Pursuit of a Parcel by Patricia Wentworth Page B

old Norse gods and goddesses lived—Thor and Odin, and all that lot.”
    â€œIndeed, miss? Now Mrs. Parker and me couldn’t have been expected to know that.”
    â€œI had a book of stories about them when I was a little girl.”
    She was going to say that Antony had given it to her, when she remembered that she wasn’t to talk about Antony. It made him seem very far away.
    The day went on. Six people rang up to say wasn’t it dreadful about Miss Murdle, and what would Mrs. Felton do without her niece. Delia said perhaps she wouldn’t have to do without her, but most of the ladies who telephoned inclined to a gloomier view. Wayshot had never had anything like a murder before, and was all out to extract as much drama from the situation as possible.
    The last person to ring up was Cynthia Kyrle. She giggled and said, “Suppose it had been me—”
    â€œWhy should it have been you?”
    Cynthia giggled again. “But, darling, why should it have been Miss Murdle? Do you think it was a crime passionel?”
    â€œI think you’re a perfect beast to talk like that!”
    â€œI am rather. But she isn’t going to die, you know—the parent says so. He says she’s got a very hard skull. But why on earth should anyone try to crack it—that’s what I want to know. Now if it had been me, everyone would have said that it served me right for picking up young men I knew nothing about. They don’t think it’s safe to know anyone unless all your grandfathers and great-grandfathers were at school together. Everybody else is a homicidal lunatic, or a triple bigamist, or something like that. Nobody would have been at all surprised if I had been found weltering in a lane.”
    Delia hung up. She was very glad to hear that Miss Murdle wasn’t going to die, and that being that, she didn’t want to think or talk about her any more. She had been clever and resourceful, she had done the right thing, and everything was going to be all right. Uncle Philip would get well, Antony would come back, the war would come to an end, and they would be married. She began to plan her wedding dress.
    The afternoon was slipping into dusk when Parker opened the drawing-room door and announced Mr. Brown. Delia came out of her dream and got up. She saw a big, heavy man coming to meet her. Parker shut the door, and he said in very good English with just a trace of accent, “How do you do, Miss Merridew—you are Miss Merridew?”
    â€œYes.”
    He bowed and put out his hand. Delia felt obliged to take it. It was large, and strong, and cold.
    â€œMiss Merridew, now that your servant has gone, I must tell you that my name is not Brown. I am Cornelius Rossiter. You will, perhaps, have heard of me from my brother Antony.”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œYou will wonder why I have called myself Brown. It is because I am over here on some very confidential business. It was thought best that I should not use my own name—you can understand that.”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    He made her feel about six years old—big, smooth, easy, with that impassive face.
    The light, expressionless eyes looked at her as if she wasn’t there. They made her wish to be anywhere else.
    â€œWon’t you sit down, Miss Merridew? I have come to see you about Antony. I am afraid that I have not got very good news.”
    Delia took a step back and sat down upon the chair from which she had risen. She had sat there and planned her wedding dress. He had come to bring her bad news about Antony.
    He drew up a chair beside her and sat down, all without hurry. Delia pressed her hands together and waited for him to speak. Her eyes were fixed upon his face. He saw them dilate and darken. He said, “I am very sorry indeed to have to bring you such news. Antony was like a brother to me. His parents were the only father and mother I can remember. I have always looked upon him as a