The Judas kiss

Suspected of Murder

I was in a bewildered state. I had schooled myself to offer some explanation for my absence, but it was not needed. My grandmother's death had meant that I had not been missed.

"She slipped away quietly in her sleep," Mrs. Greaves told me.

It must have been just at the time when I was coming face to face with the blank register.

"She didn't ask for me?" I said.

"Why, Miss, she has not been conscious at all through the day."

I left her and went up to my bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room and let the desolation sweep over me. It was a feeling of utter loneliness. I was losing everyone. Francine, Daisy, Miss Elton and now my grandmother. It was as though a cruel fate was robbing me of everyone I cared for.

The thought of Conrad suddenly came to me. He had been kind. I was sure he had been really sorry that we could not find the entry.

We met at dinner that night—myself, my grandfather and Cousin Arthur.

My grandfather discussed funeral arrangements and said the family vault would be opened. Cousin Arthur should go to see the vicar. Our grandfather couldn't endure the man. Besides, he might meet Grace or her husband.

Cousin Arthur said, "I am only too happy to be of assistance to you, Uncle."

"You are always that, Arthur," replied my grandfather. Arthur lowered his head and looked as pleased as the circumstances and his overwhelming humility would let him.

"It's a great blow to us all," went on my grandfather, "but life has to go on. The last thing she would have wished would be for us to upset the lives of those who have to go on living. We must think of what she would wish."

I thought that it would be the first time he had ever done that. Did people have to be dead to get some consideration? The coffin had been brought to the house—a magnificent affair of polished mahogany and lots of ornamental brass; it was placed in the room next to my grandfather's. She was closer to him there than she had been for many years. The funeral was to take place in five days' time. Meanwhile she lay there, and all the servants went one by one to pay their last respects.

All through the night candles burned in that room. There were three at the head of the coffin and three at the foot.

I went in to see her. The smell of the wood and the memory of that room of death would remain with me forever.

There was nothing eerie about it. She lay there—just her face visible, and a starched cap hid her hair. She looked young and beautiful. She must have been something like that when she first came to Greystone Manor as a bride... . One could not be afraid even though the room was full of shadows cast by the flickering candle-light. She had been so good and kind in her life, how could anyone fear her in death?

There was just a terrible desolation—a frightening sense of loss, and the understanding, as never before, how very much alone I was in the world.

Two days later I went to the woods. I sat under a tree hoping that Conrad would come. This was the hour when I took my walk. Would he think enough of me to come?

It seemed that he did, and my spirits lifted when I saw him coming towards me.

He threw himself down beside me and, taking my hand, kissed it. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

I said: "When I reached home I learned that my grandmother had died."

"Was it unexpected?"

"I suppose not. She was old and an invalid and she had been very unwell for some days. But it was a great shock, particularly as ..."

"Tell me," he said gently.

"Everyone has gone," I said. "There was my sister and Daisy the maid, who was a friend too. Then Miss Elton and now my grandmother. There is no-one left."

"My dear little girl..."

For once I did not mind being called a little girl. He went on softly: "How old are you?"

"I shall soon be seventeen."

"So young ... and so troubled," he murmured.

"If my parents had not died everything would have been different. We should have stayed on the island. We were happy there. Francine would never have died. I should not be here alone ... without anyone."

"What about your grandfather?"

I laughed bitterly. "He will force me to marry Cousin Arthur."

"Force you! You do not seem to me the sort of person who would be forced."

"I have always said I wouldn't be, but I should have done something. Miss Elton said I should. I should have found some post. But who would employ someone of my age?"

"You are certainly young," he agreed. "And of course you are not exactly fond of Cousin Arthur."

"I hate Cousin Arthur."

"Why?"

"If you saw him you would understand. Francine hated him. She was to marry him. She was the elder, you see, but she married Rudolph. They did marry, I know they did."

"Let us consider your problem. It really is of the greater importance."

"When I am seventeen my grandfather wants me to marry Cousin Arthur, and I shall soon be seventeen. Then it will be a case of 'Marry Arthur or get out.' I'd like to get out, but where would I go? I shall have to take a post. If only I were say—two years older ... You see what I mean?"

"I do indeed."

"My grandmother was kind and good and understanding. I could talk to her. Now there is no-one."

"Well, I'm here," he said.

"You!"

"Yes. My poor little girl, I don't like to see you unhappy. I like you full of fire raging against me ... yes. Though I should prefer to see you tender, perhaps. But I do not like to see you in despair."

"I am in despair. I wanted to talk to my grandmother. I wanted to tell her about the register. There is no-one to talk to now. I am all alone."

He put his arms round me and held me tightly. He rocked me gently and kissed my forehead, the tip of my nose and then my lips. I was almost happy in those moments.

I drew back from him a little, afraid of my emotions. It was extraordinary that I could feel thus towards someone who had just proved me wrong on a matter so near my heart.

I was confused, not knowing which way to turn.

He said gently, "You are not alone, you know. I am here. I am your friend."

"My friend!" I cried. "Why, you have tried to destroy my belief in my sanity."

"You are not being fair. All I did was confront you with the truth. The truth must always be looked at ... straight in the face ... even when it is unpleasant."

"That was not the truth. There's some explanation. I wish I knew what it was."

"I can tell you this, my dear Philippa. You are so concerned with the past that you are letting the dangers of the present creep up on you. What are you going to do about Cousin Arthur?"

"I will never marry him."

"Then ... when your grandfather turns you out ... what then?"

"While I have been sitting here it has occurred to me that my grandmother's death will delay matters a little. There could not be a wedding following so close on a funeral, could there? My grandfather would always observe the conventions."

"So you think the evil day is postponed."

"It will give me time to find a way out. My Aunt Grace would help me. She escaped from Greystone Manor and is very happy now. Perhaps I could stay a while at the vicarage."

"A ray of hope," he said. "And how do you think you will enjoy going into some strange household with the status of a servant after the way in which you have lived?"

"I have not lived so happily at Greystone Manor. I have always felt something of a captive here. Francine felt it too. So I have not such a glorious past to look back on. Besides, I might be a governess. They are not servants ... exactly."

"Somewhere in between," he said. "Poor, poor Philippa. It's a grim prospect which lies before you."

I shivered and he held me closer.

"I have to tell you," he went on, "that I am leaving England tomorrow."

I was completely shattered and unable to speak. I just stared wretchedly ahead of me. Everyone was going. I should be left to the mercy of my grandfather and Cousin Arthur.

"Do I discern that you are a little sorry that I am going?"

"It has been comforting talking to you."

"And I am forgiven for the part I played in that disastrous register affair?"

"It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you."

"I thought you hated me for it."

"I am not quite as foolish as that."

"And you promise me that you are going to forget it? You are going to stop looking back?"

"I couldn't stop myself wanting to know. She is my sister."

"I know. I understand perfectly. Dear Philippa, don't despair. Something will turn up for you. I'm sorry I have to go. It's vital that I should."

"I suppose you have been called back by your employers?"

"That's the idea. But I have one more day. We'll meet tomorrow. I'm going to try to come up with a solution to your troubles."

"How could you possibly do that?"

"I'm something of a magician," he said. "Didn't you guess that? I'm not quite what I seem?"

I gave a forced laugh. I was really miserable because he was going and I did not want him to know how deeply I felt about it.

"I'm going to save you from the arms of Cousin Arthur, Philippa ... if you'll let me."

"I don't think you have enough magic for that."

"We'll see. Will you trust me?" He rose to his feet. "I have to go now."

He held out a hand and pulled me up. We stood close to each other. Then his arms were round me. His kisses had changed. They were bewildering, a little frightening, and I wanted them to go on.

When he released me he was laughing. "I think you are a little more kindly disposed towards me now," he said.

"I don't know what I feel... ."

"There is a little time left to us," he replied. "Will you trust me?"

"What a strange question. Should I?"

"No," he answered. "Never trust anyone. Particularly people you know nothing about."

"You are warning me?"

He nodded. "Preparing you, perhaps."

"You do sound mysterious. At one moment you are going to help me and the next you are warning me against you."

"Life is full of contradictions. Will you meet me here tomorrow? I may have a solution. It will of course depend on you."

"I will be here tomorrow."

He took my chin in his hands and said: "Nil desperandum." Then he kissed me lightly and walked with me to the edge of the wood where we parted.

I went into the house past the chamber of death up to my bedroom and threw myself on Francine's bed, which seemed to bring her nearer to me.

There was no doubt about it. Conrad excited me, and I wanted to be with him. When I was, I could forget almost everything else.

I could not bear to be in that house of death and yet the sense of loneliness had lifted a little. Conrad would meet me tomorrow and he had said he would find a solution. I could not believe this was possible and yet it was a comforting thought. Being with him was a sort of opiate and I was in such a desperate state that I was ready to grasp at anything.

I could not endure to stay in the house so I went out into the garden, and while I was there one of the Emms boys came to me.

He said: "I was told to give you this when no one was looking, Miss."

I seized it.

"Who ... ?" I began.

"From the Grange, Miss."

"Thank you," I said.

I slit the envelope and took out a thick white paper with a golden crest at the top. Grange paper, I thought; and then I was reading what had been written.

Philippa,

I have to leave early tomorrow morning. I must see you before I go. Please come this evening, can you, at ten o'clock. I'll be waiting for you in the Grange shrubbery.

C.

My hands were trembling. So he was going tomorrow. He had said he would find a solution for me. Could it be possible?

I should have to slip out of the house and leave the door unlocked. No. That might be discovered. There was a window in the courtyard which was low. If I left that unlatched I could easily get through it ... just in case when I returned the door had been locked.

I must see him.

I don't know how I lived through the rest of that day. I pleaded a headache and did not join my grandfather and cousin for dinner. It seemed a reasonable enough excuse, for the normal routine of the household was naturally somewhat disrupted on account of my grandmother's death and the preparations for the funeral.

I had tested the courtyard window. People rarely went past it, so it should be safe enough.

At a quarter to ten I was on my way. He was waiting for me in the shrubbery and when he saw me he caught me in his arms and held me against him.

"We'll go into the house," he said.

"Should we?" I asked.

"Why not?"

"It isn't your house. You're only the equerry."

"Shall we say I'm in charge. Come along."

We walked into the Grange, and as we passed through the hall I looked up anxiously at the high holes in the wall which I knew could be peered through in the solarium.

"No one will see us," he whispered. "They are all asleep. They have had a busy day preparing for departure."

"Are they all going tomorrow?"

"They'll be leaving in a day or so."

We went up the stairs. "Where are we going?" I asked. "To the Weinzimmer?"

"You'll see."

He threw open a door and we entered a room in which a fire was burning. It was a large room with heavy velvet curtains. I noticed the alcove in which was a four-poster bed.

"Whose room is this?" I asked quickly.

"Mine," he answered. "We're safe here."

"I don't understand."

"You will. Come and sit down. I have some excellent wine here. I want you to try it."

"I know nothing of wine."

"Surely you drink it at Greystone Manor?"

"My grandfather always decides what it shall be and everyone else has to drink it and like it."

"A despot, your grandfather."

"What is it you have to say to me?"

"I am going away. I thought I had to see you."

"Yes," I said, "you told me."

He took my hand and, sitting down in a large thronelike chair, he drew me down to him so that I was sitting on his knees.

"You should not be afraid," he said quietly. "There is nothing to fear. Your welfare will be my greatest concern from now on."

"You say the most extraordinary things. I thought I had come here to say goodbye to you."

"I am hoping you won't do that."

"How could it be otherwise?"

"The difficulties are not insurmountable."

His hands were on my neck, caressing it gently. I was beginning to feel that I wanted to stay in this room forever.

"How do you feel about me?" he asked.

I tried to free myself from his searching hands.

"We hardly know each other," I stammered. "You're not ... English."

"Is that a great handicap?"

"Of course not, but it means—"

"What?"

"That we probably think differently about everything. I would rather sit on a chair and hear what it is you have to say to me."

"But I would rather you stayed here ... near me. Philippa, you must know that I am falling in love with you."

I felt dizzy with sudden happiness, as though I were slipping into a deep pool of contentment, but I was conscious of warning voices within me. It was a dangerous pool.

"Philippa," he went on. "It's rather a dignified name." He repeated it. "Philippa."

I said, "My family always called me Pippa."

"Pippa. Short for Philippa. I like it. It recalls a poem called 'Pippa's Song' ... or 'Pippa Passes.' You see, I may not be English but I was educated here. I know my Browning. 'God's in his Heaven—All's right with the world.' That's Pippa's Song. Is it true for you?"

"You know very well that it is far from being' so."

"So perhaps I could make it so. I should be very happy if I could. 'All's right with the world.' I want you to tell me that that is the case."

"Yet you are going away and I shall not see you after tonight."

"That is what I have to talk to you about, because whether you continue to see me or not depends on you."

"I don't understand you."

"It's simple. I could take you with me."

"Take me to—"

"That's right. Take you back with me."

"How could that possibly be?"

"Quite easily. We meet tomorrow at the station. We do not go to Dover as we did before. We go to London and from there to Harwich. We take ship and after our journey across the sea we take another train and in due course we come to my home. What do you say?"

"You are teasing me."

"I swear I'm not. I want you with me. Don't you understand I have fallen in love with you?"

"But... how could I possibly come with you?"

"How could you not?"

"My grandfather would never agree."

"I thought we were going to outwit Grandfather and Cousin Arthur. So we don't need the agreement of either of them. Pippa, let me show you how I love you."

"I ... don't ..."

"Then let me teach you," he said.

He had unbuttoned my bodice. I put my hands up to stop him, but he took them and began to kiss them. I was afraid and yet overcome by an excitement such as I had never known before. Everything seemed to fade away ... the past ... the future ... everything that frightened me. There was nothing but this moment. He was kissing me as he took off my bodice.

"What is happening ..." I stammered. "I must go... ."

But I made no attempt to. I was overwhelmed by an irresistible longing.

He kept telling me that he loved me, that I had nothing to fear. We were going to be together forever and ever. I could forget my grandfather, forget Cousin Arthur. They were in the past. There was nothing else that mattered except this wonderful love of ours.

The contrast to all I had felt since Francine had gone was so great that I had to shut out everything but this moment. There was one part of me that was trying to reason, but I wouldn't listen.

"I must go now ..." I began; and I heard him laugh softly and then I was in the four-poster bed and he was there with me. All the time he was murmuring endearments and I was shocked and shattered and overwhelmed with delight.

Afterwards he just lay still, holding me. I was trembling and very happy and in an odd way defiant, telling myself that I wouldn't have it different if I had a chance to go back.

He stroked my hair and told me I was beautiful, adorable and that he would love me forever.

"Nothing like this has ever happened to me before," I said.

"I know," he answered. "Is it not wonderful to be together like this? Come, little Pippa, tell me the truth?"

I told him it was.

"And you have no regrets?"

"No," I said firmly. "No."

Then he kissed me and made love to me again, and this time it was different; the shock was gone and there was a different kind of ecstasy. I realized that my cheeks were wet, so I must have wept, for he kissed my tears away and said he had never been so happy in his life.

He got up and put on a silk robe of blue with gold figures on it. The blue matched his eyes and he looked like one of the Norse gods.

"Are you mortal?" I asked, "or are you Thor or Odin or one of the gods or perhaps heroes of the Norsemen?"

"You know something of our mythology, I see."

"Francine and I used to read of it with Miss Elton."

"Who would you like me to be—Sigurd? I always thought he was a bit foolish to drink the potion and marry Gudrun when his true love was Brunhild, didn't you?"

"Yes," I answered. "Very foolish."

"Oh, little Pippa, we are going to be so very happy." He went to the table and poured out more wine. "Refreshment after our exertions," he said. "It will give us strength to renew them."

I laughed. Something was happening to me. I drank the wine. He seemed to grow taller than ever and I felt a little dizzy.

I said: "It's the wine."

Then his arms were round me and we were caught up again in our love.

That was a night of awakening for me. I was no longer a child, no longer a virgin. I slept a little and when I awoke the effect of the wine was no longer with me.

I sat up hastily and looked at Conrad. He stirred and reached for me. As though to warn that the magic night was over, the church clock struck four. Four o'clock in the morning and I had been out since ten!

I touched my naked body in dismay. My clothes were lying on the floor.

I cried out, "I must go!"

He was wide awake now. He put his arms round me.

"There's nothing to be afraid of. You are coming with me."

I said, "Where shall we be married ... in a church like Francine?"

He was looking at me in silence. Then he smiled and drew me to him. "Pippa," he said, "there can't be a marriage any more than there could be for Francine."

"But we have ..."

My eyes took in the disorder of the bed and the man naked beside me. There were memories of the night we had spent together, the empty wine bottle, the ashes in the fireplace.

He smiled gently.

"I love you," he said. "I will take you with me. I will care for you always. We will have children perhaps. Oh, you will have a wonderful life, Pippa. You will lack for nothing."

"But we must marry," I said foolishly. "I thought that was what you meant when you said you loved me."

He smiled, still tender but just faintly cynically I thought. "Love and marriage don't always go together."

"But I cannot be ... with you like this ... if I am not your wife."

"But you can and you have proved it, for you have."

"But—it is impossible."

"In the world of Greystone Manor perhaps. We are leaving that behind us and everything will be different now. I would to God I could marry you. That would make me very happy. But I am already as good as married."

"You mean you have a wife?"

He nodded. "You could say that. That is how it is in my country. Wives are chosen for us and we go through a ceremony which is tantamount to marriage."

"Then you should never have deceived me into thinking that we should be married."

"I did not deceive you. Marriage was not mentioned."

"But I thought that we were going to be. I thought that was what it all meant... . You said you would take me away with you."

"Everything I have said I would do, I will do. The one thing I cannot do is marry you."

"Then what are you proposing? That I should be your mistress?"

"Some would say this is what you already are."

I covered my face with my hands. Then I was off the bed and searching for my clothes.

"Pippa," he said, "be sensible. I love you. I want you with me all the time. Please, dearest Pippa, you must understand."

"Yes, I do understand. You do this sort of thing because it amuses you. You do not love me. I am just a light o' love. I believe that is what they call it."

"A rather old-fashioned expression, I believe."

"Please do not joke. I see I have been foolish again. You enjoy making me seem so. First the entry. It wasn't the right register, was it? You arranged that."

"I assure you I did no such thing."

"You planned this. You gave me that wine ... and now— you have ruined me."

"My dear child, you talk like a character in a cheap melodrama."

"I am cheap perhaps ... cheaply come by. I succumbed very readily, did I not? And you took advantage of that ... and now you say you have a wife. I don't believe you."

"Once again I assure you it is true. Pippa, you must believe that if this had not been so I should have asked you to marry me. I am sure you must see that what is between us will grow and grow. ... It will be the sort of love which is the most worthwhile thing in the whole world."

I was so miserable. My puritanical upbringing at Greystone made me see myself as ruined, a fallen woman.

"Listen to me," he said. "Come away with me. I will show you a new life. There is more to relationships between two people than signing a name in a register. I love you. We can have a wonderful life together."

"And your wife?"

"That is something apart."

"You are cruel and cynical."

"I am realistic. I was involved in this marriage for family reasons. It is a marriage of convenience. That is accepted. It is not meant to prevent my loving someone else—someone who could become dearer to me than anyone on earth. You don't believe me, do you?"

"No," I replied. "I have heard of men like you. I did not think of that in the beginning. I was carried away."

His arms were round me once more. He said, "You are adorable. You love me, you see. You wanted me. You did not say then, 'When are you going to marry me?' That did not come into your head."

"I realize I know very little about the ways of the world."

"Then come with me and learn. Customs are made for men and women, not men and women for customs."

"I could not take your view of life."

I had started to dress. He said, "What are you going to do? Will you be at the station this morning?"

"How could I? It would be wrong."

"So you will let me go ... alone?"

"What alternative have I?"

"Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove! Another of your English poets. You see, I know them well. Oh, little Pippa, you are a child still... in spite of the fact that I have made a woman of you. You have so much to learn. If you do not come with me today you will regret it all your life."

"I could regret it if I came."

"That is a chance we must take in life. Pippa, take your chance. Do what you want to do."

"But I know it would be wrong."

"Throw away your conventions, Pippa. Throw them away and learn to live."

"I must go back," I said.

"I will take you back."

"No ..."

"But I will. Give me a moment."

I stood there watching him and there were wild doubts in my heart. I was seeing myself setting out for the station. He would be there. We would board the train together ... to love and adventure. It was like Francine's story repeating itself.

"Come." He slipped his arm through mine and as he did so he kissed me tenderly. "My darling," he went on, "I promise you you will never regret."

It seemed that Francine was very close to me then. And what of the entry in the register? Had I really seen it? Had Francine had to face the same dilemma? I felt lost and bewildered and very inexperienced.

We came out into the cool air of the early morning.

"You should go," I said. "You should not be seen with me.

"Let us hope no one sees you returning at this hour of the morning."

He was holding my hand firmly against him. "This morning," he said. "Ten o'clock at the station. Be careful. We'll get on the train separately. I shall have your ticket."

I drew myself away and ran. My heart was beating wildly as I came into the courtyard. By good fortune the window was as I had left it. I scrambled through and closed it, and hurrying through into the hall started up the stairs.

Suddenly I felt myself go cold with apprehension. Mrs. Greaves was standing on the top stair watching me. She was in dressing gown and slippers and her hair was in iron curlers.

She cried out, "Oh, Miss Philippa. You gave me a shock, you did. I thought I heard someone. Wherever have you been?"

"I—I couldn't rest. I went for a little walk in the gardens."

She looked disbelievingly at my tousled hair. I was sure I must have appeared rather strange.

I sped past her as she stood aside and once in my room I sank onto my bed. I felt bruised and bewildered and was trying not to look ahead to what the future held.

I think I must have slept at last, for I was physically and mentally exhausted. I awoke startled and saw that it was nine o'clock. I lay in bed thinking of the events of last night and I longed to be with him. I wanted to forget my scruples and go with him. I wouldn't care if it was wrong, if it was not all against my upbringing. I just wanted to be with him.

It was all I could do to restrain myself from throwing a few things together and running to the station. What did it matter if we could not marry? I had already been a wife to him. If only Francine could have been with me! She would have said, "You must go with him!" Francine would have gone. Hadn't she gone with Rudolph? Was it similar? Had her assertions that she had married been a fabrication, a sop to the conventions? Had I imagined I had seen that entry in the register? Life was becoming like a fantastic dream.

If Miss Elton had been here she would have brought a certain sanity to the situation. I could imagine her folding her hands together and saying, "Of course you cannot go and live with a man who will not marry you." And I know I should have felt that was not only right but the only possible answer.

Oh, but I wanted to go. How desperately I wanted to!

It was nine-thirty. Too late now.

There was a knock on the door. It was one of the maids. "Miss Philippa, are you not well?"

"I have such a headache," I replied.

"I thought you had. I told Sir Matthew that you weren't feeling well. He looked quite concerned."

"Thank you, Amy."

"Would you like something brought up, miss?"

"Nothing thanks. I'll get up later."

Twenty more minutes to ten o'clock. Yes, it was too late. I could never get there in time. I pictured him at the station, waiting for me, hoping, longing perhaps. He was fond of me. I was sure of that.

And when the train left and I had not joined him? Perhaps he would shrug his shoulders. "A pity," he would say. "I liked her. I could have enjoyed teaching her to be a woman. But she did not come. She lacked the courage. She's a conventional little mouse, that's all. It is a pity—but that is how it is."

All I would be to him was an episode in his life.

As equerry to the Grand Duke or the Margrave or something like that he would live a romantic life among the mountains, attending ceremonial occasions in some old schloss.

I wanted to be with him so much.

Ten o'clock struck stridently, it seemed, triumphantly. Too late. Virtue had prevailed.

I went through the day in a bemused state. At dinner my grandfather was quite solicitous and I had never known him to be so gracious before. He enquired about my headache and said he was glad to see that I had obviously recovered. After dinner he would like a word with me in his study.

Oddly enough my thoughts were so very much with Conrad that it did not immediately occur to me that the moment I had been dreading for so long had come, and even when he received me in the study as graciously as he had at dinner, I did not think of it. He was smiling kindly, not dreaming for a moment that he would find any obstruction to his plans.

He stood up, his hands in his pockets rather as though he were addressing a public meeting.

"This house is sadly bereaved," he said. "Your poor grandmother lies in her coffin and there is a great sadness on us all. But she would be the last to expect life to stand still merely because she had left it. She would be the first to wish us to go on with our lives and perhaps bring a little lightness into the gloom which is so dark at this time."

I was scarcely listening to him. My thoughts were still with Conrad.

"I had planned a great celebration for your seventeenth birthday, your passing into womanhood."

I wanted to shout: I am already there, Grandfather. I spent a glorious night in the Grange with the most wonderful lover, and now he has gone and I never felt so desolate in my life ... not even when Francine went.

"That will not be seemly in the circumstances," my grandfather was going on. "Your grandmother's death"—he sounded a little peevish as though it were most incon­siderate of her to die at such a time—"yes, your grandmother's death rather precludes that. Still, I thought on the occasion we would have a dinner party with friends ... and the announcement could be made then."

"The announcement!"

"You know what my wishes are for you and your Cousin Arthur. His coincide with mine as I am sure yours will. I see no reason for a delay just because we have a death in the family. Of course the ceremonies will have to be conducted more quietly than I had at first thought... but there is no reason why we should delay. We shall announce the engagement on your seventeenth birthday. I always believed long engagements were a mistake. You can be married within three months, say. That will give everyone the time they need for preparations."

I heard myself speaking then and it was as though my voice was disembodied and didn't belong to me.

"You are making a mistake, Grandfather, if you think I am going to marry Cousin Arthur."

"What?" he cried.

"I said I have no intention of marrying Cousin Arthur."

"You have gone mad."

"No. I never intended to marry him any more than my sister did."

"Don't talk about your sister to me. She was a harlot and we are well rid of her. I should not have wished her to be the mother of my heirs."

"She was no harlot," I retorted vehemently. "She was a woman who would not be forced into marriage ... any more than I will."

"I tell you," he cried, and he was so incensed that he was shouting at me, "you will do as I say or you will not continue to live under my roof."

"Then if that is so," I said wearily, "I must leave here."

"All this time I have nurtured a viper in my bosom!"

I could not stop myself laughing hysterically. The cliche hardly fitted the case and the idea of my grandfather nursing anything in his bosom seemed hilariously funny.

"You brazen girl," he shouted. "How dare you! I think you have taken leave of your senses. Let me tell you you will regret this. I had made plans for you. I had left you well provided for in my will when you married Arthur. I shall send for my lawyers tomorrow morning. Not a penny shall you have. You are throwing away everything, do you understand? This house ... a fine husband ..."

"Not everything, Grandfather," I said. "I shall have my freedom."

"Freedom? Freedom to do what? Starve? Or take some menial post. For that is the choice you will have, my girl. You will not stay under my roof, living a life of luxury. I had brought you here from a savage place ... I have educated you ... fed you ..."

"I am your granddaughter, remember."

"It is something I wish to forget." His voice was raised and I wondered who was listening. I was sure the servants could hear it all."

His mood changed suddenly. He was almost placating. "Now perhaps you have not given enough thought to this prospect ... a glorious one. Perhaps you have spoken rather hastily... ."

"No," I said firmly. "That is not so. I have known what was in your mind and have given much thought to the matter. In no circumstances will I marry Cousin Arthur."

"Get out!" he cried. "Get out ... before I do you an injury. You will leave here tomorrow. I shall see my lawyer at once to make sure that you never benefit from anything of mine ... ever. You will be penniless ... penniless I tell you. I shall make sure of that."

I turned to the door and went out, my head high, my eyes blazing. As I came into the corridor I heard a scuffle and a rustling so I knew that we had been overheard.

I went to the stairs and mounted them. So it had come. Everything was happening at once. I was alone and tomorrow I should be homeless. I had no notion of where I should go or what I should do.

I opened the door of the room next to my grandfather's bedroom and in which the body of my grandmother lay in her coffin. The candles had been freshly lighted. They would all be replenished before the household retired and would burn through the night.

I stood on the threshold and looked at that peaceful face and I murmured: "Oh, Grandmother dear, why did you not live to talk to me, to advise me what to do? Why did you leave me alone and desolate? Help me. Please help me. Tell me what I should do."

How still it was in that room, and yet somehow I did feel a certain peace. I could almost believe that the cold lips smiled at me reassuringly.

I awoke from my sleep. It was dark and I wondered what had awakened me. When I had retired for the night I had lain awake for a long time wondering what the next day would bring, and where I should go when I left Greystone Manor. Then, from very exhaustion, I must have fallen into a heavy sleep.

Now I sat up in bed. I could smell something strange and I heard a sound which I did not immediately recognize.

I listened intently—and then I was out of bed.

It was fire!

I thrust my feet into my slippers and ran.

My grandfather's room was at the end of the corridor and next to it was that one in which my grandmother had lain in her coffin. Then as I stood there I saw the tongue of flame creeping along the top of the door.

"Fire!" I shouted. "Fire!"

I ran towards my grandfather's room and as I did so Cousin Arthur appeared.

"What is it?" he cried; and then, realizing: "Oh—God help us."

"There is a fire in my grandfather's room," I called to him.

By this time several of the servants were on the scene. Cousin Arthur had opened the door of my grandfather's room and as he did so the flames burst out.

"Give the alarm!" shouted Cousin Arthur. "Keep away from the room. It's ablaze. The room next to it too."

One of the footmen was already making his way through the smoke and flames. He had disappeared into my grandfather's room and when he came out he was dragging my grandfather along the floor.

Cousin Arthur was calling out: "Get water ... quickly. Douse the fire. The whole place will be ablaze. These timbers are as dry as straw."

Everyone was rushing about. I went over to Cousin Arthur, who was leaning over my grandfather.

"Send one of the servants for the doctor—quickly," he said.

I ran downstairs and found one of the grooms who had heard the commotion and seen the fire from his rooms over the stables.

He was off without a word and I went back again. There was water everywhere and the smoke was choking me, but I could see that they were getting the fire under control.

It appeared to have started in the room in which my grandmother lay.

Cousin Arthur said: "I never thought it safe to have those candles burning all night."

It was a shock to see my grandfather lying in the corridor, a pillow under his head and blankets covering him. He looked quite unlike the man who a few hours before had thundered at me in his study; he looked forlorn, vulnerable, with his beard completely burned and burns on what I could see of his face and neck. He must be in terrible pain, I thought, but no sound came from him.

When the doctor arrived I was still standing there. The fire had been put out and the danger was past.

The doctor took one look at my grandfather and said, "Sir Matthew is dead."

A strange night ... with the smell of the fumes still in my nostrils and my grandfather, who but a short time before had been screaming abuse at me—dead.

I try to piece together the events of that night but it is. not easy.

I remember Cousin Arthur in a long brown dressing gown offering me something to drink. He seemed kinder than he ever had before, less self-righteous, more humane. He was clearly very shaken by what had happened. His benefactor was dead. He looked as if he couldn't believe it.

"You must not upset yourself, Philippa," he said. "I know you had a bit of trouble with him tonight."

I was silent.

He patted my hand. "Don't fret," he said. "I understand."

The doctor was looking grave. He wanted to have a few words with Cousin Arthur. He was disconcerted and uneasy. He did not think my grandfather's death was due to suffocation. There was a cut on the back of his head.

"He must have fallen down," said Cousin Arthur.

"It could have been so," replied the doctor dubiously.

"This has been a terrible night for my cousin," went on Cousin Arthur. "I wonder if you could give her a sedative." He looked at me with such compassion that I wondered if I had ever really known him before. Moreover he was acting with a new authority as though he were already master of the house. Summoning one of the maids he told her to take me to my room.

I allowed her to lead me away and back in my bedroom I fell onto my bed. I could not believe this was really happening. My life had taken an unexpected turn. For so long it had gone along uneventfully, and now one dramatic event was following on another.

I took the drink which the maid brought up to me and which she said had been given to her by the doctor. Soon I had fallen into a heavy sleep.

The next morning the nightmare continued. The house was in turmoil and there were strangers everywhere.

Cousin Arthur asked me to come to my grandfather's study and there he told me that they had taken my grandfather's body away because they were not satisfied about the way in which he had died. There would be an inquest. "He said something about a blow on the back of his head." "Do you mean he fell down and struck his head?" "It could have been that he became aware that there was a fire and in rushing to get out of his room, he fell. It seems one of the candles round your grandmother's coffin must have fallen over and perhaps set the rug alight. The coffin was on that side of the room which was in immediate proximity to your grandfather's bedroom. As you know, there is a communicating door between the two rooms and there were cracks in the side of the door through which the flames could penetrate. I am not sure, of course. I am surmising ... but the fact is ... those two rooms are the only ones which are damaged—and your grandfather's bedroom is more so than the room in which the coffin lay. Fires start in all sorts of ways."

I nodded.

"I know how you will be feeling, Philippa, because of that altercation last night."

"I had to tell him how I felt," I said.

"I know. And I am aware of the subject you discussed. I want you to understand that I am your friend, Philippa. Your grandfather's wish was that we should marry, but you did not want that. It is a disappointment to me, but I don't want you to think for one moment that I hold it against you."

One of the most bewildering aspects of this situation was the change in Cousin Arthur. He had taken on a new stature with the passing of my grandfather. Gone was the humble, grateful relation, so eager to ingratiate himself. He was now behaving like the head of the house; he was even being kind and understanding to me.

He smiled ruefully. "We cannot force our affections where they will not go," he said. "Your grandfather wanted to provide for you and use you to continue the direct line. Well, he is dead now, and I would not wish you to be forced into a marriage distasteful to you. On the other hand I want you to regard this house as your home ... for as long as you wish."

"Oh Cousin Arthur, that is good of you, for now I suppose all this will belong to you."

"Your grandfather always said I should inherit. Perhaps I am being a bit premature in talking thus. What I should say is that if it worked out as we have been led to believe it will —then this is your home for as long as you wish."

"I couldn't stay here," I said, "knowing that he had turned me out. I shall make some plans but I am relieved by your kind offer to allow me to stay until I do so."

He smiled at me affectionately. "Then that little matter is settled. There will be anxious days ahead. I do not want to add to your anxieties. There may be some unpleasantness. That blow on the head ... Well, obviously he fell, but you must not reproach yourself, Philippa."

"I don't. I had to tell him the truth. I would do exactly the same again. I could not allow him to force me ..."

"No, of course not. There is one other matter. Your grandmother's coffin has been scarred by the fire, but it is intact and I think the best thing we can do is to carry on as far as her funeral is concerned as though this had not happened. She will be buried tomorrow, and we will follow all the usual arrangements. Do you agree that is the best thing to do?"

I did agree.

"All right," he said, patting my shoulder. "That is how it will be."

Of course he too had been under the dominating sway of my grandfather. He had no more wanted to be forced into marriage than I had. The difference in us was that he was prepared to go to great lengths to please my grandfather and get his inheritance, whereas I was not. I supposed that Arthur would have been turned out penniless into a harsh world if he had not obeyed my grandfather, and I have no doubt that being some low-paid curate did not appeal to him. I could understand that and I was even liking him a little now.

My grandmother's funeral took place the next day. Aunt Grace came to the house with Charles Daventry and we talked together. Aunt Grace was very upset at the death of her mother and that she had not been allowed to visit her at the end. She was shocked by the death of her father, but if we were absolutely honest we would have to admit that it was a relief to us all.

We stood round the grave and as the scarred coffin was lowered into the earth and we listened to the clods being thrown onto it, I was thinking of our talks and all that Grandmother had done for us during those first difficult days at the Manor. She had been a kind of anchor to two bewildered young people. I was going to miss her sadly.

But everything would be changed. I must begin to find a post. At least I should soon be seventeen, which was a landmark to maturity. If I explained that I had suddenly fallen into poverty after having lived at Greystone Manor with my grandfather, perhaps I could now get by.

We went back to the house and in my grandfather's study, over biscuits and port wine, we assembled to hear the reading of the will.

We were astonished to learn that my grandmother had had a considerable estate, unknown to my grandfather. I was sure he would have wished to deal with it had he known how rich she was in her own right, and I have no doubt would have taken control of it so that it would no longer have been hers. I had always known that she was a strong-minded woman; her gentleness was misleading. She was kindly too, but once having been forced into marriage, she had been determined not to be completely dominated by her husband. So she had kept her secrets and this was one of them.

The disposal of the money was an even greater surprise to me. Agnes Warden must have been in on the secret because she admitted afterwards that she had brought the lawyer to my grandmother. Agnes herself was left a legacy to provide an annuity; there were one or two other bequests, but the bulk of it was split between her daughter Grace and her granddaughter Philippa "to enable them to live independent lives."

I was stunned.

The great problem which had lain before me had been pushed aside by this gesture of my grandmother's. I was to be comparatively rich. I need not worry about finding that post. I could go from this house as a rich woman of independent means.

"To lead independent lives!" I looked at Grace. She was crying quietly.

The following day the inquest on my grandfather took place. That day stands out in my memory as the strangest of my life. I sat there with Cousin Arthur and Grace and Charles and listened to the doctor's evidence. The heat of the room, the drone of the voices, the ritual of it all was awe-inspiring. I tried to grasp the significance of what the doctor was saying. Sir Matthew Ewell's death was not due to suffocation or the result of burns, and while this might have been caused when he fell and struck his head on the edge of a fender or some piece of furniture, on the other hand there was a possibility that it could have come through a blow administered by some person or persons unknown. It was likely that he had awakened from his sleep to become aware of the fire which had come through from the room next to his. He could have stumbled out of bed in a hurry and fallen. But this was conjecture and it was not possible to prove because the body had been dragged out of the room and it was not known what position it had been in at the time of death.

There was a great deal of discussion about this and at length the inquest was adjourned until the following week.

"What does it mean?" asked Aunt Grace of Charles.

Charles said it meant they were not entirely satisfied with the findings.

It was a strange week which followed. I went about the house in a kind of daze. I longed to get away ... right away.

"You can't make plans until this wretched business is over," said Cousin Arthur.

I noticed the servants were looking at me strangely. I read suspicion in their looks. It could mean only one thing. They had heard my quarrel with my grandfather and they knew that he was threatening to turn me out. And now this talk about his having been struck by someone ... I knew the implication. Someone had struck him, killed him, and then started the fire to cover up the deed.

I couldn't believe it. Did those dark looks implicate me? Could they possibly think that I had done this?

I began to be frightened.

I noticed Mrs. Greaves particularly. She watched me closely. It was ridiculous. It was such nonsense. As if. I would kill my own grandfather!

Agnes Warden was kind to me; so were Aunt Grace and Charles.

"I can't think what they want to make all this fuss about," said Charles. "It is quite obvious that Sir Matthew fell and killed himself."

"There is always this sort of enquiry in cases of sudden death," added Cousin Arthur.

My grandfather's will was read. Arthur had inherited the estate and the house. I was mentioned. There was to be a settlement on the occasion of my marriage to Arthur and there would be a small income for me for life, to be increased on the birth of every child I should have.

This was what he had planned to change when the lawyer would have been summoned. He had clearly wanted it to be definitely understood that in view of my ingratitude I should never have a penny of his money.

Arthur took charge of the household and I continued to be astonished by his consideration to me.

"I think," said Grace, "he is hoping you will change your mind and it will all work out as my father wished."

"That could never be," I told her. "I am grateful for Cousin Arthur's consideration, but I could never marry him."

Grace nodded. Secure in her new life with Charles, she felt she knew a great deal about love and marriage.

Mrs. Greaves' manner towards me became so cool that one day I asked her if anything was wrong.

She looked at me steadily. She had a hard, even a cruel face. I had always thought that long years of service in my grandfather's household had made her like that.

"I think that is a question you should ask yourself, Miss," she said severely.

"What do you mean, Mrs. Greaves?"

"I think you know well enough."

"No," I replied. "I don't."

"Well, there's a lot of speculation as to how that poor gentleman died ... and it's thought that someone in this house might be able to throw a little light on that."

"Do you mean I could?"

"Ask yourself, Miss. We heard the quarrel that went on on the last night of my master's life. I was not far off—accidentally—I couldn't help hearing."

"It must have been a great distress to you to have been forced to listen, Mrs. Greaves."

"If you'll forgive my saying so, Miss, that's the sort of thing I'd expect to hear from you. I heard it because I was there and I saw you go into your grandmother's room after."

"What did you think I did? Set the place on fire and let it burn slowly for hours before I guided it into my grandfather's room?"

"No. The fire was started later."

"Was started, Mrs. Greaves? You mean it began. Nobody started it." •

"Who's to say, and I fancy some of them people at the inquest has got their own opinions."

"What are you trying to say? And why don't you say it outright?"

"Well, it seems to be a bit of a mystery, Miss. But mysteries get cleared up and all I can say is some people are not what they seem. I don't forget, Miss, that I saw you coming in in the early morning hours—and that not so long ago. I just wondered what you were up to. It only goes to show that you can never tell what people will do, can you?"

I was terribly shaken that she should refer to that night with Conrad. I felt angry and hurt. Why did I not run away with him? Why did I let my foolish puritanical conscience stand in my way? If I had gone I should not have been here when my grandfather died. There would never have been that scene in the study.

Mrs. Greaves had seen how her words affected me. I heard her give a slight snigger as she turned and went silently away.

It occurred to me then that I was in a very dangerous situation.

I think I was too bemused by everything that had happened so suddenly to realize the extent of that danger, which was perhaps fortunate.

Arthur was so kind to me—almost tender; and I wondered vaguely whether Grace was right and he was trying to make me change my mind towards him.

"If they should ask you questions," he said, "all you have to do is tell the truth. If you do that no harm can come. One must never tell a lie in court for if one is discovered one is never believed on a single thing. You'll be all right, Philippa. We shall all be there."

I had never visualized anything like this—the court with all its dignitaries. And it was only a coroner's court. No-one was accused. This was only to decide whether my grandfather had died by accident or design. If the latter was decided then there would be accusations ... and perhaps a trial.

I just could not believe that this was really happening to me. All I could tell myself was that if I had obeyed the instincts of my heart I would now be happy in some vaguely foreign land with the man whom I realized now I undoubtedly loved.

People gave evidence. The doctors who had examined my grandfather's body confirmed that he had not died of asphyxiation but from the blow on the head, which could have occurred an hour or so before the fire was discovered. There could be an explanation of this. He could have smelt the smouldering rug, risen from his bed and fallen and killed himself. The fire was clearly slow-burning for the room in which my grandmother lay had not been so badly burned as had my grandfather's room. Experts agreed that it was possible for the rug to have smouldered for the best part of an hour before bursting into flames, and this would account for the lapse of time between my grandfather's receiving the blow and the presence of the fire being discovered by other members of the household.

People were put in the witness box after the doctors. Cousin Arthur first. He told how he had heard the cry of "Fire" and had rushed to the spot. He had immediately gone to my grandfather's room where one of the servants was dragging out the body. He had thought my grandfather was alive and had sent for the doctor. Had there been a quarrel between Sir Matthew and a member of the household on the previous night? he was asked.

Cousin Arthur, obviously reluctant, said that there had been a disagreement between Sir Matthew and his granddaughter Philippa.

Did he know what it was about?

Cousin Arthur thought that Sir Matthew had expressed his wish that there should be a match between himself and Sir Matthew's granddaughter and that she had refused to agree to this.

"Did he threaten her at all to your knowledge?"

"I was not present," said Cousin Arthur evasively. "But Sir Matthew was a man who could lose his temper easily if crossed." He believed he had shouted a little.

"To what effect? That he would cut her out of his will? That she would have to leave the house?"

"It may have been so."

"Was Philippa Ewell upset by this?"

"I did not see her at the time."

"When did you next see her after the argument?"

"On the landing outside the rooms which were on fire."

"Did she sleep in the corridor?"

"Yes, several bedrooms were there."

"Was yours?" Yes.

"And the servants?"

"They were on the floors above."

Arthur left the box and Mrs. Greaves was called. She said she had overheard the quarrel between my grandfather and me.

"Did he threaten to turn her out of the house and cut her out of his will?"

"He did," said Mrs. Greaves readily.

"You have very good hearing, Mrs. Greaves?"

"The best."

"Very useful in your position. Did you see Miss Philippa Ewell after the interview?"

"Yes. I saw her go to the room where her grandmother lay in her coffin."

"And did you see her later?"

"No, I didn't. But that did not mean that she stayed in her room all the night."

"We are not asking for your opinions, Mrs. Greaves, only for facts."

"Yes, sir, but I think I ought to say that Miss Ewell did have strange habits. She did roam about at night."

"That night?"

"I didn't see her that night. But I saw her one early morning. I had heard a noise—"

"Your excellent hearing again, Mrs. Greaves?"

"I thought it my duty to go and see who was prowling about. I have to look after the maids and make sure they behave, sir."

"Another excellent quality! And on this occasion ..."

"I saw Miss Philippa coming into the house. It must have been five o'clock in the morning. She was fully dressed and her hair was loose."

"And what conclusion did you come to?"

"That she had been out all night."

"Did she tell you this?"

"She said she had been for a walk in the gardens."

"I see no reason why Miss Ewell should not take an early morning walk if she wishes to, nor should I expect her to dress her hair before doing so."

It was clear that Mrs. Greaves was not making the impression she intended, but the reference to that morning shocked me deeply. I wondered what I could say if asked about it.

Should I tell them that I had spent the night with a lover? I should be condemned if I did so. There were many people who would think loose morals—for that was what I should be accused of—was as great a crime as murder. I had never felt so frightened in my life.

Then it was my turn.

"Miss Ewell, your grandfather wished you to marry your cousin and you refused to do this."

"Yes."

"And your refusal angered him?"

"Yes, it did."

"He threatened to turn you out of the house and cut you out of his will."

"He did."

"What did you say to that?"

"I said: 'I cannot marry someone I do not love and I will leave the house as soon as possible.'"

"And you would have done that the following day? Where would you have gone to?"

"I had thought I might go to my Aunt Grace or to one of the cottages until I had found a suitable home."

"And after this stormy interview what did you do?"

"I went into my grandmother's room to take a look at her in her coffin. We had been very fond of each other."

There was a nod of sympathy. I had a feeling that the questioner liked me and believed me and I felt, also, that he had disliked Mrs. Greaves and suspected her of malice. That gave me a certain courage.

"What happened in your grandmother's room?"

"I just looked at her and wished that she were alive to help me."

"Were the candles burning when you went into her room?"

"Yes. There had been candles burning since her death."

"Did you notice any insecurity about them?" No.

"I believe your grandmother has left you money with the wish that you may live an independent life. Was she of the opinion that your grandfather made harsh demands upon you?"

"Yes."

"You may step down, Miss Ewell."

It had been easier than I had thought it possibly could be and I was so relieved because there had been no mention of that early morning encounter with Mrs. Greaves.

After that it seemed that it went on for a long time. There was a great deal of discussion and I sat there limply waiting. Cousin Arthur reached for my hand and pressed, and for once I did not want to reject his hands.

Then the verdict: Accidental death. In the coroner's view there was insufficient evidence to say how the blow had been inflicted, and he was of the opinion that Sir Matthew had fallen and struck his head against the sharp edge of a fender—for there was evidence of such a fender surrounding the fireplace in his bedroom.

So we were free. The fearful menace which I had only half understood was lifted.

As I left the court with Cousin Arthur, Aunt Grace and her husband, I thought I saw someone I vaguely recognized. I couldn't think who it was for the moment, but it came to me later in a flash. It was the man whom I had seen when Miss Elton and I had gone to Dover to look at the register, the man whom I had assumed to be staying at the local inn and exploring the countryside.

I dismissed him from my thoughts. There was so much else to occupy me.

I was free now to make my plans.

I did not want to stay in Greystone Manor. There was a horrible atmosphere of suspicion there, instigated I was sure by Mrs. Greaves. I noticed the servants watching me furtively, and if I looked up and caught them suddenly they would look embarrassed and turn away.

Cousin Arthur continued to be extremely kind. "You must stay here as long as you like," he said. "In fact, you can regard Greystone Manor as your home."

"I certainly couldn't do that. My grandfather ordered me out and I shall go."

"It belongs to me now, you know."

"It's kind of you in view of everything, but I must go quickly."

It was Aunt Grace who came to my immediate rescue. "You must come and stay with Charles and me," she said. "Stay as long as you like, my dear. We have the money now to buy a house for ourselves and there is one not very far away from the vicarage, Wisteria Cottage. Do you remember it? Charles thinks it would suit us beautifully, and there is a big garden where he can have his workshop and display his statues. Come and help us make the move."

It was good of her. She was delighted to have the money that had been left to her and to have the approval of her marriage which her mother had implied. In death my grandmother had given us both the help we needed.

So I left Greystone Manor and went with her. The vicarage was a roomy house and the vicar kindly let me have a room until the move to Wisteria Cottage could be arranged.

Aunt Grace did a lot for me in those weeks. She and Charles talked to me a great deal and we planned what I should do. There was no need for me to take some uncongenial post now. I was a free woman and I needed time, said Aunt Grace, to decide how I should live.

Fate decided for me.

I was in Charles's shed sorting out some books for him when I heard footsteps outside. I went to the door, and to my amazement and delight there stood Daisy.

She had changed since I last saw her; she had grown plumper, but her cheeks were as rosy as ever and the mischief still sparkled in her eyes. As though to show her pleasure and that it was an extremely happy occasion, she favoured me with one of the winks I remembered so well.

"Miss Pip!" she said.

"Oh, Daisy!" I cried and we hugged each other fiercely. "So you've come home ... at last."

"Only on a visit. The servants are up at the Grange-preparing it like they always do. I came with them. Hans isn't with me, but he let me come with them. He said I deserved to see my own folks and it was only right for me to. He's had to stay behind. He's got an important job now. I'm married, you know. Frau Schmidt, that's me. What do you think of that? Hans made an honest woman of me ... when young Hans was born. I'm a mother now. Think of that, Miss Pip. You never saw a little man like my Hansie. He's a regular tartar, I can tell you."

"Daisy, when are you going to stop for breath? Do you mean to say they're opening up the Grange?"

"Somebody will be coming over soon. Not sure when, but it has to be all ready and prepared."

"And you ..."

"Oh, I'm not one of the servants now. Frau Schmidt, that's me. I'll stay here till some of the servants go back, and I'll go back with them. But first tell me—what about you? And that old man ... dead now. Well, I don't think he'll get quite the welcome he's expecting from the angels."

"You heard about it, did you?"

"Haven't heard of anything else."

"Daisy, they suspect me."

"Not my Ma don't. Nor Pa. They said that old tartar got out of bed in a rage and got what he deserved. Mind you, you mustn't speak ill of the dead, they say, but in his case I reckon it's allowed. I won't ever forget standing in that chapel in what he called my shame ... and all for having a bit of fun in the churchyard. But that's all done with. What about you, Miss Pip? How many years is it since I saw you?"

"Too many. It must be five. I was twelve when you and Francine went away, and I'm seventeen now."

"I'd hardly have known you. Quite grown up, you are. Just a little shaver you was then."

"Daisy, what do you know about Francine?"

"Oh." Her face was solemn momentarily. "That was a bit of a scandal, that was. I cried myself to sleep when I heard of it. I used to think she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen—or ever likely to—and to think of her getting murdered ..."

"I want to know what happened, Daisy."

"Well, it was in this shooting lodge. That's where they were at the time. It was never cleared up. Who killed them we don't know. It wasn't anything to do with Miss Francine. She was just there with him ... when they came to kill him ... and because she was with him they killed her too."

"Who could have done it?"

"Now you're asking me. If they don't know, how could I?"

"Who's they?"

"All the army ... and the reigning family and the police ... all of them."

"It's been such a mystery to me and I want you to tell me all you know. Come into the shed. There's no one here. My aunt and her husband are at Wisteria Cottage getting ready to move in."

"Oh, I heard about that. What a change-about eh? Miss Grace getting married and all. She ought to have done it years ago."

"I'm glad she did before she got the money. She had to break away, as I did. But sit down, Daisy, and tell me all you know about my sister."

"Well, she went off, didn't she?"

"Yes, yes," I said impatiently.

"And the Grafin and Graf and her household went off and I got my job with them ... so off I goes. It's a wonderful place if you like that sort of thing. The trees and mountains ... oh, it's beautiful. I get a bit homesick at times though for the fields and the hedges and the lanes and the buttercups and daisies. But Hans was there, and me and Hans-well, we get on together a treat. It's funny. He laughs at me —the way I try to say their words—but I can laugh at him for saying ours. We like it."

"So you are happily married. I am so pleased. And you have that adorable little Hans. But what do you know about my sister?"

"Only that she came over with the Baron. I didn't know who he was then. I knew he was important, of course, but not that important. Hans told me. He said this Baron Rudolph is the only son of this Grand Duke or something, and this Grand Duke is a sort of King. Not like our Queen, of course, but the ruler of this dukedom, or whatever it is. But it's different over there. It's like a lot of little countries all with their own kings and though they seem little to us, they're thought to be pretty big over there."

"I understand, Daisy."

"Well, I'm glad you do, Miss Pip, because it's more than I do. But what I'm telling you is that when Rudolph came back with your sister there was a regular to-do. You see, he's the heir and he's supposed to marry some sort of grand lady from one of those other places and there could be war if he didn't. There's always going to be war ... and they're afraid of that. So Baron Rudolph is supposed to marry this lady. That means having Miss France there he had to keep her out of the way."

"He was married to my sister so how could he possibly marry this grand lady?"

"Well, it seems he wasn't exactly married... ."

"He was. They were married near Dover before they left the country."

"Well, they said she was his mistress. That was all right with them. He'd had them before ... and all Grand Dukes had. But with marriage it was different ... if you understand me."

"Listen, Daisy, my sister was married to him in Birley Church. I saw—"

I stopped. I had seen that entry, hadn't I? In view of everything that had happened I was beginning to doubt it.

"I reckon it had to be one of them mock marriages," said Daisy. "It would be the only way and Baron Rudolph would have known it. He had to keep her out of the way ... or he should have done. But there was one part of the country where he was very popular ... and I believe he was there with her."

"You never saw her, Daisy?"

"Oh no. I was in the Graf's slosh."

"Where?"

"The slosh. They have a lot of them over there. They're very pretty. Like castles."

"Oh I see—a schloss."

"That's it. No, they didn't come to our slosh. The Graf was very loyal to the Grand Duke and he and the Grafin thought that Rudolph ought to settle down and learn how to rule the country, which he would have to do when the Grand Duke dies, and they thought he ought to do all he could to stop this war they were all worried about, which would come if he didn't marry this one they'd got for him."

"So all this time you never saw her. What about the child?"

"Child? What child is this you mean, Miss Pip?"

"My sister had a little boy. A son. She was very proud of him."

"I never heard nothing of that." "Oh, Daisy, I wish I knew what happened."

"You know she was killed in that shooting lodge."

"Where exactly was the lodge?"

"It's not so far from the slosh. Right in the middle of the pine forest, it is. It was an awful shock when it happened. The town went into mourning for a whole month. They said it nearly broke the Grand Duke's heart ... his only son, you see. They looked for the murderers. High and low they searched. But they couldn't find them. They said it was political. You see, there's a nephew. He's to be the next Grand Duke when the old man dies."

"Do they think he killed them?"

"They don't dare go as far as to say that. But this Baron Sigmund ... you see he's a son of the old man's brother and next in line, which is because of Rudolph's death ... if you get my meaning. So if anybody wanted Rudolph out of the way it could be Sigmund ... though Hans thinks it could be someone who just wanted Rudolph out of the way, he being not what they considered right to be the next Grand Duke."

"So someone who wanted Rudolph out of the way murdered him in the shooting lodge ... and just because Fran-cine was with him she was shot too."

"That's about it. It's the general view. Nobody can be sure... .

"But what about the child? Where was he at the time?"

"Nobody's ever said nothing about a child, Miss Pip."

"It's a great mystery to me. I am sure Francine was truly married and I am sure there was a child. I want to know, Daisy. It's the only thing I really care about now."

"Oh, you wouldn't want to get muddled up in all that, Miss Pip. You ought to settle down and marry some nice young man. You haven't got to worry about money now, have you? Get married and have babies. I can tell you this. .. . there's nothing I can think of better than holding your own little baby in your arms... ."

"Oh, Daisy, it's lovely to think of you as a mother."

"You ought to see my little Hansie."

"I wish I could." I was looking straight at her. "Daisy," I went on, "why shouldn't I?"

The idea had come and it would not be dismissed. It excited me as I had not been excited for a long time. It would give me a reason for living; it would get me away from the atmosphere of furtive suspicion from which I could not escape. At the back of my mind was the thought that I might see Conrad again.

During the last weeks the possibility that there might be results from my encounter with him had occurred to me. Somehow I had rather hoped there would be. It would add very much to the complications of my life, but I think the joy it would have brought me would have compensated for that. It would have put me in a desperate situation ... but to have had a child, a living memory of the hours I had spent with Conrad, filled me with longing.

It was a strange mingling of relief and disappointment when I knew that I had definitely not become pregnant, and I felt I had to give myself a reason for living. And now that Daisy had appeared she had, in a way, opened a door for me.

"Daisy," I said, "how would it be if I came back with you?"

"You, Miss Pip! Back with me?"

"I have money now. I am free, thanks to my grandmother. I want to find that child of Francine's. He exists, I know. Sometimes I feel he is calling for me. He would be nearly four years old by now. If he's there I should like to see him. I want to make sure that he is well looked after."

"Well, as I said, I never heard nothing about no child, and I reckon there'd have been plenty of people to find out if there was one. They're very fond of a bit of gossip over there, just as they are everywhere."

"I am convinced that there is a child and that my sister was married. This is what I want to settle, Daisy."

"All right then. When do you want to go?"

"When do you leave?"

"I was to stay till one or two of the others went back, but I don't really want to wait that long. I'm missing my two Hanses very much, I can tell you."

"Could you come back with me? We could travel together. You'd be such a help to me as you've done it before. Could we go together?"

Daisy's eyes were sparkling. "I reckon we could manage that. How long would you want to wait?"

"I want to leave as soon as I can."

"I see no reason why we shouldn't go when you're ready."

"I could go to the town and stay in an inn somewhere while I look round."

"There are inns all right. But I'll tell you what. Why couldn't you stay with me until you got sorted out? You see, I've got a cottage, a lovely little place in the valley just below the slosh. We had it when I was going to have the baby. That was when Hans didn't want me to work no more. The Grafin is very good to her servants and she and Miss Tatiana gave me things to furnish it with. So you could stay with me till you found what you wanted."

"Oh, Daisy, that would be wonderful. That would help me a lot. I could then look round and find out what I ought to do. I want to do this. I want to do it so much. It needs thinking about though. I am going there and I am going to find out who killed my sister. I'm going to find her baby."

Daisy smiled at me indulgently. "Well, if you can do better than the Grand Duke's police and guards you are a bit of a marvel. Don't you think they tried to find the murderer?"

"Perhaps they didn't try hard enough. This is my sister ... my own flesh and blood."

"So you're going to be like one of them detectives, are you?"

"Yes, I am."

I was so excited. Life had taken on real meaning for me. I was as near happy as I had been since Conrad had gone. I felt I was emerging from the slough of despond at last.

I talked a great deal about my project with Grace, with Charles and of course with Daisy. Aunt Grace thought it was preposterous, but Charles said a little travel would do me no harm and if I could go back with Daisy I would have company, for travelling alone would have been impossible.

I let them talk about the difficulties. Aunt Grace tried to dissuade me. There was a home for me at Wisteria Cottage and I knew she was thinking of a husband for me in the not too distant future.

Cousin Arthur called at Wisteria Cottage. He was very affable, and being squire suited him. He was quite dignified when the old subservience dropped from him. He listened thoughtfully to my plans for travelling back with Daisy and was surprisingly understanding. "It will do you the world of good," he said. "It will get you away from here and that is what you need. My dear cousin, perhaps when you come back we can be the good friends I always hoped we should be."

He was looking at me rather wistfully and I was wondering what meaning lay behind his words. He was helpful in a practical way. He thought that travelling so far and through several countries I might be in need of some papers, a passport. He made enquiries and even conducted me to London to acquire these.

I said, "I should never have thought of it but for you, Cousin Arthur."

"I am very glad to be able to offer you some assistance," he answered.

"Cousin Arthur, is all going well at Greystone?"

"Oh yes. We are very quiet at the moment. I am not entertaining at all. Only the Glencorns have been once or twice, but they are such old friends. I do hope that when you come back you will visit me often. As you know, there would always be a home for you at Greystone Manor."

"It is good of you, Cousin Arthur. I don't know what my plans will be. I want to get this—er—holiday over first and then see how I feel."

"All very natural, dear Philippa. You have been through a trying time. Get right away and forget it, eh?"

"I will try."

I helped Aunt Grace move into Wisteria Cottage while I was making my preparations. I saw a great deal of Daisy for there were so many plans to be made. She described the country to me and something of the life she lived. She was very happy in her cottage in the valley close to what she persisted in calling the "slosh," and she told me that Hans came home every evening so that it was all very cosy and life had turned out romantically and happily for her.

"Of course," she commented, "some would have said I was a bad and wicked girl to go off with Hans. I never thought I was. I reckon if you love it's all right. After all, it's better than marrying someone for money ... or so it seems to me. Well, all's well that ends well, as they say, and Hans and me is very well, thank the Lord."

She didn't know how close I had come to doing what she had done, and I often wondered how different my life might have been if I had obeyed my natural impulses on that night.

However, as Daisy herself would be the first to admit, what was done was done, and we had to go on from there. It was a favourite expression of hers.

The more I thought of my decision the more it seemed like a miracle that I was able to do what in my heart I had always wanted to. I was going over there ... to Conrad's country. Would I see him again? What if there should be another chance? I should have to wait and see what life had to offer me. Perhaps he would not want to renew our acquaintance. That he was a man who must have had many love affairs I could readily believe, but I did think that his sense of chivalry would have stopped his casually seducing a young virgin. I liked to think that it was only because he had been carried away by his passion that he had done so, and that he had really intended that we should be together. Oh yes, I really did believe that he had cared for me.

"I tell you what you're going to be," said Daisy gleefully, "some sort of detective, that's what. Now there's something that's struck me. You're the same name as your sister and there was quite a bit about her in the papers. They called her 'the woman Ewell.' You see what I mean. Some people might remember the name. It might stop them telling you things if they thought you was snooping around. Do you follow me?"

I did follow her.

"You could call yourself something else," suggested Daisy. "I reckon that would be best."

"You're right. It is clever of you to have thought of this."

"When they was over here you came to the Grange, didn't you. Some of them saw you. Well if they was to see you again and heard you was Philippa Ewell, they'd remember right away. Twelve you was then. You're different now ... five years older... . And that makes a lot of difference. If you called yourself something else, they'd never guess who you were."

"I tell you what I'll do. I'll call myself by my mother's name before she was married. That was Ayres. I'll be Philippa Ayres."

"There's still the Philippa."

"Well, what about Anne Ayres? Anne is my second name."

"That sounds all right to me. Nobody's going to compare Anne Ayres with Philippa Ewell if you ask me."

That day when I was preparing my clothes for departure I came across the spectacles with the blank glass in them which Miss Elton had procured for me when we were talking about my seeking a post. I put them on. They certainly were effective. Then I took my rather heavy hair and pulled it back from my forehead. I screwed it into a bun on the top of my head. The effect was startling. I really did look like another person.

When Daisy came to see me I received her wearing the glasses and my new hairstyle. She stared at me, not recognizing me for a few moments.

"Oh, Miss Pip," she cried. "You look so funny. Not like you at all."

"It's my disguise, Daisy."

"You're not going to travel like that, are you?"

"No, but I shall take the glasses with me for use if the need arises."

The time was passing now. We were ready to leave—and so I set out for Conrad's country with Daisy as my guide.