Death be Not Proud by C F Dunn Page A

She stood with the confidence and poise of someone who knew where she belonged, and I felt awkward and clumsy in the presence of this elegant stranger whose privacy I had invaded.
    â€œI am so sorry, I do apologize. I… this was a mistake. I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I flustered, my mind blank, already beginning to turn and flee. A small, bird-like hand shot out and clamped firmly on my arm.
    â€œMy dear, do you have any notion of how utterly tedious it is here by myself? I only wish that I were bothered more often. Now, what did you come for? I hardly think you are selling anything, unless…” she eyed me sharply, “you are a purveyor of religion, in which case, I’m not interested, thank you.”
    She removed her hand and stood waiting expectantly, and I faced her, realizing how rude I must appear. Her small, wiry frame and quick, black eyes reminded me of a wood mouse, but she had the stillness and composure of a hawk. The two sat more comfortably beside each other than I would have expected.
    â€œMy name is Emma D’Eresby,” I began, “and I’m looking for information on the Lynes family. I understand that there is some connection with the family here?”
    â€œAre you, indeed?” She didn’t say which of the two statements she referred to. “Those are two names I haven’t heard in a long while. You had better come in…” Her eyes flicked away from me to focus behind my back. “There’s a man lurking near my gatehouse; does he belong to you?”
    I twisted sharply, and guiltily saw my father hovering uncertainly by a mounting block.
    â€œHe’s my father,” I confirmed.
    â€œWell, bring him with you – he makes the place look untidy.”
    I caught the flash of humour in her dark eyes and beckoned to my father. The old woman had already disappeared, and I followed, pulling my reluctant father behind me, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. We entered a musty, dark hall where curtains hung across the great stair window, partially blocking the light struggling to find its way in. “Close the door behind you,” her voice called from a room leading off the hall. Dad shut the wide door, making the frame shake as the iron lock found its home with a satisfyingly reverberant chunk . The hall wasn’t big, but it had once been very fine with linen-fold panelling on all sides, now dull with age and damp. Beneath the tall window, the stairs dog-legged around a massive baluster that gave it strength. Light from the window fell across an Italian inlaid table in the middle of the hall, on which stood a bowl of last summer’s hydrangea heads – faded blue and spun with the gossamer threads of a spider. The woman reappeared, her white hair an insubstantial aura framing her face.
    â€œThis way – don’t trip over the cat,” she added, as my foot stumbled over a large, soft, immovable object lying in front of an old Gurney radiator that looked as if it had come out of the Ark. The radiator belted out heat, and the huge ball of dark-brown fluff stretched and rolled onto its back languorously at the touch of my foot, wantonly inviting me to tickle its exposed, softly striped stomach. I stepped around it carefully and entered the room.
    We stood in the remains of the great hall: not the cosy familiarity of the first-floor solar that would have served the family in terms of privacy, but the high-ceilinged publicdomain, with windows running down one side. Houses like this inspired Ebenezer Howard to build his concoction of the college in Maine. At least he had the luxury to include central heating, but here a fire burned in the coal-black grate of the large stone fireplace without making much of an impression on the overall temperature of the room. Our hostess, already seated on one of the two large faded chintz sofas huddling close for warmth either side of the fire, sat bolt upright with her legs crossed