The Black Tower by P. D. James Page B

puzzled respect, clearly seeing nothing in it either for wonder or explanation.
    Lastly, they went into one of the small rooms at the end of the extension. It had been arranged as an office and was furnished with two wooden ink-stained desks which looked as if they were rejects from a government office. At one Grace Willison was typing names and addresses on a perforated sheet of sticky labels. Dalgliesh saw with some surprise that Carwardine was typing what looked like a private letter at the other desk. Both the typewriters were very old. Henry was using an Imperial; Grace a Remington. Dalgliesh stood over her and glanced at the list of names and addresses. He saw that the newsletter was widely distributed. Apart from local rectories, and other homes for the chronic sick, it went to addresses in London and even to two in the United States and one near Marseilles. Flustered at his interest, Grace jerked her elbow clumsily and the bound list of names and addresses from which she was working fell to the floor. But Dalgliesh had seen enough; the unaligned small e, the smudged o, the faint almost indecipherable capital w. There was no doubt that this was the machine on which Father Baddeley’snote had been typed. He picked up the book and handed it to Miss Willison. Without looking at him, she shook her head and said:
    â€œThank you, but I don’t really need to look at it. I can type all the sixty-eight names by heart. I’ve done it for so long you see. I can imagine what the people are like just from their names and the names they give to their houses. But I’ve always been good at remembering names and addresses. It was very useful to me when I worked for a charity to help discharged prisoners and there were so many lists to type. This is quite short, of course. May I add your name so that you get our quarterly magazine? It’s only ten pence. I’m afraid with postage so expensive we have to charge more than we’d like.”
    Henry Carwardine looked up and spoke:
    â€œI believe this quarter we have a poem by Jennie Pegram which begins:
    Â 
    â€˜Autumn is my favourite time ,
    I love its glowing tints.’
    Â 
    It’s worth ten pence to you Dalgliesh, I should have thought, to discover how she tackles that little problem of rhyming.”
    Grace Willison smiled happily.
    â€œIt’s only an amateur production I know, but it does keep the League of Friends in touch with what is going on here, our personal friends too, of course.”
    Henry said:
    â€œNot mine. They know I’ve lost the use of my limbs but I’ve no wish to suggest that I’ve lost the use of my mind. At best the newsletter reaches the literary level of a parish magazine; at worst, which is three issues out of four, it’s embarrassingly puerile.”
    Grace Willison flushed and her lip trembled. Dalgliesh said quickly:
    â€œPlease add my name. Would it be easier if I paid for a year now?”
    â€œHow kind! Perhaps six months would be safer. If Wilfred does decide to transfer the Grange to the Ridgewell Trust they may have different plans for the newsletter. I’m afraid the future is very uncertain for all of us at present. Would you write your address here? Queenhythe. That’s by the river, isn’t it? How pleasant for you. You won’t be wanting any of the handcream or bath powder, I suppose, although we do send the powder to one or two gentlemen customers. But this is really Dennis’s department. He sees to the distribution and does most of the packing himself. I’m afraid our hands are too shaky to be much use. But I’m sure he could spare you some of the bath powder.”
    Dalgliesh was saved from the need to reply to this wistful enquiry by the booming of a gong. Julius said:
    â€œThe warning gong. One more boom and dinner will be on the table. I shall return home and see what my indispensable Mrs. Reynolds has left for me. By the way, have you warned the