The Problem at Two Tithes E-Book

Clara Benson

• Herausgeber: Mount Street Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

On a reluctant visit to her painfully respectable brother and his wife, Angela Marchmont finds herself once again caught up in murder when a local farmer is shot dead, apparently at the hands of his sworn enemy. But the case is not as simple as it seems, for other motives and suspects soon come to light. With reporters hot on the scent and her friend Inspector Jameson battling a conflict of interest, Angela must use all her ingenuity to unravel the case and bring the murderer to justice—or more than one person will suffer the consequences.

Leseprobe

The Problem at Two Tithes

An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 7

Clara Benson

© 2014 Clara Benson

All rights reserved

The right of Clara Benson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

Cover design by Shayne Rutherford

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Contents

The Problem at Two Tithes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Books by Clara Benson

The Problem at Two Tithes

On a reluctant visit to her painfully respectable brother and his wife, Angela Marchmont finds herself once again caught up in murder when a local farmer is shot dead, apparently at the hands of his sworn enemy. But the case is not as simple as it seems, for other motives and suspects soon come to light. With reporters hot on the scent and her friend Inspector Jameson battling a conflict of interest, Angela must use all her ingenuity to unravel the case and bring the murderer to justice—or more than one person will suffer the consequences.

Chapter One

Sir Humphrey Cardew was a man for whom the word complacency might have been invented. As a young boy his natural intelligence, obedient disposition, and preference for quiet games and cleanliness had prompted many a visitor to exclaim that he was a darling of a child—a delight, in fact—and to observe to his parents that they must be tremendously proud of him. Faced with such adulation, the precocious Humphrey had quickly learned that to stand in the drawing-room, his hair combed and his hands folded smartly behind his back, and recite, with the merest hint of a lisp, Come Down, O Maid or Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, before an audience of relatives and family acquaintances, was the quickest and surest way of earning a handful of sixpences and shillings (and even the odd half-crown on festive occasions, after the sherry had been passed round). So successful was he in his efforts to please that he saw no reason to change his approach as he grew older, and by the age of forty he had, through the continuing application of the arts he had learned as a boy, combined with diligence and hard work, attained one of the most senior positions in the Department of Labour and earned himself a knighthood to boot. Now, at forty-eight, he could justifiably look about him—at his fair and frosty wife, his quiet and dutiful sons, his large, comfortable house in Surrey with its nine acres of land, and his position as squire of the nearby village—and feel that he had earned all this; it was his, and he fully deserved it. Even if there were one or two dissenting voices (for even the best of men will have their naysayers) who decried him as the worst kind of pompous ass and wished him, if not precisely at the devil, then at least at a place in which his self-satisfaction might be duly punctured, they were in the minority and could be safely disregarded.

Aside from the occasional annoyance, then, there was little to blemish this otherwise idyllic state of affairs, and for the most part Humphrey’s life proceeded in harmony and serenity. There was one particular irritation, however, which, while it could for the most part be forgotten, occasionally required his attention. When Humphrey was ten years old, his parents had, most inconsiderately, presented him with a sister. Humphrey was not the sort of boy who needed playmates—and indeed, what was he supposed to do with a child ten years younger than himself, other than regard her with faint puzzlement and then return to his carefully-catalogued butterfly collection?—and so he naturally passed much of his time in pretending the new arrival did not exist. Unfortunately, this interloper could not long be superciliously ignored, for as soon as she learned to walk she began to demonstrate a regrettable tendency to get up to mischief, break his toys, and trample the cabbages in the kitchen garden. Such destruction of neatness and order disturbed Humphrey greatly—especially since Miss Angela immediately and mystifyingly became a great favourite of the servants, who fed her sweetmeats and taught her to whistle. Nobody had ever taught Humphrey to whistle, but he consoled himself by rattling the coins in his pocket and reflecting that, while artlessness and good humour might have their attractions, they did not pay.

As the two of them grew older, however, Humphrey found it more and more difficult to comfort himself thus, for his sister, far from losing that early spiritedness and determination to do things her own way, grew even more independent-minded and inclined to draw attention to herself. By rights, as soon as she grew up she ought to have married a suitable young man, produced some children and dedicated herself to quiet country pursuits; instead, as soon as she was of age she announced her intention to earn her own money, and when objections were raised, declined to argue the point and merely ran away to London and did it anyway. Being a conformist by nature, Humphrey could not understand why on earth anyone should want to defy the wishes of their family, when it was so much easier to do what was expected of one, and he was even more astounded at the idea of a woman’s supporting herself, so in his confusion he found the safest course was to pretend it had never happened. This approach stood him in good stead over the years, as his sister first disappeared to the United States to work as secretary to an important financier, then married some dreadful American, and at last—and worst of all—returned several years later (having apparently discarded the American), took up detective-work and began to get her name in the newspapers. There was no falling-out—nothing so extreme as that—but over time Humphrey and Angela found that the best way to get along was to meet as infrequently as possible, since when they did meet their incompatible personalities tended to lead to some little friction. Inflexible and rigid as he was, Humphrey never realized that it was invariably his headstrong sister rather than himself who made the allowances while they were in company together, and was secretly convinced that she set out to vex him deliberately, although he would have deemed it beneath him to voice the suspicion out loud.

Now she was coming to visit—at his own invitation, for he was not one to shirk his duty and it had been many years since she had visited Two Tithes, the house in which she had grown up and which he had in due course inherited. Whenever they had met since her return from America it had been on neutral ground, but the longer this went on the more uncomfortable Humphrey became. He was a fair-minded man, and moreover did not wish to be thought unfeeling. It would be right and proper for his sister to be welcomed back to her childhood home. Despite her odd proclivities and her many years’ residency among the Americans (whom Humphrey considered to be little more than barbarians), she appeared to know how to conduct herself in company, and could presumably be trusted not to do anything to embarrass or inconvenience him—or so he had thought until a week ago, when he had received a telegram from her out of the blue to say she was stuck in Italy and could she please come next week instead? That confirmed him in his suspicion that she had not changed a bit, and while he naturally replied in the affirmative, his heart sank at the disorder she was likely to bring with her. Still, he comforted himself with the thought that at least she would not get herself mixed up in any murders or other similar unpleasantnesses during her visit, since nothing of that sort ever happened here, deep in the Surrey countryside.

On the morning of the expected late arrival Humphrey and his wife Elisabeth sat, as they always did, in the breakfast-parlour at Two Tithes, which overlooked the croquet lawn and the rose garden, and drank their tea from china cups that were never permitted to be chipped, while Humphrey read The Times and Elisabeth her post.

‘Mother says she will arrive at four,’ said Elisabeth. ‘What time is Angela coming?’

‘She said three o’clock,’ replied Humphrey, ‘although I shouldn’t rely on it. She may well arrive later than that.’

‘Well, I suppose her turning up at all will be something,’ said Elisabeth. ‘She’s already a week late. An hour or two more won’t make much difference, will it?’

Humphrey nodded in heavy agreement.

‘It’s tremendously inconsiderate,’ said Elisabeth for perhaps the fifth time. ‘What made her think we could accommodate her this week? Why, for all she knew we might have had a houseful of guests coming.’

‘Perhaps that is what she was hoping,’ said Humphrey. ‘As a matter of fact, I was rather surprised that she accepted the invitation at all.’

‘Well, if she does turn up she can certainly help with the fête. We shall need all the assistance we can get. Do you suppose she can bake? I am starting to feel quite overwhelmed by the cake stall. I know Margaret Tipping promised to help but after last year I don’t quite trust her to do a good job. Another competent pair of hands would be such a relief—although of course Angela lives in a flat, doesn’t she? One of those modern buildings. Hardly conducive to baking. She probably has her food sent up. Perhaps I won’t ask her, then. I should hate to have to put her right as I did Mrs. Tipping. It does rather create bad feeling.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do a fine job by yourself, my dear,’ said Humphrey. ‘I know Mrs. Hunter is especially grateful to you.’

‘I should think so, too,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I happen to know she doesn’t get that sort of help from anyone else.’

‘Well, after this perhaps they will stop asking us for money for a while. The church roof can’t possibly have developed another hole already.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Elisabeth. ‘There’s always something. I fancy it will be the organ next. I happened to mention the other day that it was starting to squeak on the higher notes, which of course was a mistake on my part as Mr. Hunter’s eyes gleamed immediately, and so I had to make my escape before he could broach the subject.’

Before she could expand further on this topic, she was interrupted by the entrance of a visitor who bore a certain resemblance to herself, being slim with the same fair hair and blue eyes. Where Elisabeth’s habitual expression was a mixture of haughtiness and impatience, however, the newcomer looked much more cheerful. This was Kathleen Montgomery, Elisabeth’s younger sister, a widow who lived with her young son in the nearby village of Banford Green. She was invited to sit down and did so.

‘And how is Peter this morning?’ said Elisabeth. ‘Have the spots quite cleared up? Do you suppose he is well enough to go back to school yet?’

‘He’s much better today, but he’s still looking very pale and thin,’ said Kathie. ‘I think I shall keep him at home for another week or so, just to be on the safe side.’

‘You oughtn’t to spoil him,’ said Humphrey. ‘A little hardship will be good for the boy. He is becoming soft.’

‘Oh, but he had it so badly,’ said Kathie. ‘I was quite worried about him last week. Measles can be such a dreadful illness. A few more days won’t do him any harm.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Humphrey, ‘but that’s a few more days’ school fees wasted. Of course I am happy to pay them, but I should hate to think I was throwing money away.’

‘You know how grateful I am for the help,’ said Kathie, ‘and I promise I’ll send him back as soon as I can—but you wouldn’t want him to get sick again and miss even more school, now, would you?’

‘No, I suppose you are right,’ said Humphrey. ‘That reminds me—I saw Norman Tipping yesterday, and he said that he was going to send a man along to mend your fence in the next few days.’

This may have seemed rather an abrupt change of subject, but in fact it was not, for Humphrey—if not Kathie—had expectations of Norman Tipping, and hoped very much that before long he would be relieved of all responsibility for young Peter Montgomery’s schooling, being very fond as a rule of keeping his money to himself.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Kathie. ‘He did say something of the sort, although he didn’t say when. I must say it’s very kind of him.’

‘I only wish he would get to the point at last,’ said the forthright Elisabeth.

Kathie did not reply to this, but instead said:

‘And so Angela is coming today. I shall be very glad to see her again. I thought she was rather good fun when we met her in London.’

‘I do hope she’s going to behave herself, at any rate,’ said Elisabeth, who had only a passing acquaintance with the notion of fun. ‘Mother is coming and I don’t want her upset. You know how easily shocked old people are. Perhaps I had better have a quiet word with Angela to let her know what sort of thing will be acceptable in conversation. We don’t want her mentioning that husband of hers—wherever he may be—or all that horrid business with dead bodies.’

‘I have already written to her with full instructions,’ said Humphrey, ‘although I’m not sure whether the letter will have reached her in Italy, especially since she seems to have moved about rather a lot. I wrote to her in Florence but her telegram came from Venice.’

‘I shall speak to her anyway, to remind her,’ said Elisabeth.

‘That is probably best, my dear,’ said Humphrey. ‘Then we shall have nothing to worry about. It will just be a pleasant family party, with no unwelcome surprises.’

‘Unwelcome surprises?’ said Kathie. ‘Why, what do you mean?’

‘Nothing in particular,’ replied Humphrey. ‘It’s just that my sister is rather modern in her ideas.’

‘Positively outré, in fact,’ said Elisabeth. ‘She’s not quite the thing at all, and if you’ll take my advice, Kathie, you won’t let her influence you.’

‘Influence me?’ said Kathie with a laugh. ‘Why should she try to influence me? Don’t be silly, Elisabeth. She’s jolly nice, and I’m quite sure she’ll behave perfectly well.’

She then went out and left the Cardews to finish their breakfast.

Chapter Two

Mrs. Angela Marchmont rested her chin in her hand and gazed out of the window of the Bentley as it ate up the miles along the Surrey road. Her maid, Marthe, was sitting in the front with her driver, William, and all three of them were uncharacteristically silent. At last, William cleared his throat and said:

‘I guess it must feel a little funny to come back home after all these years, ma’am. Do you suppose much will have changed?’

Angela made no reply but continued to gaze out of the window. William and Marthe exchanged glances. After a minute or so, Marthe took out a pocket-mirror and held it up. She appeared to be examining her own rather pretty face, but in reality she was observing her mistress in the back seat. She was most disconcerted. Angela had returned from Italy on Tuesday evening, almost a week late, with only a terse telegram regarding the collection of her luggage to explain herself beforehand. When she finally did arrive, she said very little but wore an abstracted, almost dazed air, stared into space, and was inclined to put butter in her tea and sugar on her toast if not duly forestalled. On polite questioning she claimed to have been ill, but that was clearly nonsense, since she was bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked and had in fact never looked better. Marthe was offended. Something had happened and she had been left out of it. She wanted to know what it was, although she already had the strongest suspicion, since in her view only one thing could explain her mistress’s general demeanour. She replaced the little glass in her pocket and narrowed her eyes. She was determined to get the secret out of Angela by hook or by crook, and she began idly pondering the best approach.

They passed the sign for Godalming and William said:

‘Not far now, I think, ma’am.’

At his words Angela turned her head, then visibly pulled herself together.

‘Yes, we’re nearly there,’ she said. ‘Keep a careful lookout for the turning as it’s rather difficult to see. There, that’s it.’

William successfully navigated the sharp bend. The new road headed downhill into a valley, and from the top commanded splendid views. Below them was a pleasant landscape of rolling fields and hedgerows, and ahead they could see that the road led directly to an agglomeration of white, red and brown houses, from the centre of which a church spire stood out proudly. The sky had been overcast all day so far, but now the clouds parted and the sun cast a ray or two onto the village, showing it to its best advantage.

‘It is very pretty,’ said Marthe. ‘Then this is where you grew up, madame.’

‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘If you look slightly to the left you can just see Two Tithes. It’s that house standing a little apart from the rest. I wonder if any of the old servants are still there. If they are, no doubt they will tell you all kinds of hair-raising tales about the things I got up to as a girl. I should advise you not to believe any of them. Or not more than half, at any rate,’ she added fairly.

Very soon they drew up before the great house and Angela alighted. In some obscure way she felt that this visit to her brother constituted a sort of penance for her sins, and so she marshalled her forces and determined that this week at least nobody should be able to say she had not behaved impeccably.

Humphrey and Elisabeth came out to greet her, stiff and formal.

‘Hallo, Angela,’ said Humphrey and shook hands with her, since the idea of kissing her would never have occurred to him. This had always irritated Angela, but she smiled and instead kissed Elisabeth before that lady could step back.

‘How lovely to see you both,’ said Angela. ‘I do hope you’ll pardon my dreadful unpunctuality, but I’m afraid it simply couldn’t be helped. I was laid up all last week, you see, and couldn’t make it back in time.’

‘How unfortunate,’ said Elisabeth politely, noting Angela’s sun-tan and general air of well-being. ‘You seem much better now, though.’

‘Yes, I am, thank you,’ said Angela. ‘You look very well yourself, Elisabeth. Goodness,’ she went on, as they stepped through the door and into the hall, ‘It must be more than fifteen years since I was here, and it still looks exactly the same. I always loved this rose pattern on the wallpaper, and you’ve kept it just as it was when I left. How delightful.’

‘Oh, that. Yes, I’ve always hated it,’ said Elisabeth, ‘but we have somehow never found the time to change it. Perhaps we’ll do it next year.’

‘Oh,’ said Angela, momentarily disconcerted. ‘Well, I’m sure that whenever you do change it, it will be quite splendid. You have such good taste, Elisabeth.’

Here she stopped for she felt she was beginning to gush.

There was an awkward pause, then Humphrey said:

‘Shall we go in to tea?’

They all seized upon this thankfully and went into the drawing-room. This had evidently been redone since Angela left, for she barely recognized it. She looked about her and was mildly interested to note that she felt no sadness or feelings of nostalgia, but merely a polite interest in what had been done to the room. She stepped over to the window and saw that the garden looked much the same as ever, which pleased her, for she had been fond of running around outside as a girl. A man she did not recognize was trundling a wheelbarrow along the path, and she wondered again how many of the old servants remained. Many of them had undoubtedly gone to war and most likely some of them had not returned, while it was not unreasonable to assume that others had merely found work that paid better and left.

Tea, of course, was very stiff and proper. Angela sat, straight-backed, on the edge of her seat, and nodded politely while Humphrey recounted some interminable story about the sale of half an acre of land to a neighbouring farmer. She was just about to ask a pertinent question to show that she had been listening when her attention was caught by the butler, who happened to be passing.

‘Why, it’s Joseph, isn’t it?’ she said without thinking. ‘How nice to see you again.’

‘It’s Doggett now, if you please, madam,’ he said, with an embarrassed glance at Humphrey.

‘Oh, of course,’ said Angela. ‘I can see you’re terribly important now. Well, I must say you hardly look a day older than you did the last time I saw you. Is the swing you put up for me still there? I must look for it tomorrow.’

‘Doggett, do stop bothering Mrs. Marchmont and go and see to the silver,’ said Elisabeth coldly.

‘I beg your pardon, your ladyship,’ said Doggett, and went out. Angela smiled apologetically at him as he passed, and reminded herself that chatting with the servants was not considered the done thing now that she was a grown woman. It was rather a pity, she thought. Joseph Doggett had been one of her friends in the old days, when he was a young under-footman, and she determined to speak to him later, when Humphrey and Elisabeth were not about.

‘You won’t mind visiting Mrs. Hunter, of course,’ said Humphrey then. ‘She knows you are coming and is very keen to find out what you have been doing for the past few years. I have told her you will visit tomorrow.’

Angela’s heart sank, for she remembered the vicar’s wife of old. Mrs. Hunter was a big-boned woman with a booming voice, who had the tendency to bombard one with impertinent questions and then pass on the answers—real or imagined—to the entire neighbourhood. She would much rather not have visited, but saw that she had been presented with a fait accompli and could not get out of it.

‘By the way, I’ve given you your old room,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I thought you’d like it. Peter sleeps there sometimes, but otherwise it’s quite unoccupied. The weather is pleasant enough at the moment so it oughtn’t to be too cold.’

‘Oh, no, I’m sure it will be quite warm,’ agreed Angela, who was starting to feel that her penance was a little more than she deserved. Her old room was at the side of the house, overlooking the kitchen-yard, and had little to recommend it, being dark, damp and poky. Angela was quite certain that it would never have been given to any other guest, and could only assume that Elisabeth had chosen it out of some misplaced desire to make her visitor feel at home, since it was not to be supposed that any deliberate humiliation had been intended.

The conversation was beginning to flag when Humphrey suddenly remembered that Angela had been travelling in Italy, and began to question her closely about what she had done there. Since Angela had spent much of her holiday investigating a murder and consorting on the friendliest terms with a known criminal—neither of which pursuit was likely to impress her brother with the idea of her respectability—she was forced to tread very carefully when replying so as not to give herself away. Fortunately she was rescued by the arrival of Kathie Montgomery and her son Peter, and shortly afterwards, of Mrs. Randall, the mother of Kathie and Elisabeth. Kathie greeted her cheerfully, and for the first time in the past hour Angela felt as though someone at least was genuinely pleased to see her.

The teapot was replenished and the newcomers all sat down, and Angela was happy to be spared the necessity of talking for a while, since the others all appeared to have plenty to say to one another. She sat, lost in her own thoughts, until she suddenly became aware that young Peter was staring at her fixedly. He blushed and looked at the floor when he saw that she had spotted him, and Angela took the opportunity to rub hurriedly at her face, just in case he had seen a smudge of something there. After a moment he raised his eyes cautiously to her again, and she pulled a face at him. He looked away and seemed to be trying not to laugh. After that, tea became much more fun as the two of them engaged in a game to see which of them could make the other giggle first. Angela thought she was winning until Peter pulled a face of such startling and appalling monstrosity that she let out a laugh before she could stop herself. She covered it immediately with a cough, and said:

‘I forgot to ask about the boys, Elisabeth. How are they getting on at school?’

As she spoke, she saw Peter wrinkle his nose in disgust, and guessed rightly that he did not think much of Horace and Clarence, the Cardews’ sons, who must be about sixteen and fourteen now, if she remembered correctly. She had thought them rather beastly herself when she had met them, although Humphrey and Elisabeth evidently believed them to be the finest boys who had ever lived. Angela listened as Elisabeth enumerated all the certificates and prizes her sons had won that term alone, and offered her congratulations. Her entrance into the conversation had evidently brought her to the attention of Mrs. Randall, for the latter now observed her closely through a lorgnette, and then entirely without preamble or tact said:

‘And where is Mr. Marchmont?’

Angela opened her mouth to reply, then looked at Elisabeth and closed it again.

‘In America at present,’ she said at last. It seemed the safest answer.

‘Of course, you lived in America for many years, didn’t you, Angela?’ said Elisabeth in an attempt to divert the subject away from personal matters. ‘And how did you like New York?’

But Mrs. Randall, undaunted, was still eyeing Angela through the lorgnette. Suddenly her brow cleared.

‘Ah, of course,’ she said in triumph. ‘I remember your name now. You were mentioned in the newspapers in connection with that dreadful murder down on the Romney Marsh. You were the one to find the body, I believe.’

‘Er—’ said Angela, glancing once again at Elisabeth, who had pursed her lips.

‘And they said you solved the murder, too,’ continued Mrs. Randall. ‘Of course, one can never believe a word one reads in the newspapers, but there must be something about you if it’s true. One doesn’t see many women detectives. It must be tremendously exciting.’

There was no sense in denying it at this point, so Angela said:

‘To be perfectly honest, it’s been mostly accidental up to now, but I confess it has been very interesting.’

‘I don’t quite think—’ began Elisabeth.

‘I dare say you have lots of friends in the police and in the—what do they call it?—ah, yes, the criminal underworld,’ went on Mrs. Randall happily.

‘Let me show you your room, Angela,’ said Elisabeth, who felt the need to act.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Angela and jumped up immediately, although she knew perfectly well where her room was. The two ladies left the drawing-room, of one accord for once, and Angela allowed herself to be escorted up to the small box-room in which she had slept as a child. There she found that Marthe had already unpacked her luggage and pointedly lit a fire to take off the chill, even though it was early June.

‘You’ll find everything quite comfortable,’ said Elisabeth, ‘but do ring if there is anything you require.’

She then left hurriedly, leaving Angela to gaze about her and try to summon up some feelings of warmth and regret for her old home. Pleasantly situated and comfortable as it was, she was disturbed to find that she felt nothing. She wandered over to the window and looked out into the kitchen-yard. William was down there, smoking and flirting with one of the maids, and she smiled and turned away. An old, white-painted cupboard stood in the corner of the room and she pulled open the door and looked inside. One or two items of clothing hung there, but nothing that had ever been hers. None of her old toys were here either; in fact, the house seemed to retain no impression of her at all. She had never been precisely unhappy at Two Tithes, but somehow she had never felt as though she belonged here, and odd though it sounded, she wondered whether perhaps the house felt the same. She laughed at her fancy and closed the cupboard door.

‘You’re going soft in the head, Angela,’ she said to herself, and went out.

Chapter Three

The next day brought warm, hazy sunshine, and after breakfast Angela excused herself and said she was going to take a solitary walk around the grounds and reacquaint herself with the place.

‘You won’t stay out too long, will you?’ said Elisabeth. ‘I shall need your help with the rosettes and the bunting for the fête.’

‘And don’t forget you are to visit Mrs. Hunter this afternoon,’ added Humphrey.

Angela promised to return in good time, and set off before one or both of them could suggest walking with her. She crossed the garden briskly and passed through the field beyond, then began to climb up the hill that lay behind the house. From the other side of this hill it was possible to see as far as London on a clear day, although there was too much haze today, so she stopped a little way up and turned to look back at the house. Two Tithes was a typical, rambling old country place which had been owned by the Cardews since the previous century. It was certainly attractive enough, set as it was among flower gardens and smooth lawns, with fields and woods beyond it and a little stream running along the edge of the grounds, and yet still Angela was unable to call it home. She supposed she had never been the type to indulge in nostalgia and could not regret having left, for she knew that had she stayed she should have felt like a captive. No: Humphrey had the house and was welcome to it. She was quite content to consider herself merely a visitor.

She came back down the hill and passed through the fields and beyond the boundaries of Two Tithes, then drifted along a lonely path through a tunnel of trees, hat in hand, with only the pleasantest of thoughts in her head and a smile on her face of which she was completely unaware. She was proceeding along the path, not paying a great deal of attention to her surroundings, when she suddenly became aware of a low growling, and she raised her head to see an irritable-looking bull terrier standing on the path before her. There was no mistaking the menace in its demeanour.

‘Oh!’ said Angela, and stopped. The dog began to approach her, still growling, and she backed away, eyeing it nervously. ‘Good boy,’ she ventured. The dog gave a scornful sneeze at such patently insincere praise, and kept on advancing until it had her pinned against a tree. Then it let out a loud bark and she squeaked in surprise.

‘Dear me,’ she said. Glancing about for the dog’s owner, she turned her head and found herself staring into the barrel of a shotgun. She gave another squeak.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said the newcomer, lowering his gun. ‘Down, Skipper! Here, boy!’

The dog gave one last disgusted growl and padded over to its owner, who turned out to be a tall, hearty man of sixty or more with unkempt hair sticking out from under a deer-stalker hat.

‘I hope we didn’t frighten you too much,’ said the man. ‘I thought you were someone else, and one can’t be too careful. I’m not fond of trespassers, you see.’

Angela stepped away from the tree, keeping a wary eye on the dog, and replaced her hat as she composed herself. She bit back the words that had initially come into her head, and said:

‘It’s Mr. Norris, isn’t it? I remember you. I’m Angela, from Two Tithes. Humphrey’s sister.’

The man squinted at her, then straightened up. His expression cleared and immediately became more friendly.

‘Ha! So it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘Back again. How long has it been? Ten years?’

‘Nearer twenty, I think,’ said Angela.

‘So long?’ he said. He appeared to have found his manners now, and was looking at her appreciatively. ‘Well, you’re quite the elegant lady now, aren’t you? I remember when you were barely this high, all curly hair and mischief, and would as rather be covered in mud as not. The curls are still there, I see, but I must say I hardly recognize the rest. What’s your name now? I don’t suppose you’re still a Cardew. And where have you been hiding for all these years?’

‘My name is Marchmont now,’ said Angela, ‘and I’ve been living in America and London.’