don’t have much in common. How ghastly it was when that baby was born dead in 1918! No wonder Carrie went to pieces, poor thing.’
‘Was that when she had her nervous –’
‘Well, it wasn’t really a nervous breakdown,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith fluently. ‘I was exaggerating. A nervous breakdown means someone climbing the walls, doesn’t it, and having to be whisked away to a private nursing home, but Carrie’s collapse was quite different. She just lay weeping on a chaiselongue all day and when she finally had the strength to leave it she started consulting spiritualists to see if she could get in touch with the dead child – terribly embarrassing for Alex, of course, to be a clergyman whose wife consulted spiritualists, so it was arranged that Carrie should have a little holiday with her parents in the country. That did her the world of good, thank God, and afterwards she was fine until they moved to Radbury.’
‘Someone did mention that she found the move a little difficult –’
‘Poor Carrie! If only Alex had been made vicar of some quiet little parish in the back of beyond! But no, off he went to Radbury to run that hulking great Cathedral, and Carrie found herself put on public display as Mrs Dean – hundreds of new people to meet, all the residents of the Cathedral Close watching critically to see if she made a mistake, new committees to master, endless dinner parties to organize, Mrs Bishop looking down her nose from the palace, all the Canons’ wives trying to interfere –’
‘When did Mrs Jardine make the decision to engage a companion?’
‘Alex made the decision, not Carrie. Carrie was soon in such a state that she couldn’t make any decisions at all – although of course,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, ‘she wasn’t having a nervous breakdown. Not really. She just went shopping every day to buy things she didn’t need – I think it took her mind off her troubles – and when she wasn’t shopping she was always so tired that she had to stay in bed. However finally she bought some really frightful wallpaper – the last word in extravagance – and Alex decided she needed someone to keep an eye on her during her little shopping sprees. Miss Christie turned up and was an immediate success. Alex used to refer to her simply as “The Godsend”.’
‘The Bishop must have been concerned about his wife,’ I murmured, selecting an understatement in the hope of luring her into further indiscretions, but Mrs Cobden-Smith merely said: ‘Yes, he was,’ and shifted restlessly as if aware for the first time that a stranger might read into her frank comments rather more than she had intended to reveal. I suspected that like most people of little imagination she found it difficult to picture what was going on in any mind other than her own.
‘Where does Miss Christie come from?’ I said, changing the subject to soothe her uneasiness.
‘Rural Norfolk – one of those places where there’s lots of inbreeding and everyone talks in grunts. She has a clerical family background, of course.’
‘How suitable. But Mrs Cobden-Smith, one thing does puzzle me about Miss Christie: why has she never married?’
‘Ah!’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith. ‘That’s what we’d all like to know! There’s a rumour that she was once badly jilted, but I think she put that story in circulation to cover up a far less respectable reason for staying single.’
‘Oh?’ I said. ‘And what would that be?’
‘I strongly suspect,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, lowering her voice confidentially, ‘that Miss Christie has a lust for power.’
IV
The sense of an absurd anti-climax was so strong that I had to fight a desire to laugh but fortunately Mrs Cobden-Smith was more anxious to explain her theory than to see if I kept a straight face.
‘Of course the popular rumour,’ she was saying, ‘is that Miss Christie’s secretly in love with Alex, but that’s nonsense because I can’t see her being such a fool as to
‘Was that when she had her nervous –’
‘Well, it wasn’t really a nervous breakdown,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith fluently. ‘I was exaggerating. A nervous breakdown means someone climbing the walls, doesn’t it, and having to be whisked away to a private nursing home, but Carrie’s collapse was quite different. She just lay weeping on a chaiselongue all day and when she finally had the strength to leave it she started consulting spiritualists to see if she could get in touch with the dead child – terribly embarrassing for Alex, of course, to be a clergyman whose wife consulted spiritualists, so it was arranged that Carrie should have a little holiday with her parents in the country. That did her the world of good, thank God, and afterwards she was fine until they moved to Radbury.’
‘Someone did mention that she found the move a little difficult –’
‘Poor Carrie! If only Alex had been made vicar of some quiet little parish in the back of beyond! But no, off he went to Radbury to run that hulking great Cathedral, and Carrie found herself put on public display as Mrs Dean – hundreds of new people to meet, all the residents of the Cathedral Close watching critically to see if she made a mistake, new committees to master, endless dinner parties to organize, Mrs Bishop looking down her nose from the palace, all the Canons’ wives trying to interfere –’
‘When did Mrs Jardine make the decision to engage a companion?’
‘Alex made the decision, not Carrie. Carrie was soon in such a state that she couldn’t make any decisions at all – although of course,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, ‘she wasn’t having a nervous breakdown. Not really. She just went shopping every day to buy things she didn’t need – I think it took her mind off her troubles – and when she wasn’t shopping she was always so tired that she had to stay in bed. However finally she bought some really frightful wallpaper – the last word in extravagance – and Alex decided she needed someone to keep an eye on her during her little shopping sprees. Miss Christie turned up and was an immediate success. Alex used to refer to her simply as “The Godsend”.’
‘The Bishop must have been concerned about his wife,’ I murmured, selecting an understatement in the hope of luring her into further indiscretions, but Mrs Cobden-Smith merely said: ‘Yes, he was,’ and shifted restlessly as if aware for the first time that a stranger might read into her frank comments rather more than she had intended to reveal. I suspected that like most people of little imagination she found it difficult to picture what was going on in any mind other than her own.
‘Where does Miss Christie come from?’ I said, changing the subject to soothe her uneasiness.
‘Rural Norfolk – one of those places where there’s lots of inbreeding and everyone talks in grunts. She has a clerical family background, of course.’
‘How suitable. But Mrs Cobden-Smith, one thing does puzzle me about Miss Christie: why has she never married?’
‘Ah!’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith. ‘That’s what we’d all like to know! There’s a rumour that she was once badly jilted, but I think she put that story in circulation to cover up a far less respectable reason for staying single.’
‘Oh?’ I said. ‘And what would that be?’
‘I strongly suspect,’ said Mrs Cobden-Smith, lowering her voice confidentially, ‘that Miss Christie has a lust for power.’
IV
The sense of an absurd anti-climax was so strong that I had to fight a desire to laugh but fortunately Mrs Cobden-Smith was more anxious to explain her theory than to see if I kept a straight face.
‘Of course the popular rumour,’ she was saying, ‘is that Miss Christie’s secretly in love with Alex, but that’s nonsense because I can’t see her being such a fool as to
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