if there's much in it really. There might be, I suppose. That could be why she feels as she does. Bess's friends are strong meat from time to time! But what a woman she is, eh, Derek? What a woman.”
“Always been her own worst enemy,” said Derek Luscombe gruffly.
“A really nice conventional remark,” said Egerton. “Well, sorry I bothered you, Derek, but keep a look out for undesirables in the background. Don't say you haven't been warned.”
He replaced the receiver and drew the pages on his desk towards him once more. This time he was able to put his whole attention on what he was doing.
At Bertram's Hotel
Chapter 11
Mrs McCrae, Canon Pennyfather's housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan until the canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the canon's return. The Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The canon himself.
The canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at six-thirty from London.
At seven o'clock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At seven-thirty he still had not returned. Mrs McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eight o'clock came and no canon. Mrs McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of possibility that there would not even be a telephone call. He might have written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post the letter.
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs McCrae.
At nine o'clock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. “I wonder where the good man's got to now,” she said to herself. She knew by experience that he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. “I shall sit up until eleven o'clock but no longer,” said Mrs McCrae. Ten-thirty was her bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the canon, then Mrs McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.
It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort of thing had happened before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind. The possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the wrong train and failed to discover his mistake until he was at Land's End or John o' Groats, or he might still be in London having made some mistake in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until tomorrow. He might have met a friend or friends at this foreign conference he was going to and been induced to stay out there perhaps over the weekend. He would have meant to let her know but had entirely forgotten to do so. So, as has been already said, she was not worried. The day after tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That was the sort of thing the canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a telegram from him would arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be home on the day after, or there would be a letter.
The morning of the day after, however, arrived without a word from him. For the first time Mrs McCrae began to be uneasy. Between nine A.M. and one P.M. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs McCrae had
“Always been her own worst enemy,” said Derek Luscombe gruffly.
“A really nice conventional remark,” said Egerton. “Well, sorry I bothered you, Derek, but keep a look out for undesirables in the background. Don't say you haven't been warned.”
He replaced the receiver and drew the pages on his desk towards him once more. This time he was able to put his whole attention on what he was doing.
At Bertram's Hotel
Chapter 11
Mrs McCrae, Canon Pennyfather's housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan until the canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the canon's return. The Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The canon himself.
The canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at six-thirty from London.
At seven o'clock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At seven-thirty he still had not returned. Mrs McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eight o'clock came and no canon. Mrs McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of possibility that there would not even be a telephone call. He might have written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post the letter.
“Dear, dear!” said Mrs McCrae.
At nine o'clock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. “I wonder where the good man's got to now,” she said to herself. She knew by experience that he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. “I shall sit up until eleven o'clock but no longer,” said Mrs McCrae. Ten-thirty was her bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the canon, then Mrs McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.
It cannot be said that she was worried. This sort of thing had happened before. There was nothing to be done but wait for news of some kind. The possibilities were numerous. Canon Pennyfather might have got on the wrong train and failed to discover his mistake until he was at Land's End or John o' Groats, or he might still be in London having made some mistake in the date, and was therefore convinced he was not returning until tomorrow. He might have met a friend or friends at this foreign conference he was going to and been induced to stay out there perhaps over the weekend. He would have meant to let her know but had entirely forgotten to do so. So, as has been already said, she was not worried. The day after tomorrow his old friend, Archdeacon Simmons, was coming to stay. That was the sort of thing the canon did remember, so no doubt he himself or a telegram from him would arrive tomorrow and at latest he would be home on the day after, or there would be a letter.
The morning of the day after, however, arrived without a word from him. For the first time Mrs McCrae began to be uneasy. Between nine A.M. and one P.M. she eyed the telephone in a doubtful manner. Mrs McCrae had
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