Seven for a Secret

The Seven Magpies

And as those wonderful days sped by, I could even anticipate our return with pleasure, for I was eager to start my new life as the mistress of St. Aubyn’s Park.

It seemed miraculous that our difficulties had been so easily swept away. It was not really so very long ago that there had been that unhappy barrier between us and now we were completely happy. Crispin could not forget that I had come back to him, not because he could offer me a grand marriage, but because my love was unshakable. Mrs. St. Aubyn was welcoming to me and it seemed that, just as Fate will deal blow after blow to those she has decided to chastise, so will she shower blessings on those she favours.

Sometimes I was a little fearful of such happiness.

And then the faintest shadow appeared.

It was nothing just a fancy. Crispin had been round the estate that morning and in the afternoon he wanted me to go with him to the Healeys’ Farm. There was some trouble about one of the barns and the visit would give Mrs. Healey the chance to congratulate me on our marriage.

“You know how these people are,” he said.

“Mrs. Healey says you had been to see the Whetstones and Mrs. Whetstone had given you a glass of her special cider which you very much appreciated. So I think it would be a good idea for you to have a little chat with Mrs. Healey.”

I was delighted. I liked to meet the people on the estate and to receive their congratulations, to hear what a good landlord Crispin was and how the place had prospered since he took over.

He was late returning. He said he would be in at three and we would go off immediately. At three-fifteen he had not come and by three-thirty I began to be alarmed.

It was soon after that when he returned. He looked rather anxious and I asked him what was wrong.

“Oh, nothing much,” he said.

“I just got caught up. Let’s get going.

We’ll be very late otherwise. “

Usually he told me what was happening. I waited for him to do so, but he didn’t. I presumed that, as we had to leave at once for the Healeys’, there wasn’t time.

I met Mrs. Healey, drank her cider and it was all very pleasant; and I forgot about Crispin’s arriving late.

The next day I was in Harper’s Green when I met Rachel. She told me that she had left Danielle with the nursemaid and had come out to do a little shopping.

“I can see everything is working out wonderfully,” she said.

“You look radiant.”

“I am so happy, Rachel. And you are too.”

“How different it was! I often think back to the days when the three of us were together … when you and I used to go to St. Aubyn’s and be taught by Miss Lloyd.”

“It seems a long time ago.”

“Such a change.” I saw the dark shadow in her face, and I wondered if she ever thought of Mr. Dorian hanging in the barn. It was a pity such thoughts had to come to spoil a cloudless morning.

Then she said: “I ran into Crispin yesterday. He looked very preoccupied.”

“Oh, where was that?”

“Near the Lanes’ cottage. Yesterday afternoon. He’d obviously been there. How good he is! He does look after them, doesn’t he? I know he always has. I’ve always thought it was so kind.”

We chatted a little more and it was not until later that I thought: So that was why he was so late. He had been visiting the Lanes.

Why had he not said so? Perhaps he had thought it was not necessary.

My mother-in-law said that now St. Aubyn’s had a new mistress we must have people to visit us more often.

That was how it had been in the old days, she said.

“And it always was so in the past, I believe. It was only when I became so frail…”

And when the guests came she did bestir herself a little.

I was busy those days. There was a great deal to learn about the management of a big house. Aunt Sophie was very helpful.

“You must show the housekeeper and the butler that you are in command.

They may feel otherwise that, because you come from a comparatively humble home, they will be able to browbeat you. “

I laughed.

“I don’t think so. Aunt Sophie.”

“You’re doing well. Crispin is proud of the place, remember.”

“I do. After all, he has given his life to it.”

“Therefore, it must be of importance to you. Mistress of St. Aubyn’s,” mused Aunt Sophie.

“I can tell you, it is beyond my wildest dreams. I wanted the best for you. I have written to your father and told him all about the wedding.”

“I have also written to him.”

I closed my eyes and saw it clearly. My father sitting in his chair and Karia reading the letter to him. I wondered whether they would read it to Tamarisk. She had not written, but she was apt to forget people when they were not there. I was expecting a note to say she was coming home. That was something she would have to write about.

My father would be delighted by the miraculous turn of events which had made marriage possible. I had written at length about our honeymoon in Florence. I was sure that would please him.

The days were so full that there was little time for visiting, but I did see Rachel fairly often; and one day I decided to call on Flora.

I found her in the garden. She was sitting there as she used to, with the doll in its pram beside her. I called to her; she turned her head and nodded, so I opened the gate and went in.

“Hello,” I said.

I had a shock then. I had thought this would be like so many occasions in the past, but when she turned her face to me I saw the wildness in her eyes.

I sat beside her.

“How are you today. Miss Flora?” I asked.

She just shook her head.

“And the … the baby?”

She gave a little laugh and prodded the pram with her foot.

“Sleeping peacefully?” I ventured.

“He’s sleeping for ever,” she said cryptically.

This was rather odd. I had expected the usual remarks about his being a little terror, up to tricks, or that he had a snuffle and she hoped he wasn’t sickening for something.

She turned to me and there was an odd expression in her eyes.

“They say,” she said, ‘you married him. “

“Oh yes,” I said, “I married him. We had a wonderful honeymoon in Florence.”

She started to laugh and it was not pleasant laughter.

“So you live up at St. Aubyn’s now.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You think you’re married to him, don’t you?”

My heart started to beat wildly. I immediately thought of Kate Carvel.

Could Flora possibly know anything about her? But it was all right.

She had been married before. There was nothing to fear from that quarter.

“You didn’t marry him,” said Flora.

“What do you mean?” I asked cautiously.

“You think you married him,” she said. Then she laughed again.

“How could you have married him?”

“Yes, I am married, Miss Flora,” I said.

I thought: I should not be talking to her. She thinks Crispin is still a baby, of course, that is what is worrying her.

I said: “I’d better be going. Miss Lucy will be coming back soon.”

She gripped my arm and said hoarsely: “You didn’t marry him. How could you? He’s not here.”

This was getting too wild and I was eager to get away.

I rose and said: “Well, goodbye. Miss Flora. I’ll come and see you again one day.”

She stood up beside me and came very close to me. She whispered: “You didn’t marry Crispin. They said you married Crispin. It’s a lie. You couldn’t marry Crispin. How could you marry Crispin? It’s not Crispin you married.” She started to laugh again that dreadful wild laughter.

“Crispin is not here. That’s where he is.”

She was pointing dramatically to the mulberry bush. She moved closer and peered into my face.

“That’s where he is. I know, don’t I? That man, he knew. He made me tell him. You can’t marry Crispin, because Crispin is there … There.”

I thought: She is completely mad. Her eyes were so wild. She was laughing and crying together. Then suddenly she picked up the doll from the pram and threw it with all her might at the mulberry tree.

I had to get away. Lucy would have gone into Harper’s Green to shop. I must find her and tell her that something was happening to Flora.

I ran out of the gate and down to the village street. It was with immense relief that I saw Lucy coming towards me with her shopping basket.

I cried: “Something has happened to Flora! She is saying the oddest things about Crispin and she has thrown the doll at the mulberry bush. “

Lucy turned pale.

“I’ll see to her,” she said.

“You’d better go. People upset her. Leave her to me. I’ll manage.”

I was only too glad to do so; the sight of Flora filled me with misgiving.

As soon as he saw me, Crispin realized that I was disturbed.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“It’s Flora Lane,” I said.

“I went to see her this afternoon.”

He looked alarmed.

“What did she say?”

“It was very strange. She’s changed a lot. She said that she had heard that we were married and it could not be.”

“What?”

“She said: ” You haven’t married Crispin. ” And then … oh, it was horrible! She pointed to the mulberry bush in the garden and said, ” You couldn’t have married Crispin because he is there. ” She looked wild and mad.”

He drew a deep breath.

“You shouldn’t have gone there,” he said.

“I’ve always visited her now and then. But she’s changed. I think she is really going mad. Before it was like an obsession. This is different.”

“Was Lucy there?”

“Lucy was shopping. I ran out and found her.”

“Lucy knows how to look after her. Heaven knows, she’s been doing it for years. Poor Lucy!”

“She told me not to worry.”

He nodded.

“Well, I expect she’ll settle down when Lucy’s there. I wouldn’t go there again, darling. It upsets you.”

“She used to seem as though she liked me to go.”

“Well, don’t worry. Lucy knows what’s best for her.”

I could not forget Flora and I noticed the change in Crispin. I saw the haunted look in his eyes and the screen which came down, shutting me out. I began to feel that whatever it was which had disturbed me in the past was in some way connected with the House of the Seven Magpies.

There was constraint all through the evening. Crispin was a little absent-minded and I knew his thoughts were far away.

I said: “What’s wrong, Crispin?”

“Wrong?” He spoke almost testily.

“What should be wrong?”

“I thought you seemed … preoccupied.”

“Burrows thinks some of the fields at Greenacres should be fallow for a while. That will affect output, of course. He’s asking my advice.

Then there are those outbuildings at Swarles. I’m not sure whether they’d be a good thing. “

But I did not think his mood anything to do with fields lying fallow or outbuildings at Swarles Farm.

I awoke with a start. It was dark. A feeling of intense uneasiness had come to me. I put out my hand. Crispin was not beside me.

I was then fully awake. I sat up in bed. In the gloom I could make out his shape as he sat by the window, apparently staring out.

“Crispin,” I said.

“It’s all right. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Something’s wrong,” I said.

“No … no. It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’ll come back now. I just wanted to stretch my legs.”

I got out of bed and put a dressing-gown round my shoulders; and I went to him and, kneeling beside him, put my arms round him.

“Tell me what it is, Crispin,” I said.

“Nothing … nothing… I just could not sleep.”

“There is something, Crispin,” I said firmly.

“And it is time you told me.”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about or me either, for that matter.”

“It is,” I said.

“And it is not new. It has been there for a long time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Crispin, I love you very much. You and I are as one person. I am for you and you are for me; and if there is anything wrong for you it is wrong for me.”

He was silent.

I went on: “I know there is something. I’ve always known it. It has been there between us.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then he said: “There is nothing between us.”

“If that were so, I should know it. You wouldn’t be keeping secrets from me … holding something back.”

“No,” he said vehemently, and I looked at him appealingly.

“Crispin, tell me. Let me share.”

He stroked my hair.

“There is nothing … nothing to tell.”

“I know there is something,” I told him earnestly.

“It is there between us. I can’t get close to you while it is there. It’s a barrier and it has always been there. There are times when I can forget it, and then I am aware of it. You mustn’t shut me out, Crispin. You must let me in.”

For some seconds he said nothing, and then: “There have been times when I have been on the point of telling you.”

“Please … please, tell me now. It is very important that we should share everything.”

He did not speak and again I entreated him.

“I must know, Crispin. It is very important that I should.”

He said slowly: “So much hangs on it. I cannot think what would happen.”

“I shall not have a moment’s peace until I know.”

“I see it has gone too far. I have been debating with myself. I knew I should have to tell you some day. It goes back years … to the beginning of my life.” Again he paused. His face was creased in anxiety. I wanted to comfort him, but I could not until I knew the cause of his trouble.

He went on: “The Lanes lived on the estate. The father, Jack, was one of the gardeners; he had two daughters, Lucy and Flora. Lucy went to London to work as a nursemaid; Flora was the younger. Jack Lane died and his wife stayed on at the cottage and Flora was employed in the house here. She wanted to be a nursemaid like her sister, and when a child was about to be born it was decided that she should become his nurse. In due course a son was born at St. Aubyn’s.”

“You,” I said.

“Crispin was born,” he said.

“You must hear from the beginning. The parents, as you know, were not very interested in the child. They were glad to have a son as most people are, particularly in their position, to carry on the name and inherit and all that. But they were more interested in the social life they led. They were rarely in the country. Had they been devoted parents, this might have been discovered in the beginning.

“One day, Lucy came home. She was in deep trouble. She had left her post in London some weeks before and had been living on the little money she had saved, and now that was gone. She was going to have a child. You can imagine the consternation in that cottage. The father was dead; there was the mother and Flora who was in service in St. Aubyn’s, preparing to take care of the child which was about to be born.”

He stopped and I knew that he was reluctant to go on. He seemed to steel himself.

“Lucy,” he said, ‘was a strong woman. A good but trusting young woman.

She was like many before her. She had listened to promises, been seduced and deserted. A not unusual predicament for a girl to find herself in, but no less terrifying for that. Such girls were ostracized and when they were without means their position was desperate. Can you imagine the mother’s anguish?

They had been living in that little cottage among a small community for years, proud of their independence and their respectability, and now here was the daughter, of whom they had been so proud because she had had a fine post in a grand London house, come home bringing disgrace with her in which they would all share. “

“She had the child, then?”

“Yes. But they could not keep it a secret for ever. They thought they would do so until they made some plan for the future, Mrs. Lane had practised midwifery at one time and it was easy to manage the birth.

The big problem lay before them. They could not keep a child hidden for ever. They thought of leaving the place and going to London, where Flora and Lucy would find work while their mother looked after the child. That was what they decided. One thing was certain. They could not remain in Harper’s Green to face the scandal. “

“What a terrible position for them!”

“They hesitated. There were times when Mrs. Lane thought of going to Mrs. St. Aubyn and asking for help. She fancied that she and her husband might be slightly less shocked than some of the inhabitants of Harper’s Green. And then this extraordinary thing happened.”

He paused, as though he found it difficult to go on.

“Crispin was now a few weeks old. Flora was his nurse. And then, suddenly, there came this way out of their troubles. It was macabre in the extreme … but it offered a solution. And, remember, they were desperate people.

“You have seen Flora and you know the distressing state of her mind. I think she must always have been a little simple. Perhaps she should never have been given the charge of a child. But she had always been devoted to children and many a mother in the village had allowed her to look after her children because she loved them so much. They said she was a born nurse and mother. Of course, we haven’t seen her as she was then. We only know the poor deranged creature she has become. Gerry Westlake, son of one of the local farmers, began to take notice of her.”

“I remember him. He came here, some little time ago. He went out to New Zealand, I believe.”

“Yes, that was soon after it happened. Gerry was an energetic young man-little more than a boy. He was very interested in football and was practising throwing and kicking a ball about wherever he went.

That is the story I heard. He used to do odd jobs at St. Aubyn’s and he saw Flora there. He used to whistle to her and she would come to the window to look out. He would throw the ball at her and she would throw it back to him. She would go down and stand by watching him kicking his ball. He would explain to her the importance of the manner in which he kicked it.

“It is extraordinary what happened. Remember, they were very young, both of them. Flora was flattered by Gerry’s attention and was or pretended to be thrilled to share in the ball games with him. She would throw as he told her and catch and hope for his applause. If you think of those two-children, really-you can see how it happened.

“Then came the fateful day. He whistled to her. You can picture him -standing there looking up at the window. It was open and she looked out. She had the baby in her arms. She said: ” I’m coming down. ” And she called to him, as he had so often called to her, ” Catch! ” It must have seemed like a great joke to her then. Gerry must have looked up startled. She threw the child down to him.”

I caught my breath in horror.

“Oh no, no!” I cried.

He nodded.

“Gerry realized too late what she was doing. He made an effort to catch the child. But he was too late. The child fell on to the stones of the terrace.”

“Oh … how could she have done such a thing!”

“It’s hard to imagine. She wanted to amuse Gerry. She thought he would easily catch the child and that would make it seem like a bit of fun between them. It did not occur to her that he could fail to do so.

“Flora dashed out to the terrace and picked up the child. He was wrapped in a thick shawl and appeared to be unharmed. Flora must have been overwhelmed by relief. Poor Flora! That relief was short-lived.

Gerry ran home. He would have shared Flora’s relief and I have no doubt he wanted to put himself as far away as possible from the scene.

Flora took the baby up to the nursery and told no one. Imagine her shock when she realized that the child’s ribs were broken. He died that night.

“Flora was dazed. She did not know what to do, so, as she did in all moments of stress, she went to her own home. Her mother and Lucy were in a state of terror. Flora had killed her charge; her sister had an illegitimate child. They could never have visualized such disasters overtaking them. This was something from which they could see no means of escape.

“Desperately they looked for a way out and then it presented itself to them. Most young babies look alike. Crispin’s parents had shown very little interest in him. You can see what they were thinking. They buried Crispin.”

“Under the mulberry bush?” I said.

“And Lucy’s baby went to St. Aubyn’s in his place.”

“You mean … you are that baby?”

He nodded.

“When did you know?”

“On my eighteenth birthday. Lucy my mother told me. She thought it only right that I should know. Before that it had never occurred to me that I was anyone but Crispin St. Aubyn and that the estate would be mine. I loved the place.”

“I know. And … this is the secret never to be told. And the seven magpies … they were put into the nursery to remind Flora that she must never tell.”

“Poor Flora! It turned her brain. It was soon after that when she became as we know her. Lucy looked after her always. You know Lucy took over the care of me and became my nurse. Flora came back to the cottage. She was acting very strangely by that time. It is ever on my mind.”

“That this place does not really belong to you. You are afraid that someone will discover this?”

“There was a time when someone did come near to that.”

“Gaston Marchmont,” I whispered, a terrible fear coming to me.

“He was a rogue,” said Crispin.

“He deserved to die. He forced the secret from Flora. She could have gone on to the end of her life believing she was back in the past before it happened, that the child still lived. That was what she thought until he came along. You see what he has done to her … to Lucy? He guessed there was some secret there, some connection between me and that cottage, and he was determined to find out. He married Tamarisk for what he could get and then he saw that he could get much more than he had even believed at first. He stole the doll and he blackmailed poor witless Flora. He had seen that silly picture. She should never have had it. But Lucy thought it would be a constant reminder to her never to tell. You must forgive Lucy. She is my mother. She wanted everything for me. Her greatest joy was to see me master of the estate.”

“But it does not belong to you, Crispin.”

He shook his head vigorously, as though he could thrust such a fact away.

He went on: “He made poor Flora tell him. He threatened what he would do to the doll if she did not. The shock brought reality back to her and he had the secret. And he died.”

“You know who did it, Crispin?” I asked fearfully.

He turned to me and smiled gently.

“I know what is in your mind. I know how much you love me. No, sinner that I am, I did not kill Gaston Marchmont. You have to know everything. I see that now. These secrets are no help to us, and now you know so much you must know it all. Flora was in a terrible state of distress. She had betrayed the secret and at the same time this had brought home to her what had really happened all those years ago, which she had been deluding herself into thinking was just an evil dream. She had killed her precious charge in a moment of idiotic frivolity. She had done it to amuse Gerry. He had left for New Zealand soon after that. No doubt he thought the baby had lived. He, of course, knew nothing of what had happened. But the fear of those moments when the child lay on the ground may have had something to do with his decision to get away from the scene. Flora was in a state of mental disorder and Lucy thought it best to have the doll to delude her into thinking the child still lived. To Flora, when she realized that she had betrayed the secret and that the doll was simply a doll, there seemed only one way of making sure the secret was never told.

“It is amazing how she could have done this, but she did. I believe people such as she is can be very single-minded and plan with a calm precision, which is remarkable. She went to St. Aubyn’s. She knew the house well from the days when she had lived there. She went to the gunroom and took the gun, and then to the shrubbery to lie in wait for Gaston Marchmont. Most of the family came through the shrubbery when returning to the house. It was a short cut from the stables. He came and she was there. She shot him. Then her careful planning seemed to desert her. She left the gun on the ground and ran back to the cottage. Lucy was in deep distress. She was frantic, wondering where Flora had gone, and when she returned, drew from Flora exactly what had happened.

“Lucy’s one idea was to keep the secret. Her dream was that I should have St. Aubyn’s. It would be a compensation for all they had suffered.

I was her son, remember. She went back to St. Aubyn’s that night. She found the gun and buried it-unfortunately, not very efficiently. It was Flora who killed Gaston Marchmont, Frederica. Please . please understand. This is a secret which must never be told. “

I was silent for some time, bewildered by all I had heard. In spite of my horror, there was a certain relief. There were no longer secrets between us.

I was picturing it all. Flora, throwing the baby down, her agony when she realized what she had done; I could imagine those three desperate women seeking a way out of their intolerable situation; I could feel Lucy’s triumph when she saw a glorious future for her son; I pictured their burying the poor broken body of the baby Crispin. I could imagine Flora’s demented state; I could see the picture of the seven magpies, set up to remind her of the awful consequences if the secret were revealed. And she had told it. Gaston had forced her to tell the secret, and in her simple mind there was only one solution: to kill him before he could tell the secret which must never be told.

I said: “Crispin. This place does not belong to you.”

“But for me it would be nothing now. I have made it what it is.”

“Still, it is not yours. You are not the heir to this place.”

“No. Lucy is my mother. My father is unknown to me.”

“Lucy would know him,” I said.

“But the fact remains. What shall you do?”

“Do? What do you mean?”

“Crispin … I must call you Crispin.”

“I never had another name.”

“It will always be there, this knowledge, even though you have told me.”

He did not answer and I went on: This place does not belong to you.

That is so, isn’t it? “

He did not wish to admit it . but it was true and he knew it.

“I think you will never be happy with what is not yours by right.”

“I am happy. This place has always been mine. I could not imagine it otherwise.”

“If Gaston Marchmont had lived …”

“He did not live.”

“If he had, he would have brought this to light. And then…”

“Of course he would. That was his motive. He must have had some inkling. Flora must have betrayed something. And then the fact that the doll was Crispin to her was significant. He would have claimed the place on Tamarisk’s behalf and if he had succeeded, it would have had a very-short life.”

“But it is Tamarisk’s. She is the daughter of the house and there is no living son.”

He said: “If this came out it would be disastrous. Think of the livelihoods of all the people on the estate. Everything would go. You know the secret now. No one else must. I am glad you know. You are right. We don’t want secrets from each other. There must never be any more.”

“I am glad you see it that way.”

“There is the problem of Flora. I don’t know what we can do with her.

Lucy is afraid for her. You see how that man tackled her. It has upset her. She’s changed. “

“She must have his death on her conscience as well as that of the baby.”

“She doesn’t want the doll any more. She seems to have come to the conclusion that Crispin is dead and the doll is but a doll. When she believed it was a child her mind was at rest. She had shut out the past. But that evil man made her tell what had happened. He brought her back to reality and that is something she cannot face.”

“Crispin,” I said.

“There is one thing you must do or you will never know real peace of mind. Tamarisk must know that this place is hers.

She must know the truth. You will never be entirely happy until you have told her. “

“And when I have lost all that I have worked for through these years?”

“Tamarisk loves you. She is proud of you. She regards you as her brother. She will want you here. She understands that she would be useless to manage things without you.”

“It would not be mine. I could not take orders.”

“She would not give you orders.”

“And what if she married? Just imagine what Gaston Marchmont would have been like if he were here!”

“He is not. I think it is right that Tamarisk should know, and I believe that you will not be truly happy until you have told her.”

He said he would never tell. He had told me because we had agreed not to have secrets between us. But now that I knew, this must go no further. What good could it do to tell people that long-ago story?

What good would come of accusing Flora of murder?

Poor Flora, she would have to stand up to a trial. He would not allow that. The whole story would come out. Tamarisk would not want that.

All the scandal would be revived, her disastrous marriage. Poor Lucy all of us. It would do no good at all to anyone.

There was nothing to be done. The murder of Gaston Marchmont would be regarded as an unsolved crime. If anyone thought of it now they believed the murderer must have been some person from his past, which was known to have been disreputable.

No, there was nothing to be done.

But I insisted that Tamarisk should be told and that Crispin could never be happy in the knowledge that he had taken that which was not his by right.

We talked through the night and in the end I made him see that there was only one thing he must do.

He wrote to Tamarisk.

It was a long time before we heard from her, and during that time I think Crispin was happier for having told me and for the course he was taking.

He did say that it was as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; yet at the same time there was a deep sadness in his eyes. When he talked about the estate I could detect a certain wistfulness. I wanted to console him; and I sometimes wondered what would happen if we had to leave St. Aubyn’s.

What would Tamarisk’s reaction be when she learned she was the owner of a large estate? If he had lived, Gaston Marchmont would have taken charge of it. What a tragedy that would have been for so many people!

I often thought of Flora’s taking the gun and killing him. The child’s death had been due to her, but that was a youthful, foolish gesture.

To have killed Gaston was coldblooded murder. Yet what worried her was the betrayal of the secret.

It was difficult to think of anything but those astounding revelations.

Each day we waited for news from Tamarisk. The letters which Crispin and Aunt Sophie had posted to Casker’s Island had been sent back by Karla. My father wrote that he was indeed happy at the turn of events and he hoped I would bring my husband to see him on Casker’s Island.

At last the long-awaited letter from Tamarisk came. It was addressed to us both and was written in the somewhat flippant style characteristic of Tamarisk.

My dear newlyweds, I was, as you must guess, absolutely astounded when I read your letter. What extraordinary things go on in Harper’s Green!

First, I will give you the most important news. Do not think you are the only ones who can marry. You’ll be surprised, though perhaps the astute Frederica may have had some inkling as to the way things were going.

Yes, am married. To Luke, of course. I really got caught up in that mission, didn’t I? After dear old Jaco’s leg things got very exciting.

We have a little school now, and believe it or not, I and dear old Muriel do the teaching! She does earnest stuff, saves their souls and all that. I am the comedy turn. They come to me and they laugh and sing and I love them all dearly. I believe they reciprocate.

Luke is getting along very well and we have a little . well . clinic, I suppose you’d call it at home. Muriel is very good at that, and John and Luke help too and even I am called in now and then. Our success over Jaco’s leg has made us famous throughout the island.

Tom Holloway is here often and they are all very pleased with the mission.

As for what you tell me-I am just amazed. So, Crispin, you are not my brother after all. To tell the truth, I often thought it was surprising that I should have such a worthy brother, so different from myself. It doesn’t make any difference. I love you and your new wife dearly.

And all that about Flora and the babies. It is like something out of the Bible or Shakespeare . swapping people around like that. One wouldn’t have thought it would happen to real people . especially those in Harper’s Green. Life goes on in a dreary sort of pattern for years and suddenly drama strikes.

So St. Aubyn’s is mine! What on earth am I expected to do about that?

What good would I be going round seeing the tenants about crops and roofs and cow sheds.

Dear brother-that-was, please don’t desert me. Don’t go off to the ends of the earth with your new bride. Stay where you belong, although I must say it would be nice if you could pay a visit to Casker’s Island. I know, Fred, your father would like that very much; and I should love to show you the changes we have made at the mission. We are going to put up a new building. I’m helping to pay for some of that. But dear old St. Luke doesn’t like that very much. He wouldn’t want a rich wife. In fact, he thinks I am too affluent already. He isn’t interested in all that. He just wants me. Very unworldly of course but rather sweet. But then you know St. Luke.

Now, please don’t let all this make any difference. The place is yours, Crispin. We all know it would be just nothing without you.

Luke says we mustn’t try to be grand here. Missions are not built that way. They are built on trust, faith and understanding. You know him, Fred, so you’ll understand what I mean.

I put down the letter and Crispin said: “I had not expected this. She is so flippant, as though it isn’t important.”

“What is important to her is her new life. She has Luke and Luke is a wonderful person. So we shall go on as before.”

“What of the future? The place is not mine.”

“Crispin,” I said, ‘it never was. “

“What if she changes her mind? How long do you think she will be engrossed in this mission? You know Tamarisk. Her enthusiasms do not last very long.”

That was true.

He went on: “And when she realizes what this place means … who knows? Suppose she came back and wanted to take over?”

“You mean turn you out? How could she? She has no idea how to manage the place.”

“Suppose she gets tired of this saintly husband? Suppose…”

“Anything is possible, of course.”

“And then?”

“Crispin,” I said, ‘we shall have each other. That is the most important thing in the world. I believe Tamarisk is learning to love as she never did before. You should have seen the change in her. She is not the same person who was deceived by Gaston Marchmont. Yes, I am sure she is learning what are the important things in life. “

“As I am?” he asked.

“Yes, Crispin,” I said.

“As you are.”

He smiled suddenly. He looked younger and contented as I had seen him look during our honeymoon days when he believed the secret would never be discovered. But even then there had at times been the shadow of a fear. Now it was there no longer.

It happened during the night. I was awakened by strange noises and when I looked out of the window I saw an angry glow in the sky.

I leaped out of bed. Crispin was beside me.

“Something’s on fire,” he said.

We put on our clothes and went out. Some of the servants were already downstairs.

When I saw the direction from which the smoke was coming I thought immediately of the Lanes. We hurried to the cottage and there before our eyes was the blazing mass of what had once been the House of the Seven Magpies.

Lucy was there. She ran to Crispin. He had his arms around her and she was crying hysterically.

It was like a nightmare the crackling sound of burning wood, the sudden eruption of the flames as they leaped and licked the walls followed by the crash of masonry.

Lucy was sobbing. She kept saying Flora’s name, over and over again. I learned then that Flora was dead. She had leaped from the nursery window down into the garden and her crumpled body had been found beside the mulberry bush.

That night is one I shall never forget. In my mind it is a blur of images and people shouting to each other as they tried to put out the fire. For a long time it would be remembered as the night the Lanes’ cottage was on fire.

There was a good deal of talk about the cause of it. Flora Lane had always been odd. She must have left a candle burning; it could have toppled over. Fires are easily started. She must have jumped out of the window, poor soul, although she could have found her way downstairs. The other sister managed it. Poor muddled Flora!

It was easy to see how it happened, they said.

I felt sure in my heart that Flora could not face the truth; twice she had killed and she could not live with that knowledge. I believed she had started the fire in the nursery and had wanted it to be thought that she had jumped free of the fire. She had betrayed the secret to Gaston Marchmont and she could not trust herself to go on living and preserving the secret which must never be told.

We took Lucy back to St. Aubyn’s. She stayed there for a while, but she wanted a house of her own and Crispin would see that she had it. It would be on the estate nearby, of course. There was a cottage which was empty. The widow of one of the estate workers had died some three months before. Crispin was arranging for it to be redecorated and made ready for Lucy.

I talked with her. She was different towards me now and I did not have the feeling that she was trying to get away from me.

There was a new friendliness between us. She was my husband’s mother.

I guessed how she was feeling. She had cared for Flora over so many years. It had been a time of great anxiety and now it was lifted, but at first she could only be aware of a deep void. She explained this to me. I think she was excusing herself for the way in which she had behaved towards me in the past. I remembered her nervous comments.

“That’s nice,” she used to say, her eyes uneasy, so that I had felt she was waiting for me to go, for of course I must have shown my curiosity rather blatantly. But there was friendship between us now.

She said to me: “I shall be glad to be near.”

“Crispin wants that,” I told her.

“He has been so good to me always. Even before he knew, he was kind.”

Once she said: “I can regret nothing that gave him to me.”

“I understand,” I told her.

“You and I must be friends,” she went on.

“I bore him and you have made him very happy. He is the centre of my life and he has been from the moment I saw him. It was a wicked thing to do, but it seemed the only way then and it brought great good to him.”

“I know,” I said.

There was another letter from Tamarisk. The mission was flourishing beyond their wildest dreams. She wished we would come out and see it.

Lucy visited Flora’s grave every Sunday after church. We joined her sometimes and then we would go back to her new home and spend an hour or so with her.

One day Crispin and I were out riding when we passed the remains of the old cottage. I could not look at it without a shudder. It seemed ghostly, even in the sunlight.

“It’s time we built there,” said Crispin practically.

“Let’s go and have a look at it. They could start clearing next week. The builders haven’t much to do just now.”

We tethered our horses to the gate post which still stood there, and passed through the garden where Flora used to sit with her doll facing the mulberry bush.

“Be careful,” warned Crispin as we entered what was left of the house.

He took my arm and held it firmly as we went into what had been the kitchen. Most of the wall had broken away.

“It will be easy to clear this lot,” said Crispin.

We went through to the stairs which were still intact.

“They’re firm,” said Crispin.

“It was quite a good staircase.”

We mounted them. Half the roof had gone and the ash smell still hung on the air. I gazed at the blistered w< Am and scorched bricks.

And there on the floor, I saw it was lying on its face.

I picked it up. The glass had splintered and it fell away as I touched it. And there, looking at me, were the seven magpies.

There were smudges of grime on the picture. The paper was brownish and damp.

I took out the picture and the frame fell to the floor.

“What is it?” asked Crispin.

“It’s Flora’s picture the one Lucy framed for her.” seven magpies for a secret never to be told. “

He looked at me, reading my thoughts as I tore picture into tiny pieces. I threw them up; they were cau on the breeze which came from where once there had a roof; and the pieces floated away.