Time of the Hunter's Moon

Midsummer Moon

I was haunted by doubts. I found sleep impossible. How had the earring come to be down there by the fish ponds? Only if the owner had been there. She might have walked to the fish ponds. It was some way from Rooks' Rest and I had never seen her out walking; she was not the sort of person to take long tramps in the countryside.

Just suppose she was dead. Suppose she was murdered. What of Maisie? Where was she? Were the scandalmongers suggesting that she too had been murdered? Perhaps the idea of one body being thrown into the ponds was plausible. But two? I remembered then that Jason Verringer had told me how an ancestor of his had once disposed of a rival by throwing his body into the fish ponds after killing him. "The river is swift running and only a few miles from the sea." He had said something like that.

And then the child? What of the child? She was in the care of Mrs. Gittings on Dartmoor, but she could not stay there indefinitely without arrangements being made.

It was a lot of nonsense. It had its roots in the post office and had grown to this through other mischiefmakers. But Jason Verringer was ruthless. He had shown me that clearly enough. Other people were only important to him when they could give him what he wanted. He could contemplate rape. Why not then murder? He had obviously been attracted to Marcia Martindale at one time, since he had offered her a home at Rooks' Rest. And then there was the child. He had certainly been a little casual about her. But at least he had offered them a home.

I wondered about the child and the more I thought of it the more strongly I decided I must find out all I could and that if I could see Mrs. Gittings-who seemed to me a very reasonable and practical person-I might learn a good deal. If I did discover that this was all nonsense I would make sure that everyone in the neighbourhood knew and I would put a stop to this pernicious gossip.

The more I thought of it, the more possible it seemed. I had heard the name of the place where Mrs. Gittings' sister lived. Perhaps something like this had been at the back of my mind for I had memorized the names. Mrs. Gittings' sister was Ada Whalley and she lived at a place called Bristonleigh on Dartmoor. That was not very far from here, probably a matter of about fifteen miles.

Why not? The more I thought of it, the better the idea seemed.

I said to Daisy: "On Sunday I should like to go and see a friend of mine who lives on Dartmoor, but I am not quite sure of the locality."

"Sunday is a day, I suppose, when you could easily get away. I am sure you could arrange for one of the others to take over any duties you might have."

"Yes, I am sure I could. I wonder if you have a map. I should like to see where it is exactly." "There are several. I'll show you."

Bristonleigh was not marked on the first, but she had a map of Dartmoor and its environs-and there it was. It was clearly a small hamlet right on the edge of the moor. I made a note of the nearest town.

I should have to go there and take some sort of conveyance to this place, I supposed.

"There is one train which leaves here at ten thirty," said Daisy. "And the one which would bring you back doesn't pass through until four. That should give you a little time with your friends."

"I'll try it. It will be an experiment."

And so it was that I found myself speeding through the lush Devon countryside on that Sunday morning.

The journey was only half an hour and when I arrived at the station and asked the porter how I could get to Bristonleigh, he was a little dubious, but only for a moment. "It's three miles from here ... uphill a bit. But I reckon Dick Cramm wouldn't mind earning a bit extra of a Sunday. He'd be just about up and about. He likes a bit of a lay-in on Sundays. But he be ready in case we gets calls, which we don't often."

"Where can I find him?"

"Go through the yard. Turn to the right. You'll see his place. Crabtree Cottage with a great crab apple tree beside it. That's where it gets it's name."

I thanked him and went off in search of Dick Cramm who fortunately was up and fresh from his Sunday morning "lay-in" and quite ready to take me to Bristonleigh.

"I want to see Miss Ada Whalley," I said. "Oh, she be a fine lady, Miss Ada Whalley." "You know her then?"

"Know her? Who don't know Miss Ada Whalley in these parts! She do grow the best vegetables round here. My wife has some ... so does most. Some of them goes up to London for folks up there. I goes and gets them and puts them on the train for her. Oh yes, I know Miss Ada Whalley."

This was great good fortune. I had imagined myself prowling the streets of Bristonleigh looking for Miss Ada Whalley.

"She do have her sister living with her now," he went on. "That be nice for her. She was saying so only the other day when I took down a load of greens. She said: "Tis nice having my sister with me.' Poor soul. I reckon she were lonely before."

We came to Bristonleigh. It was a beautiful village, typical of England and especially of Devon where the vegetation seems to be more lush than anywhere else in the country. There was the old church, the village green, a few houses, mostly eighteenth century except the Elizabethan Manor House on the common. The church clock chimed twelve just as we entered the village.

"Miss Whalley, her's a bit apart from the rest. She's got a bit of land for her growing things, you see. We'll be there in a few minutes."

"I shall have to catch the train back. It's half past three isn't h?"

"That's so, Miss."

"Will you come and pick me up and take me to the station?"

"That I will. Reckon I should be with you just before three. That all right for you, Miss?"

"It would suit me very well. Thank you so much. I am so glad I found you."

He scratched his head and stared straight in front of him but I knew he was well pleased.

"Here's the house. I'd better wait. Make sure they're in like. Not that they're likely to go away without us knowing."

I thought then how little there was country people did not know about each other. Of course in some cases they put the wrong construction on, but none could accuse them of indifference to their neighbours' lives.

I paid him and gave him a little extra which faintly embarrassed him but pleased him all the same. "You have been especially helpful," I said. "'T weren't nothing. Oh, here be Mrs. Gittings with the little 'un."

And there, as though to make my venture smoother than I had dared hope was Mrs. Gittings, emerging from the house holding Miranda by the hand.

"Miss Grant!" she cried.

I went hastily to her. I was aware of the driver watching intently so I turned to him and said "Thank you. I'll see you just before three o'clock."

He touched his cap with his whip and turned the horses.

"I must explain," I said.

"Oh, Miss Grant. I am surprised to see you. Have you come all this way to see me and Miranda?"

"I heard you were here with your sister, and Mrs. Baddicombe told me her name and where she lived. So this is where you always come with Miranda?"

"Yes. Did you want to ...?"

"To talk to you."

Miranda was gazing at me with curiosity.

"She looks very well," I said.

"It suits her. She's happy here."

Mrs. Gittings must have guessed that I was wary of talking before the child. She would be able to understand certain things and I did not want to say anything that would bewilder her.

"Come along in and meet my sister. We are having our midday meal early for Miranda. She sleeps for a couple of hours after. My sister will be pleased to see you. Then ... we can talk."

I guessed she meant when Miranda went to sleep, and was grateful for her tact.

Miss Ada Whalley had come out, hearing voices, to see who had arrived. She was a big-boned woman with muscular shoulders and her face was tanned by the weather.

"This is Miss Grant from the school, Ada," said Mrs. Gittings. "You know ... the school at the Abbey."

"Oh, that's nice," said Ada.

"She's come to have a talk ..." She nodded towards Miranda and Ada nodded back.

"I reckon," said Mrs. Gittings, "that Miss Grant could well do with a spot of dinner."

"I'm sorry to have come unannounced," I said. "I didn't quite know what to do and I thought Mrs. Gittings might help me."

"That's all right," said Ada. "We're used to people dropping in from the village, you know. They like to sample my stuff, they say. I've no objection. All home-grown."

"Even the pig," said Mrs. Gittings.

"He's little Piggy Porker," announced Miranda. "No, pet, little Piggy Porker is with his man, gobbling away. He's the greediest one in the litter." Miranda grunted in imitation of a pig and looked shyly at me as though for admiration.

"Oh dear," said Ada, "it sounds to me as if little Piggy Porker has got in here somewhere."

Miranda grunted and Ada pretended to look round in alarm. Miranda obviously thought it was a great joke. One thing was immediately clear. With these two, she would not be missing her mother.

"I'll take Miss Grant to wash her hands," said Ada.

I followed her up a wooden staircase to a room in which was a wash basin and ewer. Everything was so clean that it seemed to shine.

"You get a good view of the gardens from the back here," said Ada, and I looked out over the rows of growing things. There were two greenhouses and a potting shed.

"And you do all this yourself?"

"I've got a man to help. I'll have to get another by the way business is growing. Now Jane's here it's a help. She does a lot in the house. And you've come to talk with Jane. I hope you're not going to tempt her away. It's such company to have her here and I've always wanted us to be together."

"I haven't come to tempt her away. I just want to talk to her, to clear up a few mysteries."

When I had washed my hands she took me down. Mrs. Gittings was laying the table and Miranda was making a great show of helping her. There was a savoury smell of roasting pork coming from the oven and an air of supreme contentment in the little room in which we sat down to eat. The vegetables were delicious.

"Straight from the ground," said Ada. "That's the way to eat vegetables."

"If you are fortunate enough to be able to do so," I added.

"Now have some more of these potatoes, Miss Grant. It was a good crop this year, and I will say this for Jane, she knows how to cook. I used to be a bit slapdash myself. Jane will have none of that. She's a bit of an old tartar, ain't she pet?"

She had a habit of seeking confirmation from Miranda to which the child responded with a wise nod.

Miranda was seated in a high chair enveloped in a huge bib and was feeding herself with results which were not too disastrous. When food failed to reach her mouth, Ada would laugh and shovel it in. "This little bit lost its way. He didn't know he had to go down the red Jane, did he, pet?"

"He didn't know, did he?" said Miranda with glee.

In due course the meal was over and Miranda was whisked off for her nap. Ada tactfully said she wanted to have a look at the greenhouses and that left me alone with Jane Gittings.

I said: "I hope you don't mind my coming like this. It seems something of an imposition."

"It's been a pleasure. Ada likes visitors. It's a treat for her to see people enjoy what she grows."

"She is a wonderful person, I can see. Mrs. Gittings, there is a great deal of gossip in Colby. People are saying the most extraordinary things."

"It's that post woman."

"I think she is at the heart of it. It was mysterious, wasn't it? I want to put a stop to the gossip, but I don't know how to. If I could discover what really happened ... or where Mrs. Martindale is and get her to come back and show herself or something ..."

"It's difficult for me to say, Miss Grant, as I know no more than you do where she is."

"But there is the child."

"Sir Jason takes care of that."

"Sir Jason then ..."

"He always did. He asked if I would take the child to my sister and look after her. He'd pay me for looking after her and the child's keep ... only he wanted us to go to my sister. Well, I knew what Ada would say to that. She's always wanted me to leave and go in with her and she loves Miranda. I said to Sir Jason that there'd be no troubles about that as far as Ada was concerned."

"So he asked you to take her away. That would be a few days before Mrs. Martindale left."

"That would be it. When she went away I always took Miranda to Ada's. It was understood like. It was the day after Maisie went."

"Alter Maisie went ...?" I repeated.

"Yes, she left. There was a terrible to-do ... and the next day Maisie was off. She took most of Mrs. Martindale's things with her, dresses and things like that. There wasn't much left when she went. I never knew the rights of it and I'm not one to have my ears glued to keyholes. All I knew was that they were going on at each other. Then Maisie goes off and Sir Jason asked me to take Miranda to Ada's."

I was filled with a horrible apprehension. "So Maisie went ... and then you left."

"That's right. So you see I can't tell you what happened after that. I was right glad to get away. Mrs. Martindale and that Maisie used to go for one another something shocking. I used to think Miranda would hear. Oh, I was glad to get away.

Mrs. Martindale never minded my going. She'd get a girl in from the village to do the rough. I never did none of that, anyway. It was the child who was my concern, though I did give a hand in the house, not being the sort to stand by and do nothing when there's things to be done."

I wasn't listening. One thought was going round and round in my head. Maisie had gone, and after that he had asked Mrs. Gittings to take the child away.

I heard myself say: "The Coverdales ... you remember them ... they are living at Rooks' Rest, so it is obvious ... she is not coming back."

"Oh, I thought it might be something like that because Sir Jason said I was to take Miranda and the money would be paid to me here, and when she was five, which wouldn't be for some time yet, he'd make arrangements for her schooling. But she was to be in my sole care. Oh, I thought, so Madam is moving out. That means he'd done with her. Well, funny things always did go on there, and right glad I am to be out of it. Sir Jason said to me, `I know you're to be trusted, Mrs. Gittings. There is no one who can look after the child as you do.' A slap at her, if you ask me. Not that she cared. She never showed a blind bit of interest in the child. She didn't want her. Only wanted to show him that she could have them. There was all that talk about him not having an heir and all that. It's no way to bring children into the world, Miss Grant."

"I'm not in the least concerned about Miranda's welfare," I said. "I agree that she is in good hands and I am sure Sir Jason is right. She is happiest with you and your sister loves her. I can see that."

"I'm glad you think so, Miss Grant. I was afraid when I saw you that you had come with a message for me to take Miranda back. You'll tell Sir Jason how happy she is here, won't you?"

"If I see him, I certainly will. I really came to know if you had any ides why Mrs. Martindale left so suddenly."

"You could never tell with her ... and after Maisie had gone off in a huff with all her fine dresses, I reckon she couldn't stand the country any more. She was always talking about London."

I decided to be absolutely Frank.

"There are rumours ... hints. They aren't true, of course, but people do wonder why she went so suddenly. Did she say anything about leaving Rooks' Rest?"

"She was always talking about leaving. There was nothing more than usual."

"Did she have any visitors?"

"Sir Jason came. Oh, I remember. There was a terrible scene. It was a few days before Maisie went off. Mrs. Martindale was shouting and he was telling her to be quiet. Maisie was listening at the door. I caught her at it. I said, `You oughtn't by rights to be doing that."Don't be silly,' she said. `How am I going to know what's what, if I don't.' She was laughing. Then she said, `I reckon this cosy little nook won't be ours much longer.' I went away. It was soon after that I saw Sir Jason. He was riding by as if by chance and I was taking Miranda for her walk. He called to me and said, `Mrs. Gittings, would you be prepared to take Miranda to your sister and stay there indefinitely.' I was so shook up I couldn't take it in. And there he was seated on his horse looking down at me and making all those plans. I was to make my arrangements immediately; the money would be sent to me regularly every month and it would be paid in advance. If there was anything Miranda needed, I should tell him direct. Did I think my sister would be agreeable? I told him my sister would be jumping with joy. He looked very pleased and said, `I'm grateful to you, Mrs. Gittings. You've solved a big problem.'

"What did Mrs. Martindale say when you told her?"

"She shrugged her shoulders and made no objections. So I set about packing and we went. You should have seen Ada's face-because I hadn't had time to tell her. She kept saying, `Well, I never' over and over again. Then she hugged Miranda and said, `Wonders will never cease, will they, pet?' And she was half crying with joy. Ada did feel it, being on her own since our father died."

"I think Miranda is very fortunate to have you both. I know. I myself have a beloved aunt who gave me the love a child needs when she is growing up. But what I really wanted to know is what happened to Mrs. Martindale."

"She must have gone away soon after we left."

"Didn't she say she was going? Didn't she make arrangements?"

"She never told me she was going. She didn't say anything about plans."

I began to feel sick with fear. My meeting with Mrs. Gittings had only increased my suspicions.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to be here, Miss Grant," she went on. "It was no bed of roses with Mrs. Martindale. She was a very wild sort of lady at some times. We were all rather nervous of her, even Maisie who could stand up to her. The times she told Maisie to get out! But Maisie seemed to have some hold over her. I'm surprised she went because, however much they quarrelled, they always made it up. I suppose that last time was just too much. Maisie always used to say they were on to a good thing. Sir Jason and all that ..."

"It seems so strange that she should go so suddenly."

"It is and then it isn't. You could never be sure with Mrs. Martindale."

We went on talking but I could discover nothing more. Dick Cramm came to collect me, and Ada came in from the greenhouses and said how pleased she was to have met me.

On the way back I thought of all that had been said and I was very uneasy.

I knew it would be impossible to go on avoiding Jason. He was determined to catch me and it was inevitable that he should eventually do so.

This happened four days after my visit to Bristonleigh.

I had two hours' break and I took out one of the horses. He caught up with me near the woods not far from Rooks' Rest. In fact I think he must have been coming from there.

"You've been avoiding me, Cordelia," he said reproachfully.

His effrontery was amazing and I couldn't help laughing.

"Did you imagine I would do anything else?" I asked.

"No . after my appalling conduct the last time we were alone together. I've been trying to catch you to ask your forgiveness."

"You surprise me."

"Well then, am I forgiven?"

"I don't want to see you again. Don't you realize that you have insulted me?"

"Insulted you? On the contrary I have paid you the highest compliment a man can pay to a woman."

"Don't talk nonsense," I said and spurred on my horse.

But of course he was beside me.

"Please let me explain. I have come to ask you to marry me."

I laughed again.

"Without my credentials," I said. "You are very rash."

"By no means. I have given the matter great thought. I want you ... and only you will do."

"That's rather unfortunate for you. Goodbye." "I never take no for an answer."

"You must remember it takes two to make a marriage. Perhaps your ancestors of whom you seem so proud used to drag their brides to the altar and force them at knife point to utter their vows .. . but that wouldn't work today."

"We never did such things. Where did you get such an idea? We have always been the most eligible partis in the neighbourhood and females have schemed to inveigle us into matrimony."

"This is all nonsense. I don't like you. I don't trust you. You behaved to me in a barbarous manner and the only way in which you can earn my forgiveness is to get out of my sight and never let me see you again."

"Alas, it appears I must do without your forgiveness."

"I want nothing to do with you. I do not care to be thought of as having any connection with you. I shall be grateful if you will leave me alone."

"That is not easy for two reasons. One the school pageant and the worthy Miss Hetherington. The other and even more insurmountable is that I am besotted about you."

"Then fend someone else quickly on whom to lavish your devotion. Where is Mrs. Martindale?" "In London, I think."

"Are you completely insensitive? Do you know what is being said about her ... and you?"

"I'll guess. I murdered her. Is that it?"

"That is the implication. Did you?"

He laughed at me. "Good God! What a question. So you think I am a murderer, do you?"

"I saw a very ugly side of your nature not very long ago."

"Dear Cordelia, I love you. I was trying to make you happy.

"You are amused. I do not see what happened as a joke."

"You would have been so happy. We would have sent that prim schoolmistress packing. We would have made plans. It would have been wonderful. I should have shown you a new Cordelia."

"You have a great opinion of yourself. I do not share it. Nor I believe do others."

"I wish you would give yourself a chance to know me."

"I don't think from what I already know that it would be a pleasant experience."

"Listen to me. I don't know where she is. She's gone. That's all that concerns me. You are too bard on me. You think the worst of me always. You have right from the start when I ordered your carriage to go back."

"That was a typical gesture. It is how you treat people all the time."

"Cordelia, let me try to make you understand. I know I give the impression of being arrogant and selfish. I am. But I could be different with you. You could change me. We could be good together ... because I'd change you too. I'd open your eyes, Cordelia. I feel alive just talking to you. I love the way you lash me with your tongue. They certainly taught you verbal sparring at Schaffenbrucken. I am what I am because of my environment. It was the way I was brought up. I want children to be heirs to my estate. That's natural isn't it? I don't want to go on as I have been doing. I want someone to help me become what I want to be. I know that is you. I have told you something of my childhood. It was not a happy one. My brother and I were strictly brought up. You know he continued to live here under this roof when he married-and the girls are now my wards. My wife was a good woman, but I was never interested in her ... even before the accident. Then she was immersed in her ailments. But it was not that so much as the fact that we had absolutely nothing in common ... nothing to talk about. Can you imagine the dreariness of that. She was stoical and I was sometimes impatient. I had a grudge against fate which had saddled me with her. She could not live with me as a wife. I didn't care about that. Naturally there were others ... many of them. There was no particular one ... perhaps that was why there were so many. Have you understood so far?"

"Yes, of course."

"And are you still sitting in judgement?"

"I am not. I just do not want to be involved with you."

"She died ... of an overdose of laudanum. She often said she would take her life if the pain became unendurable. She was a religious woman and the pain must have been well nigh unbearable. She wouldn't have done it otherwise. We were good friends. She knew that I sought consolation elsewhere ... and she died."

"And you brought Marcia Martindale to Rooks' Rest. Why?"

He was silent for a few seconds. I asked myself why I stayed talking to him. I should have turned my horse and galloped away. Yet the urge to remain was irresistible.

He said: "Marcia amused me. She could be so outrageous. She was always playing a part ... on and off stage. She became pregnant and in an impulsive moment I offered her Rooks' Rest so that she could get right away and have the child in peace. Then, she discovered the real state of affairs down here ... invalid wife, estate with only two girls to inherit ... the end of the name Verringer. It was like a play to her. She therefore decided that the child was mine, that she was showing me she was not infertile and that if I were free I should marry her. It used to amuse me. Perhaps I wasn't serious enough. She made her fantasies, played them out, and if she liked them well enough, believed them."

"And then your wife died."

"Yes. That was when it became difficult." "I can see that."

"She really believed then that I would marry her. I went away hoping that she would grow tired of the country and return to London."

"But she joined you instead."

"She did not join me. She might have, if she had known where I was, but I was determined that she should not know."

"But she did go away, and it was said ..."

"It was said! You have built up something against me on what was said!"

"Do you really think, after what I know of you, that I have to listen to other people's opinions. Haven't I had experience of my own?"

"You must realize that I acted as I did out of my desperate need of you. I know that had I succeeded I should have opened up a new way of life for you ... for us. Oh, Cordelia, stop being the sanctimonious schoolmarm. You're not that. It's a façade you hide behind."

I turned away, but he laid his hand on my bridle.

"You must listen to me. You must try to understand. I love you. I want you. I am asking you to marry me."

"The ultimate honour," I said with sarcasm.

"For me, yes," he said earnestly. "I love you, Cordelia. Whatever you had done I would go on loving you. If you murdered Miss Hetherington and threw her to the fishes in the pond, I'd still love you. That's what real love is."

"Very touching," I said, and I felt a ridiculous pity for him. I could not understand why. He looked so strong, ruthless, arrogant, everything that I disliked most, and yet when he talked of his love for me, I could almost believe he was speaking the truth. He was like a boy groping in the darkness for someone to love and understand him as he had never been loved and understood before.

I said on impulse: "Tell me what you know about Marcia Martindale's whereabouts."

"I know nothing. I suspect she is in London with Jack Martindale."

"Jack Martindale! Wasn't he her husband?"

"A sort of husband."

"He died crossing the Atlantic."

He laughed. "Oh, you've heard that version. There is one in which he died in a duel, fighting for the honour of Marcia, of course. And another in a theatrical fire after he had saved the lives of many including Marcia. I believe he went back for her pet dog. That was the affecting one."

"You mean it is all lies. You mean that this husband of hers is still alive?"

"I can't say that. I only said that she may have gone back to him."

"Did she say she was going back? Wasn't it rather sudden?"

"Not by her standards. Listen to me, Cordelia. I was unwise to let her come here. But she was in difficulties ... out of work because she was to have a baby. She had nowhere to go. Rooks' Rest was empty so I brought her here. I was in a low state. Sylvia, my wife, was suffering great pain. I scarcely saw her. I didn't think Fiona would be much use on the estate, and here was I getting older ... and to tell the truth disgruntled with what life had done to me. I lived what you call wildly in London, and I thought it would be amusing ... so on impulse I brought her here. It was folly because she immediately began including me in her fantasies. And then when Sylvia took that overdose, I was pulled up sharp ... and on the very day of her funeral I saw you. I knew at once that here was someone different from all the others ... someone who excited me, not only physically but in every way, and I began to plan. It seemed to me that here was a new start. Everything else was behind me. And then there was that damned woman at Rooks' Rest."

"Yes," I said. "Go on."

"Do you understand? Do you accept my feelings for you?"

"No. Only that there have been many women in your life and that you think it would be rather amusing to add me to their number."

"Are you being truthful with yourself, Cordelia? Your feelings are under control, I know, good schoolmistress that you are."

"I wish you would stop sneering at schoolmistresses."

"Sneer at them? They have my deepest admiration. A most honourable profession. But I have a different destiny marked out for you."

"I am one who will make my own destiny. But I should like to know what happened to Marcia Martindale."

"You can be sure she went to London. She was getting very smug. She told me to go to hell on more than one occasion, so I guessed she had plans. She realized that her little fantasy was at an end."

"Yet you felt responsibility for her child... although you seem sure that it is not yours."

"I suppose there is a possibility that it might be."

"I have been to Bristonleigh and seen Mrs. Gittings."

He stared at me in astonishment.

"I thought I would discover something about the mystery of which they were gossiping in the town."

"The idea of your going to such lengths!" He smiled. "Well, what did you discover?"

"Only that she had gone there on your instructions a few days before Marcia Martindale left Rooks' Rest, and that you sent her there and have promised to look after Miranda."

"And what inference do you draw from that?"

"That you knew Marcia was going ... to disappear, and you decided to get the child safely out of the way."

"Oh, I see. You have it all worked out. My dear, clever, little detective. What do I do now? Confess? I strangled her ... no, I hit her on the head with a blunt instrument. I buried her body in the garden .. . No, I dragged her to the fishponds and threw her in."

I faced him squarely. "Her earring was found by the fishponds."

He stared at me.

"Yes," I went on, "her earring. I knew it was hers. It was the one she dropped in your stables so I had seen it before. You might remember the occasion."

He nodded. "Why ... should her earring have been there?"

"Because she was."

"Where is the earring?"

"In the ponds. The girl who found it was Teresa Hurst. She showed it to me and she threw it into the water."

"Why did she do that?"

"Because she was afraid ... for me. She thought that you and I ... Well, she had not a very good opinion of you, you see, and she warned me about you..."

He laughed. "What a tangled web. I like Teresa. I should not like my enemies, of course, but she is a good girl and a smart one. I like her for her devotion to you."

"Perhaps you understand why I do not want to have anything more to do with you than I have to through school business. When and if we meet, please do not attempt to single me out for attention. You owe me that."

He continued to look aghast. He said: "I must tell you that I sent Miranda away because, after the scene between us, I guessed Marcia was planning something. I thought she would go to London. She couldn't take Mrs. Gittings with her to London. I knew that something had to be dope about the child."

I turned away. He had been shocked by my revelation about the earring, I could see.

When I galloped away he did not follow me.

At school there was talk of nothing but the pageant. Time was getting short, said Daisy. She had definitely decided on Midsummer's Eve. The evenings would be light. By great good fortune the moon would be full and she wanted to see what preparations we had made.

I had decided that we should have a commentary which should be read by three or four of the senior girls and, where it was possible, we should introduce little sketches. I would write these from the records beginning with the arrival of the emissary from Clairvaux with commands from St Bernard to choose a place far removed from towns and habitation and build an abbey.

We should have girls dressed as monks chanting as they walked through the ruins; and the commentary would explain how they worked at various tasks. Then we would come to the Dissolution and disaster.

The second part would be the Elizabethan age when the country was prospering and the Hall was built, using some of the stones from the Abbey ruins, and the Lay Brothers' Dorter restored. There would be girls in Tudor costumes singing madrigals and dancing.

The third act would be the present day with the girls showing what they did at school, singing, dancing, physical exercises, and ending with the singing of the school song.

Daisy thought it was an excellent plan and I must say that I quickly became caught up in it. It was the best possible way of taking my mind from all the doubts and fears which I had tried so hard to dispel and could not.

Daisy came into the calefactory where we were assembled, looking very pleased.

"There is to be a house party at the Hall," she said. "There always used to be at this time of the year-although it hasn't happened for some time. There was little entertaining when Lady Verringer was so Well, a year has passed since that sad event and now that Mrs. Martindale has left, perhaps we can come back to normal. I have decided to invite the guests for the pageant. Parents like to hear of that sort of thing. There is to be a musical evening there. Some famous pianist or violinist will come, just like the old days. Sir Jason has extended invitations to the whole teaching staff, which I have accepted on your behalf. That will be the evening after the pageant. Naturally the whole school could not go, but Fiona and Eugenie will be there and they may take a few guests-their special friends ... two or three each, Sir Jason and I decided. I think it will be a most interesting evening."

I was ashamed of feeling exhilarated by the prospect, but I was.

Preparations went on. The costumes were examined and constantly commented on. There was a great deal of giggling as the girls dashed about in their white Cistercian robes. They were most effective on the tallest girls.

Fiona and Charlotte were to be in the chorus of the monks. They both had good singing voices. Mr. Crowe wanted them to sing in the madrigals too, but Daisy said that all the girls must be given a chance to do something. "We do not want certain girls taking all the kudos. If the performance were repeated at the end of term, parents want to see their children ... so a part for everyone please."

We rehearsed the Abbey scenes out of doors and it was very moving to perform among the ruins. Perhaps I was in love with words but when I heard Gwendoline Grey read her lines-she had a beautiful voice-I was deeply touched and I was sure the pageant was going to be a great success.

Mr. Crowe was very excited about the singing, and I constantly heard the sound of voices trilling in the music room. Rehearsals were continuous and everyone was waiting for the day.

The weather was perfect, and although we had some three weeks before the performance, girls were already watching the skies anxiously and forecasting the weather. As if it could not change in half an hour! However it was all part of the general excitement.

It was in the first week in June that we had a shock. During the break for riding Miss Barston had been the only one available to go with the girls and they had set off about two o'clock in the afternoon and would be expected back at four for tea.

At four o'clock they had not returned. The girls were so absorbed in their own affairs-mainly concerning the pageant-and the rest of us were too, that we did not notice they were missing until one of the juniors asked where Miss Barston was as she had to report to her immediately after tea.

"And where are Fiona and Charlotte?" asked Mr. Crowe. "I want to take the girls through the monks' chorus."

We then discovered that the riding party was not yet back.

It was then half past four.

Then Miss Barston came bursting into the hall. She was very agitated and several of the girls were with her.

I said: "What has happened?"

She said, "We've lost the Verringer girls and Charlotte Mackay."

"Lost them?"

"We suddenly discovered they weren't with us." "Do you mean ... they just disappeared?"

"I don't know whether anyone knows where they are. They won't say."

Discipline had never been one of Miss Barston's strong points, so I said: "Someone must have seen them. Did any of you girls?"

"No, Miss Grant," was the chorus.

I did not think they were all speaking the truth.

"If these girls have deliberately gone off, they should be punished," I said. "They know very well they are not allowed to leave the party. Are you sure nobody saw them go?"

There was still no answer. It was, of course, a point of honour not to tell tales; and I was sure this was one of the occasions when that code was being put into practice.

I said: "The three of them are together. They'll come to no harm."

"I think perhaps I should report this to Miss Hetherington," said Miss Barston.

Daisy however could not be found and the girls were not reported. It must have been five o'clock when they came riding in.

I went out to the stables with Miss Barston. "Girls ... girls ..." she said hysterically. "Where have you been?"

It was Charlotte who spoke. "We went into the woods. We wanted to see if there were any bluebells still."

"You had no right to leave the party," I said. "No, Miss Grant," said Charlotte insolently. "Yet you did," I retorted.

"We were anxious to see the bluebells and forgot the time," said Fiona apologetically.

I noticed something different about her. She looked flushed. She was one of the prettiest girls in the school but now she looked beautiful, and not in the least contrite, which was strange because she was a girl who, if left to herself, would have been peace-loving.

"It was very wrong of you," said Miss Barston. "It was inconsiderate and unkind," I added. I turned away. It was Miss Barston's affair and I did not want to appear to be taking over.

I don't think Miss Barston reported the incident to Miss Hetherington, for I heard no more about it: and forgot it until it took on a special significance.

The great day arrived. We had had a hot dry spell for a week and it looked as though it would be with us for a few days longer. It was exactly what we needed and hopes were high. Rehearsals were over and all the performers should know by now what they had to do. There was an air of intense excitement everywhere. Miss Barston was putting last minute stitches to gowns. We had had some Elizabethan costumes sent over from the Hall where they had a small collection and it was a matter of finding girls to fit them. Miss Barston, however, ran up costumes of her own and they were quite effective.

During the morning we set up the seating arrangements. Fortunately the ruins made a natural stage for there was a big open space in front of the nave, making a sort of grassy quadrangle; with the Lay Brothers' Frater and Dorter at right angles to the nave, and the open space being bordered by the guest houses and the infirmary on one side and the stables on the other, completing the square.

From this vantage point there was a superb view of the ruined church, the Norman central tower and the north transept; it was possible to see, over the walls of the outer ward, the open country with the fish ponds and the river.

Jason came over in the morning. I was counting the seats which had been put out when he came from the stables where he had left his horse. "Cordelia!" he said. "What luck!"

I wanted to walk away and leave him, but we were in a very exposed spot and I did not know who was watching. I must try to behave as I would if there had never been anything between us more than casual acquaintanceship.

"I suppose, Sir Jason, you have come to see Miss Hetherington about the arrangements for tonight."

"When I come here, it is to see you."

"I understand you are bringing guests over tonight. We should like to know how many."

"I shall be looking for you, and I have been full of expectation ever since dear Daisy invited me and my guests."

"Parents with children approaching school age will be particularly welcome."

"There are a few and I shall do my best to bring good business to Daisy tonight. Most of all I shall hope to be with you."

"I have to be there naturally but -"

"There could be opportunities. Wouldn't it be dramatic to declare our intentions tonight? How about my standing there among all the monks and telling them that the school and Hall will be united more than ever because their own Miss Grant is to become my wife."

"Dramatic indeed! Also ridiculously absurd. I will say good morning to you. I have a great deal of work to do, and here is Miss Hetherington. She must have seen your arrival. Miss Hetherington, Sir Jason has come to make sure we can accommodate ail the guests he is bringing tonight."

"We certainly shall," said Daisy warmly. "Isn't it a perfect day? And a full moon tonight. I wish we didn't have to start so late. I don't like the younger girls to stay up long past their normal bedtime."

"Once won't hurt them," said Sir Jason.

"No, I suppose not. Is everything in order, Miss Grant?"

"I think so. At the rehearsal yesterday there were one or two hitches."

"Always the case in the most professional shows," said Jason. "A smooth dress rehearsal is said to be a bad first night."

Daisy gave a little laugh. "This is hardly to be compared with professional shows, Sir Jason. But I do hope we shall amuse your guests and it will be an unusual way for them to pass an evening."

"They will thoroughly enjoy it."

"And tomorrow you have your pianist from London."

"Yes, Serge Polenski is going to perform for us, and I hope you and ail your mistresses will join us. There will be a buffet supper after ... and dancing."

"I know they will most joyfully accept your invitation. One or two will have to stay behind, of course, because of the girls. I remember these occasions in the old days. There was usually some famous musician brought down to entertain the company."

"A tradition from the days when we had the fiddlers playing in the minstrels' gallery."

"Yes. The Verringers were always patrons of music."

"We did our best, though we never succeeded in producing a genius ourselves."

"Fiona sings very nicely and Eugenie has quite a talent for drawing. Miss Eccles says she is very good. Come into my study, Sir Jason, and we can discuss the seating there. Miss Barston was saying she wanted to see you, Miss Grant. Some muddle about the monks' robes. Something is missing I think."

It was dismissal so I said: "I'll go to see her at once."

Jason gave me a rueful look and I went away leaving them together.

I found Miss Barston quite distressed.

"One of the monks' robes is missing."

"It must be somewhere."

"Well, I've searched. I've questioned the girls. Nobody knows anything about it."

"You had twelve, didn't you?"

"I did and now there are only eleven. You court them."

She was right. There were only eleven.

"I don't know what we're going to do. There'll only be eleven monks. At this late hour ..."

"It must be somewhere," I said. "It can't just disappear."

"But it has, Miss Grant. I cannot understand it."

"Do you think someone's playing a trick?"

"A trick! At this late hour. If I cannot find that costume there'll only be eleven monks."

"That won't make much difference."

"It means one of the girls will have to stand down. Which one? Of course, Janet Mills hasn't much of a voice ... I only put her in because she is tall and the costumes are man-size."

"We'd better see if we can fend that robe."

"Miss Grant, if you can think of anywhere to look, please tell me. I've done everything."

"If we can't fend it, there'll just have to be eleven. We have to accept that."

"Oh dear, it's so frustrating."

"I daresay it will turn up during the day."

I left Miss Barston to her frustration and went on with my duties.

Later that day Daisy summoned me to her study to discuss more arrangements.

"It's about this evening at the Hall. Fiona and Eugenie can select the friends they want to take. Miss Barston and Miss Parker will stay here and remain on duty. They don't care for socializing in any case. Cordelia, there are still unpleasant rumours. It is most unfortunate about this disappearing lady. I know there is no need to tell you to take special care with Sir Jason."

"I understand."

"It is a pity that he has this reputation. A good solid older squire would be so much better for the school. You don't seem to be quite so friendly with him now. I am pleased about that. I must say I did have some misgivings and then there was that matter of your breaking the window."

"I'm sorry, Miss Hetherington."

She waved her hand. She did not want to hear any revelations which might be unpleasant. All she wanted was for everything to run smoothly and in the best possible manner for the school.

"I promise you, Miss Hetherington, that nothing shall happen to give you concern-if I can help it," I added.

We were lucky. The weather stayed perfect. Everything seemed to go smoothly, and that which would have been an ordinary amateur performance, by moonlight among the ruins had a special magic.

The girls' voices sounded young and innocently beautiful in the night air; they evoked the scene of the building, the rise of the Abbey and the rumblings of disaster; the King's break with Rome, his need for money, the tempting riches of the abbeys and then the Dissolution.

I looked round at the audience. An impressive one. The ladies from the Hall in their shimmering evening gowns, the men's black and white dignity, and Jason in their midst, more distinguished looking than any, I thought; and our own mistresses in their gowns made for the occasion might seem less glorious than those of the Hall, but charming none the less; and in the centre of the front row-Jason on her right and Lady Sowerby on her left (Lady Sowerby had two girls who were coming up to the age when the Academy would be the best place for them) sat Daisy herself in a gown of pale grey satin with gold chains about her neck and a little pearl watch pinned to her bosom, looking magnificent and in complete control.

Seated cross-legged on the grass were the younger girls, for there had not been enough chairs to accommodate all the people and in any case they could see better and were young enough not to mind the discomfort. I was touched to see their wondering faces as they listened to the account of the monastery's beginnings and I saw how they caught their breath when the monks came walking from the ruined nave.

As I watched them slowly wending their way through the ruins, I remembered suddenly the drama of the lost robe and I counted them. Twelve. So Miss Barston must have found it.

This was indeed an impressive scene. It was so realistic. It was as though the past had really come to life. One forgot these were ruins. The Abbey was alive again and these were its inhabitants on the way to compline. Even the most blasé of Jason's guests were affected and the applause after the first act was genuine.

Then there was the Elizabethan scene with Mr. Crowe playing a lute and the girls dancing Tudor dances and singing madrigals. We had the voices explaining how this was the age of revival. The Manor House had been built and some of the Stones from the Abbey had been used in its construction. So the Hall and Abbey were united as they had been through the ages, and as tonight clearly showed.

There was more applause.

And then came the final scene. The reconstruction of the Lay Brothers' Frater and Dorter, the founding of the Academy. Then we had the dancing-Sir Roger de Coverley and Jenny Pluck Pears - in which all the girls who had not taken the part of monks or Elizabethan courtiers could perform. Finally there was the school song .. .

During the Sir Roger I had noticed Janet Mills seated on the grass. I stared at her. But the monks were still in their robes, waiting to come in at the end and take their bow. I had counted twelve. I must have been mistaken. No one else would have taken Janet's place at such short notice. She was only being left out because there was no costume for her. I must have made a mistake. There could only have been eleven.

The school song had ended. The applause rang out and all the performers came out to take their bows. First the Elizabethans-eight of them; and then the monks came out from the nave chanting as they had during the performance. They came and stood on the grass facing us. I counted them. Eleven. How strange! I had counted twelve when they were performing. It must have been an illusion.

There was no doubt of the success of the evening. Wine was served with light refreshments and the guests walked about the ruins mingling with the monks and the Elizabethans, all flushed and excited with their recent success, declaring to each other that there had never been such an evening.

I heard one bejewelled lady proclaim in audible tones that it was delightful, quite enchanting. She had never seen anything like it and wasn't Jason an angel to have arranged such an enchanting surprise for them ail.

Daisy was in her element. The evening had been more successful than she had anticipated; she was delighted with the company and she was sure it would result in more pupils, for Jason had told her that he had made sure to invite several fond parents, and she must have seen by the appreciation and applause that they were delighted with what had taken place.

She came to congratulate me on the descriptive passages. "So moving," she said. "So inspiring." I glowed with pleasure. "I'd like to get the girls in soon," she went on. "I don't like them running about among the guests. You never know. They are at such a difficult age ... some of them. I think it would be a good idea if you and some of the others rounded them up and let them know that I would like them to go to their rooms quietly. They will, I have no doubt, watch from their windows, but we have to turn a blind eye to that. I have already sent the younger ones to bed. It is the monks and the Elizabethans I want to get in."

"I will do what I can."

I found three of the Elizabethans who went off docilely. The monks were older girls and not so easy to find. I could see two of them talking to some of the guests from the Hall and decided to leave them for the time being. Then I saw one of the monks by herself making her way to the nave. I started alter her but as soon as she was out of sight of the company, she started to run. She was making her way towards the sanctuary and the chapel of five altars.

I quickened my pace. Now she was stepping carefully across the flags; she was entering the chapel and as she did so, a tall figure in a monk's robe came out to meet her.

I called out: "You two there. You are to go to your bedrooms. Miss Hetherington's orders."

For a few seconds they stood as though petrified. They were so still that they might have been part of the stones around them. Then suddenly the taller of the two seized the other by the hand and dragged her away. They did not have to pass me because there were no walls to the chapel; all they had to do was pick their way over the stones.

"Come here," I called.

But they were running as though their lives depended on it. The hood of one of them fell back and disclosed the flaxen hair of Fiona Verringer.

"Fiona," I called. "Come back. Come back, both of you."

They ran on. They ran into the kitchens, and the tunnels, I believed, were very close.

I sighed. Fiona was changing. She used to be quite a good girl. Could the one with her be Charlotte Mackay? It looked to be someone taller, though Charlotte was tall and she might have been standing on a higher level.

I went back to the company to look for more performers who were to be sent to their beds.

It was after midnight before the company dispersed, and those who had devised the pageant stood with Miss Hetherington to receive the thanks and congratulations from the departing guests. Then the carriages took them back to the Hall.

Before I went to bed I must make my rounds of the bedrooms in my care. When I went to Fiona's room I remembered that she had run away when I called her ... she and another.

She lay in her bed presumably asleep, her golden hair streaming over the pillow. She looked angelic. "Are you asleep?" I asked.

There was no answer from Fiona.

Eugenie said: "I'm not. Fiona is. She was very tired."

I could wake her, of course, to reprimand her, but I decided to speak to her in the morning. It really was perverse of her to run away like that.

Well, they were all safe. Most of them were awake and whispering together about the evening. What could one expect on such a night?

The next day everyone was talking about the visit to the Hall. Mademoiselle had a beautiful bail gown which she said came from Paris.

"We can't match that," said Eileen Eccles. "Plymouth is the nearest I can get to high fashion."

"We should have had more warning," said Frâulein.

"An invitation which comes unexpectedly is more exciting," replied Mademoiselle.

Miss Parker and Miss Barston were greatly relieved that they had been selected to stay behind, so everyone was very satisfied with the arrangements. I had debated what I would wear. Aunt Patty had advised me to take two evening dresses with me. She had said there were always the odd functions and I never knew what I should need. "One subdued and one startling, my dear. You can't go wrong in that."

I decided I had no wish to look subdued so I chose the startling gown which was rather low cut and in a rather unusual bluish-green shade. It was made of chiffon and it had a closely fitted tucked bodice and a skirt which billowed out from the waist.

"There's an air of simplicity about it," Aunt Patty had said, "and oddly enough that makes it startling. You'd be the belle of the bail in that no matter where you were."

A comforting remark on an occasion when I was going to be among the wealthy.

My gown was approved of by all in the calefactory and even Daisy-herself resplendent in mauve velvet-complimented me on its good taste.

Emmet was taking some of us to the Hall and Sir Jason was sending his carriage for the others; there might have to be two journeys for it seemed unlikely that we could all crowd into two carriages.

Fiona and Eugenie had gone over in the afternoon because as Daisy said it was their home and they were part hostesses. It would be good practice for the future. I was to go with Emmet and some of the mistresses.

About an hour before Emmet was due I was putting the last touches to my appearance when Elsa came in; she gave me that conspiratorial smile she always bestowed on me and which I think was meant to remind me of our days at Schaffenbrucken.

"You do look nice," she said. "I've got this for you."

She produced a letter.

"At this time of day?" I said, surprised.

"The post came at the usual time but with all the fuss going on it was forgotten. I'm only just taking the letters round."

I said: "Everything's been topsyturvy today."

I took the letter and she hovered. With anyone else I should have given a cool word of dismissal, but it was different with Elsa. It always had been because of memories of the past.

"Well, I hope you enjoy tonight."

It was almost as though she were waiting for me to open the letter.

I put it down and turned to the mirror.

"Well ... have a good time ..."

As soon as she was gone I picked up the envelope. I looked hard at it because my name and address were in block capitals. The postmark was Colby. Who could have been writing to me from there? I slit the envelope. There was one piece of paper inside and the same block letters were used. The words sprang out and hit me like a blow:

WHERE IS MRS. MARTINDALE?

DON'T THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH MURDER.

YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.

I felt as though I were dreaming. I turned the paper over in my hands. Just an ordinary sheet of plain paper. I looked at the printing. Anyone could have done that. It was obviously written like that to disguise handwriting. I looked at the envelope again. The same printing. The Colby postmark. What did it mean? Some malicious person was suggesting that I had either killed Marcia Martindale or had had a hand in it.

How could they? What motive had I? Of course .. . in spite of my determination to remain aloof I was becoming involved. Jason's pursuit of me had scarcely been discreet and people had noticed. Thoughts raced round and round in my mind. The person who had written this letter believed that Marcia Martindale was a rival of mine and that we both wanted to marry Jason Verringer.

"You are being watched." What horrible ominous words!

I looked over my shoulder. I could almost Peel eyes peering at me, even in my own room. I read the note again and again.

The evening was spoilt for me. I was being drawn farther and farther into this turmoil of deceit. Where was Marcia Martindale? If only she would come back and show herself! Nothing short of that would stop this gossip.

I looked again at the paper. Could it be Mrs. Baddicombe? No. Surely she would not go so far as that. Hers was over-the-counter gossip. She was not the sort to write anonymous letters. Who was? One could never be sure. That was at the root of the whole nasty procedure. One could never be sure.

I tucked the letter inside my bodice. I could hear the sounds of bustle below. The carriages were waiting.

I was hardly aware of driving to the Hall.

"You're dreaming," said Eileen Eccles. "Is it of delights to come?"

I roused myself and tried to smile.

Jason was receiving his guests. He took my hand and kissed it. Nothing very unusual about that as it seemed to be his mode of greeting to most of the ladies.

"Cordelia," he whispered, "it's wonderful to have you here.

I wanted to cry out, I have a letter... a horrible... horrible letter and it is all due to you.

Instead I said nothing and heard myself being introduced to a gentleman whose name I was too bemused to catch. There was a great deal of talk about last evening's entertainment and the excellence of the production.

"I understand from Jason that you were responsible for that, Miss Grant," said one young woman. "How very clever you must be."

I acknowledged the appreciation and the gentleman whose name I did not catch said that the most thrilling moment was when the monks suddenly appeared among the ruins chanting.

"I got quite a frisson," said the lady.

"I suppose that was what was intended," replied the man. "In any case, you brought the atmosphere alive."

"It was really quite creepy. Look, Serge Polenski has arrived. They say he is one of the greatest pianists of the time."

"That is why Jason has him here. He's taking London by storm and I hear he has just come from Paris where he was a great success."

"He's such a little man. I imagined him taller. But perhaps he looks small beside Jason."

"When is he going to perform?" I asked, feeling it was time I said something.

"Very soon, I should imagine. Jason is taking him to the music room now. Shall we follow?"

I walked with them into a smaller room where there was a grand piano on a dais. The room was decorated in white and scarlet and there was a high bowl of red roses on a marble consul table. Their scent filled the room. The windows were wide open to the moonlit lawns. I could see a fountain and flower-beds and the trees of the shrubbery in the distance. There was an atmosphere of complete peace in great contrast to my state of mind.

I noticed a group of our girls together. There were eight of them. Fiona and Eugenie had been allowed to ask three each. I saw Charlotte Mackay, Patricia Cartwright and Gwendoline Grey among them.

Teresa had told me that she had not been invited but she didn't care.

Charlotte looked up and smiled at me. So did the other girls.

I went over to them and said: "This is going to be wonderful."

"Oh yes, Miss Grant. We are looking forward to it," said Gwendoline, who longed to play the piano professionally, an ambition which Mr. Crowe regarded with some scepticism.

"You'll be able to see how it should be done," I said.

"Oh yes, Miss Grant."

I left them and went back to my seat.

The concert was indeed wonderful and for a few moments I forgot the horrible implications of that letter as I listened to Serge Polenski playing some pieces of Chopin and Schumann.

Too soon it was over. He was taking his bow to rapturous applause and Jason was thanking him and leading him from the room.

Conversation broke out and everyone said: "How marvellous!" And then we were all drifting into the ball-room. I was still with my unknown lady and gentleman and another man had joined us. He talked knowledgeably of the magnificent performance of Serge Polenski and we seated ourselves close to a pot of palms. Flowers from the greenhouses had been brought in and because of the time of the year there was a spectacular display. Servants in livery of blue and silver flitted in and out, most of them making their way through a door which I presumed to be the supper room.

I could not see Jason and supposed he was still with the pianist. From the minstrels' gallery the music began and one of our party asked me to dance.

We talked as we danced. He came from Cornwall. "Some fifteen miles away. Just over the border, you understand. My brother is with me. We have been visiting Colby all our lives. Of course, during the last years of poor Sylvia Verringer's life it was not easy. She was such an invalid."

"Yes," I said.

"Jason had rather a bad time. Perhaps now. Well, it's a year since Sylvia went. Poor soul."

I wanted to tell Jason about the letter. I wanted him to know what harm he was doing me by his rash actions. It was almost supper time before he came my way.

"Cordelia," he said. "It's wonderful to have you here. I've been trying to get to you the whole evening. Let's dance."

It was another waltz. At Schaffenbrucken there had been great emphasis on dancing, and I was quite good at it.

He said: "What do you think of the Hall?"

"It's very grand. I have seen it before."

"Not properly. I want to show it to you. Not tonight but come over tomorrow."

"I've had a letter," I cried.

"A letter?"

"It's horrible. It's accusing me ..."

"Of what?"

"Of murdering Marcia Martindale."

"Good God! There must be a madman here. Why... why you?"

"Isn't it obvious? People are thinking she was my rival. It's all so sordidly horrible."

"Have you got the letter?"

"Yes, I brought it with me."

"Have you any idea who sent it?"

"None. It's in block letters."

"I want to see it." He had whirled me to an alcove where we were slightly sheltered from the bail-room by tall potted greenery.

He looked at the letter.

"Malicious," he said.

"I wondered if it was the postmistress. She says some scandalous things."

"This printing could be anyone. It is obviously meant to disguise the handwriting. What about the girl who found the earring?"

"Teresa! She would never do anything to upset me. She sets herself out to protect me." "Nevertheless she has ideas."

"Only because she is afraid for me. She would never deliberately upset me."

"Girls can behave oddly. There is obviously talk about you and me. The best thing to stop it would be to announce our engagement."

"Scandal doesn't stop with engagements. The only way to stop this is to produce Marcia Martindale."

There was a cough behind us. I spun round. Charlotte Mackay was standing there.

"Charlotte!" I cried.

"I came to find you or one of the mistresses, Miss Grant." She was looking from me to Jason with just a hint of amusement in her expression. I thought, surely they can't be talking at school, and yet they must be because Teresa had been disturbed by it.

"Well," I said sharply, "what is it, Charlotte?" "It's Fiona," she said. "She's got a headache. She wants to go back."

"She can lie down here," said Jason. "She has her room."

"She said it was nothing and she would be all right in the morning, but she does want to leave now."

"Emmet is waiting, I think. He can take her back."

"I'll go with her, Miss Grant, and Eugenie will too."

"Oh, but Miss Hetherington said you could stay to supper if you went immediately afterwards."

"We don't really want any supper and Fiona says her head's getting worse with the music and everything."

"Where is Fiona now?"

"She's sitting downstairs. Eugenie is with her."

"Perhaps you'd better ask Miss Hetherington." I went with her. I did not want her to go away and tell people that she had left me alone with Jason. It was bad enough that she had found us alone together.

We found Miss Hetherington seated with an elderly Colonel and they seemed to be getting on very well together. I told her that Fiona wanted to go back and why.

"Very well," she said. "Emmet is there. Who will go with her?"

"I will, Miss Hetherington," said Charlotte promptly, "and Eugenie wants to go too. We don't need anyone else. We don't want to spoil the evening for them."

"H'm. Very well. But go quietly. After all Fiona and Eugenie are hostesses in a way. Never mind. You three girls slip away quietly."

The girls went and I left Miss Hetherington with her Colonel.

Someone asked me to dance. It was the supper dance and after that we went to eat. Jason had reserved a place for me at his table. There were four other people besides us so there was no opportunity to talk privately. I was rather glad of that. I felt he was not taking the anonymous letter seriously enough.

The evening to which I had looked forward had been something of a nightmare.

I was glad when it was over. I suppose I was rather silent on the journey from the Hall to the school. The others were all talking brightly and it didn't matter very much. I hoped no one noticed.

The girls who had remained after Fiona, Eugenie and Charlotte went, left immediately after supper so they should all be in their beds by now. Before retiring I must take my last look round.

When I came to the room shared by Fiona and Eugenie I remembered Fiona's early departure and wondered if she was cured of her headache. I looked in. I saw at once that Eugenie was awake, although as I opened the door she shut her eyes quickly-but not quite quickly enough.

"So you're awake, Eugenie," I said.

She opened her eyes then. "Yes, Miss Grant." "How's Fiona?"

She looked over to the other bed. "She was tired. She went to sleep at once. She'll be all right in the morning."

"Well, good night," I said.

The other girls were all sleeping. I envied them. I knew that I had to endure a sleepless night. Whatever I tried to think of I came back to the same question. "Where is Marcia Martindale and does Jason know where she is?"

The next morning came the shock, and I doubt whether there had ever been a greater one in the whole history of the Academy.

I had risen earlier than usual alter a sleepless night and I knew the girls were stirring because of the sounds of activity which came from their rooms.

Eugenie came to me and there was a sly look of triumph in her eyes.

She said: "Fiona has gone."

"Gone! Gone where?"

"Gone to get married."

"What are you talking about?"

"She went last night ... straight from the Hall. She never came back here."

I dashed into her bedroom. I saw the heap of clothes under the covers on Fiona's bed which last night I had mistaken for her.

I said: "You will come down to Miss Hetherington with me immediately."

I had never before seen Daisy at a loss for words. Her face was grey and her lips twitched. She looked from Eugenie to me as though imploring us to tell her that we were joking.

Then she spoke. "Gone? Fiona! Eloped ...?" "She's gone to get married, Miss Hetherington," said Eugenie.

"It's some horrible mistake. Go and tell Fiona to come to me immediately."

I said gently: "I think it's true, Miss Hetherington. She's not in her room."

"But she came back last night. She had a headache."

"The headache was obviously a pretence. I gather she left the Hall. Her lover must have been waiting for her."

"Her lover!" cried Daisy. "One of my girls!"

I was sorry for her. She was really distressed and I could see her trying to reject the story and at the same time wondering what effect it was going to have on the school. But she would not have been Daisy if she had not quickly recovered from her shock.

"You had better tell me everything," she said.

I spoke first and said that when I had made my rounds last night Fiona had appeared to be in her bed. This morning I had discovered that what I had thought was Fiona was in fact a bundle of clothes, and Eugenie had told me exactly what she had just told Miss Hetherington.

"You admit this, Eugenie?"

"Yes, Miss Hetherington."

"You knew Fiona was going and you said nothing about it?"

"Yes, Miss Hetherington."

"That was very wrong. You should have come to me or Miss Grant at once."

Eugenie was silent.

"Who is this man?"

"He is very good looking and romantic."

"What is his name?"

"Carl."

"Carl What?"

"I don't know. He was just Carl."

"Where did you meet him?"

"In the woods."

"When?"

"When we went walking."

"Walking alone in the woods!"

"There were others with us."

"Who?"

"Charlotte Mackay and Jane Everton."

"When was this?"

"On May Day."

"Do you mean to say you talked to a stranger?" "Well, it wasn't quite like that. He asked the way ... and we got talking."

"And then?"

"He asked about the school and the girls and all that and he seemed to like Fiona particularly. Then we saw him again. He was always in the woods. He was interested in the trees and the country. He had come here to study them."

"You mean he wasn't English?"

"He seemed it. He'd come from somewhere . . don't know where."

"You only knew him as Cary. You don't know where he came from, and Fiona goes off with him!"

"It was love at first sight," said Eugenie. "She was very happy."

"And you conspired ..."

"Well, she is my sister. We had to help her." "We? Who had to help her?"

"She means Charlotte did too, I daresay," I said.

"Oh dear," said Daisy, putting her band to her head. "Someone had better go over to the Hall and tell Sir Jason of this disaster. Perhaps it is not yet too late."

It was obvious that we were not going to learn much from Eugenie. Perhaps Jason would be more successful. I could have slapped the girl. She stood facing us with a rather mocking expression, and the manner in which she pressed her lips together showed clearly that she was not going to give anything away.

Daisy sent her to her room with instructions to stay there until sent for and she put Miss Barston in charge of her. She talked a little incoherently while we waited. "They left last night ... It was when they went from the Hall. A headache! Oh, the duplicity of girls! Have they learned nothing here? It was before supper ... and that was at ten. Where could they have gone? Could they be married now, I wonder? One does not expect this sort of thing nowadays ... And one of my girls! Sir Jason will know what to do. He'll bring her back, I daresay. I do trope there isn't talk ..."

It was becoming a nightmare. Yesterday the letter. Today Fiona's elopement. What next? I wondered.

Jason came immediately and Daisy went off into explanations. He found it hard to believe.

He sent for Eugenie and questioned her. She began by being defiant and then broke down and said that Fiona was in love and had a right to get married if she wanted to. Carl was wonderful. He loved Fiona and Fiona loved him. They were happy. Yes, she had known Fiona was going. Charlotte had helped her. Fiona hadn't got into the carriage with them when they had gone back to the school but had gone to Carl who was waiting for her. Yes, she had made it appear that Fiona was in her bed so that I had been deceived when I looked in.

Charlotte was sent for. She was equally defiant. It was quite clear that there had been a conspiracy between them all and this lover ... this Carl had taken advantage of it.

But in spite of the gruelling questions, the pleas and the threats, we could get nothing more from them than that they had met Carl in the woods, he had asked the way and they had talked; he had seen them again. Once they had ridden off to meet him because they were making arrangements for the elopement. I remembered that occasion well and how scared Miss Barston had been.

Jason said: "Someone must have seen them leave. I'll get down to the station. If we can fend out where they went it might give us a clue to start with."

He went off.

There was little concentration on lessons that day. Everyone was talking about Fiona's elopement. It was clear that the girls were very excited. They thought it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened at Colby Abbey Academy for Young Ladies.

I could not rest: I had half forgotten the letter in all the turmoil of Fiona's flight, but every now and then memory of it came back to sicken me. The entire picture seemed to have changed. I looked back at the peace of last term and could not believe so much disaster could have come about during such a short time.

Something occurred to me and I went in search of Eugenie. As it was the half hour after the midday meal and lessons did not start until two I guessed that she would be out of doors. I found her with Charlotte at the fish ponds.

"Eugenie," I said. "I want a word with you." "With me?" she said insolently.

"Perhaps both of you can help me."

There was something in the manner of both girls which I found offensive. They had never forgiven me for separating them when I arrived. It had seemed like a victory for me then but I always felt uneasy with those two girls and when I considered how they had connived and probably schemed with Fiona and her lover, they worried me a good deal.

I said: "I have been thinking about the pageant. Do you remember Miss Barston lost one of the costumes?"

"Yes," said Charlotte with a laugh.

"Perhaps you will tell me why you find it so amusing?"

They were both silent.

"Come on," I said. "Lessons will be starting soon. Do you know anything about that costume?"

Eugenie looked at Charlotte who said defiantly: "Fiona took it."

"I see, and during the performance someone wore it. Could it by any chance have been the romantic Carl?"

They tittered.

"This is a very dangerous matter," I said severely. "Did Carl wear the costume?"

They still stood there suppressing their mirth. "Did he?" I thundered.

"Yes, Miss Grant," said Charlotte.

"And he had the temerity to appear with the monks?"

"He had to see Fiona. He had to tell her about the arrangements."

"I see. And you were in the secret?"

They were silent again. I was thinking of that moment when I had almost caught Fiona and her lover. If only I had. If I could have unmasked this man I might have stopped this disastrous elopement.

"You have been very foolish," I said.

"Why?" demanded Eugenie. "Love is good and Fiona is happy."

"Fiona is very young."

"She is eighteen. Why should love be right for some and not for others?"

There was a direct challenge in their eyes.

"I said this is a dangerous matter. Go back to your classes now."

They ran across the grass and I followed.

Jason called at the school that evening.

Miss Hetherington invited the mistresses to her study to hear what he had to say.

He had discovered that two people had arrived at the station before the vine o'clock train for Exeter was about to depart. The man was a stranger and the station master did not recognize his companion. She was wearing a cloak which covered her head completely. There were two other passengers .. . both men. That was all he could remember.

"They could have gone to Exeter ... or London ... anywhere," said Jason. "It seems as though we are not going to get on their trail."

There was gloom in the study. I think most of us conceded that Fiona had successfully escaped.

Jason went to Exeter next day. I believe he made extensive enquiries but he was of course working in the dark.

We tried to settle down to a normal existence but it wasn't easy. I had never seen Daisy so depressed. She was terribly concerned about what effect it would have on the school.

"In a way," she said, "it is a blessing that she is who she is. Sir Jason knows exactly how it happened and it was after all from the Hall that she escaped. He doesn't blame us for negligence. All the same, girls talk, and I don't know what parents' reactions will be to an elopement at the school."

Four days after the elopement, Eugenie had a postcard from Fiona. There was a picture of Trafalgar Square and a London postmark.

"I'm having a wonderful time and am very happy. Fiona."

The postcard was seized on, examined and Sir Jason was invited to come over. But in fact it gave us no information except that Fiona was happy and in London.

"And that," said Eileen, "is like looking for a particularly elusive needle in a rather more than usually large haystack. It's no use trying to find her. She's gone off. She may be married. I expect she will be as she has a nice fortune. Maybe that's the crux of the whole matter. Though Fiona is a charming child .. . quite the most pleasant of that unholy trinity which comprises her sister and the odious Charlotte. I'm sorry it wasn't Eugenie or Charlotte who went off."

That was an indication of the way people were thinking. They were getting tired of the subject of Fiona's departure. It was evident that she had gone and would not come back to school. "Let it rest there," said Eileen. "After all I doubt she is the first schoolgirl to elope. I think there was quite a crop of them last century ... always heiresses, which I believe contributed to the main purpose of the exercise. So this runs to form."

When I went into the post office I found Mrs. Baddicombe round-eyed with curiosity.

"My word," she said, "we do see life. What do you think of that young lady running off like that! Well, what's the world coming to? They say he was such a handsome gentleman. Swept off her feet. Well, you know what young girls are. No stopping 'em. I reckon there was a bit of a to-do at the school and at the Hall."

It seemed that the excitement aroused by Fiona's elopement had superseded that of Mrs. Martindale's disappearance.

I registered a parcel to Aunt Patty. There was no need to. It was some artificial flowers which I had happened to see in Colby and I thought she would find them suitable for trimming a hat. She would be surprised that I registered them but I could explain to her when I saw her.

"Would you please write the receipt in block letters please?"

"Block letters!" cried Mrs. Baddicombe. "What's them?''

"Like printing."

"Well, I never did before. I always write out my receipts natural like."

"It would be easier to read."

She looked at me suspiciously, and rather laboriously complied with my request. She handed me the receipt and said: "I wonder if we'll have any news. She's got spirit. I will say that for her. Always thought she was a quiet one. But then, as I say to Baddicombe, you never do know and it's the quiet ones who turn out to be deep."

She gave me a knowing wink.

I said good day and came out of the post office clutching my receipt. I could not see any resemblance to the printing on the enveloppe I had received.

The term went on uneasily. The hot weather had broken and it was raining most of the time. At Assembly, Miss Hetherington had spoken to the girls and told them that they were on no account to hold any conversation whatsoever with people whom they did not know; and if anyone spoke to them they were to report immediately either to her or to one of the mistresses.

The girls were suitably subdued, but I guessed they were all thinking what a marvellous thing had happened to Fiona and would have greatly enjoyed being the heroine of such an exciting romance.

I avoided Jason more than ever. My thoughts were in a turmoil. I could not forget the letter and I could not help feeling that it was more important to find Marcia Martindale than Fiona. I was desperately longing to get away from school. I could not wait for the twentieth of July.

It was two days before the end of term and we were all preparing for departure. Jason came over. I was with Daisy when he was shown in. He had had a letter from Fiona. It was posted from a place called Werthenfeld in Switzerland.

"Do you know this place?" asked Daisy.

"I know it fairly well," replied Jason. "It is a few miles from Zurich. She says she is happy and there is no need to worry about her. She is married and enjoying life. Read it for yourselves."

We read it. There was no doubt of her happiness. The exuberance came over in the writing. She was in love and married. Were we perhaps worrying too much about Fiona?

I saw the postscript. "Carl has promised to teach me to ski."

I looked at Jason. I said: "Well, she seems to be happy."

"Carl," he said. "She doesn't give us any other name. It could be foreign. I think I should go to Werthenfeld. She is my ward and a considerable heiress. If I could discover who he is, I would be satisfied perhaps. It might be the best thing that could happen to her. She was always retiring. Different from Eugenie ... and I have thought of their future quite a lot, bringing them out and so on. If he is fairly presentable and she is happy, what are we worrying about?"

"I don't like his methods," commented Daisy.

Jason shrugged his shoulders. "He's probably young and thought it might be a bit of fun to elope, no doubt."

"Why shouldn't they have come out into the open?" asked Daisy.

"There would have been all sorts of formalities with a girl like Fiona. Let's suppose he was carried away."

"An heiress, yes ..."

"That does raise a niggling doubt. It is one of the reasons why I think I ought to follow up this clue."

"You are right," said Daisy, "and the best of luck go with you."

The twentieth came ... a hot and sultry day. I saw the girls off and then prepared to leave with Teresa.

Daisy stood in the courtyard to say goodbye.

"We all need a rest," she said. "Thank heaven this term has come to an end. In all my days I never knew one like this one. Next term it will be a new start."