So Bad a Death by June Wright

answering my question with a nod.
    â€œI hope you won’t be lonely here by yourself,” I persevered, trying to break through Harriet Ames’ reserve.
    â€œNo, I won’t be lonely,” she replied, waiting for me to go.
    She stood at the end of the hall as John opened the front door.
    â€œGood night,” I called, raising one hand.
    â€œDon’t try so hard, Maggie,” John said, pulling the door to.
    â€œHullo. Who’s this?”
    The gate of the Dower had opened, and a female figure picked its way over the flags.
    â€œWhy, Miss Cruikshank! Good evening.” I was surprised.
    Miss Potts-Power had declared the Squire’s party was all over the village. “I’m afraid we are just on our way out.”
    â€œOh, dear!” Miss Cruikshank said. “I must be too early. She did say seven. The clock in the shop must have gained.”
    John had sized up the situation. He inserted his key in the door and swung it open. I caught a glimpse of Harriet Ames still standing at the end of the hall.
    â€œA caller for you,” John said pleasantly. He gently pushed Miss Cruikshank inside and shut the door again.
    â€œBut why didn’t she say she had asked someone to keep her company,” I exclaimed. “I would not have minded.”
    â€œMrs Ames does not waste her breath in superfluous explanations. You asked if she would be lonely and she said no. Reason why would have transpired.”
    We followed the road round the curve to the entrance gates of the Hall, Robin still holding my hand in his engaging way. Further discussion on his mother’s supreme reticence was inadvisable. His fingers moved slightly at the mention of her name.
    Light shone from the unshaded windows of the Lodge. We could see inside the cosy living room. Robin’s grandfather sat opposite another man at a table drawn up in front of the fire. One hand was poised over the chess pieces set out between them. He heard the steps on the stone porch and looked up. With a word to his companion he rose to his feet and disappeared out of vision. Robin loosened his hand and went forward eagerly as his grandfather appeared.
    Old man Ames was as courteous as his son, but his manner held more warmth and sincerity. His attitude never conveyed the impression of a superficial correctitude as Robert Ames’ did. He thanked us for bringing Robin home and seemed quite prepared to chat for a while had not John drawn my attention to the time.
    The porch light was left aglow as we went up the drive, but this was soon lost to view, smothered by the developing fog. The poplars growing on either side of the drive seemed more closely knit by night. It was as though we were walking through a deep tunnel.
    I made one or two rhetorical remarks to John, but he grunted, and did not seem disposed to talk. I had lost some of my exhilarationtoo. It had changed into a nervous excitement. That silent walk in the darkness and fog did not inspire gaiety. On the other hand there was an anticipatory thrill about it, as if the stillness and gloom were a prelude to feverish activity.
    But even through the darkness I saw, or else my imagination sketched, the vague outline of the square white tower of the Hall looking down on us as we approached.
    I began to be foolish and glance over my shoulder. But my imagination had not gone beyond the bounds of reality.
    â€œMat,” I said suddenly, using an old nickname in my fright. John pulled me gently into the shade of the poplars. He seemed conscious of another presence too, and pressed my arm warningly. We stood there for one minute, two. Presently a shadow moved on the far side of the poplars. It moved quickly and quietly in the direction of the house. There was a slight brushing of the leafless branches. Except for that sound I might have imagined the dim form. But there was no breeze to make those trees move.
    â€œJust another guest,” John said at last. I pulled myself