“Why is anybody angry?”

She left it at that. No knowing where that current would take you if you ventured in too far. She drew back and sat in silence all the way into Ledlington. After a little she found the silence restful.

“Where do you want to go?”

They were amongst houses now, straggling outposts of the town, raw and new, with brightly coloured tiles, unfinished gardens, vivid window curtains, and names like My’ome, Maryzone, and Wyshcumtru.

“Oh, the High Street – Ashley’s. I shan’t be long.”

She heard him laugh.

“When every woman lies! I’ll expect you when I see you. Shall I have time to get my hair cut?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Several times over, I expect! Don’t hurry.”

Lisle went up to the ladies’ rest room. Ashley’s did their customers very well. They catered for women who came in from the country round and made a day of it, shopping in the morning and paying visits in the afternoon. You could have your hair shampooed and waved, you could take a facial treatment, you could rest in a comfortable armchair and look through the latest magazines, you could ring up your friends from a telephone box which ensured privacy.

It was the telephone box which had brought Lisle to Ashley’s. She entered it, took care to shut the door, and asked for a London number. Ledlington has not arrived at automatic telephones. The frequently expressed view is that it has no desire to be bothered with them.

Lisle, waiting for her call, was glad to see how empty the rest-room was. A vague attendant just visible through the archway into the dressing-room was polishing a mirror over one of the wash-basins. There was no one else in sight.

The voice of the telephone operator said, “Here you are,” and with a little click the prim, reliable voice of Miss Maud Silver took its place.

“Hullo!”

Queer how the one word took Lisle back to the train and a dumpy figure in drab shantung and a brown hat with a bunch of mignonette and pansies. She had no need to ask who was on the line.

“Miss Silver – Lisle Jerningham speaking. I can’t come up and see you today. I’ve had to change my plans.”

There was the sound of a faint cough.

“Dear me – that’s a pity – really a great pity. You are sure you cannot manage to come?”

Lisle said, “Quite sure,” not knowing how the words sounded to Miss Silver’s ears.

The prim, reliable voice said, “Dear me!” again. And then, “Could you come up tomorrow?”

Lisle wanted to say yes so much that she began to shake. She wanted to say yes, and she mustn’t. She must say no. She said it in a failing voice, and then she said good-bye and hung up the receiver before she could be tempted to say anything more. Then she went quickly back to the car and sat there to wait for Rafe. She had to wait some time.

When he came, her heart knocked suddenly against her side. She thought something had happened, and then wondered what had put the thought into her mind, because he smiled and looked just as usual. But when they were clear of the High Street and drawing away from the town he said in a conversational tone,

“They’ve got Pell.”

Why should that make her heart knock? But it did. She said,

“How do you know?”

“I met March. They’re having the inquest tomorrow.”

Lisle leaned back and closed her eyes. The mist was gone. The wet road dazzled her under the sun. Her heart beat. She said,

“Did he do it -Pell? Did he push Cissie over the cliff?”

Rafe put his foot down on the accelerator. The new houses streamed away on either side and were gone. The green fields streamed away. He said in his casual voice,

“That’ll be for a jury to say. He swears he didn’t.”

MISS SILVER laid down the telephone receiver and picked up her knitting. She was engaged upon a rather elaborate blue jumper designed by herself and intended for her niece Ethel. Purl two – knit two – slip one – purl two… It was absolutely necessary to keep the mind unwaveringly fixed on this part of the pattern. But after ten minutes or so the clicking needles slowed down, the pale, plump hands came to rest upon the blue wool. It was always annoying when a client broke an appointment – annoying and unsatisfactory. It indicated a wavering purpose – that much was certain. A purpose might waver because of a naturally unstable character. With some people, to act on impulse provoked an immediate reaction; the impulse was regretted and reversed. Another cause would be fear. The girl who had spoken to her in the train had been quite desperately shocked and afraid. If she had made her appointment then, Miss Silver would not have been at all surprised at its being cancelled later on when she had had time to recover and reflect. But it was after this time for reflection had elapsed that the appointment had been made, and made urgently under some pressure of necessity and fear. Made – and now cancelled. If the reason for making it had been fear, that reason still existed. The voice that had cancelled the appointment had trembled with fear. The girl who spoke was afraid of her own voice. She was afraid of saying too much. She could not stay for the ordinary courtesies. Mrs. Dale Jerningham had been gently bred. If fear had not driven her, she would have softened the breach of her appointment with apology and regret. She had not tried to soften anything. There had been no room in her mind for any other thing than her own fear and haste.

Miss Silver considered these points at length. Then she took out of a drawer on her right a bright blue exercise-book with a shiny cover. Opened and laid out flat on the convenient mound produced by Ethel’s jumper, it disclosed under the heading “Mrs. Dale Jerningham” an account of her conversation with Lisle in the train. There were also a number of newspaper cuttings. To these Miss Silver paid a very particular attention. The room about her settled into silence.

It was a cheerfully Victorian apartment with a brightly flowered Brussels carpet and plush curtains of a particularly cheerful shade of peacock-blue. In front of the empty grate stood a fire screen with a frame of the same yellow walnut as the writing-table and carved in the same regrettably ornate manner. On the front of the screen was a pattern of poppies, cornflowers and wheat ears worked in cross-stitch upon canvas, with a background of olive green. In front of the fire-screen there was a black woolly mat. The mantelpiece supported a row of photographs in silver frames, whilst above them, against a flowered wallpaper, hung a steel engraving of Millais’ “Black Brunswicker”, in a border of yellow maple. Similar engravings of “Bubbles”, “The Soul’s Awakening”, and Landseer’s “Monarch of the Glen” adorned the other walls. On either side of the hearth there was one of those odd old-fashioned chairs with bow legs profusely carved, upholstered laps, and curving waists.

Miss Silver herself, neat, drab, and elderly, her hair in a knob behind and a fuzzy fringe covered with a net in front, fitted perfectly into these surroundings. The only jarring note was struck by the telephone standing incongruously upon the faded green leather top of the writing-table. New, workmanlike, shiny, without curve, colour or carving, it proclaimed an era removed by nearly four decades from that in which Victoria lived and died.

A small clock wreathed with wooden edelweiss which lurked among the photograph frames on the mantelpiece struck the half hour. Miss Silver put the exercise-book back into the drawer from which she had taken it, laid Ethel’s jumper carefully on the left-hand side of the table, and drawing in her chair, proceeded to dial “Trunks”. There was a little delay, during which her thoughts continued to be busy. Then a click heralded a booming bass. It said,

“Police Station, Ledlington.”