two names same like anyone else, and stands to reason she’s bound to be Miss or Mrs. Indecent it looks to me, having nothing but her Christian name on the envelopes. Miranda—just like that—for all the world like going about without her clothes on! Stands to reason she’s bound to have a name! Same as anyone else! And why don’t she use it?” There being no answer, and the sentiment being generally approved, he was able to repeat it until by force of custom the subject lost its interest.
Instead of leaving her letter on the hall table Miss Silver might have gone down to the gate and posted it. Or, if she preferred the longer walk, she could have gone as far as Deep End and pushed Mrs. Charles Moray’s letter into the red slit which brightened the wall of old Mr. Masters’ cottage. Rain or shine, snow, hail or thunder, Mr. Masters would be out in his porch at ten o’clock to have a word with Mr. Hawke. During the war years, when it was Mrs. Hawke who had taken round the letters and cleared the boxes, he had felt bitterly deprived. Most days it would be no more than “Morning, postman” and a brief bulletin about his rheumatism, with perhaps a word or two in return about Mr. Hawke’s grandfather-in-law who was going to be a hundred on his next birthday, whereas Mr. Masters was only ninety-five, and no use trying to slip in an extra year or two, because everyone knew his age, and his daughter-in-law, still known as young Mrs. Masters though she was turned fifty, wouldn’t have it. She was a large and in the main silent person, but in matters like how old you were and how many times you’d got the prize for the best marrows over at Deeping she would speak up very awkward. Downright unfeeling, old Mr. Masters considered. For the rest, she was a hard-featured woman who kept him and the cottage like a new pin and found time and energy to put in three hours a day up at Deepe House, which neither she nor anyone else in either Deep End or Deeping could bring themselves to call Harmony.
As Mr. Masters put it:
“Might as well start giving me a new name at my time o’ life! And who’s Craddocks to go giving names and taking of them away—you tell me that! Ignorance and impertinence, that’s what I call it! Why, that there old house bin standing there since Queen Elizabeth’s time, and if you haven’t got a right to your own lawful name after all that time, when have you got a right to it—you tell me that!”
CHAPTER XII
Margaret Moray received Miss Silver’s letter at breakfast on the following day. It was a dark morning, and she took it to the window to get a better light. Then, still without opening it, she put it down before her husband. “What do you make of it, Charles?”
He gave it his frowning attention, asked to have the light switched on, and slanted the envelope towards it, flap uppermost.
“Well, I should say it had been opened.”
“So should I.”
She slit it carefully at the bottom end and read the innocuous missive aloud.
Charles Moray looked up from his porridge.
“What were you to do about it?”
“Let Frank Abbott have it, and send her a postcard to let her know whether we think it’s been tampered with. The postscript about the wool is the cue. If I was quite sure, I was to say, ‘How much of the wool do you want? I can get it all right.’ ” She hesitated a moment. “I don’t know that I can make it as definite as that.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Well, I thought I might say, ‘I think I can get the wool you want. Will find out for certain and let you know.’ I suppose they will be able to make sure at the Yard. Do you know, Charles, I do wish she hadn’t gone down there. I don’t like it a bit.”
Charles Moray didn’t like it either, but he wasn’t going to say so. Instead, he unfolded the rather lively newspaper with which he preferred to cheer his porridge and remarked in a carping tone that Beauty Queens got plainer every year.
Margaret came to look over his
Instead of leaving her letter on the hall table Miss Silver might have gone down to the gate and posted it. Or, if she preferred the longer walk, she could have gone as far as Deep End and pushed Mrs. Charles Moray’s letter into the red slit which brightened the wall of old Mr. Masters’ cottage. Rain or shine, snow, hail or thunder, Mr. Masters would be out in his porch at ten o’clock to have a word with Mr. Hawke. During the war years, when it was Mrs. Hawke who had taken round the letters and cleared the boxes, he had felt bitterly deprived. Most days it would be no more than “Morning, postman” and a brief bulletin about his rheumatism, with perhaps a word or two in return about Mr. Hawke’s grandfather-in-law who was going to be a hundred on his next birthday, whereas Mr. Masters was only ninety-five, and no use trying to slip in an extra year or two, because everyone knew his age, and his daughter-in-law, still known as young Mrs. Masters though she was turned fifty, wouldn’t have it. She was a large and in the main silent person, but in matters like how old you were and how many times you’d got the prize for the best marrows over at Deeping she would speak up very awkward. Downright unfeeling, old Mr. Masters considered. For the rest, she was a hard-featured woman who kept him and the cottage like a new pin and found time and energy to put in three hours a day up at Deepe House, which neither she nor anyone else in either Deep End or Deeping could bring themselves to call Harmony.
As Mr. Masters put it:
“Might as well start giving me a new name at my time o’ life! And who’s Craddocks to go giving names and taking of them away—you tell me that! Ignorance and impertinence, that’s what I call it! Why, that there old house bin standing there since Queen Elizabeth’s time, and if you haven’t got a right to your own lawful name after all that time, when have you got a right to it—you tell me that!”
CHAPTER XII
Margaret Moray received Miss Silver’s letter at breakfast on the following day. It was a dark morning, and she took it to the window to get a better light. Then, still without opening it, she put it down before her husband. “What do you make of it, Charles?”
He gave it his frowning attention, asked to have the light switched on, and slanted the envelope towards it, flap uppermost.
“Well, I should say it had been opened.”
“So should I.”
She slit it carefully at the bottom end and read the innocuous missive aloud.
Charles Moray looked up from his porridge.
“What were you to do about it?”
“Let Frank Abbott have it, and send her a postcard to let her know whether we think it’s been tampered with. The postscript about the wool is the cue. If I was quite sure, I was to say, ‘How much of the wool do you want? I can get it all right.’ ” She hesitated a moment. “I don’t know that I can make it as definite as that.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Well, I thought I might say, ‘I think I can get the wool you want. Will find out for certain and let you know.’ I suppose they will be able to make sure at the Yard. Do you know, Charles, I do wish she hadn’t gone down there. I don’t like it a bit.”
Charles Moray didn’t like it either, but he wasn’t going to say so. Instead, he unfolded the rather lively newspaper with which he preferred to cheer his porridge and remarked in a carping tone that Beauty Queens got plainer every year.
Margaret came to look over his
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