having to deal with them.”
Something about Miss Silver’s smile and the tone of her voice as she said this gave Miss Bray a pleasant sense of being sheltered from the rougher blasts of domestic life. She preened herself and admitted that she had always found arithmetic troublesome. They glided imperceptibly to other subjects and presently arrived at the question of the weekend party.
“Moira is really not at all domestic,” Miss Bray lamented. “One does not expect a man to consider what sheets are at the wash—towels of course, and pillow-cases too. Not that the linen-cupboard is not well stocked, though we could certainly do with more sheets and I have been waiting for an opportunity of speaking to Lucius on the subject, but the laundry only delivers once a fortnight and rather irregularly at that—and the house so full—I’m sure every bed was occupied last week-end! So if Moira stopped to think, but of course she doesn’t—” Miss Bray surveyed her completed darn and shook her head. “The linen gets no rest,” she said.
Miss Silver pulled on her pale blue ball.
“Mrs. Herne invites a good many people?”
Miss Bray threw up her hands.
“They just come in and out, and I’m sure I don’t know whether they are coming or going, or which of them are going to stay the night! Why, only last week-end just as I’d got all the rooms nicely arranged and the beds aired—and that’s a thing I don’t feel Mrs. Hilton sees to as she should, and you can’t really trust the girls—Where was I? Oh, about the beds! You see, there are the five rooms in regular use, because that poor Mr. Hughes was sleeping in the house until he was murdered.”
Miss Silver performed a simple calculation. Mr. Bellingdon, Mrs. Scott, Moira Herne, Miss Bray herself, and Arthur Hughes—that made five, and still left Hubert Garratt unaccounted for.
“Does Mr. Garratt not sleep in the house?”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t. The East Lodge is empty, and he prefers being there. Mrs. Croft looks in to make his bed and tidy up on her way from the village, and he has all his meals here. It is quite a convenient arrangement, and he prefers it. But of course I should have said six beds are occupied, because as far as the linen is concerned he might as well be in the house. And on the top of the regular people last week-end there was Wilfrid Gaunt. He’s a friend of Moira’s, and always seems to me to be a most idle, frivolous young man, and I’m sure if I’d known he was coming down this week-end again I’d have left his sheets on the bed and not sent them to the wash. But that’s Moira all over, she never thinks ahead. And Lucius had a couple in the Blue Room—some Americans called Rennick who are friends of his—very nice people, I’m sure. And of course Mrs. Scott was here, and my brother Arnold. And then at the last minute Moira just said casually that Clay Masterson would be staying the night, and I must say I was provoked!”
Miss Silver’s memory was much too accurate and retentive for the name of Wilfrid Gaunt to have escaped her attention. He had been mentioned at lunch, and as Miss Bray spoke of him she was aware in retrospect of Paulina Paine talking of the portrait which Lucius Bellingdon had bought—“It is in this gallery, and it has been sold. A young cousin of mine, Wilfrid Gaunt, has two pictures there too.” A young cousin of mine, Wilfrid Gaunt. Here was a link between Miss Paine, the gallery, and Merefields. She maintained her look of interest without accentuating it in any way, and when she spoke it was not of Wilfrid Gaunt. She said, “And who is Clay Masterson?” Miss Bray was unaccustomed to so much sympathetic attention, having passed most of her life in other people’s houses without any very settled position or any qualifications for attracting interest of friendship. She found herself expanding in a very pleasurable manner.
“He has an aunt or cousin or something who lives on the other side of
Something about Miss Silver’s smile and the tone of her voice as she said this gave Miss Bray a pleasant sense of being sheltered from the rougher blasts of domestic life. She preened herself and admitted that she had always found arithmetic troublesome. They glided imperceptibly to other subjects and presently arrived at the question of the weekend party.
“Moira is really not at all domestic,” Miss Bray lamented. “One does not expect a man to consider what sheets are at the wash—towels of course, and pillow-cases too. Not that the linen-cupboard is not well stocked, though we could certainly do with more sheets and I have been waiting for an opportunity of speaking to Lucius on the subject, but the laundry only delivers once a fortnight and rather irregularly at that—and the house so full—I’m sure every bed was occupied last week-end! So if Moira stopped to think, but of course she doesn’t—” Miss Bray surveyed her completed darn and shook her head. “The linen gets no rest,” she said.
Miss Silver pulled on her pale blue ball.
“Mrs. Herne invites a good many people?”
Miss Bray threw up her hands.
“They just come in and out, and I’m sure I don’t know whether they are coming or going, or which of them are going to stay the night! Why, only last week-end just as I’d got all the rooms nicely arranged and the beds aired—and that’s a thing I don’t feel Mrs. Hilton sees to as she should, and you can’t really trust the girls—Where was I? Oh, about the beds! You see, there are the five rooms in regular use, because that poor Mr. Hughes was sleeping in the house until he was murdered.”
Miss Silver performed a simple calculation. Mr. Bellingdon, Mrs. Scott, Moira Herne, Miss Bray herself, and Arthur Hughes—that made five, and still left Hubert Garratt unaccounted for.
“Does Mr. Garratt not sleep in the house?”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t. The East Lodge is empty, and he prefers being there. Mrs. Croft looks in to make his bed and tidy up on her way from the village, and he has all his meals here. It is quite a convenient arrangement, and he prefers it. But of course I should have said six beds are occupied, because as far as the linen is concerned he might as well be in the house. And on the top of the regular people last week-end there was Wilfrid Gaunt. He’s a friend of Moira’s, and always seems to me to be a most idle, frivolous young man, and I’m sure if I’d known he was coming down this week-end again I’d have left his sheets on the bed and not sent them to the wash. But that’s Moira all over, she never thinks ahead. And Lucius had a couple in the Blue Room—some Americans called Rennick who are friends of his—very nice people, I’m sure. And of course Mrs. Scott was here, and my brother Arnold. And then at the last minute Moira just said casually that Clay Masterson would be staying the night, and I must say I was provoked!”
Miss Silver’s memory was much too accurate and retentive for the name of Wilfrid Gaunt to have escaped her attention. He had been mentioned at lunch, and as Miss Bray spoke of him she was aware in retrospect of Paulina Paine talking of the portrait which Lucius Bellingdon had bought—“It is in this gallery, and it has been sold. A young cousin of mine, Wilfrid Gaunt, has two pictures there too.” A young cousin of mine, Wilfrid Gaunt. Here was a link between Miss Paine, the gallery, and Merefields. She maintained her look of interest without accentuating it in any way, and when she spoke it was not of Wilfrid Gaunt. She said, “And who is Clay Masterson?” Miss Bray was unaccustomed to so much sympathetic attention, having passed most of her life in other people’s houses without any very settled position or any qualifications for attracting interest of friendship. She found herself expanding in a very pleasurable manner.
“He has an aunt or cousin or something who lives on the other side of
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