because Mr. Crump had gone out this
afternoon. Well, it was his day out, wasn’t it?
Quite right of him, Gladys thought. Mrs.
Crump called out from the kitchen:
“The kettle’s boiling its head off. Aren’t
you ever going to make that tea?”
“Coming.”
She jerked some tea without measuring it
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into the big silver pot, carried it into the
kitchen and poured the boiling water on it.
She added the teapot and the kettle to the big
silver tray and carried the whole thing
through to the library where she set it on the
small table near the sofa. She went back
hurriedly for the other tray with the eatables
on it. She carried the latter as far as the hall
when the sudden jarring noise of the
grandfather clock preparing itself to strike
made her jump.
In the library, Adele Fortescue said
querulously, to Mary Dove.
“Where is everybody this afternoon?”
“I really don’t know, Mrs. Fortescue. Miss
Fortescue came in some time ago. I think
Mrs. Percival’s writing letters in her room.”
Adele said pettishly, “Writing letters,
writing letters. That woman never stops
writing letters. She’s like all people of her
class. She takes an absolute delight in death
and misfortune. Ghoulish, that’s what I call
it. Absolutely ghoulish.”
Mary murmured tactfully, “I’ll tell her that
tea is ready.”
Going towards the door she drew back a
little in the doorway as Elaine Fortescue came
into the room. Elaine said:
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“It’s cold,” and dropped down by the
fireplace, rubbing her hands before the blaze.
Mary stood for a moment in the hall. A
large tray with cakes on it was standing on
one of the hall chests. Since it was getting
dark in the hall, Mary switched on the light.
As she did so she thought she heard Jennifer
Fortescue walking along the passage upstairs.
Nobody, however, came down the stairs and
Mary went up the staircase and along the
corridor.
Percival Fortescue and his wife occupied a
self-contained suite in one wing of the house.
Mary tapped on the sitting-room door. Mrs.
Percival liked you to tap on doors, a fact
which always roused Crump’s scorn of her.
Her voice said briskly:
“Come in.”
Mary opened the door and murmured:
“Tea is just coming in, Mrs. Percival.”
She was rather surprised to see Jennifer
Fortescue with her outdoor clothes on. She
was just divesting herself of a long camel-hair
coat.
“I didn’t know you’d been out,” said
Mary.
Mrs. Percival sounded slightly out of
breath.
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“Oh, I was just in the garden, that’s all.
Just getting a little air. Really, though, it was
too cold. I shall be glad to get down to the
fire. The central heating here isn’t as good as
it might be. Somebody must speak to the
gardeners about it. Miss Dove.”
“I’ll do so,” Mary promised.
Jennifer Fortescue dropped her coat on a
chair and followed Mary out of the room. She
went down the Stairs ahead of Mary, who
drew back a little to give her precedence. In
the hall, rather to Mary’s surprise, she
noticed the tray of eatables was still there.
She was about to go out to the pantry and call
to Gladys when Adele Fortescue appeared in
the door of the library, saying in an irritable
voice:
“Aren’t we ever going to have anything to
eat for tea?”
Quickly Mary picked up the tray and took
it into the library, disposing the various
things on low tables near the fireplace. She
was carrying the empty tray out to the hall
again when the front-door bell rang. Setting
down the tray, Mary went to the door herself.
If this was the prodigal son at last she was
rather curious to see him. “How unlike the
rest of the Fortescues,” Mary thought, as she
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opened the door and looked up into the dark
lean face and the faint quizzical twist of the
mouth. She said quietly:
“Mr. Lancelot Fortescue?”
“Himself.”
Mary peered beyond him.
“Your luggage?”
“I’ve paid off the taxi. This is all I’ve got.”
He picked up a medium-sized zip bag.
Some faint feeling of surprise in her mind,
Mary said:
“Oh, you did come in a taxi. I thought