dressing or otherwise occupied, and the downstairs of the house was still, the only activity being in the kitchen and among the waiting creatures, the shifting hive of the morning room. It was the precious hour before dinner when the house is quiet and anything might be accomplished.
Smudge slipped down the stairs alone, proud she did not need over-garments for her Great Undertaking, having planned ahead by wearing so many under-garments. She would be warm in any weather and, should calamity befall her, padded, too.
At the top of the stairs she paused, checking the hall and the rooms she could see, with their partly open doors before creeping down, intent. She was most agitated and interfered with when there came, shattering the silence, a loud rapping on the front door. Smudge shrank back up the stairs and waited for the hurrying feet that would attend to it – but no sound of footsteps was forthcoming. The knock came again. Whatever idiot it was had not thought to use the bell-pull. Oh, this was too vexing. She supposed it was the farmer John Buchanan, master of the ill-timed appearance and – even to Smudge – a bit of a stale bun.
She sighed and slunk down to open the door – not before it was rapped upon a third time, loudly and rather rudely, she thought with her child’s censoriousness, by what sounded like the metal top of a cane.
She put her hand on the large iron knob and heaved the door open, inch by inch.
Revealed, standing in the porch, with his cane raised to rap once more and an expression of keen enthusiasm – a wide grin, in fact – was not John Buchanan but an absolute stranger.
He was a man of medium build – on the slight side, perhaps – wearing smartly pointed boots, an air that was altogether sprightly – dapper – and a bushy, vigorously curling moustache.
‘I’ve come!’ he cried, then, ‘Rather late, I’m afraid!’
Smudge was at a loss. He gleamed at her, staring down his nose and widening his eyes. ‘I suppose I may come in?’
Smudge stepped mutely aside, glancing over her shoulder for some adult to save her, but nobody came, only a surging of strangers’ voices down the hall, as the noise of the survivors reached her.
‘I am so sorry to inconvenience you, but I believe you were warned?’
Still, Smudge did not speak.
‘My name is Charlie Traversham-Beechers. Is the lady of the house about at all? Perhaps you might … fetch her?’ Again he showed his white teeth to Smudge.
‘Imogen Torrington,’ said Smudge at last, and in a whisper. She was a confident enough child in her own realm, but this plainly wasn’t it.
The gentleman held out his hand. ‘Really? How do you do?’ he said smoothly, lengthening his ‘r’ nasally, grasping her fingers in his thickly gloved ones and squeezing.
Just then there was the sound of whistling, and Clovis, hurriedly adjusting his tie, came down the stairs, immaculate in evening clothes – white tie and tails – his hair oiled, the creases in his trousers sharp. He was altogether the most welcome and brotherly sight Smudge could have asked for. She ran to him.
‘Hello! Who’s this?’ said Clovis.
The gentleman stepped forward eagerly. ‘Charlie Traversham-Beechers; I believe you were expecting me.’
‘If we were, it’s news to me,’ said Clovis pleasantly, as Smudge retreated behind him to listen.
‘I felt sure the Railway had warned you about passengers,’ responded the visitor.
‘Passen—Oh! You’re from the accident!’
‘Exactly.’
‘How extraordinary.’
‘Yes, it was a most dreadful thing.’
Clovis cast his eye over Charlie Traversham-Beechers’ attire. ‘Where was the accident?’ he asked.
‘It was on the branch line.’
‘To?’
‘Just outside Whorley. Some trouble with the points, I believe. Absolute horror. Derailed utterly. Didn’t they tell you?’
‘Not exactly. Awful.’
‘It was. Most of us have been taken care of.’
‘Yes, we’ve a crowd of you around here
Smudge slipped down the stairs alone, proud she did not need over-garments for her Great Undertaking, having planned ahead by wearing so many under-garments. She would be warm in any weather and, should calamity befall her, padded, too.
At the top of the stairs she paused, checking the hall and the rooms she could see, with their partly open doors before creeping down, intent. She was most agitated and interfered with when there came, shattering the silence, a loud rapping on the front door. Smudge shrank back up the stairs and waited for the hurrying feet that would attend to it – but no sound of footsteps was forthcoming. The knock came again. Whatever idiot it was had not thought to use the bell-pull. Oh, this was too vexing. She supposed it was the farmer John Buchanan, master of the ill-timed appearance and – even to Smudge – a bit of a stale bun.
She sighed and slunk down to open the door – not before it was rapped upon a third time, loudly and rather rudely, she thought with her child’s censoriousness, by what sounded like the metal top of a cane.
She put her hand on the large iron knob and heaved the door open, inch by inch.
Revealed, standing in the porch, with his cane raised to rap once more and an expression of keen enthusiasm – a wide grin, in fact – was not John Buchanan but an absolute stranger.
He was a man of medium build – on the slight side, perhaps – wearing smartly pointed boots, an air that was altogether sprightly – dapper – and a bushy, vigorously curling moustache.
‘I’ve come!’ he cried, then, ‘Rather late, I’m afraid!’
Smudge was at a loss. He gleamed at her, staring down his nose and widening his eyes. ‘I suppose I may come in?’
Smudge stepped mutely aside, glancing over her shoulder for some adult to save her, but nobody came, only a surging of strangers’ voices down the hall, as the noise of the survivors reached her.
‘I am so sorry to inconvenience you, but I believe you were warned?’
Still, Smudge did not speak.
‘My name is Charlie Traversham-Beechers. Is the lady of the house about at all? Perhaps you might … fetch her?’ Again he showed his white teeth to Smudge.
‘Imogen Torrington,’ said Smudge at last, and in a whisper. She was a confident enough child in her own realm, but this plainly wasn’t it.
The gentleman held out his hand. ‘Really? How do you do?’ he said smoothly, lengthening his ‘r’ nasally, grasping her fingers in his thickly gloved ones and squeezing.
Just then there was the sound of whistling, and Clovis, hurriedly adjusting his tie, came down the stairs, immaculate in evening clothes – white tie and tails – his hair oiled, the creases in his trousers sharp. He was altogether the most welcome and brotherly sight Smudge could have asked for. She ran to him.
‘Hello! Who’s this?’ said Clovis.
The gentleman stepped forward eagerly. ‘Charlie Traversham-Beechers; I believe you were expecting me.’
‘If we were, it’s news to me,’ said Clovis pleasantly, as Smudge retreated behind him to listen.
‘I felt sure the Railway had warned you about passengers,’ responded the visitor.
‘Passen—Oh! You’re from the accident!’
‘Exactly.’
‘How extraordinary.’
‘Yes, it was a most dreadful thing.’
Clovis cast his eye over Charlie Traversham-Beechers’ attire. ‘Where was the accident?’ he asked.
‘It was on the branch line.’
‘To?’
‘Just outside Whorley. Some trouble with the points, I believe. Absolute horror. Derailed utterly. Didn’t they tell you?’
‘Not exactly. Awful.’
‘It was. Most of us have been taken care of.’
‘Yes, we’ve a crowd of you around here
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