Lonesome Road by Patricia Wentworth

crossed the room with Noisy frisking beside her and unlocked the door, her mood changed, because it was not just her life that was being attacked, it was this new happiness. And it was worth fighting for.
    She meant to fight.
    Miss Silver came into the room in the kind of garment affected by elderly ladies who frequent boarding-houses. It was quite obviously a summer dress that had been dyed black. Some jet trimming now adorned the neck and wrists. A long, old-fashioned gold chain descended into her lap as she took the chair on the other side of the fire. Her neat, abundant hair was tightly controlled by an unusually firm net. She wore black Cashmere stockings and glacé shoes with beaded toes. A broad old-fashioned gold bracelet set with a carbuncle encircled her left wrist, and a formidable brooch with a design of Prince of Wales’ feathers carried out in hair and seed pearls and surrounded by a plaited border of black enamel also picked out with pearls hung like a targe upon her bosom. She carried a black satin work-bag turned back with bright rose-pink. Rachel felt it would be quite impossible that anyone should suspect her of being a detective. She had almost to close her eyes before she could believe it herself.
    Such politenesses passed as would be usual between any hostess and guest. Then Miss Silver said briskly,
    “I see you have a good deal to tell me, but before you begin—are we perfectly private here? Those two doors?”
    “One leads to my bathroom, the other to my own sitting-room. There is no other way into the bathroom, but it might be best to lock the door leading from the sitting-room into the passage.”
    She was about to rise, but was prevented. Miss Silver said, “Allow me,” and trotted over to the sitting-room door. Rachel heard her open the second door. Then the click of the key informed her that it was being locked.
    Miss Silver came back, but she did not immediately sit down. She went first to the bathroom and looked in, after which she resumed her chair, opened the black satin bag, and drew out her knitting, a mass of pale blue wool which, unfolded, declared itself as one of those rambling wraps or scarves in which invalids are invited to entangle themselves. Miss Silver herself called it a cloud.
    “For dear Hilary. Such a sweet girl, and the pale blue should be most becoming. And now, Miss Treherne, why did you ring me up in the middle of the night? And what has been happening today?”
    Chapter Seventeen
    Rachel answered both questions as briefly as possible. She told her about Neusel finding the adders in her bed, and thought how long ago it seemed. Then she told her about being pushed over the cliff.
    Except for a single “My dear Miss Treherne!” Miss Silver listened in complete silence. She had ceased to knit. Her hands rested idle on the pale blue wool, and her eyes never left Rachel’s face. At the end she said quickly.
    “You are not hurt?”
    “No—only bruised.”
    “You have been providentially preserved. May I ask you one or two questions? This visit to your old nurse—how many people knew of it?”
    Rachel lifted the hand on her knee and let it fall again.
    “Everyone. You see, I go every week.”
    “And this Mr. Brandon—did he know?”
    Rachel felt her color rise.
    “Yes, he knew. Lately he has been walking back with me. I have found him waiting when I came out.”
    “But he was not waiting for you this evening?”
    “I think he came at the usual time. I had left early.”
    “Yes? Why did you do that?” The small, nondescript eyes were very keen.
    “Nanny said something which upset me.”
    “Will you tell me what it was?”
    Rachel hesitated. Then she told Miss Silver the story which Ellen had brought home about the woman in the green scarf who bought two live adders in a shrimping-net. But she could not bring herself to repeat all the nonsense old Nanny had talked about Cosmo Frith.
    “I see. And what member of your household has a green scarf?”
    All the