Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 12, No. 60, November 1948

Love-in-a-Mist by Joseph Shearing

Copyright, 1932, by Joseph Shearing

Joseph Shearing is best-known as the author of a series of remarkable novels, each based on a relatively obscure cause célèbre in the annals of French and English crime. Joseph Shearing’s work in this field has stamped the author as one of the most distinguished criminologists of our time. Such experts as Edmund Pearson and William Roughead have publicly hailed the Shearing studies-in-murder as the finest of their kind being published today. Sally Benson, reviewing THE CRIME OF LAURA SARELLE in “The New Yorker,” wrote words of praise seldom accorded a practitioner in the genre of crime: “Mr. Shearing is a painstaking researcher, a superb writer, a careful technician and a master of horror. There is no one else quite like him.”

Shearing shorts — an allusive alliteration — are virtually unknown in America. The one we have selected for Mr. Shearing’s first appearance in EQMM is the story of Mary Fryer, a wealthy old maid of dominating personality, a woman who has adjusted her life even to the point of subjugating a secret passion. You may marvel at how a man could have attained so clear an insight into a woman s character — until you realize that “Joseph Shearing” is a pseudonym, that the author is really a woman. Only a few years ago Mrs. Gabrielle Margaret Vere Campbell Long (also know as “Marjorie Bowen”) confessed to the authorship of the “Joseph Shearing” novels.

Mary Fryer made three entries in her commonplace book: Item; to speak to Agatha about her high heels. Item; to have the old bridge in Croom Wood repaired. Item; to replenish the beds below the terrace with Queen Anne’s Lace and Nigella (Love-in-a-Mist).

None of these things was of much importance, but Miss Fryer was a very methodical woman and it worried her when some trifle slipped from her keen memory only to re-occur at some inopportune moment. When she had last been in Croom Wood she had noticed that the wooden bridge across the steep water-break and rapid stream was rotting and, in fact, quite dangerous. But as it was very seldom used — Croom Wood was the loneliest part of her estate — she had forgotten about it until John Portis, the underkeeper, had reminded her of it yesterday.

Then, the flowers — that bed beneath the terrace — required, she thought, a blue color against the stone, not those hot-hued celosia the gardener put in year after year.

Agatha was one of the housemaids, and Miss Fryer, who kept many servants, did not often see her; but it was an acute, if occasional, irritation to hear the tap, tap of those high heels along the wide corridors. Miss Fryer had already spoken to the girl, who, however, continued the offense. There must be an end of that annoyance, Miss Fryer decided; she would herself buy for her a pair of comfortable flat-heeled, wide-toed shoes, summon the girl into her presence, then tell her she must wear them and not the foolish, uncomfortable French shoes which must have cost far more than she could possibly afford.

The acute mind of Mary Fryer made a connection between the bridge and the vanity of the housemaid. Agatha was one of the few people who went through Croom Wood, which was a short cut to her grandfather’s farm at Lyston, and if she, foolish as she was, tried to cross the bridge instead of going round over the head of the water-break, it was quite feasible that she might catch one of those ridiculous heels in the broken planks and fall onto the stones below. The current was strong, deep, and swift, and no one would hear the cries or see the struggles of Agatha, for the spot was quite forsaken.

“I must warn the girl.” Then Mary Fryer smiled. “I suppose that is why Portis reminded me of the bridge.”

The underkeeper was going to marry Agatha in the winter. Miss Fryer had taken a great interest in the improving and garnishing of the cottage which the young couple would occupy. And the dressmaker at Lyston was making, at Miss Fryer’s expense, a generous outfit for the bride.

This was not being done for the sake of the girl, who was treated with great coldness by her mistress and kept at the same distance as all the other servants, but because of Mary Fryer’s concern with John Portis.

She shut up her commonplace book and locked it in her desk. A full day’s work and leisure was before her, for the autumn morning had just begun. It was a pleasure to her to sit in the handsome, gracious room and look out through the long French windows on to the well-kept, carefully cherished gardens with park, meadows, and fields beyond — all belonging to Mary Fryer. She was a happy woman. It did not trouble her that she had missed husband and children, that she was fifty years old and had never been either beautiful or charming. She owned Fryer’s Manor, she was in her proper place, part of a satisfying continuity; she relished, with a keen zest, every detail of her life, she enjoyed her pride of place, her talent for management, the great respect everyone gave her, the comforts and luxuries she could afford to give herself. She continually rejoiced in her possessions, from the rich Manor itself to the least of her frail Worcester tea cups; she was healthy, strong-minded, and had never known a regret.

Without blenching she contemplated, every time she went to church (and on no reasonable occasion was her impressing pew empty), the graves of her ancestors and the place where she would lie herself. These dead Fryers were all living to her; their portraits were on her walls, their names and stories in her heart and often on her lips. She rather believed that if you were a Fryer of Fryer Manor, it did not much matter if you were alive or dead.

In the same spirit of placid and generous pride she regarded her heir, a younger sister’s son; everything would be his with the one proviso — that he took the name of Fryer.

She carefully altered the date on the calendar — September 1st, 1861. September, a delicious month; she looked forward to days and days of delight, to years and years of enjoyment, for she was so strong, healthy, and equable in her temperament — yes, she was sure that she would relish life to the last minute of it, as she relished her father’s good port to the last drop on the tongue.

She was in a mellow mood and counted her blessings. How fortunate it was that she had always been able to indulge her sense of power, over servants, tenants, villagers, over the vicar and curate, over nearly all her friends and acquaintances. She was just, benevolent, and impartial, but she would have loathed to have been an underling. Even now she sometimes felt that her great capacity for command, for courage, for quick decision, for all the qualities of leadership, had not been fully used. A crisis — that now she would really rather like to be faced with a crisis, just to show herself what she could do.

“How absurd I am being. As if anything like that would happen to me! And what a bother if it did! Now, what have I to do this morning? Four letters to write, three visits to make—” She rose and opened the window, allowing the uninterrupted sunshine to fall over the handsome furniture, the rich carpets, the spotless silver, and all the other evidences of long established wealth and decorum.

Mary Fryer was a short woman with an aquiline nose and slightly prominent gray eyes; her complexion was very good and she had pretty hands. She wore a frilled dress of gray bombazine; her hair was the color of hay, very smoothly dressed in a net of black chenille. At her waist hung a multitude of small keys (the large keys she carried in a fiat basket) and in her close-buttoned bodice was her father’s gold watch on a thick gold chain, which passed several times round her neck.

As she stood there, in the house where she had been born and where she would die, looking over the land that seemed part of herself — as if she had been actually moulded from the warm earth — this little woman thrilled to a sense of her own power a power over others and, more triumphant still, power over herself.

In this matter of love, for instance, she had won a notable victory. In her youth she had coolly decided to marry no man unless he came up to her secret standard of what her husband should be. Not having found her ideal she was quite content to leave that aspect of life alone. And then, when, too late, she had met the man who would in every particular have satisfied her, she had been able to regard the situation with ironic amusement, able not to betray herself by a sign, able to preserve her happiness unblemished.

A timid tap at the door brought her out of her self-satisfied musing.

“Come in.”

It was Agatha who entered. One glance at her showed Miss Fryer that the girl was in the deepest distress.

“What is the matter, Agatha? Come into the room, child, if you please, and sit down.”

Miss Fryer closed the window and returned to her seat by the desk. The girl obeyed and took the high, stiff chair with the white and black head-embroidery.

“A chance to tell her about her heels,” thought Miss Fryer, but, as usual, kindly and reasonable, she waited for Agatha to speak. And while she waited looked at the girl with that poignant gaze she turned on her whenever she saw her, which was not often.

Agatha Lerder was eighteen years old with not very good features and a common, silly air. But she had the bright coloring, the starry eyes, the red lips, and the abundant fair hair which in her class passes for prettiness. She was easily excited and could be very pert and rude, but she was also good-natured and gentle.

Miss Fryer despised her with an intensity of contempt that often surprised herself.

“Well, Agatha, what is it?” she asked very pleasantly. “You look quite ill. It must be something serious, surely, for you to have disturbed me in the middle of the morning.”

Agatha did not reply; she sat slack and helpless, twisting the buttons on the cuffs of her lilac-sprigged gown; her face was blotched pink and white and her hazel eyes bulged like the eyes of a rabbit Miss Fryer had once seen caught in a trap.

And then, suddenly, terror gave a fixity to Miss Fryer’s serene gaze.

“Not — some accident — with Portis? A gun—”

“No, ma’am. He’s all right.”

“Well, then,” said Miss Fryer rather sharply, “tell me please, what is the matter. I am busy.”

The girl’s face puckered up. She began to weep.

Miss Fryer felt the keenest contempt for her in the world, that of an intelligent woman for a silly one, when it is softened by neither chivalry nor humor.

“Please stop crying, Agatha. If you upset yourself like that you will not be able to tell me anything, and I suppose that you wish me to help you? Very well, then. Now, you see I am calm. You want to confess something?”

Agatha nodded.

“Don’t pull like that at your cuffs. You have broken something? Spoiled something?” As Agatha continued to sob Miss Fryer added: “I hope that you haven’t stolen anything?”

“It’s not as important as that to you, ma’am,” whispered Agatha, writhing. “I haven’t touched anything of yours. It’s — the twenty-five pounds — that John gave me — his savings.”

“I see. The savings of John Portis. And he gave them to you, like a fool, to buy some things for your house. And you spent them, these savings, on finery in Hereford, I suppose?”

“No. It’s worse than that — ma’am.”

“Worse?”

The fair head sunk lower and lower, the pretty, hot, swollen lips stammered out:

“I gave — it — to Ted — he gambled it away, market day.”

“Ted? Who is he? You haven’t got a brother, have you? I don’t know very much about you, really. Please speak clearly.”

“Oh, Miss! How am I to make it clear! It’s Ted Branston, what used to be the carter here—”

“But I dismissed him for drunkenness. He is a good-for-nothing!”

“So they call him — but I—”

“Yes, you? — look at me, Agatha!”

The girl, timidly, yet not daring to refuse, raised her tear-sodden face, which quivered with terror at the sight of those pale, prominent eyes turned on her with so implacable a stare.

“Oh, ma’am! I’m a wicked, wicked girl! There’s no hope for me, that I well know. He had the money out of me afore I knew, his talk so tender and his ways so sweet—”

“Did he have anything from you beside the money?” Miss Fryer was caressing her watch-chain with quick movements: her gaze fell to the girl’s high, silly heels... pretty shoes, pretty feet, though.

“I used to meet him in Croom Wood. He’s not a man to respect a girl — like John. He used to frighten me, too. I gave him the money to go for a sailor — I hoped it would never be found out. But it will. I can’t go on. I feel ill, oh, so sick, Miss—”

“Stop, please, Agatha. What are you trying to tell me?”

“Oh, I haven’t the courage to tell you! If you was a married lady—”

“I think that I understand, even if I am an old maid, Agatha. You are going to marry John Portis, but you are going to have Ted Branston’s baby, and you gave John’s money to Ted. And now he is asking about the money and perhaps wondering why you aren’t well — and you are frightened, eh?”

Agatha passionately wept.

“Stop crying! How am I to help you if you make yourself ill? What do you exactly want?”

“The money. I’d work my fingers to the bone to repay—”

“Never mind that. You want twenty-five pounds. What else?”

“If I could be hidden somewhere — if you could think of something. I don’t know much about it — I’m scared!”

“I see. You want to deceive Portis. You intend to marry him, just the same.”

“It ’ud break his heart if he knew.”

“He — loves you — so much?”

“He’s fair set on me. Different from the way Ted was — if he were to find our he’d fair kill me—”

“And the other man — this drunken carter — what are your feelings there, Agatha?”

“I don’t care for him no more.”

“I see.” Miss Fryer continued to play with her watch-chain. “And Portis — do you care for him?”

“He’s a good man,” sobbed Agatha.

“Be quiet. You’ll be heard outside the door. Now listen, Agatha. I don’t pretend to be concerned much with you. I’ve met so many girls like you. Natural sluts! But John Portis is a good servant, f value him very highly. I intend to promote him. I’ve been kind to you because of him.”

“I know, that is why I came to you — because of what you think of John, ma’am.”

Miss Fryer’s hand paused on her chain; she thought that she detected a fleeting look of cunning on the pretty, distorted face.

“I see. Well, I could help you quite easily, Agatha. The money is no more than I intended to give you as a wedding present. And I could think of quite a good excuse to take you away, or to send you away. No one would suspect me of anything like that. You would be quite safe.”

“Oh, Miss! I couldn’t ever thank you — it ’ud be life to me!”

“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t know if I shall do it. I don’t know if it would be right. John Portis is far more important than you are, and I don’t know if it would be fair to him. I must think it out.”

Agatha again began to weep and implore. Miss Fryer checked her by rising. And instinctively the servant also rose.

“Don’t bother me any more. I quite realize the necessity for a quick decision. And it doesn’t take me long to make up my mind.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be cruel, Miss! You are so charitable!”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ll tell you this evening exactly what I shall do. Now, control yourself — go upstairs and lie down. I shall tell everyone you have a little chill.”

“It’s my half-day, ma’am. Granny ’ud think it queer if I didn’t turn up.”

“Very well. But rest till then.”

Agatha, rubbing her face with a large, coarse white handkerchief, turned to leave; Miss Fryer stopped her at the door.

“Portis — doesn’t suspect?”

The girl’s tears gushed anew.

“Oh, God! I hope not! But he seemed queer like, yesterday—”

“Well, leave it to me. And stop crying, you poor little fool.”

The heavy door closed on Agatha. Miss Fryer was alone with the greatest problem of her life. It was this: Would the happiness of John Portis be best served by allowing him to marry the woman whom he so passionately loved, or by revealing to him the trash that she was? The happiness of John Portis was Mary Fryer’s sole concern in this business; for the girl she cared not one jot.

But he — he was the man whom she would have loved, if he had been a gentleman and if he had been her own age. She had known that when he had first come from Ross five years ago and she had employed him on her estate. Recognized the fact with irony, without regret, even with pleasure in the realization that the world did contain one such man as she had dreamed of in her youth.

But — the son of a small farmer and twenty years her junior. She had not betrayed herself by a flick of an eyelid, not sacrificed her justice, her serenity, her dignity by an iota. The man had not been unduly favored nor rewarded — she was generous with all her servants. She had been glad of his happiness with Agatha; that she regarded tenderly, like a mother watching a child absorbed in the delight of a cheap, silly toy that to him is beautiful and necessary. Nor did her secret passion trouble her content. She often faced it squarely with good humor and irony; she would not name it love — Mary Fryer could not love a man in her employ — but she admitted: “If it had been different I should have loved him.” And looking at her beds of nigella she would think that their country name suited her emotion. Love-in-a-mist! Not clear, warm, radiant, but shining through other emotions that beautified and dimmed. A mist, like that which sets aside the world from the sun and from reality.

But there were no gracious veils about her passion now as she turned over Agatha’s confession in her alert mind. She was astonished at the heat and fury of her protective love for the man, her bitter scorn of the girl. She had felt no jealousy when he had chosen the soft, fondling fool, but now she regarded with hatred the false, cowardly, selfish, stupid slut who had contrived to entangle John Portis.

“A man like that!”

Her pale glance crept to the stiff painted faces of her ancestors in the portraits on the walls, as if she asked advice from their embattled presences. A Fryer ought to know what to do. But for the first time in her life she felt at a loss.

Would he rather be deceived or enlightened?

She knew well enough, from instinct and close, furtive observation, how he doted on the wretched creature. Should she, as she so easily could, help the girl to appear what he thought her? Leave him to find out gradually, when his own passion was spent, what bad fruit he had plucked? Or perhaps never find out at all. Agatha might be frightened into future honesty or she might be cunning enough to deceive him forever.

Or should she, Mary Fryer, tell him the truth, watch him through his rage and grief, and then richly compensate his disappointment?

She did not allow it to interfere with her habits; the sunny day proceeded as usual, leisurely, well-ordered; she had her good meal and drank two glasses of port instead of one, she wrote her letters and paid her visits in the village.

And at the back of her mind the question — “What shall I do?” — lay perpetually coiled.

As she returned from the village about four o’clock, she saw Agatha in a black-and-white plaid shawl and black straw bonnet leaving the Manor garden by the servants’ entrance and walking, heavily, towards Croom Wood.

“She looks quite calm,” thought Miss Fryer. “I suppose she is trusting my womanly pity. How little she guesses!”

But then Mary Fryer remembered that fleeting look of understanding across the girl’s face, as if she had guessed. “But it is impossible. She is a fool. And I haven’t given myself away. I never told her about those high heels, after all. I ought to. It is doubly dangerous in her condition. I suppose, if I tell him, she will drown herself — or something of that kind. That wouldn’t matter at all.”

Miss Fryer went into her parlor and sat down without taking off brown silk shawl and the close little hat with the russet ostrich tip and veil that fitted so neatly to her close, smooth chignon. She was always very careful of appearances; even this afternoon, in her great absorption, she had selected a pair of fresh kid gloves; she like to see them on her small hands. She felt very restless and full of energy, ready to undertake any prodigious action for the sake of John Portis. She was much excited to realize how strong her passion was, how bold, resolute and daring it made her — but, what to do?

Certainly she could not stay in the house; she would go for another walk, away from the village, away from everyone.

She took up her reticule and her parasol and went out from the afternoon hush of the house into the sunny loveliness of the park.

Mary Fryer turned where there were no horizons — into the woods. She was veering towards her decision — not to tell. Her painful and passionate concentration on the case had evolved this judgment: that he would prefer any future disaster to that of being cheated of his present felicity.

Miss Fryer walked quickly, absorbed in plans for helping Agatha, for preserving intact John Portis’s illusion of happiness; her mind worked busily over all the details and she did not notice where she was going until a sound of water disturbed her and she realized that she was in Croom Wood.

She was pleased that she had, as it were, come naturally into this solitude where she was not likely to be disturbed. A space of harsh bracken, deep tresses of broken weeds, and long brambles with withered leaves and green berries spread between spare, high pines that quite shut out the upper air; there was rising ground on either hand and the sound of water falling on stones. She could just see the bridge as she ascended the hilly path.

“I must remember those repairs — I mustn’t let this interfere with my duties.”

Then she stood still, listening. There was another sound beside that of the tumbling water. Something being dragged — a village child stealing an old, dry bough, perhaps. She strained her ears, which were a little stunned by the incessant roar of the water, and walking forward through the bracken almost stumbled on a spade resting against one of the straight, fine trunks.

She concentrated on this for a moment, frowning, wondering, considering; when she looked round suddenly and saw John Portis a few paces away, he was absorbed in the task of dragging along the body of Agatha.

Miss Fryer knew at once the black-and-white check shawl, the black chip straw bonnet. He had not seen her and she could have easily fled, but she never thought of doing so. Her whole being veered towards and settled on this brutal solution of a problem with which she need no longer concern herself; she felt lifted up, out of herself.

“John Portis.”

The man turned, at once alert and cautious, as if his attendant devil had spoken.

She went towards him.

“There has been an accident.”

He straightened himself; Agatha, looking very small, lay at his feet; one of her shoes had come off.

Mary Fryer looked at the young man and smiled; faced by this complete understanding he said:

“I waited for her. She always came this way to Lyston.”

“You knew?”

“I suspected. When I faced her with it she couldn’t deny it. A dirty drab! Begging your pardon, Miss Fryer.”

“I don’t mind. It is true. She told me.”

“I swore last night I’d do it — if it were true. I don’t mind swinging.”

“Why should you be — punished — for an accident?”

“An accident? I—”

He broke off and they both stared down at Agatha. The girl had been strangled; everything was hideous about her except the long, loose fair locks that fell out of her crushed bonnet.

“Why did you fetch the spade. Portis?”

“I ran back for it to the woodman’s hut — I was taking her to where there’s space enough — and the ground not so hard.”

“That is all foolish. The bridge is broken and she would wear those high-heeled shoes. How natural for her to fall into the stream! No one would enquire further than that—”

The man’s rigid face became full of light and energy; it was like a mask coming to life. “My God! — I never thought of that!”

“Cover up her eyes, Portis — they tell too much. Though I dare say by the time she’s been dashed from one rock to another—”

Miss Fryer dropped her clean, fragrant handkerchief and walked ahead without looking back, towards the broken bridge. She heard him busy with his burden, behind; she wondered if his will or her own was animating him.

She went on to the bridge and still she did not look at what he was about, but broke away some of the rotten wooden railings and kicked some pieces of the powdering planks and cast them down into the powerful stream.

“Now they will see that these are fresh marks—” She looked below and saw the check shawl, black bonnet, far down the glistening rocks. He was adroit and powerful. She descended from the frail bridge and picked her way to where he stood dumb on the edge of the swift waterfall, gazing after his victim. He was strong, ruthless, magnificent as the roaring water itself; her pale glance caressed every line and hue of his vigorous manhood.

“You have disturbed some bracken and boughs. You will be able to put that right? And put that spade back. Quickly!”

He turned to stare at her and her love was perfected by his complete absence of subserviency.

“Why did you do it, ma’am? I didn’t mind taking the penalty. It was because of the flies I was going to bury her — not to hide it.”

“Yet you were glad of my suggestion?”

“Yes. It seemed an escape — but I don’t know.”

“I do. This ends everything. She won’t be disgraced either.”

“It seems better like this. The law don’t touch a thing like this either, does it, ma’am?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You see, she was mine. Do what I liked with. If it were any but that filthy carter — spending my money, too — and here, in this wood — where we used to meet — he and she — again asking your pardon, ma’am.”

“You needn’t, I thought of it too. And wondered, too. I don’t understand these women who are just animals.”

His handsome face settled into woe. “Why couldn’t she like me?”

“She was a fool, Portis. We had better go.”

He trudged heavily beside her until they reached the path; out of sight of the stream and what the tumbling waters played with...

“This is my land, Portis. I have the right to decide for you — you are in my employ. I feel that you are mine, to do what I like with.” Miss Fryer was rather breathless. “I suppose you would prefer to get away — from Croom Wood? I could find you work with a friend of mine in Dorset.”

“Thank you, ma’am, that would be better,” he replied absently.

She touched his corduroy sleeve and asked very delicately: “How do you feel, Portis?”

“Numb. As if my heart and all the feeling in it had been cut out of my body.”

“It’s good — after all the — pain. You’ll come to life again. There are other women. I’ll look after you, as long as you like.”

He peered at her blankly.

“Why, ma’am?”

“You are a good servant. I have no fault to find with you.” She looked curiously at the strong hands that now hung slackly by his side, but that had, a little while before, crushed the life out of Agatha; and she smiled again. “Goodbye! Do not forget the spade. Remember to be careful. And you must live — and forget.”

He touched his forelock mechanically and turned away. She watched him fetch the spade, return to the path, and disappear up the rising ground; she felt that her will, not his, was doing this.

There was still something for her to do. That other shoe... She searched for it, found it, returned to the bridge and threw it over into the water. Silly, cheap, high-heeled shoe — she had never before touched an intimate article belonging to a servant. She was sorry she had given him the handkerchief; but even if it were found, she could explain it away...

Miss Fryer returned home; she had a great sense of ease, of liberation, as if life had reached a climax, as if she had fulfilled an imperative need; she had not failed herself.

The first fire burned on the spacious hearth; there was a delicious smell of pastry, of roast meat — preparing for her dinner; her nostrils expanded with relish; she drank two glasses of sherry from the heavy decanter on the sideboard.

Would he be able to carry it through?

She trusted him. And for herself? There might, she supposed, be nights when she would dream of Croom Wood and what might be muttering and wailing there. There might be moments when she would wonder at herself and him. At present she felt exalted. She took off and threw into the fire her gloves soiled with powderings of dry wood; her pale eyes looked round at the protective faces of her ancestors. A Fryer would know what to do.

She had known — without hesitation or a single slip.

Now she was tired; she sank into her comfortable chair without removing her neat hat. Her mind, not functioning quite normally, reverted to the last three items in her commonplace book. She could put her pen through that relating to Agatha’s high heels — the bridge would certainly be repaired now. Nor was she likely to forget the blue flowers, emblem of a veiled, an obscure passion — Love-in-a-Mist.

She smiled in triumph. How completely he had accepted her help — without question, or thanks. She had been right; he was the man whom she ought to have married.