tilt of Janice’s chin and the sparkle in her eyes.
‘Yes, I thought you had. We’ve still got the old party line, and any one of the subscribers could have taken up its receiver and heard what Mr Harsch was saying to Sir George Rendal.’
‘That’s torn it! Do you mean to say that there’s still only the one line, and everybody who has a telephone can tap it?’
She nodded.
‘Miss Mary Anne Doncaster listens in all the time, like some people do with their wireless. She always took a passionate interest, and now she doesn’t go out it’s the one thing she lives for. Perhaps you think she shot Mr Harsch.’
He said quickly, ‘She doesn’t go out – but do people come in?’
‘Oh, yes. What do you mean?’
He said slowly, ‘I think I would like to find out who saw Miss Doncaster between half-past six and a quarter to ten.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AS HE AND Janice came into the hall at exactly half-past four, a buzz of voices proceeding from the drawing-room informed them that Miss Sophy. was having a tea-party. She had, in fact, been quite busy asking people to tea before Janice got her invitation.
They entered upon an early Edwardian tea. The table decked with an embroidered cloth, supported a massive tray and full panoply of silver. In a three-tiered metal cake stand to the right of the table plates of Royal Worcester china offered microscopic sandwiches of fish paste, lettuce, and nasturtium leaves. On the left a similar cake-basket carried out in wicker-work supported gingerbread biscuits, Marie biscuits, and rock buns – a wartime product made with egg powder. Behind the table in a large upright chair, Miss Sophy beamed upon her guests and poured out a great many cups of very weak tea. She received Garth and Janice with enthusiasm.
‘There you are, my dears! And just in time for tea – though it’s so weak it wouldn’t matter if it did stand. Florence says we are using a great deal more than our ration, but with tea you can always put in more water and make it go round like that. I only wish you could do that with eggs – such a convenience. Garth, I don’t think you’ve met Mr Everton. He has the most delightful hens – they really never stop laying.’
Mr Everton, round-cheeked and ruddy, bowed an acknowledgement and said, ‘That is because I know how to manage them.’
On his other side Mrs Mottram said plaintively, ‘I wish you’d tell me how you do it.’
Before he could answer, Miss Sophy struck in.
‘Mrs Mottram – my nephew, Major Albany.’
Garth got a full roll of the blue eyes.
‘Oh, I’ve heard so much about you! You will find us very stupid down here – always talking about food – but it’s so difficult, isn’t it? I’ve got six hens, but we haven’t had an egg for a fortnight. Now Mr Everton—’
Mr Everton beamed upon her.
‘You have no method. Everyone thinks that method is not necessary with the hen, and then you are surprised that the hen also is unmethodical. But I tell you it is your own fault. She is careless because you are careless. You must set her a good example. Hot mash not later than eight o’clock in the morning. Do you do that?’
Mrs Mottram gazed at him in a soulful manner.
‘Oh, no.’
‘Then you should.’
‘Should I?’
‘Certainly you should. Look, I will write you out a diet-sheet, and you shall keep to it. After a fortnight you shall tell me whether you are still getting no eggs.’
They moved off together. Garth took a cup of tea and a cakestand to Miss Doncaster, who helped herself to a nasturtium sandwich and said she disapproved of tea-parties in wartime. He sat down beside her and prepared to make himself agreeable.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that Miss Mary Anne is such an invalid.’
Miss Lucy Ellen helped herself to another sandwich.
‘She has every attention,’ she said. ‘If you ask me, I think I am the one to be pitied. If I go up and down stairs once I go up and down half a dozen times in an hour. We have
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