curiously.
“A bit daunting,” I said. “Houses that haven’t been lived in for a bit are always depressing, especially at this time of the year when it’s been so wet and everything feels damp.”
“Don’t I know,” Rosemary said forcibly. “Clothes in one of the wardrobes practically have mold growing on them—they’ll all have to go to the dry cleaners. I suppose it’s worse living in a house built of sandstone; it simply absorbs the moisture!”
“And, anyway,” I continued, “you know what a strong personality Annie had. I felt like an intruder and half expected her to pop up at any minute and turn me out!”
“I think you were very brave; I wouldn’t be surprised if she haunted the place.”
“There was certainly a presence. Still, I got the papers and things. They were in a chest in her bedroom.”
“What was it like—the bedroom, I mean?”
“Impersonal, a bit austere. I rather suspect she moved in there—the other bedroom’s very small—after her mother died and didn’t change a thing. Though . . .” I hesitated. “Though there was something that surprised me.” And I told Rosemary about the book. “It really was most unexpected.”
“How weird! Max Holtby, he’s a top man in some oil business, isn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“Perhaps she’d been playing the stock market—no, that doesn’t sound right. I wonder if there’s something in his childhood . . . Perhaps she’s his long- lost sister. After all, we don’t know much about her family. Look how surprised we were when Martin Stillwell popped up!”
“I must try and get hold of a copy of the book and see if there is anything.”
“You should have borrowed Annie’s.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that! No, I’ll see if I can get it from the library.”
“I’ll ask Mother,” Rosemary said, “and see if she knows anything about the Roberts family. She’ll know something, even if it’s only gossip. Shall we order; can you see the menu on the blackboard from here? The fish pie was very good last time.”
It started raining again when I got home, and I put my raincoat on to take the dustbin out and when I got back into the house I felt in my pocket for a tissue to wipe the rain off my glasses. Instead of a tissue I pulled out a piece of paper; it was the paper that had been caught behind the dresser drawer in Annie’s kitchen, and I remembered that I’d been wearing my raincoat that day—indeed, it had been such a wet autumn that I’d worn it practically every day.
I went over to the kitchen table and smoothed it out, piecing together the places where it had been torn. It was a sheet of lined paper that might have been torn out of a notebook. There was some writing in ink, slightly smudged in places, but still legible. It was a column of initials. They seemed to be in no sort of order and I stared at the scruffy bit of paper, hoping to make some sort of sense of them. P.C., F.T., E.T., M.S., W.F., G.P, J.F., M.F., L.C., N.C., T.P., D.P. What on earth could it mean; was it some sort of code? That was palpably ridiculous. Then I suddenly realized what it was and almost laughed aloud at my stupidity.
“Of course!” I said to Tris, who had been sitting patiently at my feet all this while. “It’s the initials of people in the village: Phyllis Craig, Fred Tucker, Ellen Tucker—probably a subscription list or something she was organizing. Oh well, she won’t need it now.”
I went to throw it away, but some sort of primitive instinct (after all, it was Annie’s) made me smooth it out and put it carefully away in one of the cookery books on the shelf beside the microwave.
I went into the dining room and began looking at the photos again, but somehow I felt the presence of Annie too strongly. It was an uncomfortable feeling and, on an impulse, I put all the stuff away and went back into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. I’d just started to drink it when the phone rang. It was
“A bit daunting,” I said. “Houses that haven’t been lived in for a bit are always depressing, especially at this time of the year when it’s been so wet and everything feels damp.”
“Don’t I know,” Rosemary said forcibly. “Clothes in one of the wardrobes practically have mold growing on them—they’ll all have to go to the dry cleaners. I suppose it’s worse living in a house built of sandstone; it simply absorbs the moisture!”
“And, anyway,” I continued, “you know what a strong personality Annie had. I felt like an intruder and half expected her to pop up at any minute and turn me out!”
“I think you were very brave; I wouldn’t be surprised if she haunted the place.”
“There was certainly a presence. Still, I got the papers and things. They were in a chest in her bedroom.”
“What was it like—the bedroom, I mean?”
“Impersonal, a bit austere. I rather suspect she moved in there—the other bedroom’s very small—after her mother died and didn’t change a thing. Though . . .” I hesitated. “Though there was something that surprised me.” And I told Rosemary about the book. “It really was most unexpected.”
“How weird! Max Holtby, he’s a top man in some oil business, isn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“Perhaps she’d been playing the stock market—no, that doesn’t sound right. I wonder if there’s something in his childhood . . . Perhaps she’s his long- lost sister. After all, we don’t know much about her family. Look how surprised we were when Martin Stillwell popped up!”
“I must try and get hold of a copy of the book and see if there is anything.”
“You should have borrowed Annie’s.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that! No, I’ll see if I can get it from the library.”
“I’ll ask Mother,” Rosemary said, “and see if she knows anything about the Roberts family. She’ll know something, even if it’s only gossip. Shall we order; can you see the menu on the blackboard from here? The fish pie was very good last time.”
It started raining again when I got home, and I put my raincoat on to take the dustbin out and when I got back into the house I felt in my pocket for a tissue to wipe the rain off my glasses. Instead of a tissue I pulled out a piece of paper; it was the paper that had been caught behind the dresser drawer in Annie’s kitchen, and I remembered that I’d been wearing my raincoat that day—indeed, it had been such a wet autumn that I’d worn it practically every day.
I went over to the kitchen table and smoothed it out, piecing together the places where it had been torn. It was a sheet of lined paper that might have been torn out of a notebook. There was some writing in ink, slightly smudged in places, but still legible. It was a column of initials. They seemed to be in no sort of order and I stared at the scruffy bit of paper, hoping to make some sort of sense of them. P.C., F.T., E.T., M.S., W.F., G.P, J.F., M.F., L.C., N.C., T.P., D.P. What on earth could it mean; was it some sort of code? That was palpably ridiculous. Then I suddenly realized what it was and almost laughed aloud at my stupidity.
“Of course!” I said to Tris, who had been sitting patiently at my feet all this while. “It’s the initials of people in the village: Phyllis Craig, Fred Tucker, Ellen Tucker—probably a subscription list or something she was organizing. Oh well, she won’t need it now.”
I went to throw it away, but some sort of primitive instinct (after all, it was Annie’s) made me smooth it out and put it carefully away in one of the cookery books on the shelf beside the microwave.
I went into the dining room and began looking at the photos again, but somehow I felt the presence of Annie too strongly. It was an uncomfortable feeling and, on an impulse, I put all the stuff away and went back into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. I’d just started to drink it when the phone rang. It was
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