The Judas kiss

Visits to a Vestry

Four years had passed since that night when Francine ran away and I had not seen her since. She wrote to me by the way of the Emmses, feeling that if her letters were sent to Greystone Manor they might have been kept from me.

I never want again to live through such a time as that which followed her departure. My sense of loss was heartbreaking, so much so that my grandfather's wrath passed over me without affecting me in the least. I could only know that my beloved sister had gone. I had even lost Daisy. A few weeks after Francine's flight, the Graf and Grafin with their household left the Grange, and Daisy, as a member of the staff, went with them.

On the morning after Francine had left the storm broke.

Her absence at breakfast naturally meant that I was questioned. When I said I did not know where she was, it was presumed at first that she had taken an early morning walk and forgotten the time. I did not say that her bed had not been slept in, for I did not know how far she had gone by that time and I had visions of my grandfather's going after her. In his new mood of tolerance towards my sister—for he was convinced she was going to fall in readily with his plans —he allowed her absence at breakfast to pass. Although Miss Elton knew when she did not appear at lessons and Aunt Grace was aware of her absence, the news did not reach my grandfather until midday.

Then the storm broke. I was questioned and blamed for not reporting that she had left the night before. I faced him defiantly, too wretched to care what happened to me.

"She has gone away to be married to a Baron," I said.

I was shouted at and shaken. I had been wicked. I should be severely punished. I had known what was happening and done nothing to prevent it. His granddaughter was disgraced and dishonoured.

I took refuge with my grandmother and she kept me with her all day. My grandfather came up to her room and started shouting. She lifted her hand and raised her sightless eyes and said, "Not here in this room, Matthew. This is my refuge. The child shall not be blamed. Pray leave her to me."

I was surprised that he obeyed. She comforted me, stroking my hair. "Your sister will lead the life she has chosen," she said. "She had to go. She could not have stayed here under your grandfather's rule. She has chosen the right way. As for you, little Pippa, you are desolate because you have lost your dearest companion, but your time will come. You will see."

But she could not comfort me because there was no comfort. Perhaps somewhere within my innermost thoughts I knew that I had lost Francine forever. In the meantime I was at Greystone Manor—at the mercy of my grandfather.

After the Graf and his household had left the Grange we seemed to settle down to normal—the household, that was. Nothing could be as it had been for me without Francine. My grandfather ceased to mention my sister's name. He had announced in the beginning that she would never cross his threshold again, but he implied that he would still do his duty by me.

There was even stricter supervision than there had been before. Miss Elton was to go with me when I went out, so that I was never alone. My religious instruction was to be intensified. It was quite clear that my beginnings in that heathen island had had a bad effect if the behaviour of my sister was anything to go by.

Miss Elton was sympathetic and that was a great help. She had been fond of Francine, as almost everyone had been, and she hoped that everything would go well with her. So when I was with Miss Elton I was allowed to call at the Emms' cottage and Daisy would meet me there. "I promised your sister I would keep an eye on you," she told me. "Poor little Miss Pip. Not much fun up there with that old ogre, as Miss France used to call him."

When the Grange was empty again and Daisy had gone I was at my lowest ebb. Once I persuaded Miss Elton to let me run and look through the windows. When I saw the dust-sheeted furniture and the tallboy which looked like a human figure I wanted to fling myself to the ground and weep. I never went to peer in again. It was too heartbreaking.

I disliked Cousin Arthur as much as Francine had done. I hated the lessons I took with him. He was very fond of praying and would keep me on my knees for a long time while he exhorted the Almighty to make me a good woman obedient to my guardian, and full to overflowing with gratitude towards him.

I would find my thoughts straying to Francine and wondering what it would have been like if she had married Cousin Arthur instead of her Baron.

At least, I thought, she would be here.

Poor Aunt Grace was sympathetic but too much in awe of my grandfather to let it be known. My only solace in those days was my grandmother. She was the only real friend I had. Agnes Warden encouraged me to visit her often. I think she loved my grandmother dearly.

They say time heals all, and although that is not entirely true it certainly numbs the pain.

A whole year passed—the most melancholy of my life— and my only interest was the constant hope of news from Francine.

One day when I was in the garden I saw one of the Emms children staring at me.

"Miss Pippa," he called.

I turned to him and he looked about him to see if we were being watched. "My mum's got something for you."

"Thank you," I said.

"Says will you go along and get it?"

"Tell her I'll be there as soon as I can."

I had to go carefully. The order was that I was not to go out alone, so when I walked out with Miss Elton I said I wished to call at the Emms' cottage and she waited for me in the field while I went.

Mrs. Emms took a letter out of a drawer.

"Reckon it's that sister of yours," she said. "It come here. And there's one from our Daise. Jenny Brakes read it to me. Doing well, our Daise is. Oh, talk about high society. You can read Daise's. She got Hans to help her. Not much with a pen, our Daise. But I reckon you'll want to see what your sister's writ."

"I'll take it home and read it there and I'll come back and see Daisy's letter tomorrow."

Mrs. Emms nodded and I ran out to Miss Elton. She did not ask what it was I had but I think she guessed, for when I reached Greystone Manor I went straight up to my room. My fingers were trembling as I opened the letter.

It was written on thick white paper almost like parchment, and there was a heavy gold crest on it.

My dearest Pippa,

I am taking the first opportunity to write to you. So much is happening here and I am very happy. Rudolph is everything I ever wanted a husband to be. We were married in Birley Church. Do you remember that church we looked at and liked so much? It caused some delay but Rudolph had arranged it before we left because we had to get away as quickly as possible. Rudolph is very important in his own country. I can't tell you how important.

We are surrounded by intrigue and have our enemies who are trying to rob him of his inheritance. Oh, it is hard to understand when you think of the way we have lived—the island and then Greystone. We didn't know a thing about the outside world, did we? Certainly not a' place like Bruxenstein. There are several dukedoms here. There are margraves and barons, and they all want to be the chief one. But I am digressing. It is no use my trying to explain their politics to you because I don't understand them myself. But it does mean that we live rather dangerously. You want to hear about my adventures, though.

Well, Rudolph said we should be married before we reached Bruxenstein. It must be a fait accompli because there would be people who would try to prevent it. So we were married and I became Baroness von Gruton Fuchs. Fancy me with such a grand name. I call myself Mrs. Fox-Fuchs, you see. It's much easier and it amused Rudolph.

So we were married and crossed the Channel and then we travelled right through France to Germany, finally reaching Bruxenstein. I wish you could see it, but you will. You are coming as soon as everything is settled. Rudolph says that I must not bring you here yet. It would cause trouble. You see he is what is called a great parti which means he is the most eligible man here. He's a sort of heir to the crown ... only it is not a kingdom ... and they wanted him to marry someone else ... someone they had chosen for him. These people will interfere ... just like our grandfather. So it is a little awkward. I know you'll understand. Rudolph has to go carefully.

Well, I have the most wonderful clothes. We stopped a few days in Paris where they were made for me. I kept the blue starry dress. Rudolph said he will always love that one because I wore it on that night you remember. But my things are truly magnificent now. I have a kind of tiara which I wear sometimes.

It would be such fun if you were here. Rudolph says it won't be long. They're afraid of what Daisy always used to call a 'coop.' Remember? They're always having these upheavals ... it's jealousy between the rival members of the family. Some seem to want what others have got.

Now I have a secret to tell you. It's going to make a lot of difference if it's a boy. Yes, Pippa, I'm pregnant. Isn't that wonderful? Just fancy, you'll be an aunt. I tell Rudolph that I can't do without you and he keeps saying soon. He indulges me. I'm so happy. I wish they would stop their stupid quarrels though. I have to keep away from the castle, particularly now I'm pregnant.

Rudolph is afraid for me. You see, if I have a son ... But I'm talking their silly old politics again.

Dear Pippa, be ready at any time. One day you're going to find there is a bustle of preparations at the Grange. Then the army of servants will arrive and I shall be there ... and next time, Pippa, dearest little sister, you are coming with me.

I love you more than ever.

Francine.

I read and reread the letter. I carried it inside my bodice so that I could feel it against my skin. It livened my days and when I was feeling particularly unhappy I read it once more.

The hope that one day when I went past the Grange I should see signs of activity there sustained me through the difficult times.

The days went past more quickly after the first few months. It was the same routine every day: breakfast with my grandfather, Aunt Grace and Cousin Arthur, prayers, lessons and riding with Miss Elton, visits to my grandmother and religious instruction from Cousin Arthur. I hated it and it would have been unendurable but for the long rides I took through the countryside, for by this time I had become an accomplished horsewoman. Then, of course, there were the sessions with my grandmother when we talked about Francine and imagined what was happening to her.

A whole year elapsed before I heard from Francine again. Once more the letter came through Mrs. Emms.

"Dearest Pippa," she wrote.

Don't think for a moment that I have forgotten you. Everything has changed so much since I last wrote.

Then I was making plans for you to come here. Alas, they have all foundered. We had to move about a great deal and now we are living in a sort of exile. If you wrote to me I never received your letter and it may be that you did not get mine either. I expect it is still that dreary routine. Poor Pippa. As soon as everything is all right again you are coming here. I have told Rudolph that I must have my little sister with me. He agrees. He thought you were a darling—although he always says he hadn't eyes for anyone but me. But he wants you to come. He really does.

Now I must tell you about the Great Event. Yes, I am a mother. I have a son, Pippa. Think of that. The most adorable being you could ever imagine. He is fair with blue eyes. I think he is like Rudolph but Rudolph says he is the image of me. He has a grand name: Rudolph (after his father) Otto Friederich von Gruton Fuchs. I call him my little Cub. Fox-cub, you see. I have no need to tell you that Cubby is the most miraculous child that ever was born. From the moment he arrived he showed an amazing grasp of affairs. But what would you expect of my child? I'd love you to see him. Oh you must. We will think of something.

I wish these wretched old troubles would stop. We have to be so careful. It's all quarrelling between the various branches of the family. This one should have the margravate ... or that one should. It is very tiresome and disrupting. Rudolph is always deeply involved. There are secret meetings and comings and goings at the hunting lodge at which we are now staying. Don't imagine it is some poor broken-down place. Nothing of the sort. These margraves and counts and grafs and barons knew how to look after themselves very well. We live in magnificent style but we have to be careful. Rudolph chafes against it. He says that as soon as we are back in the castle I may send for you. I can't wait. I tell Cubby about you. He just stares at me but I swear he is taking it all in because he looks so wise.

My love to you, dear sister. I think of you a great deal. Never fear. I am going to rescue you from Grey-stone Manor.

Francine, the Baroness (Mrs. Fox).

After receiving the letter I lived in a state of euphoria for some weeks. I was constantly going past the Grange, looking for signs of activity. There was none. I called on Mrs. Emms often.

"No letters?" I would ask, and she would shake her head dolefully.

"There's one from Daise. All chuffed up she is. She's married that Hans. She's not with your sister though. She has to be with Hans, you see. She says they're all afraid of some coop or other."

Then I began to be alarmed. I felt so frustrated. This talk of coups and life in a world far removed from the quiet peace of our Victorian England was hard to imagine. Everything about the Grange and its inhabitants had seemed to belong to a highly coloured romantic world where the strangest adventures were possible. It was something I could have imagined and talked of with Francine, but the unreality of it all had come too close and Francine was drawn into it.

I prayed for her safety every night. That was a new element now. Fear for her safety.

There was another letter. This time it was all about the child. It was more than three years since Francine had left and her little Cubby must be eighteen months old now. He was beginning to talk and she could hardly bear him out of her sight. She talked to him about his Aunty Pippa.

He likes the word Pippa and keeps saying it. It's strange how they like some words, and Pippa is a word which certainly appeals. He has a funny little toy. They call it a troll here. This troll goes to bed with him and he sucks its ear. He won't go to sleep without it. He calls it Pippa. There you are, sister. There is a troll named after you.

You would love my baby. He is perfect.

Your sister Francine.

That was the last letter I had had for a long time and I was very anxious. Mrs. Emms said there was no news from Daisy either.

I was getting older too, and those clouds which had seemed merely shadows on the horizon were beginning to gather overhead.

I had been only twelve when Francine had gone, and now I was approaching my sixteenth birthday. There were ominous signs. My grandfather was taking an interest in me. He invited me to ride round the estate with him and I remembered how he had taken Francine. He was more affable to me. When I went riding with him, Cousin Arthur came with us. Gradually I began to grasp the significance of this.

He had washed his hands of Francine, but he had another granddaughter and in a short time she would be of a marriageable age.

My sixteenth birthday was celebrated with a dinner party to which several of the surrounding families were invited.

Jenny Brakes made a taffeta dress for me in a rather grownup style and Miss Elton told me that my grandfather had expressed the wish—no, command—that I put my hair up for the occasion.

This was done and I looked quite grown-up. I had an inkling of what was planned for my seventeenth birthday.

When I sat side by side with Cousin Arthur, he would place his hand on my knee and I would feel my whole being recoil from him. I tried not to show my repugnance and for the first time since Francine had left I became obsessed with my own problem. I hated Cousin Arthur's cold flabby hands for I could guess what he was thinking.

I was able to talk to my grandmother of my fears.

"Yes," she agreed, "it is coming and you might as well realize it. Your grandfather is going to insist that you marry your Cousin Arthur."

"I will not," I replied, as firmly as Francine had said it in the past.

"He will insist, I fear. I don't know what he will do, but it will be impossible for you to stay here if you do not agree."

"What can I do?"

"We must think," she said.

I talked it over with Miss Elton. She was rather anxious herself because she could see her post coming to an end. My grandmother said that the only way out, as far as she could see, was for me to take some post and she thought that I should be looking around for something, for such situations were not easy to find and my grandfather might try to force me into an engagement at any time now. The wedding would probably be planned for my seventeenth birthday, but I would have to be prepared before that.

I had not felt so depressed since the first months after Francine's departure. I was worried about her because there were no more letters, but my personal problem was so acute. ... As far as I could see, my only way out was to take some post and I gave a good deal of thought to that prospect.

Miss Elton told me that there were certain posts advertised in the papers and she would get those papers and we would look together, for she had made up her mind that she was not going to be caught either.

We looked through the advertisements. "Your age is against you," she said. "Who would look at a girl of sixteen as a governess or a companion? You will have to pretend you are older."

"I shall be seventeen next year."

"Even seventeen is very young. I think you might just pass as eighteen if you draw your hair right back from your face. If you had a pair of spectacles ... wait a moment." She went to a drawer and brought out a pair of glasses. "Try these on." I did and she laughed. "Yes, that would do the trick and with your hair back you look quite severe ... all of twenty ... perhaps twenty-one or two."

"I can't see a thing through them."

"They can be obtained with plain glass. One thing I am certain of. Your obvious youth would debar you from getting anything. You can't possibly hope to do that for two years at least."

"Two years! But I am sure he is planning my wedding for my seventeenth birthday."

I was able to laugh at my appearance in Miss Elton's cloak, with scraped-back hair and glasses.

Miss Elton then said she would get the glasses for me. She would say someone at the house wanted them just as a shield against the winds, which gave her a headache. She had become very sympathetic to me since Francine left, and that had drawn us close together.

She did manage to acquire the glasses, and when I put them on I thought how Francine would have laughed to see me.

Miss Elton looked for posts and found several that might suit her. She was, after all, an experienced governess of mature age. The more we talked, the more I began to see the hopelessness of my situation and laughed at myself derisively for thinking that a pair of spectacles would make up for a lack of experience.

It wasn't going to work, I knew, and even Miss Elton's will to proceed in her own search flagged a little.

"Perhaps it is early days yet," she said. "Perhaps something will turn up."

While we were thinking of all this a major event took place in Greystone Manor. Aunt Grace eloped with Charles Daventry. Perhaps if I had not been so involved in my own affairs I should have seen it coming. There had been a marked change in Aunt Grace ever since Francine had gone. There had been rebellion in the air and although it had taken her some years to come to the decision, Aunt Grace had finally broken the shackles with which her father had bound her. I was delighted for her.

She just walked out one day and there was a note for my grandfather saying that she had at last decided to live her own life and would soon be Mrs. Charles Daventry which was what she should have been ten years before.

My grandmother had been in on the secret of course, and I wondered how strongly she had urged Grace to act as she did.

My grandfather was incensed. There was another meeting in the chapel at which he denounced Aunt Grace. She was an ungrateful child, such as the Lord abhorred. Had He not said "Honour thy father and thy mother?" She had bitten the hand that had fed her and the Almighty would not turn a blind eye to such dishonouring of her obligations.

I said to Cousin Arthur afterwards: "I think my grandfather sees God as a sort of ally. Why does he presume that God is always on his side? Who knows? He might be for Aunt Grace."

"You must not talk like that, Philippa," he replied sombrely.

"Why should I not say what I feel? What has God given me a tongue for?"

"To praise Him and honour your betters."

"You mean my grandfather and perhaps ... you, Cousin Arthur?"

"You should have a respect for your grandfather. He took you in. He gave you shelter. You must never forget that."

"Grandfather doesn't, and he is certainly determined that I shall not either."

"Philippa, I will not mention what you have said to your grandfather, but if you continue to talk in this vein you would compel me to."

"Poor Cousin Arthur, you are indeed my grandfather's man. You are the Holy Trinity—you, my grandfather and God."

"Philippa!"

I looked at him scornfully. Now you really have something to tell my grandfather.

He did not, in fact. Instead he became rather gentle towards me, and my distaste for him grew in proportion to the passing of time.

I went to see Aunt Grace in the shack near the graveyard. She was visibly happy and did not look like the same grey woman who had inhabited Greystone Manor.

I embraced her and she looked at me apologetically. "I wanted to tell you, Philippa," she said, "but I was afraid to tell anybody ... except Mamma. Oh, my dear, I am sure if you and your sister hadn't come I should never have had the courage. But ever since Francine went I have been thinking of this. Charles has been urging me for years, but somehow I could never quite make up my mind to ... and then when Francine went I suddenly thought, Enough is enough ... and then what seemed impossible gradually began to seem quite easy. I only had to do it."

Charles kissed me and said, "I have to be grateful to you and your sister. How do you think Grace is looking?"

"Like a new woman," I answered.

Aunt Grace was full of plans. They had Charles's room in the vicarage and they must live in that for a while. It meant that my grandfather would be furious, but he had no jurisdiction over the vicar. The living was a matter for the Bishop and the Bishop had never—"only don't mention a word of this," begged Aunt Grace—liked our grandfather. They had been at school together and there had been a feud between them. As for the vicar he had never been on very good terms with Greystone Manor, and with the Bishop's backing he didn't have to be.

Grace babbled on excitedly and I was so happy for her.

"I shan't be able to see my mother," she said, "because I have been forbidden the house and she can't come out, but you'll take messages for us, won't you, and you'll tell her how happy I am."

I promised I would.

It was a pleasant afternoon sitting among the stone figures and drinking tea which Charles brewed for us. In Grace's happiness I forgot briefly my own difficulties and when I did remember them the realization that I could talk to Aunt Grace comforted me.

"Yes," she agreed, "he is going to try to marry you to Cousin Arthur."

"I will never marry him," I said. "Francine was determined not to and so am I."

Her face clouded when I mentioned Francine. I went on: "I do worry about her. I haven't heard from her for so long. I can't understand why she doesn't write."

Aunt Grace was silent.

"It is strange," I went on. "Of course I always knew it might be difficult to get the letters ... she being so far away."

"How long is it since you heard?" asked Aunt Grace.

"It's more than a year now."

Aunt Grace was still silent but after a while she said: "Philippa, I wonder if you would bring some of my things for me. You'll have to smuggle them out of the house. I expect you'll be forbidden to see me."

"I will disobey those orders," I promised.

"Be careful. Your grandfather can be a very harsh man. You cannot stand on your own yet, Philippa."

"I'm going to have to, Aunt Grace. I may try and find some post where I can earn my living. Miss Elton is helping me."

"Oh ... has it gone as far as that?"

"It has to—because of Cousin Arthur."

"It's the best thing. You have to start a new life. I used to think of taking a post myself, but I always lacked the courage. You want to put the past behind you, everything ... just everything, Philippa. Then perhaps you will find some good man. That would be the best. Forget everything ... and start again."

"I would never forget Francine and our life together."

"You will find the way. And Philippa, there is something I want you to bring to me. It is my commonplace book. It is in the brown trunk in the first of the attics. There are newspaper cuttings and all sorts of things in it. It's a red book. You'll see my name written on the fly-leaf. I should like to have it. Do go and look for it. You cannot fail to find it."

The earnestness in her eyes, the manner in which her hand shook and the sudden darkening of that glow which her newly found happiness had brought her ... all that might have warned me that I would find something startling in the commonplace book.

As soon as I returned to the house I went up to the attic. I opened the trunk and there was the book for which she had asked. I opened it. Her name was written inside just as she had said, but it was the newspaper cutting which caught my eye. The words formed themselves into sentences and they made terrible pictures for me.

Baron Rudolph von Gruton Fuchs was found murdered in his bed in his hunting lodge in the Grutonian province of Bruxenstein last Wednesday morning. With him was his mistress, a young English woman whose identity is as yet unknown, but it is believed that she had been his companion at the lodge for some time before the tragedy.

I looked at the date of the paper. It was over a year old. There was another cutting.

The identity of the woman has been discovered. She is Francine Ewell, who had been a "friend" of the Baron for some time.

The paper slipped from my hands. I just rocked there on my knees while my mind conjured up pictures of a bedroom in a hunting lodge. Rather grand, she had described it. There would be many servants. I pictured her lying in a bed with the handsome lover beside her ... and there would be blood everywhere ... my beloved sister's blood.

So this was why I had not heard. They had not told me, and there had been no mourning for her; my dear, beautiful, incomparable sister might never have existed.

Dead! Murdered! Francine, the companion of my happy days. The months of anxiety had culminated in this. Always before there had been hope. No longer could I call at the Emms' cottage to be bitterly disappointed because there was no news. How could there be news ... ever again?

They had said she was his mistress. But she was his wife. They had been married at Birley Church before they had crossed the Channel. She had written to tell me that. They had a son. Cubby. Where was Cubby? There was no mention of him.

"Oh Francine," I murmured, "I shall never see you again. Why did you go? It would have been better to have stayed here ... to have married Cousin Arthur ... anything ... anything rather than this. We could have gone away together. Where? How? Anywhere ... anything rather than this."

I tried not to believe it. It must be someone else. But it was his name ... and hers. Had she told me the truth about the marriage? Had she thought that I would want it to be respectable and proper, conventional and right? Yes, I should have done. But she need not have lied to me. She could have omitted to mention the ceremony. And then there was the child. What had become of the child? Why didn't the paper mention him? It was such a brief cutting, as it would be in the English papers. Just a little of the usual trouble that cropped up in those turbulent Germanic states remote from peaceful England. The only reason it was mentioned at all was because the woman involved was English.

Was that all I was to know? Where could I find out more?

Clutching the red commonplace book under my arm, I ran to the vicarage. Aunt Grace was waiting for me among the statues. She must have known that I would come. I just held the book out, looking at her.

"I didn't tell you," she stammered. "I thought it would upset you too much. But now ... I thought ... she is older. She ought to know."

"All this time I have been waiting to hear from her... ."

Aunt Grace's lips trembled. "It's terrible," she said. "She should never have gone."

"Is there anything else I should know, Aunt Grace? Are there more cuttings ... more reports ... ?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. That was all. I read it and cut it out. I didn't show it to anyone. I was afraid someone would see it. Your grandfather perhaps. But people don't take much notice of foreign news."

"She was married to him," I said.

Aunt Grace looked at me piteously.

"She was," I insisted. "She wrote and told me so. Francine would not lie to me."

"It must have been a mock marriage. Those sort of people do things like that."

"But there was a child," I cried. "What of the child? There is no mention of a child."

Aunt Grace murmured, "I should never have let you know. I just thought it would be best."

"I had to know," I cried. "I want to know all about her. And all this time I have been in the dark... ."

I could think of nothing but Francine. I could not shut out the thought of her lying dead in that bed ... murdered. Francine ... so full of life. I could not imagine it. I would rather have believed she had forgotten me, that her life was so full and varied that she had no time to remember a drab little sister. But Francine would never have been like that. The bond between us was too strong and had been forever ... until death parted us. Death. Irrevocable ... violent ... shocking death! Never to see her again! Francine and that handsome young man whom I had met briefly and who had been all that a romantic hero should be—a fitting husband for the most beautiful of girls. But they had lived dangerously of course.

There was no-one to whom I could talk but my grandmother. She had learned of Francine's death recently, for Aunt Grace had told her.

"I should have been told," I cried passionately.

"We should have told you ... in time," she said. "But we knew of your devotion to each other and we thought you were so young. We wanted to wait until your sister had become a remote memory. It would have softened the blow."

"She would never have become a remote memory."

"But it was better, my child, that you should have thought she had forgotten you in the excitement of her new life than that you should know that she was dead ... just at first, that was."

"It happened a year ago."

"Yes, but it was better to wait until now. Grace acted on the spur of the moment. She is a changed woman now. All her life she hesitated... ."

"They say Francine was not married. Grandmother, I know she was."

"Well, my dear, look at it like this. He was someone of very high rank in his country. Marriages are arranged for people like that. If they marry outside the laws ..."

"It says she was his mistress. Francine was his wife. She told me."

"She would tell you that. Of course she would. She thought of herself as his wife."

"She said they were married in church. I've been to the church. We saw it the very day we arrived in England. We went there because we had time to spare when we were waiting for the train at Dover. I remember it well. Francine said at the time it would be a nice church to be married in, and she was."

My grandmother was silent and I went on: "What of the child?" for I could not stop thinking about him.

"He will be taken good care of."

"Where? How?"

"It would have been arranged."

"She was so proud of him. She loved him so much."

My grandmother nodded.

I cried out: "I want to know what happened."

"My dear child, you must forget about it."

"Forget Francine! As if I ever would. I should like to go there ... to find out everything."

"My dear child, you have problems of your own."

I was silent for a moment. The sudden discovery had wiped everything from my mind. My problem did remain though. Even as I sat there, my mind full of pictures of Francine ... ones that I remembered and imaginary ones, chief of all that of a bedroom in a hunting lodge ... I could almost feel Cousin Arthur's flabby hands on me; I could see the bridal suite at Greystone, a dismal room with heavy grey velvet curtains and a high four-poster bed; I could see myself lying there and Cousin Arthur coming to me; I could picture his kneeling by the bed praying God to bless our union before he set about the practical means of bringing it into action. I could never never endure that.

And yet I could not think of that for long. All I could see was Francine lying in that bloodstained bed with her lover dead beside her.

I went to the Grange and looked at it. Sadly I passed the Emms' cottage. I often saw Mrs. Emms hanging out the washing; she seemed to be washing clothes interminably. I supposed she would be, with a large family, and yet they did not give an impression of excessive cleanliness. I stopped and talked to her.

"Never hear from Daise these days," she said. "I often wonder what's happening to her with that there Hans. Well, they go to foreign parts and it seems you've lost them. No news from your sister either?"

I shook my head. I did not want to talk about the tragedy with Mrs. Emms.

Yet I could not stop myself looking at the house. I felt so frustrated. I railed against my youth. Something could and must be done.

Miss Elton had heard from her cousin who was working somewhere in the Midlands as a children's nurse. She said they would shortly be needing a governess and she had spoken for Miss Elton. The position was hers if she could wait for three months when they would be ready to take her.

Miss Elton was settled. She had had an interview with my grandfather when she explained that she believed I would soon not be needing a governess and that she had this offer of a post in three months' time. He graciously commended her wisdom in looking ahead and said he would be very happy to retain her services for another three months when, as she rightly divined, I should no longer be in need of a governess.

There was something irrevocable about that. My grandfather looked complacent. I was sure he thought he would not have the same difficulty with me as he had with my sister.

Then, to my great excitement, there was activity at the Grange. Young Tom Emms told me when he came to help his father in the garden. He sought me out and I was sure Mrs. Emms had ordered him to tell me.

"There's people up at the house," he whispered conspiratorially.

"The Grange!" I cried.

He nodded.

It was all I needed. As soon as the midday meal was over I was off.

Mrs. Emms was waiting for me. When she wasn't hanging up clothes she was in her garden watching.

She was at her door as soon as I approached. "Only the servants, so far," she said.

"I'm going to call," I told her.

She nodded. "I went over to ask about our Daise. I thought she might be there."

"And she's not?"

Mrs. Emms shook her head. "I got quite the cold shoulder. No, Daise wasn't there. Nor was Hans. They're not the same lot as before. Funny way of going on I must say."

I was not going to be put off and I left her and made for the Grange. My heart was beating wildly as I went up the drive. I lifted the gargoyle knocker and the sounds echoed through the house.

At length I heard footsteps coming and a man opened the door.

We stood for a moment looking at each other. He raised his eyes interrogatively and I said: "I have come to call. I am from Greystone Manor."

He said, "Not at home. No-one here."

He was about to shut the door but I had stepped forward so that he could not do so without forcing me out.

"When will the Grafin arrive?" I asked.

He lifted his shoulders.

"Please tell me. I met her some years ago. My name is Philippa Ewell."

He looked at me oddly. "I do not know when they will come. Perhaps not at all. We are here because the house has been left so long. Good day."

I could only step back defeated.

But I was in a fever of impatience. The arrival of the servants had in the past meant that the house would be occupied in due course, and surely someone there would be able to give me some information about Francine.

A strange thing happened soon after my call at the house. There was a man whom I seemed to meet constantly. He was of heavy build with a thick, short neck, and there was a Teutonic look about him which stamped him as a foreigner. I fancied he must be a tourist who was staying at the Three Tuns Inn close to the river, where occasionally people came for the trout fishing. What was strange was that I met him so often. He never spoke to me; in fact he never seemed aware of me. He just seemed to be frequently there.

Miss Elton, whose own future was now secure, was becoming very sympathetic towards me and genuinely anxious on my behalf. The time was passing. In six months I should be seventeen. She knew that I loathed the thought of marrying Cousin Arthur. Yet what alternative had I?

She said, "You should have a plan of action."

"Such as?" I asked.

"You're so listless about yourself. You're obsessed by what happened to your sister. She is dead. You are living and you have to go on living."

"I wish I could go to that place, Bruxenstein. I'm sure there is some mystery to be cleared up."

"It is all simple, really. She was bewitched by him. She went away with him. He promised marriage ..."

"He did marry her. It was in the church we visited once." I was hit by an idea. "Don't they have registers and things in churches? Well, if she was married there ... there would be an account of it, wouldn't there? And wouldn't it be in the church?"

Miss Elton was looking at me intently. "You're right," she said.

"Oh, Miss Elton. I must go to that church. I must see it for myself. If it was there, that record of their marriage ... it would prove part of that report was wrong, wouldn't it?"

Miss Elton was nodding slowly.

"I'm going then ... somehow. Will you come with me?"

She was silent for a while. "Your grandfather would want to know."

"Am I going to be his slave all my life?" I asked.

"Yes, if you don't take some action now."

"I will take action, and my first will be to go to Birley Church to see if there is any record of my sister's marriage."

"And if there is?"

"Then I must do something. It makes a difference, don't you see? I want to find out why my sister was murdered. And there is something else. I want to find her son. What of that little boy? He must be three years old now. Where is he? Who is looking after him? He is Francine's child. Don't you see? I can't just sit here and do nothing."

"I can't see what you can do, apart from prove whether your sister was married or not. And how is that going to help?"

"I'm not sure. But it would ease my mind a little. It will show that she was telling the truth if that record is there. She said she was the Baroness. She called herself Mrs. Fox. One of his names was Fuchs, you see."

"She always was rather frivolous."

"She was the loveliest person I have ever known and I can't bear it."

"Now, don't get upset again. If you're set on going to that place—near Dover, is it? We could go there and back in one day. That makes it easy."

"You'll come with me, Miss Elton."

"I will, of course. You can't tell your grandfather what we are going to do, can you? How would it be if I told him that our lessons have been touching on the ancient churches of England and there is a particularly interesting Norman one near Dover which I should very much like you to see."

"Oh, Miss Elton. You are so good."

"He is inclined to be a little less severe with us now. Perhaps because I shall soon be going and he thinks you are going to be a docile granddaughter and obey his wishes."

"I don't care what he thinks. I want to go to that church and look at the records."

She was right about my grandfather. He graciously agreed to the outing and we set out early in the morning from the station at Preston Carstairs. We could catch the three o'clock train back. It was strange that just as we were getting into the station the mysterious man from the Three Tuns came hurrying onto the train. He did not look at us at all, but the thought crossed my mind that it was strange that he should be there once more—and travelling on the very same train that we were; but I was so excited by the prospect ahead that I had soon dismissed him from my mind. He was very likely on holiday and seeing something of the countryside, and as the town of Dover and its environs were of outstanding historical interest, it was natural that he should wish to visit it.

It was a fairly long journey and to my impatient mood we seemed to chuff along at a very leisurely pace. I looked out at green meadows, oast houses, the ripening hops and the fruit-laden trees of the orchards which were a feature of this part of the country. Everything was green and pleasant, but I was so anxious to reach the church.

As we came into Dover I saw the castle at the top of the hill and the fantastic view of white cliffs and sea; but I could only think of what I was going to find—for I had no doubt that it would be there.

We alighted from the train and made our way out of the station.

"The church is not very far," I said. "Francine, Mr. Counsell and I went there in a trap and the people from the inn drove us there."

"Could you find the inn?"

"I am sure I could."

"Then we'll go there and have what they have to offer us to eat and then we can enquire about the trap to take us to Birley Church."

"I never felt less like eating."

"We need something. Besides, it will give us a chance to talk to the innkeeper."

We found the inn easily, and we were offered hot bread straight from the oven with cheddar cheese, sweet pickle and cider. It would have been tasty if I had been in the mood for eating.

"I have been here before," I told the innkeeper's wife.

"We get so many," she answered, apologizing for not remembering me.

"When I was here before, I visited Birley Church."

"We should really like to see it again," said Miss Elton. "How far is it?"

"Oh, some three miles or so from the edge of the town."

"Last time we drove there in a trap," I explained. "The trap was one of yours. Is it possible to take us again?"

She lifted her shoulders and looked faintly dubious. "I'll ask," she said.

"Oh, please arrange it," I begged. "It is so very important to me."

"I'll see what I can do."

"We shall have to pay her," I said when she had gone.

"Your grandfather gave me some money for this educational jaunt," said Miss Elton comfortingly. "And it won't be so very much surely."

The woman came back and said that the trap would be ready in half an hour. I was so impatient, it was hard to wait and as I sat there longing for the time to pass I saw a figure walk quickly past the window. I was sure it was the man I had seen getting on the train. So he had even arrived at this inn!

When the half hour was up, there was the trap waiting for us and I then saw the man again. He was examining one of the horses belonging to the inn and striking a bargain for it.

I immediately forgot him as we rattled along, for my mind was taken back so poignantly to when Francine and I had sat so close together as we drove along this road, and were so apprehensive of what awaited us at our grandfather's house.

We came to the church—small, grey and ancient—and made our way across the graveyard where many of the tombstones were brown with age and the engraving on them almost illegible. I remembered how Francine had read some of them aloud and I could hear her high laughter at the sentiments expressed. We went into the porch and I smelt that odour indigenous to churches of this kind—damp, age and some sort of furniture polish used for the pews. I stood facing the altar; the light flickering through the stained glass windows shone on the brass lectern and the gilded fringe of the altar cloth. There was silence everywhere.

Miss Elton at length broke it. "I suppose we should go to the vicarage," she said.

"Yes, of course. We must see the vicar."

We turned to go and as we did so the door creaked and a man came into the church. He looked curiously at us and asked if he could help.

"I'm the churchwarden here," he said. "Are you interested in the church? It's Norman, you know, and a very fine example for its size. It's been restored recently and we have had to repair a great deal of the tower. People don't come to see it very often, but that's because it's a bit off the map."

Miss Elton said, "We have a purpose other than to see the architecture. We wanted to know if it is possible to see the records. We want to make sure that a wedding took place here."

"Well, if you have the dates and the names of the parties that should not be an impossibility. Our vicar is away until the week-end. That's why I'm looking in, you see. If I can be of any help... ."

"Could you show us the records?" I asked eagerly.

"I could do that. They're kept in the vestry. I'll have to get the keys. Was it very long ago?"

"No. Four years," I said.

"Well, there should be no problem there. People usually want to see a hundred years back. They're chasing their ancestors. There's a lot of that done nowadays. I'll just pop into the vicarage. I'll be back with you shortly."

When he had gone we looked at each other triumphantly. "I do hope you find what you want," said Miss Elton.

True to his promise, the churchwarden soon returned with the keys, and tingling with excitement I followed him into the vestry.

"Now ..." he said. "What date did you say? Ah yes ... Here it is."

I looked. It was true. There it was. Their names as clear as I could wish.

I gave a cry of triumph and turned to Miss Elton. "There!" I shouted. "There is no doubt. It's proved."

I was possessed by a great excitement for I knew that having proved Francine had been married, I was not going to leave it at that. I had to find out more of what happened. Moreover I had begun to be haunted by the thought of that little boy, the child who had liked to say my name and had called his troll after me.

As we came out of the church I thought I saw a figure lurking among the tombstones. It was a man. He was stooping over a grave and seemed to be reading the inscription on the stone.

I took no further notice. I was so elated by what I had seen that I could think of nothing else all the way home.

I could not wait to see my grandmother. I sat on the stool at her feet and told her what I had seen in the church register. She listened intently. "I'm glad," she said. "So Francine was speaking the truth."

"But why should they say that she was his mistress?" "I suppose it was because he was a man who was in an important position. It may be that he already had a wife." "I don't believe it. Francine was so happy." "My dear Philippa, you must stop thinking about it. Whatever happened, it's over and done with. You have your own life to think of. Soon you will be seventeen. What are you going to do?"

"I wish I could go to Bruxenstein. I wish I could find out what it was all about."

"You could not do that. Now if I were younger ... if I had my sight—"

"You would go with me, wouldn't you, Grandmother?" "I should be tempted to do so ... but just as it is impossible for me to do that, so is it for you. Dear child, what are you going to do about this matter nearer home? I have been thinking that if your grandfather insists that you marry your cousin, you might go and stay with Grace." "How could I? They have only one room in the vicarage." "It would be difficult I know. I am just trying to find a solution. You are clutching at straws, my dear child. You have immersed yourself in this mystery which you cannot solve, and even if you did, that would not bring your sister back. Meanwhile you yourself are in danger."

She was right, of course. Perhaps I should try to find a post as Miss Elton and I had at first thought I should. But who would employ me? When I considered that, the whole scheme seemed ridiculous.

The next day there was a dinner party. The guests were the Glencorns with their daughter Sophia. "Just a small,intimate dinner party," my grandfather had said, looking at me with the satisfaction he was beginning to show towards me. "Six is a pleasant number," he added.

I dressed disconsolately in the brown taffeta which Jenny Brakes had made for me. It didn't suit me. Brown was not my colour. I needed reds and emerald greens. Not that I was the least interested in clothes or how I looked now. My thoughts were far away with Francine's little boy. I felt I knew him. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, a miniature Francine holding a troll. What did a troll look like? I imagined some sort of Scandinavian dwarf. A troll whom he had named Pippa after me.

He was somewhere far away ... unless they had murdered him too. Perhaps they had, and being a child he did not rate a mention in the English papers.

I piled my hair on top of my head. It gave me height and took away that look of extreme youth. Now I looked like a person who might be able to defend herself.

I hated the thought of the dinner party. I had met the Glencorns once or twice. They lived in a big house on the edge of my grandfather's estate. I gathered he had bought land from the Glencorns who had reluctantly sold it because, as my grandfather remarked gleefully, they had no help for it. Sir Edward Glencorn had never been able to manage the estate he had inherited. He was a fool, said my grandfather. He despised fools, but the Glencorns were neighbours and when their property came on the market, which he was sure it must within the next few years, he wanted to get the first chance of acquiring it. Acquisition was the aim of my grandfather's life, which was why he had been so angry when the Grange had passed out of his orbit.

Land and people—he had a desire to possess them all, to make them work for him, to fulfil his plans. He was like an earthly God creating his own universe. So although he despised Sir Edward Glencorn he liked to be in his company, which naturally gave him an even greater sense of his superiority.

Dinner was an ordeal, as all meals were, and I found it hard to concentrate on the conversation. Being in the company of Cousin Arthur was making my flesh crawl more than ever. I knew the time was getting nearer when I should have to accept him or find myself alone and destitute.

At a gathering such as this it was hard to put all that behind me, and as I was still in a state of shock over Francine's fate, I was to say the least absentminded.

Sophia was a quiet girl, although I had always had the feeling that one could never really know her. Often I would find her watching me intently as though she were trying to read my innermost thoughts. If Francine had been with me and this terrible fear and uncertainty had not been hanging over me, I realized we should have been rather interested in Sophia Glencorn.

Sir Edward was complimenting me on my looks—quite conventionally, I was sure, for I knew that the brown taffeta suited neither my skin nor my colouring, and I must surely show some sign of my anxieties. Moreover he had been talking to me for some time and I couldn't remember what I had answered, so he must be thinking me half-witted.

"No longer the little girl, eh? Quite the young lady."

My grandfather was looking almost benign. "Yes, it is surprising how quickly Philippa has seemed to grow up."

Ominous words. I could see the plans in his eyes. The wedding ... the birth ... the heir, the little Ewell who would be moulded by my grandfather.

"Philippa is taking a great interest in the estate," added Cousin Arthur.

Was I? I hadn't noticed it. I cared nothing for the estate. My thoughts were entirely occupied with my own affairs and my sister.

My grandfather nodded, looking down at his plate. "One has to consider all the time," he said. "One inherits lands, possessions, and with them responsibilities."

How amused Francine would have been.

"Philippa is taking an interest in architecture also," went on Cousin Arthur.

How I wished they would not talk about me as though I weren't there.

"Miss Elton has groomed her in the subject," went on my grandfather. "What was that church you visited recently?"

I said it was Birley Church ... not far from Dover.

"Quite a way to go to see a bit of stone," commented Lady Glencorn.

Grandfather gave her an indulgent but rather contemptuous smile.

"Norman, wasn't it?" he said. "I believe the most interesting feature of Norman architecture is the way they built the roofs—timber boarding in the roof-trusses to make tunnel-shaped ceilings. Is that so, Philippa?"

I was only vaguely aware of what he was talking about, for Miss Elton and I had not thought of architecture until I wanted to go to Birley Church.

"Oh yes, yes," I said. "Miss Elton is rather sad because she will be leaving us so soon."

My grandfather could not hide his contentment. "Philippa is getting too grown up for a governess now. She will have other matters with which to concern herself."

It was strange, really, for I had never felt so important. But it only meant that I was now quite a significant piece on the chess-board to be moved this way and that at his pleasure.

I was glad when the meal was over and we went into the solarium where after-dinner wines and liqueurs were served when we had guests. Sophia was invited to play for us on the piano. She had quite a strong voice and she sang some of the old songs like "Cherry Ripe" and "Drink to me Only with Thine Eyes." This last she sang very soulfully while Arthur stood beside her and turned the leaves of the music as she sang. I noticed that when he leaned over and turned the page, his hand rested on her shoulder and lingered there for quite a while.

I had always watched Cousin Arthur's hands with a sort of repellent horror because I hated it when he touched me; and he was rather fond of physical contact I noticed. I had thought this was reserved for myself, but it seemed it was a habit of his. I noticed him do it again and again with Sophia at the piano and it comforted me in an odd way. It did mean that it was not specially for me.

The evening was over at last and the Glencorns left in their carriage. Grandfather, Cousin Arthur and I saw them off and when they had gone grandfather sighed with satisfaction.

"It would not surprise me," he said, "if old Glencorn were not on the edge of bankruptcy."

Each day seemed long in passing, yet looking back one week had gone and we were halfway through another. I knew I was fast approaching a precipice. Miss Elton had only one month to go, for we were now well into February. My grandfather's ultimatum was about to burst upon me and I was still dreaming impossible dreams about getting to that remote country which was only a name to me. I had looked at it many times on the atlas—a little pink spot very small and insignificant compared with the mass of America, Africa and Europe, with our little island flung out on the side. But then there were all those red pieces which were British—that Empire on which the sun never set. But the place that I longed to see and to know more about was that little pink spot in the midst of all those brown mountain ranges.

In despair I decided to call at the Grange once more. I started across the lawn, and as I did so a man came towards me.

I was startled for a moment because I thought he was Francine's lover. I caught my breath and must have turned pale.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked.

"No. ... I just came to call on ... er ..."

"To call on?" he repeated encouragingly.

"I met the Grafin when she was here some years ago. She was kind enough to invite me to ... call again."

"She is not here, I'm afraid." He spoke impeccable English with only the faintest trace of a foreign accent. "Can I be of any help?"

"You are ... ?"

"Oh, I am just here to see that things are well with the house. It is some time since it was lived in. That is not good for houses. May I know your name?"

"It is Philippa Ewell."

He was alert. A picture of those newspaper lines flashed into my mind. "We know the identity of the English woman. She is Francine Ewell... .

He would have recognized the surname, but all he said was: "How do you do?" and added, "Would you like to come into the house?"

"You say the family is not at home?"

He laughed. "I am sure the Grafin would not wish me to be inhospitable. I will welcome you on her behalf."

"Are you a sort of—what do you call it? a major-domo?"

"That is a good description."

I had the position clearly. He was a servant but a very superior one. He had come to make sure that all was well with the house. That sounded very reasonable.

"I suppose you are getting the house ready for them?"

"That could well be," he said. "Come in and I will refresh you. You drink tea at this hour, do you not?"

"Yes, we do."

"I believe we could have tea."

"Is that in order, do you think?" I asked dubiously.

"I don't really see why not."

I remember how Hans had shown us round and how embarrassing that had been. Still, I was certainly not going to refuse such an offer. I was tremendously excited. I could feel my cheeks beginning to burn as they did on such occasions. Francine had said: "Don't worry about it. It makes you quite pretty."

He opened the door and we went in. I remembered it so well—the dining hall, the stairs, the small room where we had been entertained by the Grafin.

Tea was brought by a serving maid who did not seem in the least surprised. He smiled at me. "You would perhaps, as I believe they say, do the honours, yes?"

I poured out the tea and said, "I—I wonder if you ever met my sister."

He raised his eyebrows. "I have been very little in England lately. I spent some years here in my youth ... for my education."

"Oh," I said, "this was four or five years ago. She met someone in this house. She was married and then ... she died."

"I think I know to what you refer," he said slowly. "It was a big scandal at the time. Yes ... I remember the name of the Baron's friend."

"My sister was his wife."

He lifted his shoulders slightly. Then he said: "I knew there was a friendship ... a liaison."

I felt myself growing hot with indignation. "That was not true," I said shrilly. "I know the account in the press mentioned her as his mistress. I tell you she was his wife."

"You must not get angry," he said. "I know how you feel, of course. But the Baron could not have married your sister. His marriage was of the utmost importance to the country because he was heir to the ruling house."

"Do you mean my sister would not have been considered good enough for him?"

"Not necessarily so, but he would have married someone of his own nationality ... someone chosen for him. He would not have married outside that."

"I must assure you that my sister was worthy to marry anyone."

"I am sure she was, but you see it is not a matter of worthiness. It is a matter of politics, you understand?"

"I know that my sister was married to him."

He shook his head. "She was his mistress," he said. "It is what will happen, you know. She would not have been the first or the last... had he lived."

"I find these comments most offensive."

"You must not find the truth offensive. You must be a realist."

I stood up. "I will not stay here to hear my sister being insulted." I felt the tears in my eyes and I was enraged with him for making me show my emotion.

"Now come, please," he said gently. "Talk reasonably. You must look at this as a woman of the world. They met romantically, I suspect. They loved. Well, that is charming. But marriage for a man in his position with someone who ... oh, I am sure she was beautiful and charming, I am sure she was worthy in every way ... but it was simply not suitable. A man in his position must consider his liabilities • . . and he always did that."

"I tell you they were married."

He smiled at me and his calmness angered me more than anything else. That he could talk of this tragedy almost as though it were an everyday occurrence wounded me so deeply that I felt I should lose control of myself completely if I stayed any longer and had to look at that unruffled, smiling face.

"If you will excuse me ..." I said.

He stood up and bowed.

"I must go," I said. "You are talking nonsense and telling lies. ... I think you are aware of it. Goodbye."

With that I turned and ran out of the house. I was just in time for the tears were now running down my cheeks and the last thing I should have wanted was for him to see them.

I hurried into the house and up to that room which I had once shared with Francine. I threw myself on my bed and for the first time since I had seen those horrible newspaper cuttings, I wept uncontrollably.

I didn't want to go to the Grange after that. I found it hard to understand why he had upset me so. Perhaps it was because he had reminded me a little of Francine's Baron. This man was a servant, I told myself, and wanted everyone to know that although he was a servant he was a very superior one. Rudolph had worn his royalty—or whatever it was these Grafs and Barons had—very lightly. Everyone had known he was the Baron and he did not have to remind them. Perhaps I was being rather unfair to the man, just because he had been so sure that Francine had not been married.

Anyway I did not want to see him again. But perhaps that was foolish, for he might know something. He might be aware of what happened to the child.

Already I was beginning to regret my hasty departure. Why should I have cared if he saw my grief?

I saw him again next day. I think he was waiting to catch me, for when I went out for my afternoon walk he must have seen me leave the house. I went towards the woods at a fast pace but he followed me.

Inside the wood I sat down under a tree and waited for him to come up.

"Good afternoon," he said. "So ... we meet again."

Since I was sure he had waited for me and knew he had followed me this seemed, to say the least, deceitful.

"How do you do?" I said coldly.

"May I?" he said and sat down beside me. He was smiling at me.

"I am glad you are no longer angry with me," he said.

"I was rather foolish, I'm afraid."

"No ... no." He leaned towards me and put his hand over mine for a moment. "It was natural that you should be upset. It was a terrible thing that happened to your sister."

"It was wicked. I wish I knew. ... I wish I could find her murderers."

"It was not possible to find them," he said. "There was a search, of course. Nothing came to light and it therefore remains a mystery."

"Will you please tell me all that you know about it? There was a child. What happened to the boy?"

"A child! There was no child."

"My sister had a son. She wrote and told me so."

"That is impossible."

"Why Should it be impossible for two people to have a child?"

"It is not an impossibility in the way you suggest, but in view of Rudolph's position."

"His position had nothing to do with it. He married my sister and it is the most natural thing in the world that they should have a child."

"This is something you do not understand."

"I should be pleased if you would not treat me as a child, and a half-witted one at that."

"Oh, I do not consider you a child and I am sure that you are in full possession of your wits. I know too that you are a very fiery young lady."

"This is something which is very important to me. My sister is dead but I will not allow her memory to be desecrated."

"You use strong words, my dear young lady."

He had leaned towards me and tried to take my hand which I firmly removed. "I am not your dear young lady."

"Well ..." He put his head on one side and regarded me. "You are young. You are a lady ..."

"Of a family not worthy to marry with foreigners who honour our country by visiting it occasionally."

He laughed aloud. I noticed the firm line of his jaw and the gleam of strong white teeth. I thought: He reminds me of Arthur ... by the very contrast.

"Worthy ... worthy indeed," he said. "But because of certain political commitments, such marriages cannot take place."

"Do you think that a girl like my sister would condescend to become the mistress of this high and mighty potentate?"

He looked at me solemnly and nodded.

"You are talking nonsense," I said.

"Where I was wrong," he went on, looking at me in an odd, intent sort of way, "was to call you my dear young lady. You are not mine."

"I find this an absurd conversation. We were talking about a very serious matter and you have introduced this light and frivolous note."

"It is often wise when talking of serious matters to introduce a light-hearted note. It prevents tempers rising."

"It does not prevent mine." .

"Ah, but you are a very hot-tempered lady."

"Listen to me," I said. "If you are not prepared to talk seriously about this matter, there is no point in our talking at all."

"Oh, do you feel like that? I'm sorry. I have been thinking that there is a great deal of point in talking on any subject. I should very much like to know you better and I hope you feel some curiosity about me."

"I have to find out what happened to my sister and why. And I want to be assured that her child is being cared for."

"You are asking a great deal. The police were not able to solve the mystery of what happened that night in the hunting lodge. As for the non-existent child—"

"I will not listen to any more."

He did not speak, but sat still, glancing sideways at me. My impulse was to get up and leave him and I should have done so if I had not wanted more than anything to learn the truth.

I did start to move away but he reached out and, taking my hand, looked at me appealingly. I felt myself flushing. There was something about him which stirred me. I disliked his arrogance and his assumption that Francine's Baron could never have stooped to marry her. In fact his implication that Francine and I were romancing about the whole matter infuriated me, and yet— I could not say what it was, because I had had too little experience of the world; and yet to be near him brought me such a feeling of excitement as I did not remember ever feeling before. I could tell myself that it was because I was on the verge of discovering something and was actually in the presence of someone who had known Baron Rudolph. Somehow this man gave me the impression that he was aware of more than he was letting me know, and I told myself that whatever effect he had on me I had to see him as much as possible.

I don't know how long we were like that—he holding my hand, myself making a half-hearted effort to break away from him while he watched me with a rather mischievous smile, as though he could read my thoughts and, moreover, knew my vulnerability.

"Please sit down," he said. "We obviously have a great deal to say to each other."

I sat down. I said: "In the first place, you know who I am. My sister and I lived at Greystone Manor until she went to this unfortunate ball."

"Where she met her lover."

"She had met him before and the Grafin invited her. It wasn't easy. Do not imagine that we at Greystone Manor thought it such an honour. My sister had to go to all sorts of subterfuge in order to attend that ball."

"Deceit?" he asked.

"You are determined to be offensive."

"Certainly not. But I must insist that if we are to discover anything we must look facts straight in the face. Your sister slipped out of the house in her ball gown and went to the Grange. Her family—with the exception of her little sister who was in on the secret—knew nothing about it. Is that right?"

"Yes ... more or less."

"And there she and the Baron fell in love. They eloped. She travelled as his wife ... to placate conventions."

"She was his wife."

"Now we are right back at the beginning. The marriage could not have taken place."

"But it did. I know it did."

"Let me explain to you. Rudolph's country is a small one. It is always fighting to preserve its autonomy. That is why there must be no stepping aside from conventions. There are neighbouring states always casting greedy eyes on it, always seeking to aggrandize themselves, to make themselves more powerful. One day they will all band together into one state and that will doubtless be a good thing, but at the moment there are these petty states—dukedoms, margravates, principalities, and so on; Bruxenstein is one of them. Rudolph's father is an old man. Rudolph was his only son. He was to marry the daughter of a ruler of a neighbouring state. He would never have made this mesalliance. Too much was at stake."

"Nevertheless he did."

"Do you really believe that possible?"

"Yes. He was in love."

"Very charming, but love is a different thing from politics and duty. The lives of thousands are involved. ... It is the difference between war and peace."

"He must have loved my sister dearly. I can understand. She was the most attractive person I have ever met. Oh, I can see you are cynical. You don't believe me."

"I believe she was all you say she was. I have seen her sister and that makes it easy to imagine."

"You are laughing at me. I know that I am plain and quite unlike Francine."

He took my hand and kissed it. "You must not think that," he said. "I am sure you have as much charm as your sister but perhaps in a different way."

Once again I firmly removed my hand. "You must not tease me," I said. "You don't want to talk of this, do you?"

"There is nothing really to say. Your sister and Rudolph were murdered in the hunting lodge. It was a political murder, in my view. It was someone who wanted the heir out of the way."

"Well, who would inherit this dukedom ... or principality ... or whatever it is? Perhaps he is the murderer."

"It's not as simple as that. The next in line was not in the country at the time."

"Well, those sort of people have agents, don't they?"

"There was a thorough investigation."

"It could not have been so very thorough. I expect they are not very efficient in that little place."

He laughed. "They are, you know. There was a detailed enquiry but nothing could be brought to light."

"I suppose my sister was killed because she happened to be there."

"It looks like it. I am so sorry. What a pity she ever left Greystone Manor."

"If she hadn't, she might have been married to Cousin Arthur ... but she never would have done that."

"So ... there was another suitor."

"My grandfather wanted the match. I suppose it is rather like your Bruxenstein. He hasn't a dukedom or a principality, but he has a fine old house which has been in the family for generations and he is very rich, I believe."

"So you have the same problems as we have in Bruxenstein."

"Problems created by people's pride. There should be no problems at all. No-one should attempt to choose people's husbands for them. If people love, they should be allowed to marry."

"Well spoken," he cried. "Do you know, we have at last found agreement."

I said, "I shall have to go now. Miss Elton will be looking for me."

"Who is Miss Elton?"

"My governess. She is leaving very shortly. I am considered to be no longer in need of one."

"Almost a woman," he commented.

He was beside me and he laid his hands on my shoulders.

I wished he would not touch me; when he did so an incomprehensible desire to stay with him came to me. It was the opposite effect of that which Arthur's flabby hands had on me, but it did occur to me that they both had a habit of using them a good deal.

He drew me to him and kissed me very lightly on the forehead.

"Why did you do that?" I demanded, hastily drawing back and flushing scarlet.

"Because I wanted to."

"People do not kiss strangers."

"We are hardly that. We have met before. We have drunk tea together. I thought that was an English ceremony. If you take tea you are immediately friends."

"You obviously know nothing of English ceremonies. One can take tea with one's bitterest enemies."

"Then I misjudged the situation and you will forgive me."

"I forgive you for that but not for your attitude towards my sister. I know she was married. I have evidence that she was, but it is no use trying to convince you so I will not attempt to do so."

"Evidence?" he said sharply. "What evidence?"

"Letters. Her letters, for one thing."

"Letters to you? In which she insists she was married."

"She didn't insist. She didn't have to. She only had to tell me.

"May I see ... these letters?"

I hesitated.

"You have to convince me, you know."

"All right then... ."

"Shall we meet here ... or would you care to come to the Grange?"

"Here," I answered.

"Tomorrow I shall be here."

I ran out of the wood. When I reached the edge of it I looked back and saw him standing among the trees. There was a strange smile on his lips.

I was in a bemused state for the rest of the day. Miss Elton, who was in the midst of packing, did not notice my abstraction. She would be leaving in a few days and I knew that she was anxious about me, but could really see no practical way out of my difficulties. I wondered whether to tell my grandmother about this man, but for some reason I was reluctant to do so. I did not even know his name. He was over-familiar. How dared he kiss me! What did he think? That all girls here could be lightly kissed and engaged in intimate relationships without marriage?

I stayed up late that night reading the letters. It was all so clear: her ecstasy and her marriage. Hadn't I seen the entry in the register? I should have told that man about this piece of irrefutable evidence. Why hadn't I? Perhaps I had deliberately held it back so that when I did tell him and prove him to be wrong he would be made to feel very humble indeed. Of course Francine had been married. There was her talk of the baby—dear little Cubby. Even suppose she had told me of the marriage because she thought she ought to be, she would never have invented the child. Francine was not the most maternal of women, I was sure; but once she had a child she had loved him and that came over in the letters.

The next day I was early at our meeting place but he was already there.

My heart started to beat faster at the sight of him. I wished that he did not have this effect on me because it made me feel at a disadvantage. He came forward; he bowed, I thought with a certain mockery, and clicking his heels took my hand and kissed it.

"There is no need to stand on ceremony with me," I said.

"Ceremony! This is no ceremony. An ordinary form of greeting in my country. Of course, with elderly ladies and children we often kiss the cheek instead of the hand."

"As I am neither you can at least dispense with that."

"Somewhat regrettably," he said.

But I was determined that I would not allow this rather offensive bantering to intrude on the seriousness of the occasion.

"I have brought the letters to show you," I said. "When you read them you will accept the truth. You will have to."

"Shall we sit down. The ground is a little hard and this is not the most comfortable place for a consultation. You should have come to the house."

"I hardly think that would be right while your employers are away."

"Perhaps not," he said. "Now ... may I see the letters?"

He took them and began to read them.

I watched him. I suppose it was that excessive masculinity which was affecting. It must have been something like that which happened to Francine. Oh no, that was absurd. She had fallen violently in love. My feelings were quite different. I felt antagonistic towards this man, although I was intensely excited in his presence. I had known few men. One could not count Antonio and the people on the island. I had been far too young then. But few people came to my grandfather's house and I supposed I judged everyone by Cousin Arthur, which meant that they all must seem devastatingly attractive.

I started suddenly. I had the feeling that we were being overlooked. I turned sharply. Did I see a movement among the trees? It must have been imagination. I was in a state of excitement, I realized that. I had been ever since I had met this man ... solely because I thought I had fitted in a few more pieces in the jigsaw of mystery concerning the murder in the hunting lodge. A crackle of dry bracken, the sudden flutter of a bird as though it had been disturbed had given me this strange uncanny feeling of being overlooked.

"I fancy someone is nearby watching us," I said.

"Watching us? Why?"

"People do... ."

He put down the letters and sprang to his feet. "Where?" he cried. "In which direction?" I was sure then that I heard the sound of hastening footsteps.

"Over there," I said, and he ran off in the direction I had indicated. After a few minutes he came back.

"No sign of anyone," he said.

"Yet, I was sure ..."

He smiled at me and, sitting down, picked up the letters. When he had read them he handed them back solemnly to me.

"Your sister thought she would set your mind at rest by telling you she was married."

Now was the moment. "There is something you don't know," I told him triumphantly. "I have definite proof. I have seen the church register."

"What!" That moment had been worth waiting for. He was completely taken aback.

"Oh yes," I went on. "It is there as plain as it could be. So you see you have been absolutely wrong."

"Where?" he asked tersely.

"In Birley Church. Miss Elton and I went to look for it and found it."

"I cannot credit Rudolph for behaving so ..."

"It is not for you to credit or discredit. The marriage took place. I can prove it."

"Why did you not tell me before?"

"Because you were so pigheadedly cocksure."

"I see," he said slowly. "Where is this place?"

"At Birley, not far from Dover. You should go there. See it with your own eyes ... then perhaps you'll believe it."

"Very well," he said. "I will."

"You can take the train to Dover. It is quite simple. You can get a horse and trap to take you out to Birley. It's about three miles from Dover."

"I will most certainly go."

"And when you have seen it you will come back and apologize to me."

"Abjectly."

He folded up the letters and began, as though absentmindedly, to put them in his pocket.

"They are mine, remember."

"So they are." He gave them back to me.

I said: "I don't know your name."

"Conrad," he told me.

"Conrad ... what?"

"Don't bother with the rest. You would find it unpronounceable."

"I might be able to manage it."

"Never mind now. I should like to be just Conrad to you."

"When will you go to Birley, Conrad?"

"Tomorrow, I think."

"And will you meet me here on the following day?"

"With the greatest pleasure."

I tucked the letters into my bodice.

"I believe," he said, "that you suspect me of planning to steal them."

"Why should I?"

"You are rather suspicious by nature and particularly of me."

He moved towards me and put his hand on the neck of my bodice. I cried out in alarm and he dropped his hand.

"Only teasing," he said. "You have put them in a rather— shall I say tempting spot."

"I think you are impertinent."

"I fear you are right," he said. "Remember I come from that outlandish place of which you had never heard until your sister went there."

My eyes clouded and I started to think of her as she had been on the night she left. He saw it at once and his hands were on my shoulders.

"Forgive me," he said. "I am clumsy as well as impertinent. I know your feelings for your sister. Believe me, I admire them tremendously. I will see you the day after tomorrow. I shall come prepared, I assure you, to eat humble pie—that is what you call it, is it not?—if you can prove me wrong."

"Then you had better start preparing for that dish immediately. I warn you I shall want abject apologies."

"If you can prove your case you can have them. That's better. You are smiling now ... satisfied ... complacent. You know you are right, don't you?"

"I do. Goodbye."

"Au revoir. Auf Wiedersehen. Not goodbye. I don't like that. It's too final. I should not be at all pleased if it were goodbye between us."

I turned and ran off. I was already a little sad because a day must elapse before I saw him again. But the day after tomorrow I should have the satisfaction of seeing his dismay and that would be worth waiting for.

As soon as I entered the house I decided to go and see my grandmother. She would have awakened from her afternoon sleep and would probably be having a cup of tea. I must tell her about Conrad, but I would be careful not to betray to her the effect he had on me. I was being rather silly about that. It merely meant that he was the first man with whom I had ever been on such terms and, as Miss Elton would probably have commented if she had noticed my abstracted state, it was going to my head. That was the case. I was lonely. No one had paid any attention to me except Cousin Arthur, who was acting on my grandfather's instructions, and here was an attractive man attempting to carry on in a rather flirtatious manner with me. Sometimes I felt he was in earnest and really liked me; at others I thought he was laughing at me. Perhaps it was a little of each.

I knocked at my grandmother's door and Agnes Warden came out.

"Oh, it's Miss Philippa," she said. "Your grandmother is sleeping."

"Still? Isn't she having her tea?"

"She had a bit of a turn this afternoon. She's sleeping it off."

"A turn?"

"Well, her heart's not good, you know. She has these turns now and then. They leave her very tired and the only thing is rest after them."

I was disappointed.

I went back to my room and met Miss Elton coming into the corridor.

"I want to leave tomorrow if possible," she said, "instead of waiting until the end of the week. My cousin can meet me and she says we could have a week's holiday before going to our employers. She has arranged for us to stay with a friend of hers. Do you think your grandfather would agree to my leaving tomorrow?"

"I'm sure he would. In any case, you have really ceased to be employed by him."

"But I wouldn't want to upset him. I have my reference to think of."

"I should go to him at once. I am sure it will be all right."

"I will."

She came to my room about ten minutes later looking flushed and pleased.

"He has agreed that I shall go. Oh, Philippa, it is all so exciting, and of course my cousin says it is an easy house and the children are delightful."

"A little different from Greystone. My grandfather is not the best of employers."

"But I had you two girls. I don't think I shall ever feel the same about other pupils."

"About Francine, of course." I felt the sadness overwhelming me again. Miss Elton put her arm about me.

"You too ... just as much," she said. "I grew very fond of you both. That is why I am so concerned for you now."

"I shall miss you."

"Philippa, what have you decided? Very soon now ..."

"I know. I know. ... I just cannot think for a moment. I will though. I'll think of something."

"There's so little time."

"Please, Miss Elton, don't worry about me. I have a dream sometimes that I go to that place and find out what's really happened. There's the child, you know."

"You would best forget it. You need to get away from here—unless you are going to agree to your grandfather's wishes."

"Never ... never!" I said emphatically. Since I had met Conrad the thought of Cousin Arthur's flabby hands groping for me had become something of a nightmare.

Miss Elton shook her head. I could see she believed that in the end I would accept my fate. Normally I should have talked to her, but because my thoughts were full of Conrad I did not wish to. I did not understand, myself, but somewhere at the back of my mind was the thought that he would provide some sort of solution—just as his fellow countryman had for Francine.

"Well," said Miss Elton, "tomorrow I must say goodbye. It is always hard leaving one's pupils, but this is the hardest wrench."

When she had left me I looked at the bed which had been Francine's and a desolation swept over me. My grandmother was ill; Miss Elton would be gone; I should be alone.

I realized then how I depended on those two.

And yet I could not stop thinking of Conrad.

The next morning Miss Elton left. I clung to her for a last farewell and she was very emotional.

"May everything go right with you," she said fervently.

"And for you," I replied.

Then she was gone.

I went up to see my grandmother. Agnes met me at the door. "You should not stay long," she said. "She is very weak."

I sat by her bed and she smiled at me rather wanly. I longed to tell her about Conrad and the strange feelings he aroused in me. I wanted to discover for myself whether it was due to him or merely because he came from that place where Francine had met her death. But I realized that my grandmother was not quite sure who it was who sat by her bed, and at moments was confusing me with Grace, and as I left her my desolation increased.

I could scarcely wait for Conrad's return. I was in the woods before the appointed time, waiting. He was on time and my heart leaped with excitement as he came striding towards me.

He took both my hands and bowed before he kissed first one and then the other.

"So?" I said.

"I went as we arranged I should," he said. "It's not a bad journey."

"And you saw it?"

He looked at me steadily. "I found the church. The vicar was helpful."

"He was away when Miss Elton and I went. We saw the churchwarden."

He looked at me intently. "You mustn't mind this," he said. "I know you thought you saw this entry—"

"Thought I saw it—I did see it! What are you talking about?"

He shook his head. "The vicar showed me the register. There was no entry."

"This is the most absurd nonsense. I saw it. I tell you I saw it."

"No," he insisted. "It was not there. I had the right date. There was no doubt of it. There was no entry."

"You are provoking me."

"I wish I were. I'm sorry to upset you in this way."

"Sorry! You're glad. Besides, it's a lie. You can't say this. I tell you I saw it with my own eyes."

"I'll tell you what I think," he said soothingly. "You wanted to see it. So you imagined it."

"In other words I suffer from delusions and I'm mad. Are you suggesting that?"

He looked at me sadly. "My dear, dear Philippa, I am sorry. Believe me, I wanted to see it. I wanted you to be right."

"I shall go there myself. I'll go again. I'll find it. You must have been looking in the wrong place."

"No. I had the correct date. The date you gave me. If they had been married it would have been there. It is not there, Philippa. It is definitely not there."

"I am going there. I shall lose no time."

"When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow."

"I will come with you. I will show you that you have made a mistake."

"And I will show you that I have not," I said vehemently.

He took my arm but I shook him off.

"Don't take this to heart," he said. "It's over and done with now. Whether she was married or not ... what difference does it make?"

"It makes a difference to me ... and the child."

"There was no child," he said. "No marriage ... no child."

"How dare you suggest my sister was a liar or that I am mad? Go away... . Go back to your own country!"

"I fear I shall have to ... very soon. But first you and I will go there ... tomorrow."

"Yes," I said determinedly, "tomorrow."

I had not thought how I was to get away. It had been different when I had gone before. But I was reckless. I could think of nothing but proving Conrad wrong. I told Mrs. Greaves that I was going to look at an old church and was not sure how long I should be away.

"Your grandfather would not want you to go without someone with you," she said.

"I shall have someone with me."

"Who will that be? Miss Sophia Glencorn?"

I nodded. It was the only way. I did not want a hue and cry before I started.

Conrad was at the station as we had arranged.

As I sat opposite him I thought how pleasant it could have been if we were just taking a trip somewhere together. I studied his face as he sat, his arms folded, his eyes on me.

It was a strong face with firm features and deeply set bluish grey eyes. It was a Nordic face. The blond hair grew back strongly from a high forehead. I could imagine his coming to our shores in one of the tall ships, a Viking conqueror.

"Well," he said, "are you summing me up?"

"Just casually observing," I replied.

"I hope I meet with your approval."

"Does it matter?"

"Enormously."

"You are bantering again. It is because you know what we are going to find when we get to the church. You're trying to make a joke of it. I think it's a very poor joke."

He leaned forward and laid his hand on my knee. "I would not dream of joking about a subject which is so near to your heart," he said seriously. "I don't want you to feel too badly when ..."

"Shall we talk of something else?"

"The weather? It is quite a pleasant day for the time of the year. Now in my country it is not so warm in the winter. I believe it is because you are singularly blessed by the Gulf Stream, one of God's gifts to the English."

"I think it would be better to be silent."

"Just as you wish. My great desire is to please you now as always ... and forever."

I closed my eyes. His words touched a deep chord in me. Always and forever. It sounded as though our relationship was not the transient one that I had thought it to be and the idea lifted my spirits considerably.

As we chuffed along in silence his eyes remained on me. I looked out of the window but I scarcely noticed the passing scenery. At length I smelt the tang of the sea and there was the approach to the town ... the white cliffs again, the view of the castle which medieval kings had called the gateway to England.

We made our way to the inn, for he insisted that we have some food.

"It's necessary if we take the trap," he said. "Besides you need a little refreshment."

"I could eat nothing," I said.

"But I could," he replied, "and you will."

We had the bread and cheese again with cider. I did manage to eat a little.

"There, you see," he commented. "I know what is good for you."

"How soon can we start?" I asked.

"Patience," he retorted. "Do you know, in different circumstances I should be enjoying this thoroughly. Perhaps you and I can take some trips round the countryside. What do you say?"

"My grandfather would never allow it."

"Has he allowed this?"

"There was a little ... subterfuge."

"Oh, you are capable of intrigue then?"

"I had to come," I said. "I would not have stayed away for anything."

"You are so vehement. I like it. In fact, Miss Philippa, there is so much I like about you. I feel I know very little, though, and there is so much more to know. It would be a glorious voyage of discovery."

"I am afraid you would find it rather dull."

"What a woman for contradictions you are! One minute you are raging against me for not having a high opinion of your mental powers and then next you are telling me how unworthy you are for study. Now what am I to make of your

"I should give up the study if I were you."

"But I am so intrigued."

"Do you think we have finished now?"

"Such impatience!" he murmured.

We went out to the trap and I could scarcely contain my impatience as we approached Birley Church.

"We'll go first to the vicarage and find that charming vicar," he said. "He was so helpful to me. I shall have to give a large donation to the upkeep of the church."

We went to the vicarage which was almost as old as the church. A woman who was obviously the vicar's wife came to the door and said we were lucky. The vicar had just come in.

We went into a drawing room—shabby but cosy. The vicar greeted Conrad warmly.

"It is a pleasure to see you again," he said.

"I have another request," replied Conrad. "We want to look at that register again."

"That's no problem. Did you have the wrong date?"

My heart was beating fast. I knew there had been a mistake somewhere and I believed I was on the verge of discovering what it was.

"I'm not sure," said Conrad. "It might have been. This is Miss Ewell, who is particularly interested. She has been here before."

"I didn't see you then," I said to the vicar. "You were away. I saw your churchwarden."

"Oh yes, Thomas Borton. I was away for a while. That is not so long ago. Well, if you come into the church you can see what you want."

We made our way to the church. There was the familiar smell of damp, old hymn books and that unusual furniture polish.

We went into the vestry and when the register was produced eagerly I turned the pages. I stared. It was not there. There had been no wedding on that date.

I stammered: "There is a mistake ..."

Conrad was beside me. He had slipped his arm through mine but I threw him off impatiently. I looked from him to the vicar.

"But I saw it," I went on. "It was here. ... It was in the book—"

"No," said the vicar. "That could not be. There is a mistake in the date, I think. Are you sure you have the right year?"

"I know I have. I know when it happened. The bride was my sister."

The vicar looked shaken.

I went on: "You must remember it. It would have been a rather hasty wedding—"

"I was not here at the time. I took over the living only two years ago."

"It was here," I could only insist. "I saw it. ... It was there ... plainly ... for anyone to read."

"There must be some mistake. You will find you have the wrong date."

"Yes," said Conrad, close to me. "It's a mistake. I'm sorry. But you insisted on seeing for yourself."

"The churchwarden brought us here," I cried. "He would remember. He showed us the book. He was here while we found it. Where is the churchwarden? I must see him. He will remember."

"There's no need for that," said Conrad. "It's not here. It was a mistake. You thought you saw it..."

"One does not think one sees things! I saw it, I tell you. I want to see the churchwarden."

"I am sure that is possible," the vicar told us. "He lives in the village. His house is number six, the Street. There is only one street worthy of the name in the village."

"We will go and see him at once," I said.

Conrad turned to the vicar. "You have been most helpful," he said.

"I am sorry there has been this upset."

I turned back to the register and looked again. I was trying to conjure up what I had seen on that day with Miss Elton. It was no good. It was simply not there.

Conrad put two sovereigns into the offertory box in the porch as we went out and the vicar was most grateful.

"You'll find Tom Borton in his garden, I daresay. He's a great gardener."

It was not difficult to find him. He came out to see us, looking mildly curious.

"The vicar gave us your address," Conrad told him. "Miss Ewell here is very anxious to see you."

As he turned to me there was no recognition in his eyes.

I said, "You remember I came to see you not long ago. There was a lady with me."

He wrinkled his eyes and flicked a fly off the sleeve of his coat.

"You must remember," I persisted. "We looked at the. records in the vestry. You showed us ... and I found what I wanted."

"We get people now and then to look at the records... . Not often ... but now and then."

"So you do remember. The vicar was away ... and we saw you in the church ..."

He shook his head. "I can't say as how I remember."

"But you must. You were there. You must remember."

"I'm afraid I can't remember anything about it."

"I recognized you at once."

He smiled. "I can't say as I remember ever seeing you before Miss ... er, Ewell, did you say?"

"Well," put in Conrad, "we're sorry we troubled you."

"Oh, that's all right sir. Sorry I couldn't have been better help. I think the young lady's thinking of something else. I reckon I never saw her before in all my life."

I was led away feeling bewildered. I felt that I was living in some sort of nightmare from which I must soon wake up.

"Come, we must get our train," said Conrad.

With five minutes to spare, we sat in the station. He had taken my arm and was holding it tightly. "You mustn't be too upset," he said.

"I am upset. How can I help it? I saw it clearly and that man was lying. Why? He must have remembered seeing me.

He said himself that not many people come to look at the registers."

"Listen, Philippa, strange things happen to us all at times. What happened to you was a sort of hallucination."

"How dare you say that?"

"What other explanation is there?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

The train came in and we got into it. We had a carriage to ourselves for which I was grateful. I felt exhausted with emotion and a certain fear. I was almost beginning to believe that I had imagined the whole thing. Miss Elton had gone, so I could not ask her. She had looked at the register with me. But had she actually seen the entry? I wasn't sure. All I remembered was seeing it myself and calling out in triumph. I tried to reconstruct the scene. I could not remember her actually standing beside me and looking at the book.

But the churchwarden had said he had never seen me before, yet he showed the register rarely. Surely he must have remembered.

Conrad came and sat beside me and put an arm about me. I was amazed that I could find some comfort from the action.

He said, "Listen to me, Philippa. The entry is not there. It's all over now. Your sister is dead. If you had found that entry it would not have brought her back to life. It is a sad episode, but it is over now. You have your own life to live."

I was not listening to him. I just felt the comfort of his being near me and I did not want to move away.

When we left the station he brought me as far as the woods. I would not let him come any nearer. There would be a great deal of explaining to do if I were seen with a man.

As I went into the Manor, Mrs. Greaves was standing at the top of the staircase.

"Is that you, Miss Philippa?" she said. "You are back. What a relief. Your grandmother was taken very ill this afternoon."

She was looking at me steadily.

I said, "She's dead, isn't she?"

And she nodded.