II

It was Partridge who brought the news of the tragedy. Partridge enjoyscalamity. Her nose always twitches ecstatically when she has to break badnews of any kind.

She came into Joanna’s room with her nose working overtime, her eyesbright, and her mouth pulled down into an exaggerated gloom. “There’sterrible news, this morning, miss,” she observed as she drew up theblinds.

It takes a minute or two for Joanna, with her London habits, to becomefully conscious in the morning. She said, “Er ah,” and rolled over withoutreal interest.

Partridge placed her early tea beside her and began again. “Terrible itis. Shocking! I couldn’t hardly believe it when I heard.”

“What’s terrible?” said Joanna, struggling into wakefulness.

“Poor Mrs. Symmington.” She paused dramatically. “Dead.”

“Dead?” Joanna sat up in bed, now wide awake.

“Yes, miss, yesterday afternoon, and what’s worse, took her own life.”

“Oh no, Partridge?”

Joanna was really shocked—Mrs. Symmington was not, somehow, thesort of person you associated with tragedies.

“Yes, miss, it’s the truth. Did it deliberate. Not but what she was drove toit, poor soul.”

“Drove to it?” Joanna had an inkling of the truth then. “Not—?”

Her eyes questioned Partridge and Partridge nodded.

“That’s right, miss. One of them nasty letters!”

“What did it say?”

But that, to Partridge’s regret, she had not succeeded in learning.

“They’re beastly things,” said Joanna. “But I don’t see why they shouldmake one want to kill oneself.”

Partridge sniffed and then said with meaning:

“Not unless they were true, miss.”

“Oh,” said Joanna.

She drank her tea after Partridge had left the room, then she threw on adressing-gown and came in to me to tell me the news.

I thought of what Owen Griffith had said. Sooner or later the shot in thedark went home. It had done with Mrs. Symmington. She, apparently themost unlikely of women, had had a secret… It was true, I reflected, that forall her shrewdness she was not a woman of much stamina. She was theanaemic clinging type that crumples easily.

Joanna nudged me and asked me what I was thinking about.

I repeated to her what Owen had said.

“Of course,” said Joanna waspishly, “he would know all about it. Thatman thinks he knows everything.”

“He’s clever,” I said.

“He’s conceited,” said Joanna. She added, “Abominably conceited!”

After a minute or two she said:

“How awful for her husband — and for the girl. What do you thinkMegan will feel about it?”

I hadn’t the slightest idea and said so. It was curious that one couldnever gauge what Megan would think or feel.

Joanna nodded and said:

“No, one never does know with changelings.”

After a minute or two she said:

“Do you think—would you like—I wonder if she’d like to come and staywith us for a day or two? It’s rather a shock for a girl that age.”

“We might go along and suggest it,” I agreed.

“The children are all right,” said Joanna. “They’ve got that governess wo-man. But I expect she’s just the sort of creature that would drive someonelike Megan mad.”

I thought that was very possible. I could imagine Elsie Holland utteringplatitude after platitude and suggesting innumerable cups of tea. A kindlycreature, but not, I thought, the person for a sensitive girl.

I had thought myself of bringing Megan away, and I was glad thatJoanna had thought of it spontaneously without prompting from me.

We went down to the Symmingtons’ house after breakfast.

We were a little nervous, both of us. Our arrival might look like sheerghoulish curiosity. Luckily we met Owen Griffith just coming out throughthe gate. He looked worried and preoccupied.

He greeted me, however, with some warmth.

“Oh, hallo, Burton. I’m glad to see you. What I was afraid would happensooner or later has happened. A damnable business!”

“Good morning, Dr. Griffith,” said Joanna, using the voice she keeps forone of our deafer aunts.

Griffith started and flushed.

“Oh—oh, good morning, Miss Burton.”

“I thought perhaps,” said Joanna, “that you didn’t see me.”

Owen Griffith got redder still. His shyness enveloped him like a mantle.

“I’m— I’m so sorry—preoccupied—I didn’t.”

Joanna went on mercilessly: “After all, I am life size.”

“Merely kit-kat,” I said in a stern aside to her. Then I went on:

“My sister and I, Griffith, wondered whether it would be a good thing ifthe girl came and stopped with us for a day or two? What do you think? Idon’t want to butt in—but it must be rather grim for the poor child. Whatwould Symmington feel about it, do you think?”

Griffith turned the idea over in his mind for a moment or two.

“I think it would be an excellent thing,” he said at last. “She’s a queernervy sort of girl, and it would be good for her to get away from the wholething. Miss Holland is doing wonders — she’s an excellent head on hershoulders, but she really has quite enough to do with the two children andSymmington himself. He’s quite broken up—bewildered.”

“It was—” I hesitated—“suicide?”

Griffith nodded.

“Oh yes. No question of accident. She wrote, ‘I can’t go on’ on a scrap ofpaper. The letter must have come by yesterday afternoon’s post. The en-velope was down on the floor by her chair and the letter itself wasscrewed up into a ball and thrown into the fireplace.”

“What did—”

I stopped, rather horrified at myself.

“I beg your pardon,” I said.

Griffith gave a quick unhappy smile.

“You needn’t mind asking. That letter will have to be read at the inquest.

No getting out of it, more’s the pity. It was the usual kind of thing —couched in the same foul style. The specific accusation was that the secondboy, Colin, was not Symmington’s child.”

“Do you think that was true?” I exclaimed incredulously.

Griffith shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve no means of forming a judgment. I’ve only been here five years. Asfar as I’ve ever seen, the Symmingtons were a placid, happy couple de-voted to each other and their children. It’s true that the boy doesn’t partic-ularly resemble his parents—he’s got bright red hair, for one thing—but achild often throws back in appearance to a grandfather or grandmother.”

“That lack of resemblance might have been what prompted the particu-lar accusation. A foul and quite uncalled for bow at a venture.”

“Very likely. In fact, probably. There’s not been much accurate know-ledge behind these poison pen letters, just unbridled spite and malice.”

“But it happened to hit the bull’s eye,” said Joanna. “After all, shewouldn’t have killed herself otherwise, would she?”

Griffith said doubtfully:

“I’m not quite sure. She’s been ailing in health for some time, neurotic,hysterical. I’ve been treating her for a nervous condition. It’s possible, Ithink, that the shock of receiving such a letter, couched in those terms,may have induced such a state of panic and despondency that she mayhave decided to take her life. She may have worked herself up to feel thather husband might not believe her if she denied the story, and the generalshame and disgust might have worked upon her so powerfully as to tem-porarily unbalance her judgment.”

“Suicide whilst of unsound mind,” said Joanna.

“Exactly. I shall be quite justified, I think, in putting forward that pointof view at the inquest.”

“I see,” said Joanna.

There was something in her voice which made Owen say:

“Perfectly justified!” in an angry voice. He added, “You don’t agree, MissBurton?”

“Oh yes, I do,” said Joanna. “I’d do exactly the same in your place.”

Owen looked at her doubtfully, then moved slowly away down thestreet. Joanna and I went on into the house.

The front door was open and it seemed easier than ringing the bell, es-pecially as we heard Elsie Holland’s voice inside.

She was talking to Mr. Symmington who, huddled in a chair, was look-ing completely dazed.

“No, but really, Mr. Symmington, you must take something. You haven’thad any breakfast, not what I call a proper breakfast, and nothing to eatlast night, and what with the shock and all, you’ll be getting ill yourself,and you’ll need all your strength. The doctor said so before he left.”

Symmington said in a toneless voice:

“You’re very kind, Miss Holland, but—”

“A nice cup of hot tea,” said Elsie Holland, thrusting the beverage onhim firmly.

Personally I should have given the poor devil a stiff whisky and soda. Helooked as though he needed it. However, he accepted the tea, and lookingup at Elsie Holland:

“I can’t thank you for all you’ve done and are doing, Miss Holland.

You’ve been perfectly splendid.”

The girl flushed and looked pleased.

“It’s nice of you to say that, Mr. Symmington. You must let me do all Ican to help. Don’t worry about the children—I’ll see to them, and I’ve gotthe servants calmed down, and if there’s anything I can do, letterwritingor telephoning, don’t hesitate to ask me.”

“You’re very kind,” Symmington said again.

Elsie Holland, turning, caught sight of us and came hurrying out into thehall.

“Isn’t it terrible?” she said in a hushed whisper.

I thought, as I looked at her, that she was really a very nice girl. Kind,competent, practical in an emergency. Her magnificent blue eyes werejust faintly rimmed with pink, showing that she had been softheartedenough to shed tears for her employer’s death.

“Can we speak to you a minute,” asked Joanna. “We don’t want to dis-turb Mr. Symmington.”

Elsie Holland nodded comprehendingly and led the way into the diningroom on the other side of the hall.

“It’s been awful for him,” she said. “Such a shock. Who ever would havethought a thing like this could happen? But of course, I do realize now thatshe had been queer for some time. Awfully nervy and weepy. I thought itwas her health, though Dr. Griffith always said there was nothing reallywrong with her. But she was snappy and irritable and some days youwouldn’t know just how to take her.”

“What we really came for,” said Joanna, “was to know whether we couldhave Megan for a few days—that, is if she’d like to come.”

Elsie Holland looked rather surprised.

“Megan?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t know, I’m sure. I mean, it’s everso kind of you, but she’s such a queer girl. One never knows what she’s go-ing to say or feel about things.”

Joanna said rather vaguely:

“We thought it might be a help, perhaps.”

“Oh well, as far as that goes, it would. I mean, I’ve got the boys to lookafter (they’re with Cook just now) and poor Mr. Symmington—he reallyneeds looking after as much as anyone, and such a lot to do and see to. Ireally haven’t had time to see much to Megan. I think she’s upstairs in theold nursery at the top of the house. She seems to want to get away fromeveryone. I don’t know if—”

Joanna gave me the faintest of looks. I slipped quickly out of the roomand upstairs. The old nursery was at the top of the house. I opened thedoor and went in. The room downstairs had given on to the garden behindand the blinds had not been down there. But in this room which faced theroad they were decorously drawn down.

Through a dim grey gloom I saw Megan. She was crouching on a divanset against the far wall, and I was reminded at once of some terrified an-imal, hiding. She looked petrified with fear.

“Megan,” I said.

I came forward, and unconsciously I adopted the tone one does adoptwhen you want to reassure a frightened animal. I’m really surprised Ididn’t hold out a carrot or a piece of sugar. I felt like that.

She stared at me, but she did not move, and her expression did not alter.

“Megan,” I said again. “Joanna and I have come to ask you if you wouldlike to come and stay with us for a little.”

Her voice came hollowly out of the dim twilight.

“Stay with you? In your house?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, you’ll take me away from here?”

“Yes, my dear.”

Suddenly she began to shake all over. It was frightening and very mov-ing.

“Oh, do take me away! Please do. It’s so awful, being here, and feeling sowicked.”

I came over to her and her hands fastened on my coat sleeve.

“I’m an awful coward. I didn’t know what a coward I was.”

“It’s all right, funny face,” I said. “These things are a bit shattering. Comealong.”

“Can we go at once? Without waiting a minute?”

“Well, you’ll have to put a few things together, I suppose.”

“What sort of things? Why?”

“My dear girl,” I said. “We can provide you with a bed and a bath andthe rest of it, but I’m damned if I lend you my toothbrush.”

She gave a very faint weak little laugh.

“I see. I think I’m stupid today. You mustn’t mind. I’ll go and pack somethings. You—you won’t go away? You’ll wait for me?”

“I’ll be on the mat.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m sorry I’m so stupid. But you seeit’s rather dreadful when your mother dies.”

“I know,” I said.

I gave her a friendly pat on the back and she flashed me a grateful lookand disappeared into a bedroom. I went on downstairs.

“I found Megan,” I said. “She’s coming.”

“Oh now, that is a good thing,” exclaimed Elsie Holland. “It will take herout of herself. She’s rather a nervy girl, you know. Difficult. It will be agreat relief to feel I haven’t got her on my mind as well as everything else.

It’s very kind of you, Miss Burton. I hope she won’t be a nuisance. Oh dear,there’s the telephone. I must go and answer it. Mr. Symmington isn’t fit.”

She hurried out of the room. Joanna said:

“Quite the ministering angel!”

“You said that rather nastily,” I observed. “She’s a nice kind girl, and ob-viously most capable.”

“Most. And she knows it.”

“This is unworthy of you, Joanna,” I said.

“Meaning why shouldn’t the girl do her stuff?”

“Exactly.”

“I never can stand seeing people pleased with themselves,” said Joanna.

“It arouses all my worst instincts. How did you find Megan?”

“Crouching in a darkened room looking rather like a stricken gazelle.”

“Poor kid. She was quite willing to come?”

“She leapt at it.”

A series of thuds out in the hall announced the descent of Megan andher suitcase. I went out and took it from her. Joanna, behind me, said ur-gently:

“Come on. I’ve already refused some nice hot tea twice.”

We went out to the car. It annoyed me that Joanna had to sling the suit-case in. I could get along with one stick now, but I couldn’t do any athleticfeats.

“Get in,” I said to Megan.

She got in. I followed her. Joanna started the car and we drove off.

We got to Little Furze and went into the drawing room.

Megan dropped into a chair and burst into tears. She cried with thehearty fervour of a child—bawled, I think, is the right word. I left theroom in search of a remedy. Joanna stood by feeling rather helpless, Ithink.

Presently I heard Megan say in a thick choked voice:

“I’m sorry for doing this. It seems idiotic.”

Joanna said kindly, “Not at all. Have another handkerchief.”

I gather she supplied the necessary article. I reentered the room andhanded Megan a brimming glass.

“What is it?”

“A cocktail,” I said.

“Is it? Is it really?” Megan’s tears were instantly dried. “I’ve never drunka cocktail.”

“Everything has to have a beginning,” I said.

Megan sipped her drink gingerly, then a beaming smile spread over herface, she tilted her head back and gulped it down at a draught.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “Can I have another?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“In about ten minutes you’ll probably know.”

“Oh!”

Megan transferred her attention to Joanna.

“I really am awfully sorry for having made such a nuisance of myselfhowling away like that. I can’t think why. It seems awfully silly when I’mso glad to be here.”

“That’s all right,” said Joanna. “We’re very pleased to have you.”

“You can’t be, really. It’s just kindness on your part. But I am grateful.”

“Please don’t be grateful,” said Joanna. “It will embarrass me. I wasspeaking the truth when I said we should be glad to have you. Jerry and Ihave used up all our conversation. We can’t think of anymore things tosay to each other.”

“But now,” I said, “we shall be able to have all sorts of interesting discus-sions—about Goneril and Regan and things like that.”

Megan’s face lit up.

“I’ve been thinking about that, and I think I know the answer. It was be-cause that awful old father of theirs always insisted on such a lot of suck-ing up. When you’ve always got to be saying thank you and how kind andall the rest of it, it would make you go a bit rotten and queer inside, andyou’d just long to be able to be beastly for a change—and when you got thechance, you’d probably find it went to your head and you’d go too far. OldLear was pretty awful, wasn’t he? I mean, he did deserve the snub Corde-lia gave him.”

“I can see,” I said, “that we are going to have many interesting discus-sions about Shakespeare.”

“I can see you two are going to be very highbrow,” said Joanna. “I’mafraid I always find Shakespeare terribly dreary. All those long sceneswhere everybody is drunk and it’s supposed to be funny.”

“Talking of drink,” I said turning to Megan. “How are you feeling?”

“Quite all right, thank you.”

“Not at all giddy? You don’t see two of Joanna or anything like that?”

“No. I just feel as though I’d like to talk rather a lot.”

“Splendid,” I said. “Obviously you are one of our natural drinkers. Thatis to say, if that really was your first cocktail.”

“Oh, it was.”

“A good strong head is an asset to any human being,” I said.

Joanna took Megan upstairs to unpack.

Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup cus-tards for lunch and what should she do about it?