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In "They See in Darkness," Ethel Lina White crafts a captivating narrative that intricately weaves the themes of isolation and psychological tension into a gripping mystery. Set against the atmospheric backdrop of a remote Welsh cottage, White explores the complexities of human perception and the haunting consequences of unacknowledged truths. The novel is marked by a distinctive literary style characterized by its moody descriptions and a keen understanding of character psychology, reflective of the early 20th-century fascination with the thriller genre and the burgeoning exploration of the human psyche. Ethel Lina White, a pioneering female writer of crime fiction, drew upon her own experiences and keen observational skills to complete her literary oeuvre. Raised in the Victorian era, she was profoundly influenced by the turbulent social landscapes of her time, which she transformed into narratives filled with suspense and moral inquiry. Her writing serves not only as entertainment but also as a commentary on women's roles and societal expectations, themes evident in the motivations of her characters throughout this novel. I recommend "They See in Darkness" to readers who appreciate a combination of psychological depth and suspenseful storytelling. White's ability to engage with the darker aspects of human nature while maintaining a tight, suspenseful plot makes this book a must-read for aficionados of classic mysteries and psychological thrillers alike. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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They See in Darkness
Table of Contents
Introduction
In a place where respectability promises shelter yet every glance risks becoming a verdict, the terror of They See in Darkness lies in discovering that the people who seem to watch over you are the very people you must learn to fear, for in streets and drawing rooms alike the light is crowded with unblinking attention, the dark hums with private reckonings, and survival depends less on locks and police than on reading the room, curating the self, and navigating a maze of politeness whose velvet surfaces conceal nerves of steel, bruised secrets, and a communal hunger to decide who belongs.
Ethel Lina White, a British author celebrated for taut psychological suspense, wrote across the interwar and wartime decades, and They See in Darkness belongs to her later output in the 1940s, when anxieties about safety and community were especially acute. The book is a work of crime and suspense fiction set in a seemingly tranquil provincial milieu, where genteel routines frame a rising sense of unease. Without relying on grand conspiracies or labyrinthine detection, the novel builds tension from social observation, exposing how neighborhood rhythms, charitable committees, and polite visits can become stages on which fear, suspicion, and quiet malice perform.
At its outset, the story registers a pattern of small disturbances that feel innocuous in isolation yet sinister in accumulation, coaxing the reader into the same heightened alertness that grips the town. An observant central figure begins to sense that ordinary encounters are threaded with calculation, while local institutions meant to comfort instead transmit unease. The voice is poised and meticulous, favoring implication over proclamation, and the tone is coolly watchful rather than sensational. Pacing is deliberate, tightened by a drip of implications, so that even a casual call or a missed appointment acquires the pressure of a move in a delicate game.
One of the book’s animating ideas is visibility: who gets seen, who gets believed, and who learns to see without being seen. The darkness of the title is not merely nocturnal; it is the murk of prejudice, presumption, and selectively edited memory through which characters navigate. White examines the social mechanics of watchfulness—curiosity shading into surveillance, kindness into control, and hospitality into vetting. The risk in such a system is that truth becomes a rumor with good manners. By tracking the emotional tax levied on those under constant appraisal, the novel anatomizes a culture that prizes order while cultivating private terrors.
White’s characters often find that danger arrives not with dramatic threats but through invitations, errands, visits, and confidences that seem impossible to refuse. The book’s tension grows from ordinary obligations—polite calls, charitable tasks, neighborly advice—whose unspoken rules can entrap as effectively as locked doors. In tracing how reputation becomes currency, the narrative shows how class, gender, and civility shape who may speak and who must listen. While the story’s central perspective retains a humane sympathy, it never romanticizes community bonds; it acknowledges how kindness can be rationed, how protection is conditional, and how safety is negotiated one social cue at a time.
Stylistically, White favors crisp scene-work and precise staging, allowing small gestures to carry meaning while avoiding melodrama. The prose moves with an almost cinematic clarity, narrowing on private apprehensions and widening to the social stage as suspicion spreads without reducing anyone to caricature. Clues surface as tonal slippages, hesitations, and inconsistencies rather than grand revelations, encouraging the reader to inhabit the same uncertainty that troubles the characters. The suspense depends less on bodily peril than on moral pressure and social stakes, which makes the atmosphere both intimate and suffocating. The result is a mystery that engages the intellect while steadily tightening the emotional vise.
For contemporary readers, the novel’s preoccupation with watchfulness feels strikingly current, echoing an age of social media feeds, neighborhood forums, and perpetual visibility in which reputations can turn on a whisper. Its portrait of how communities police belonging illuminates debates about safety, ostracism, and the cost of conformity. At the same time, the book’s compassion for the anxious, the isolated, and the misread keeps it from cynicism. They See in Darkness endures because it transforms ordinary social life into a chamber of echoes and signals, asking us to consider how we look at others, how we are looked at, and what that gaze creates.
Synopsis
They See in Darkness by Ethel Lina White unfolds in a self-contained English town whose apparent tranquility conceals intricate hierarchies and quiet rivalries. White establishes a mood of watchfulness from the outset: neighbors note one another’s movements, propriety is prized, and generosity often arrives with fine print. The setting functions almost as a character, with lanes, parlors, and meeting rooms that channel gossip as efficiently as any official notice. Into this closed circuit White threads small cues of menace—unexplained tensions, subtle exclusions, and routines that become ominous when repeated—preparing a stage where ordinary civility may prove to be a fragile defense against mounting fear.
Much of the novel’s perspective comes through an observant outsider whose temperament and instincts do not align with the town’s rigid code. Through her eyes, readers grasp how kindness and control coexist, how certain benefactions bind recipients to behavioral terms, and how deference can mask coercion. She attracts allies and adversaries in equal measure, sharpening frictions that had previously been managed by silence. Her curiosity, though natural, breaks unspoken rules about where attention should be directed and whom one may question. In this climate, even casual inquiries feel like provocations, and social calls become tests of loyalty and nerve.
The unease hardens when a sequence of sudden deaths unsettles the community, each loss plausible in isolation but alarming in pattern. Whispers frame the events as a curse or judgment, and rumor supplies explanations faster than evidence can be gathered. Respectable citizens acquire the aura of suspects; familiar places feel unsafe; and small coincidences loom large. The outsider’s instincts tell her that the incidents share a hidden logic, but plausible motives are scattered among those most trusted. White keeps the narrative focused on perception and inference, letting uncertainty exert its own pressure as characters hedge their statements and adjust their routines.
A central pressure point is a network of charitable arrangements that confers comfort while enforcing conformity. Beneficiaries—particularly solitary women—live within a framework of rules that governs their clothing, conduct, and associations, monitored by committees that claim moral authority. The scheme promises security, yet it institutionalizes surveillance and fosters dependency. As panic grows, that structure becomes both refuge and trap: a ready-made system for distributing favors, extracting information, and punishing deviations. White probes how benevolence can shade into discipline, and how collective virtue-signaling may conceal fear of desire, aging, or poverty—material anxieties redirected into moral verdicts about others’ lives.
Official inquiries proceed, but the story’s engine is amateur detection shaped by intuition, pattern recognition, and a willingness to contravene etiquette. The outsider tracks linkages between victims, benefits, and grievances, while contending with polite stonewalling and sudden, theatrical displays of piety. Small objects, scheduled meetings, and chance encounters take on interpretive weight, and a list of potential culprits forms, populated by those who appear most irreproachable. White emphasizes how easily a community can rationalize selective blindness: what is publicly known but privately denied, and what is excused because it keeps social machinery running smoothly.
The suspense concentrates around a carefully arranged confrontation that seeks to force a revelation by reproducing the conditions under which fear thrives. As the circle tightens, the outsider’s safety becomes contingent on timing, trusted confidants, and her ability to read cues others dismiss. White orchestrates converging pressures—social obligation, personal vulnerability, and the intoxicating power of being above suspicion—without disclosing the full design until the decisive moment. The resolution, when it arrives, is prepared by prior nuances rather than sensational contrivance, and it reframes earlier scenes by clarifying who has been truly observant and who has taken refuge in ritual.
Without divulging the final turn, the novel endures for its anatomy of communal dread and the seductive logic of supervision disguised as care. White’s craftsmanship lies in depicting how kindness can become a lever, how roles assigned to women limit their margins for error, and how rumor supplies certainty when facts are scarce. They See in Darkness resonates as a study of moral theater in confined spaces, where appearances stand in for truth and safety depends on collective agreement to look away—or to look too closely. Its restrained shocks and social acuity keep it relevant to any era that confuses oversight with virtue.
Historical Context
Ethel Lina White (1876–1944) was a British novelist best known for psychological thrillers such as The Wheel Spins (1936) and Some Must Watch (1933). They See in Darkness appeared in 1944, during the final year of her life and amid the disruptions of the Second World War. White wrote in English for a wide readership that had embraced crime fiction as popular entertainment between the wars. By the early 1940s, paper rationing constrained publishers, yet mysteries still circulated briskly through lending libraries and cheaper reprints. This environment shaped the novel’s compact, suspense-driven design and its attention to contemporary social anxieties.
Set in a small British community, the novel draws on institutions familiar to readers in the 1930s and 1940s: the parish church, the borough or urban district council, the county constabulary, magistrates’ courts, and the coroner’s inquest. Such towns were sustained by local newspapers, charities, and voluntary associations that organized fêtes, relief funds, and social services. The hierarchical fabric of class and respectability governed reputations and access to influence. Everyday life was structured by timetables of trains and buses, limited telephones, and letter post. This civic landscape provides the procedural framework and the social pressures that animate suspicion, rumor, and official inquiry.
White wrote amid the British “Golden Age” of crime fiction, when authors like Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers popularized intricate puzzles. By the late 1930s and early 1940s, however, a marked shift toward psychological suspense and menace was underway, seen in works by Francis Iles and in White’s own career. This approach emphasized atmosphere, fear, and the vulnerability of ordinary people over elaborate clue-mongering. Readers encountered settings that felt recognizably modern, with public transport, rented rooms, and bureaucratic offices, while the threat often came from social insiders rather than exotic masterminds. They See in Darkness participates in that stylistic turn.
In wartime Britain, daily routines were reshaped by emergency regulations. Blackout rules darkened streets and houses from 1939, Air Raid Precautions organized wardens and shelters, and rationing limited food, fuel, and clothing. Local committees administered billeting and relief, while the Ministry of Information managed messaging to sustain morale. Such conditions fostered quiet streets, curtailed nightlife, and heightened reliance on neighbors, authority figures, and hearsay. Crime reporting adjusted to censorship and priorities of national security. These circumstances formed the immediate backdrop for thrillers of the early 1940s, in which isolation, watchfulness, and the fragility of trust generated distinctive narrative tension.
Social roles were also in flux. Women entered paid and voluntary wartime work in unprecedented numbers through the Women’s Voluntary Service, Auxiliary Territorial Service, civil defense, factories, and offices. At the same time, enduring codes of propriety in small towns policed movement, dress, and reputation. Crime writers explored this junction of new autonomy and old constraints by placing female characters in peril within familiar environments. White repeatedly centered ordinary women navigating danger with limited institutional power, reflecting both opportunity and vulnerability on the Home Front. The tensions between conformity, independence, and credibility supply much of the era’s psychological suspense.
British policing in this period remained locally organized, with county and borough forces handling most investigations. Scientific aids existed—fingerprinting, basic ballistics, and rudimentary blood analysis—but detectives relied heavily on witness statements, routine door-to-door inquiries, and the public’s cooperation. Coroners’ courts provided open scrutiny of unexplained deaths, and magistrates oversaw committal proceedings. The press reported inquests in detail, shaping public opinion about cases and reputations. These structures, familiar to contemporary readers, underpin the plausibility of mysteries set in small towns, where official authority intersects with gossip and civic pride. They See in Darkness utilizes the atmosphere created by these procedural expectations.
Contemporary fears of opportunistic crime under blackout conditions were widely publicized. Accidents and assaults increased in darkened streets, and notorious cases such as the 1942 “Blackout Ripper” murders in London captured attention. While provincial crime rates varied, newspapers amplified stories of prowlers, impostors, and confidence tricksters exploiting uncertainty. Government messages urged vigilance without panic, a balance mirrored in popular thrillers that dramatized the hazards of misperception. This climate of heightened alertness in ordinary settings gave writers like White a credible canvas for danger that did not require far‑fetched conspiracies, aligning menace with the everyday rhythms of British life.
They See in Darkness reflects its moment by channeling unease about visibility, reputation, and authority in close-knit communities. Its emphasis on atmosphere, whispered allegations, and institutional procedure echoes the Home Front’s mixture of solidarity and suspicion. White’s focus on ordinary citizens rather than professional spies or glamorous detectives situates moral risk within familiar civic spaces. In doing so, the book participates in a broader wartime critique of complacency and social deference, suggesting that danger can be hidden behind good order and conventional respectability. The result is a period piece that interrogates how communities respond when fear narrows the field of trust.
They See in Darkness
PROLOGUE
OLDTOWN was damp, picturesque and historic—a collection of gracious buildings set in a tree-lined valley. Its heart was the Square where the dim houses slanted crazily, as though they were built with a pack of ancient cards. They gave the impression of swaying in the November wind which shook the stripped branches of the Spanish chestnuts.
Standing in the big-bellied bow-window of the County Club, the Chief Constable, Colonel Pride, smoked as he chatted to his guest—a retired Indian judge whom he had known in the East. The Colonel's face was scalded scarlet by tropical sun, which had also bleached his flaxen brows and lashes. In contrast with his white hair, his blue eyes looked youthfully keen as he watched a girl cross the cobbles on perilous heels.
She was tall, slender and fair, with a finished appearance, as though much time and thought had been spent to achieve an effect. When she drew nearer, it was possible to see the exquisite moulding of her face and the porcelain delicacy of her colouring. Her expression was bored, to demonstrate the nonchalance exacted by a reputation for beauty and poise.
The Indian judge noticed his old friend's absorption with cynical amusement, blent with surprise. As Colonel Pride had been immune to woman during his younger days, his present interest in youth appeared somewhat ominous.
"Pretty girl," he probed.
"I suppose so," agreed the Colonel in a grudging voice. "I believe she is by way of being our local beauty."
"Who is she?"
"Simone Mornington-Key. Mother's a widow. They live in Old Court."
He nodded across the Square to a red brick Queen Anne mansion, its front door opening flush with the pavement.
In contradiction with his indifference, the Colonel continued to stare at the girl with so concentrated a gaze, that his friend felt a hint would not be misplaced.
"She's too modern for our generation," he said.
As he spoke, the girl looked up at the Club window. Recognising the Colonel, she inclined her head in the precision-bow of a monarch who had practised it during a long reign. Since the attraction was obviously not mutual, the Judge asked a direct question.
"Interested in her, Pride?"
"Like hell I am," declared the Colonel. "That girl is an object of interest not only to myself but to every policeman in the town. For all we know to the contrary, she is a murderess."
The words jolted the Judge out of his composure.
"A murderess?" he echoed. "That beautiful calm face...But I should know exactly how little that means. Mere facade...Why is she at large?"
"At present, she is only under general suspicion," explained the Chief Constable. He lowered his voice before he continued. "A family in this town is being systematically wiped out. They are all legatees in the will of Josiah Key—a tea-merchant who made his pile in China. He came back to his native town and lived at Canton House, where he died. His fortune is divided between his sister and his nieces and nephews. The mischief is it's one of those reversionary wills. As the legatees die, their shares go to enrich the jack-pot. Winner takes all, including the capital."
"By 'winner,' you mean the ultimate survivor?" asked the Judge.
"I do. And the death-rate in that family is getting more than a coincidence."
The Judge screwed together his wrinkled lids.
"In view of this sudden fall," he remarked, "the last-man-in is likely to finish up himself at eight o'clock in the morning. The inference is that he will reveal his identity with his last murder. Reasoning by the book, he must be guilty. But you will have to prove his guilt. He might stage a final crime which is too crafty to be traced to him. Pride, you are not sitting too easy."
"Neither is he," said the Colonel. "Everyone will believe that he wiped out the others when—in reality—he may be damned by a chain of unlucky circumstances. He could be innocent."
"In such a case, I can imagine compensation. With a fortune to spend, he has not got to remain in Oldtown and wilt under local odium."
"Ah, it's plain to see you are neither a gardener nor a small-town man. If you were, you'd know that your hometown is the biggest place in the world, while it's damnably difficult to grow new roots."
The Judge looked across the Square at the hoary houses which appeared to be on the point of toppling down. He shivered as a gust of wind blew through the cracks of the diamond-paned windows. Too tactful to question the local attraction, he began to chat about the Chief Constable's problem.
"I suppose you suspect the family?" he asked.
"That is definitely the police-angle," replied the Colonel. "The deaths are limited to the legatees of old Key's will and they alone have the motive."
"Any dubious character among them?"
"No, they are all nice people...And they are being killed off one by one."
The Judge hid his astonishment at the anger in his old friend's voice. As though he felt his emotion was out of place, the Colonel began to explain.
"This business reminds me of something which happened when I was a youngster. We had a big tank, filled with minnows, in the conservatory, and we used to go to the canal to net fresh stock. Late one evening I came home in triumph with a unique specimen and dumped him into the tank...In the morning, every fish was dead, floating belly-up on the top of the water. In my ignorance, I had put a killer into the tank—a cray-fish."
The Colonel gave a short laugh as he added, "My rind is as tough as most, but even now, I can't think of that business without a qualm. It was a sort of nursery version of the massacre of Cawnpore[1]. Imagine that devil hunting down his helpless victims all through the night and not letting-up until he had slaughtered the lot...Get me?"
"Not exactly," confessed the Judge. "I'm afraid I can't get enthusiastic about fish."
"But you see the analogy? There's a killer loose in this town, remorselessly hunting down a bunch of helpless people. For instance, take Simone."
He pointed to the fair girl who was returning from her short walk to the pillar-box, and added, "That girl may be the killer. On the other hand, she may be the next victim."
"Certainly it's up to you," said the Judge. "By the way, what about popular opinion?"
"The subject is too delicate to be discussed openly among decent people. But I am told that the mystery has been solved by the ignorant and superstitious element. They say that the murders are committed by the 'Mad Nun.'"
I. — THE MAD NUN
THE miasma of fear and superstition which created "the mad nun" had been dormant in the atmosphere for months, so that only a murder was needed to release it. It was a poisonous suggestion generated by the combination of a muffled landscape and a body of recluses, known locally as "The Black Nuns."
Oldtown was not especially healthy as it lay low and was ringed too closely by trees which pressed in upon it like the threat of an invading army. In places, the forest appeared actually to have broken-in, for isolated houses were almost hidden by the surrounding foliage. The civic lungs—not designed for deep-breathing—were provided by the bungalows of a new suburb at its eastern end, where its spine of High Street merged into the main road.
There was a secondary road which by-passed the town, following the curve of a sulky brown river and shadowed by the perpetual twilight of fir-woods. This river-road was unlighted and was usually damp underfoot, while its surface was slippery from fallen leaves and fir-needles. Consequently it was neglected in favour of the shorter main road and was popular only with lovers, until they were driven away by the procession of the Black Sisters.
Every evening, as darkness was beginning to fall, a body of dark veiled forms filed singly out of the gates of a large mansion—the Cloisters—at the west end of the town. They wore heavy black habits and high cowls which covered their faces completely—exaggerating their height to unhuman stature, so that they resembled the creations of a nightmare.
They crossed the main road and descended to the river road—to reappear at the other end of the town[1q]. After a short service in the little Roman Catholic chapel, they retraced their steps back to the Cloisters.
The usual number of wild stories was circulated about the recluses. They were credited with the faculty of seeing only at night-time—of living in darkness—of torturing their mental patients. No one had ever seen their faces or heard their voices. None could guess at outlines hidden under shapeless robes...
The Chief Constable—Colonel Pride—had been told some of the truth about the mysterious sisterhood. To begin with, he knew that they were not nuns and belonged to no religious order. Their leader was an anonymous lady and was vouched for by the late Josiah Key, tea-merchant, who had known her in China.
There was no doubt of their wealth, for they not only bought the Cloisters—which had been empty for years because of its uneconomic size—but they reconstructed it to meet their requirements. In these transactions, they were represented by a Miss Gomme, who looked after all their business affairs and acted as a buffer between them and the outside world. She was grey, gaunt and reticent, as though she had been born during a long winter night of frost, and she proved herself a worthy guardian of secrets.
The Chief Constable released some of his information when Inspector Wallace, of the local Police, asked him about the new-comers.
"Have they a racket or are they just cranks?" he queried.
"Neither, I believe," replied Colonel Pride. "They are a body, recluses who believe in the curative properties of darkness. Their official title is 'Sisters of the Healing Darkness.' They run a home for the treatment of severe nervous and borderline cases. They claim never to have had a failure."
"Proves they can afford to pick and choose."
"Yes," agreed the Colonel, "they probably reject a doubtful case. Of course the home is licensed in the usual way. Even if their methods appear unconventional, they get their results."
The Inspector still looked sceptical.
"I don't get it," he complained. "Must they wear those horrible hoods?"
"I have no official knowledge," the Colonel told him. "What do they suggest to you?"
The policeman furrowed his brow before he replied.
"My guess is they wish to keep their identity secret and to scare away Peeping Toms from their privacy. They want to suggest some horror hidden under the veil."
"Your guess is as good as mine," the Colonel remarked.
Before the hideous creation of the Mad Nun began to pick her way through the shadows, the female population of Oldtown had been prepared for her reception by their seasonal scare. This was a story of a man, disguised as a woman, who lurked in lonely roads to molest unprotected girls. The tale had sound entertainment-value at tea-parties, when the day drew in and tea-cups were passed around, although it was not so popular with a guest who had to walk home alone to an isolated house.
The day when the Mad Nun first appeared, to darken the history of Oldtown, was in October. It was a month before Colonel Pride and the Indian judge stood in the window of the County Club and watched Simone Mornington-Key cross the Square. The horror was put into circulation by a post office clerk, named "Eva." She was a pretty, delicate girl—pale, overgrown and very fair—with heavy-lidded grey eyes. Like most of her companions, she cherished a passion for the new post-mistress—Cassie Thomas.
Upon the morning of the first murder, rays of molten-gold sunshine were striking through the mist as Cassie walked to her work at the new Branch Post Office. Long bedewed cobwebs sparkled as they floated in the air and the trees flamed with autumnal tints. It was not only a day for cheer, but, in addition, Cassie was always happy, so long as she had no cause for grief.
She had got off to a false start—a premature birth which killed her mother. Her childhood had been shadowed by poverty and dependence until she entered the Civil Service as a clerk at the Post Office. It was then that life began for Cassie Thomas. Her first experience of economic freedom brought with it a wonderful gush of personal prestige. Her work was congenial and she considered herself more fortunate than the leisured population of Oldtown, doomed by tradition to slave at games and sports, in all weathers.
Her future was assured by a civil pension. Her modest ambition was gratified by her promotion to the Branch Post Office...Therefore, she magnified the Lord by singing at her work...
The girls in the outer office liked to hear the low musical croon from Miss Thomas' private room. She was popular with them, especially as her predecessor—a petty tyrant—had not been easy to follow. There was competition to bring flowers for her desk and to carry in her afternoon cup of tea.
That afternoon, Cassie was guilty of the unusual crime of watching the clock. The time seemed to pass slowly because she was looking forward to seeing Mrs. Miniver[2] again, on that popular lady's second visit to the local cinema. When daylight began to fade, she crossed to the window and gazed out at the tree-choked valley.
It was a lonely outlook as the Post Office was built at the extreme east end of the town, to meet the needs of the new bungalow-suburb. Not far away was the tobacconist's shop—a venture of Cassie's cousin—Cherry Ap-Thomas...That "Ap" marked the difference between the relatives. It informed the public that Cherry—who was ten years younger than Cassie—knew her onions and intended to finish with more impressive backing than an official pension...
The only other building was the tiny Roman Catholic chapel—sunken in a damp dock-grown hollow and shaded by sweeping cedars, but Cassie liked the loneliness. It accentuated the beauty of her surroundings and also appealed to a vague Celtic melancholy which underlay her happiness. As she looked out at the dying blaze of foliage, she compared it with a Royal Academy landscape, which was her highest praise. In her turn, she made a pleasant picture in her olive-green suit and scarlet scarf. Her shining black hair waved naturally and she had the same clear complexion as her cousin, Cherry—only Cherry had organised hers with the rest of her assets.
Miss Thomas fumbled in the pockets of her cardigan and drew out an empty cigarette-carton.
"Blow," she said. "I mustn't forget to drop in at Cherry's and get fags for the pictures."
She was looking forward, not only to meeting Mrs. Miniver, but also the cashier from the Midland Bank. He was a widower and lived at her boarding-house. So once again, she looked at her watch and sighed, while for the first time in her Post Office experience work became a burden.
The copper and gold on the hillside had faded to grey and were beginning to deepen to black, when her favourite clerk—Eva—came into her room. The girl was in an excited and confident mood, for she had beaten the other claimants to Miss Thomas' favour. Her bunch of chrysanthemums stood on the post-mistress' desk and she had brought in the cup of tea with a double ration of biscuits. Therefore she felt justified in her boast to the other clerks.
"I'm going to the pictures with Miss Thomas this evening."
When they had responded with the "raspberry," Eva made a bold attempt to convince them by walking into the private room.
"Is it time to go, Eva?" asked Miss Thomas—hoping that her watch was slow.
"No, Miss Thomas," replied the girl. "The Bats haven't gone by yet."
Although they had Greenwich Time at the Post Office, the clerks always checked it with the Black Sisters' visit to the chapel.
"Bats, Eva?" queried Cassie reprovingly.
"Well, they say they're all mad," said the girl. "Please, Miss Thomas, may I open the window and watch out for them?"
In order to pass the time, Cassie stood beside the girl and stared out also towards the darkness of the river road. Her sight was keen but the very intensity of her gaze blurred the bushes to the semblance of a confused huddle of forms...
And then, suddenly—in defiance of the laws of Nature—the trees began to walk. One by one, they crossed the main road, under the light of the last municipal lamp-post at the east end of the town. Slowly, heavily, inexorably, they seemed to roll past, like images endowed with the mechanism of motion. Without pause or stumble, as though they actually possessed inner vision, they descended the steep slippery path to the chapel.
"Coo," gloated Eva. "They look like the Inquisition going to burn people. They say they torture their poor lunies. When the wind is right, you can hear them yowl."
"Nonsense, Eva," said Miss Thomas. "You only expose your ignorance. They couldn't take mental patients without being open to inspection by the medical officer.
"Everything might look all right when he visited them," hinted Eva darkly. "But what price after he'd gone? They tickle their soles."
"Stop talking such nonsense, Eva. They're all good women in their way, even if it is not our way."
"But suppose one of them has gone mad and gets loose—"
As Eva's voice rose, Miss Thomas shut the door, so that the girls in the outer office were cheated of further sensation. She had not been quick enough, however, for a red-haired girl who sat nearest passed on a new version of the current rumour.
"That man who jumps out at girls is really a mad nun."
Conscious that Miss Thomas expected her to go, Eva licked her lips nervously.
"Can I go to the pictures with you, to-night, Miss Thomas?" she asked.
Cassie was never allowed to walk home alone, since she was the victim of her own popularity and too kind-hearted to snub the girls. But although she liked her work and was fond of Eva, she was determined not to take the Post Office with her to the cinema.
"No, Eva," she said firmly, "I am going with a friend. Run and tell the girls to put on their hats."
She used the formal order of dismissal, although no one wore a hat. But Eva still waited.
"Please, Miss Thomas," she pleaded, "won't you let me walk back with you for company? The new road's so dark and they say there's a man dressed up like a woman—"
"That old tale again," interrupted Cassie derisively. "You'd think there were too many women in the town already, without inventing another one...Good-night, Eva."
When Eva returned to the outer office, the other girls were prepared to bait her.
"Coming with us—or waiting for Miss Thomas?" asked the red-head.
"Of course, I am waiting to go with her," said Eva.
The words were scarcely spoken before she regretted her boast. It involved her in the deceit of hiding in the Post Office until she had given her companions sufficient start to out-distance her. With a miserable sense of being deserted, she watched them burst out of the office, laughing and chattering—each eager to resume her private life.
A little later, Cassie came into the outer office and saw Eva standing at the open door. She wore a bright blue tweed coat and a catching silk handkerchief tied over her hair. Excitement and guilt had made her face flame, so that she looked actually beautiful. In Miss Thomas' opinion, she was too attractive to walk home alone, so that she practically drove her through the door.
"Run and catch up with the others," she said sharply, not knowing that the rest of the staff had left five minutes before. "Good night, dear. Run."
