and something told Briony that this woman wasn’t a local, anyway. There was an indefinable air of the city dweler about her. Her clothes were a little too smart, her shoes a little too elaborate for Kirkby Scar.
There was tension in the woman’s face, beneath the carefuly applied make-up, and the hands were clutching an expensive handbag so
tightly that her knuckles showed white.
She said, ‘Mrs Adair? Are you Mrs Adair?’
There was doubt in her voice as if she suspected she was the victim of a hoax. It was the first time Briony had been addressed by her married name, and it should have been a great occasion, but somehow it wasn’t. She supposed the woman must be a local after al,
because no one else knew they had come here.
They had carefuly let it be known in London that they were going abroad.
Briony said slowly, ‘Why, yes. Can I help you― Mrs …?’ She let her voice trail away on a question. If this woman was some sort of
welcoming committee, then she had to make her welcome, whatever her private feelings. And for no reason that she could explain, Briony wished with al her heart that this stranger would go away, or that Logan would return, preferably both.
‘My name is Chapman― Marina Chapman.’ She peered at Briony, and it was an unpleasant sensation. ‘You’ve heard the name,
perhaps?’
Briony thought rapidly. ‘1don’t think so.’ She lifted her shoulders apologeticaly. ‘I’m sorry. Should I have done so?’
‘Your—husband hasn’t mentioned me?’
‘No.’ Briony was trying to be polite, but her bewilderment was deepening. So this Mrs Chapman wasn’t a local busybody come to report on the newlyweds, or she would have said she was a friend of Aunt Hes’s.
‘No, probably not,’ Mrs Chapman’s lips twisted. ‘May I come in?’
Briony wanted to refuse. She had the strangest impulse to slam the door and close this woman out, but good manners insisted she should stand aside and let her walk past her into the house. She opened the parlour door and ushered her in. The room felt close and stil, and slightly chily. A fly was buzzing at the window and she went across to release it and admit some air, but dank mist swirled in, and she closed the casement again hastily.
She turned to face Mrs Chapman. ‘We’ve only just arrived, but I think there’s some coffee in the kitchen, or tea if you prefer. My husband isn’t here just now. He’s gone to fetch somethings that we forgot. I hope he won’t be long because the weather’s getting worse al the time.
I’d forgotten how quickly the mist could come down. Did you bring a car?’
She was aware that she was babbling, and that Mrs Chapman was standing just inside the parlour door, watching her steadily, her
expression almost inimical.
Anger came to Briony’s rescue. She said with sudden heat, ‘Look here, Mrs Chapman, I’d be glad if you could tel me what you want and then go. We are on our honeymoon.’
‘I’m quite aware of that, Mrs Adair. And I know your husband isn’t here because I watched him leave. I wanted to see you alone, you see.
I wanted to tel you the kind of man you’d married.’
Briony said, ‘You’d better go.’ She had some wild idea that Mrs Chapman might be one of Logan’s discarded mistresses, but she was
obviously much older than him and not a type that Briony thought would have had much appeal for him. She moved forward, but Mrs
Chapman was standing her ground between Briony and the door.
She was fumbling in her bag now, producing papers, newspaper cuttings, Briony saw.
‘Not until you’ve seen these.’ She threw them down on the table in the centre of the room, spiling them across its polished surface. Briony looked down at them, puzzled, her attention caught in spite of herself.
She began to read the ones on top. They seemed to concern an inquest on someone who had committed suicide, she realised. There was a picture of a man, probably the deceased, and other
There was tension in the woman’s face, beneath the carefuly applied make-up, and the hands were clutching an expensive handbag so
tightly that her knuckles showed white.
She said, ‘Mrs Adair? Are you Mrs Adair?’
There was doubt in her voice as if she suspected she was the victim of a hoax. It was the first time Briony had been addressed by her married name, and it should have been a great occasion, but somehow it wasn’t. She supposed the woman must be a local after al,
because no one else knew they had come here.
They had carefuly let it be known in London that they were going abroad.
Briony said slowly, ‘Why, yes. Can I help you― Mrs …?’ She let her voice trail away on a question. If this woman was some sort of
welcoming committee, then she had to make her welcome, whatever her private feelings. And for no reason that she could explain, Briony wished with al her heart that this stranger would go away, or that Logan would return, preferably both.
‘My name is Chapman― Marina Chapman.’ She peered at Briony, and it was an unpleasant sensation. ‘You’ve heard the name,
perhaps?’
Briony thought rapidly. ‘1don’t think so.’ She lifted her shoulders apologeticaly. ‘I’m sorry. Should I have done so?’
‘Your—husband hasn’t mentioned me?’
‘No.’ Briony was trying to be polite, but her bewilderment was deepening. So this Mrs Chapman wasn’t a local busybody come to report on the newlyweds, or she would have said she was a friend of Aunt Hes’s.
‘No, probably not,’ Mrs Chapman’s lips twisted. ‘May I come in?’
Briony wanted to refuse. She had the strangest impulse to slam the door and close this woman out, but good manners insisted she should stand aside and let her walk past her into the house. She opened the parlour door and ushered her in. The room felt close and stil, and slightly chily. A fly was buzzing at the window and she went across to release it and admit some air, but dank mist swirled in, and she closed the casement again hastily.
She turned to face Mrs Chapman. ‘We’ve only just arrived, but I think there’s some coffee in the kitchen, or tea if you prefer. My husband isn’t here just now. He’s gone to fetch somethings that we forgot. I hope he won’t be long because the weather’s getting worse al the time.
I’d forgotten how quickly the mist could come down. Did you bring a car?’
She was aware that she was babbling, and that Mrs Chapman was standing just inside the parlour door, watching her steadily, her
expression almost inimical.
Anger came to Briony’s rescue. She said with sudden heat, ‘Look here, Mrs Chapman, I’d be glad if you could tel me what you want and then go. We are on our honeymoon.’
‘I’m quite aware of that, Mrs Adair. And I know your husband isn’t here because I watched him leave. I wanted to see you alone, you see.
I wanted to tel you the kind of man you’d married.’
Briony said, ‘You’d better go.’ She had some wild idea that Mrs Chapman might be one of Logan’s discarded mistresses, but she was
obviously much older than him and not a type that Briony thought would have had much appeal for him. She moved forward, but Mrs
Chapman was standing her ground between Briony and the door.
She was fumbling in her bag now, producing papers, newspaper cuttings, Briony saw.
‘Not until you’ve seen these.’ She threw them down on the table in the centre of the room, spiling them across its polished surface. Briony looked down at them, puzzled, her attention caught in spite of herself.
She began to read the ones on top. They seemed to concern an inquest on someone who had committed suicide, she realised. There was a picture of a man, probably the deceased, and other
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