“Suppose it’s true-suppose she did get herself murdered. I don’t believe it for a moment, but just suppose she did. What do you propose to do about it-go poking your nose in where you’re not wanted, and get yourself murdered too? You might, you know. If you tried hard enough, and if there really is a murderer camouflaging himself in this barmy Colony. I suppose you expect me to stand by and let you do it. Well, I’m not going to, and that’s flat!”

“Let me go!”

She might just as well not have spoken.

“It’s a job for the police, and you know it! There’s nothing you could do if you stayed here for a month of Sundays!”

“Well then, there is!”

“As what?”

If she had been a little cooler, or if he hadn’t been holding her, she might not have gone on, but the things that were bubbling up in her were too hot and angry. They came pouring out.

“Someone has got to find out about Anna. It’s nearly five months, and perhaps she’s dead. Or shut up. It keeps coming over me. Suppose she found out something and they’ve got her shut up in the ruined part of the house. No one goes in there except that Craddock man. It’s kept locked off because it’s not supposed to be safe for the children. Those old houses have cellars. Suppose Anna is there, locked up-how can I go away? I think about it in the night. Suppose she was locked up in one of those cellars, and everyone said like you do, ‘Oh, well, she just doesn’t choose to write.’ I keep thinking about that, and about our all just getting up in the morning, and having our meals, and going out and coming in, and nobody bothering about her or-or caring whether she is dead or alive. Peter, it’s no use -I’ve got to do something about it. And-and-there’s someone coming-let go of me at once, or I’ll scream!”

“And give me in charge for assault?”

She said in a quick different voice,

“It would serve you right. Peter, let go-there is someone coming!”

John Robinson came up through the wood. He did not watch birds for nothing. He was instantly aware that he had interrupted a quarrel. He observed the traces of Thomasina’s angry tears, the brightness of her eyes, and the very becoming colour which deepened at his approach. He observed a broken twig and a crushed leaf about midway between her and the tall frowning young man, and deduced without difficulty that he had just stepped back from-no, not an embrace. Miss Thomasina Elliot was rubbing her wrists. The fellow had been holding her, and he had stepped back. It became necessary to discover whether this was a case of damsel in distress. He therefore checked a little in his walk, allowed a smile to filter through his beard, and addressed Thomasina.

“Taking the air after our grilling by the police? There’s quite a good view at the top of the hill. Have you been up there yet?” His voice was slow and pleasant, the country accent much less marked than it had been at Deepe House.

Thomasina was rather pleased with the way she managed to smile and say,

“Yes, the children took me. I haven’t time to go on this morning. Peter and I have to be getting back.”

So the young man was a friend. Mr. Robinson acknowledged the half introduction with another smile and went on his way whistling melodiously.

Thomasina set off at a brisk pace down the hill without looking round to see whether Peter was following her. She wouldn’t run, because if she did he might run after her. She would just walk as fast as she could and not look round, and whether he overtook her or not, she did not intend to say another single word.

But when, within sight of the Miss Tremletts’ cottage, she broke her resolution and looked back, there was no sign of Peter Brandon.

In the afternoon the Miss Tremletts took Thomasina to tea with Miranda. Having met the assembled Colony once already that day, it was rather a relief to find that they were the only guests. Even Peter wasn’t there. There really was, of course, no reason why he should have been, since it was most improbable that he and Miranda had met. It was therefore completely irrational to feel a little lowered in one’s spirits.

Miranda’s exuberant welcome did nothing to raise them. She embraced Miss Elaine and Miss Gwyneth as if they had been parted for months instead of a few short hours, and held Thomasina by both hands for quite a long time. Warmth to which one cannot respond has a depressing effect. Thomasina did not in the least want to have her hands held by an astonishing red-haired woman in a flowing violet robe. She hoped that Elaine and Gwyneth would not think it necessary to stay for hours, but she was very much afraid that they might. People did in the Colony.

It was during tea that Thomasina realized how fortunate she was to be boarding with the Miss Tremletts, and not with anyone else. Devoted adherents of Peveril Craddock’s they might be, but they remained obstinately faithful to quite ordinary things to eat. There was no health tea in their cottage, no special brand of coffee which was made out of something quite different, none of the cereals which so strongly resemble little packets of chopped straw. There was brown bread, it is true, and there was porridge, but after that the line was firmly drawn.

Miranda had a health tea of her own of a pale greenish colour, and it had lemon in it instead of milk. Thomasina found it quite incredibly nasty. There were also home-made biscuits with a good deal of charcoal in them, a conserve of rowan and elderberry which combined mawkishness with acidity, and a savoury cake which tasted strongly of sage. It was not an inspiring meal, and the dreadful thing was that Miranda was quite overwhelmingly hospitable, and not only told them exactly how everything was made, but continued to press her horrid handiwork upon them in such a manner that it could not be refused.

“I really think my best batch of preserve! Augustus said not enough sugar, but it is keeping remarkably well. And the cake- an experiment, and really quite a striking success, I think, and I am sure that you will too. Elaine, you are eating nothing… No, Gwyneth, I really cannot take a refusal-you must positively try these sandwiches. Quite a new filling, and I’m not going to tell you what it is, because I want you to guess… Oh, no, it is not one of Peveril’s. Advanced as he is in some ways, he is inclined to be unprogressive in the matter of food. Experiment must go before experience. We cannot always see where the next step will take us. Miss Elliot-or may I say Ina-these forms are so meaningless, do you not think so-you have positively nothing to eat. Now, which is it to be-the cake, the sandwiches, or the biscuits?”

The sandwiches seemed the smallest. Thomasina took one, and found that two more were being pressed upon her plate.

“Something quite new, and I am sure that you will like them.”

They were quite incredibly nasty, with several lingering flavours which she found it impossible to resolve. She did refuse a second dose of pale green tea, but her cup was filled and she had to go on sipping from it. The one stroke of luck was being able to slip the two extra sandwiches into the pocket of her coat, where the filling oozed and left a horrid stain upon the lining. She would not have been able to do it if it had not been for the unheralded appearance of Augustus Remington, who wandered into the room in a pale blue smock with a tambour frame in one hand and an embroidery needle connected with it by a strand of orange silk in the other. Since the heads of all three ladies were immediately turned in his direction, she snatched the opportunity and dealt with the sandwiches.

A sad protesting voice rose above the welcoming twitter of the Miss Tremletts and the hospitable insistence of Miranda.

“No-no-not a thing. Charcoal in those biscuits is a mistake -a mere dissonance. And I always told you there wasn’t enough sugar in that conserve. No-no-I won’t take anything at all. And certainly not herbal cake. Nor sandwiches. They remind me too, too painfully of that horror of childhood’s days, the picnic-spiders down the back of the neck and earwigs in the milk. Besides, I have no appetite at all. This morning’s rude intrusion! Too shattering to the vibrations! I did not come here for food, but for companionship. I heard your voices in my solitude, where I was endeavouring to compose myself with my embroidery, and my feet brought me here.” He waved the tambour frame at Miss Gwyneth and dropped his voice to a low and confidential tone. “My latest composition.”