reserved voice,

“Not at the moment, Frank.”

Chapter 17

A SMALL shabby woman was sitting in the bus which runs out of Ledlington and passes the entrance to Cranberry Lane. She had the name of the turning written down on a rubbed piece of paper, and she had showed it to the conductor as well as taking a frequent look at it herself, so she hoped there would be no mistake about putting her down. Being Saturday and the traffic all in the opposite direction, she was alone in the bus, which was scheduled to run out to Poynings and Little Poynton and return with a full load for the late house at the cinema. She would have been happier if there had been other passengers, because she could have asked them to be sure she didn’t miss her turning. She had always found people so kind about that sort of thing. You had only to say that you were not used to travelling, and it was wonderful how kind they were. There would, of course, be no need to tell anyone why she had come to Ledlington, or why she was getting off at Cranberry Lane. Not that there was any secret about it, but it might start her off crying again, and that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t matter so much if she were to cry later on. It was all so very recent, and nobody would be surprised if she could not quite control her feelings, but it wouldn’t do to cry before she got to Merefields-oh, no, it wouldn’t do at all. She took a final look at the paper in her hand and then put it away in an old black handbag.

She was all in black from head to foot, but none of it was new. She had bought the coat and skirt when Arthur’s father and mother were killed in that terrible railway accident twenty years ago, and the blouse and hat when her old Aunt Mary died. People didn’t wear mourning so much now, but she had always kept her black and put it away carefully in camphor, not those horrid mothballs, so that it came out quite fresh and nice when it was wanted.

She had worn it to Arthur’s funeral yesterday morning. It was at Golders Green and everything very nice, but it did seem to her they had rather hurried it on. That would be his father’s relations. They had been very good to Arthur of course-paid all his school bills and sent him to college, and put him in the way of being in a good social position and getting this post as Mr. Bellingdon’s secretary. Ever so pleased he was about it, poor boy, and no one could tell it would turn out the way it had. The tears came up in her eyes and she got out her handkerchief and dabbed at them.

She hadn’t seen so much of Arthur the last few years, but when he did come he was always just the same, full of talk about his friends, and his games, and his girls. Always one for the girls, Arthur was. Not in any horrid way-she was sure about that-but he liked them pretty and he liked them smart and a credit to him when he took them out. It came a bit expensive of course, but she had always tried to help him. Those Hughes relations who had paid for his schooling and his college fees, they weren’t as well off as they had been, and once he got a job they expected him to keep himself. Sounded as if they were a little bit mean, she thought. But there, it wasn’t right to judge, and they were paying for the funeral. No, it was Mr. Bellingdon who was doing that, and very kind and generous of him, but only right, because Arthur had been doing his errand when he was shot. She had to put her handkerchief to her eyes again as she thought about Arthur being shot. She was glad now that there were no other passengers. She wouldn’t have liked to sit in a bus and cry before strangers however kind they were- and people were very kind when they thought you were in trouble.

Before there was time to put her handkerchief away the bus had come to a standstill, and there was the conductor putting his head in and saying, “ Cranberry Lane ”. It quite startled her, but it stopped the flow of her tears, which was a good thing.

Half a mile up the lane and she would come to the village, and right in the middle of the village she would see the entrance to Merefields.

“You can’t miss it,” the conductor told her as she got down. “The gate stands open and there’s a couple of pillars with pineapples on them.”

She thanked him and began to walk up the lane, wishing that her legs felt stronger and that she didn’t keep thinking about Arthur being shot.

The thought kept coming back. It had happened in this lane, somewhere between the high road and the village. Perhaps it was just round this corner-perhaps it was round the next… She mustn’t think about where it happened. She must only think about going to see Arthur’s girl and doing her best to comfort her. She must have been terribly upset not to be able to come to the funeral. She had thought she would see her there, and she had tried to screw up her courage to ask Mr. Bellingdon how she was, but when it came to the point she couldn’t manage it. He had spoken to her very kindly after it was all over, but when it came to asking him about his daughter she couldn’t do it. For one thing, Arthur always spoke of her as Moira, but he said she had been married and he hadn’t told her what her married name was. She didn’t like to say Moira, and she didn’t like to say your daughter, so she didn’t say anything at all. Mr. Bellingdon hadn’t given his consent to there being anything between them-she knew that-so it wouldn’t have done for her to put herself forward.

She could see the first house in the village now. She went on until she came to the open gate between the two tall pillars. Merefields looked to be a big place. There were some lovely trees. The house was quite a long way from the entrance. She would be glad to sit down and rest.

She came out upon the gravel sweep and saw the house on one side of it, and the great band of coloured hyacinths on the other. Lovely they were, and a beautiful scent out here in the air but too heavy to have in the house. She couldn’t sit in a room with more than one or two of them, not for very long.

Minnie Jones crossed the gravel, went up the half dozen steps to the front door, and pulled upon the wrought-iron bell. When Hilton opened the door, there she was, very small and black, with her hands clasped upon the handle of her shabby bag. She made a tentative step forward as the door swung in and said in a wavering voice,

“I have come to see Mr. Bellingdon’s daughter. I’m afraid I don’t know her married name.”

Hilton wasn’t quite sure of his ground. Anyone who came calling would know the name of the lady they were calling on-it stood to reason they would. If that little person didn’t know Mrs. Herne’s name, it meant that she wasn’t a caller. Of course she might be collecting for something-there were all sorts that did that. If you asked him, she didn’t look fit for it, and that was a fact. And she didn’t look like a beggar either. Something about her that made you feel she was all right-nice quiet manner-pretty way of speaking.

Before he could say anything she was looking at him with anxious blue eyes and saying,

“She is here, isn’t she?”

He found himself admitting it.

“Then I’m sure she will see me. My name is Jones-Miss Jones, and I am Arthur Hughes’ aunt, his mother’s sister. You must have known him of course.”

Her eyes brimmed up with tears. Astonishing how blue they were in that little faded face. He hadn’t like Arthur Hughes very much. La-di-da ways and a bit too much taking himself for granted. But when all was said and done it was one thing to read about shootings in the papers, and quite another to have them happen just round the corner from your own front door, and to someone who was living in the house. He said what a shocking thing it was and showed her into the morning-room.

She was glad enough to sit down. It wasn’t a long walk, but it doesn’t take much to tire you when your heart is heavy. Her friend Florrie Williams that she lived with hadn’t wanted her to come-said it was too much for her right on top of the shock she had had and the funeral and all. But she hadn’t felt that she could rest until she had been down to see Arthur’s girl and give her the letters. He had trusted them to her and told her to keep them safe, and now that he was gone the proper person to have them was the girl who had written them. She couldn’t rest until she had done her errand, and she had told Florrie so. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.