The Sibyl in Her Grave

pleased we all were.”

“Well,” said Reg, evidently still suffering pangs of conscience, “she is coming to lunch here on Christmas Day, of course. I suppose—”

“If Daphne comes, we can’t play Scrabble,” said Maurice. “I haven’t played Scrabble for ages.”

The wistfulness of this last remark was allowed to prevail over my aunt’s scruples. We laid out the Scrabble board on a table in the drawing room, dealt out the letters and settled down to argue amiably about such questions as whether EM is a permissible word. It seemed to me, however, that our enjoyment was slightly clouded by a feeling of having been less kind than we should have been to Daphne.

I happened to be facing the window which looks out onto the street. Although by now it was quite dark outside, we had left the curtains undrawn so that passersby could enjoy our elegantly lit Christmas tree. After we had been playing for some time, I happened to look up from the board and saw a face, pale and large eyed, pressed against the glass. Under the influence of the stories that Maurice had been telling, I took it at first for a ghost or hobgoblin at the very least; but after a moment or so I saw that it was Daphne.

None of the others had noticed her. The natural and friendly thing to do, I suppose, would have been to draw her presence to the attention of my aunt, who would no doubt have gone to the door and invited her in. For some reason, however, I hesitated about doing this; I looked away, uncertain whether she knew I had seen her. When I looked again she was no longer there, and it seemed too late to say anything.

All of which is plainly the explanation for my uneasy dreams and superstitious imaginings. Well, I have devised a plan of action to deal with them: I shall light a Gauloise; I shall gather up my courage; and then I shall go to the window and make sure it is only the rowan tree tapping.

I have lit a Gauloise.

I have gathered up my courage.

And I have been to the window.

And it is, as I have told you all along, only the rowan tree tapping on it; but it’s bitterly cold outside and the wind is blowing something like a gale — one can’t blame the poor rowan tree for wanting to come in. Well, she can’t and that’s all there is to it.

It looks as if Maurice is also unable to sleep — the downstairs lights were still on at the Vicarage and I could see him moving about in the kitchen. I wonder whether he did call on Daphne, as he said he would, on his way home last night, or whether by that time he would have thought it too late — everyone stayed to supper, of course, but they all went home quite soon afterwards.

I shall now make a serious effort to go to sleep again, and resume this in the morning.

8:30 A.M.

Your letter has arrived, causing considerable alarm. How far above the ground is this balcony which you speak so lightly of stepping across to? If it is anything more than three feet, I hope that on reflection you did nothing so imprudent. Surrounded as you appear to be by homicidal bankers and seductive physiotherapists, you surely have no need for any additional excitement.

I shall go out and post this at once, hoping to elicit a reassuring sequel. After that I must go and buy a present for Daphne, since she has given me one. What on earth am I to get her? There is a brand of chocolates which she is said to be fond of; but so many people seem to be adopting that solution that she may perhaps have an excess.

When I have done that, I suppose it would be prudent to have a restful day. Tonight I am going with my aunt to the midnight service at St. Ethel’s and tomorrow some one hundred or so persons of gargantuan appetite intend to descend upon us and feast continuously until Epiphany. That, at any rate, is the inference to be drawn from the quantities of ham, turkey, chicken, brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, tarts, pies, brandy butter, bottled peaches and nuts of all varieties which have been or are on the point of being prepared. My aunt, on the other hand, says that we are expecting only a dozen guests for Christmas lunch, and I do not like to express disbelief.

I am very sorry to hear of poor Terry’s broken heart — please tell him that in my opinion anyone so fortunate as to be the object of his affections must be a monster of folly to disdain them.

I remain, my dear Ragwort,

your respectfully devoted

Julia

I should at this juncture point out to my readers that the letter which follows, though written after the preceding letter was written and posted, was nonetheless written before that letter was received or read and cannot, therefore, be regarded as a response to it. I trust that this makes the position entirely clear.

Residence Belplaisir

Cannes

Christmas morning

My dear Julia,

Having committed an act of negligence which she is otherwise unlikely to forgive for some considerable time, I shall have to ask you to intercede on my behalf with Selena: Terry has escaped, insufficiently scolded and still uncommitted to any definite date for installing our bookcases. To say that his escape was unforeseeable and no fault of mine will do me, I suspect, no good at all.

As to the reasons for his sudden departure I can tell you, of my own knowledge, almost nothing. Quite early this morning, while I was making breakfast and Benjamin was in the bath, the telephone rang and was answered by Terry. The conversation lasted about two minutes, after which he came rushing into the kitchen, saying that he had to go back to England immediately and wanting to know about planes and taxis. An hour later he was gone, with not a moment to spare to be scolded about bookcases.

That, as I say, is all that I actually know of the matter. If invited to speculate on the basis of my impressions, I would say that the call was from the object of the attachment — offering, perhaps, a forty-first camel or an extra box of marrons glaces.

His departure reduces the number of houseguests to seven, including myself. How many more there may be for Christmas lunch is a matter of pure guesswork: Benjamin, of course, has no precise idea of whom he has invited. Still, I have put a very fine goose in the oven and washed and peeled large quantities of vegetables and filled the refrigerator with an ample supply of charcuterie — I am hopeful that no one will starve.

I feel free, therefore, to escape from the kitchen for a little while and give you the latest news of Selena’s merchant bankers.

I mentioned, I think, at the end of my last letter, that I was becoming a little concerned about the noises from the next-door flat, where Natasha seemed to have abandoned one of her patients in a state of some distress. On my return from posting it I accordingly rang her doorbell. The door remained closed; but I quite distinctly heard a man’s voice calling out, in English, for help.

Reluctant as I was to offend Natasha, I did not feel that this was something I could simply ignore. I went out onto the balcony and considered what I should do. The distance between the balconies is not more than two feet or so — at ground level, one would not think twice about crossing from one to the other. What made me slightly hesitant was the fact that we are on the third floor.

Still, I did not seem to have much choice. I took a deep breath, climbed up onto the balustrade with the aid of a chair, laid firm hold on a convenient drainpipe and stepped across. I arrived quite safely on Natasha’s balcony, feeling rather foolish for having hesitated.

Opening onto the balcony was a most attractive drawing room, with a high ceiling, whitewashed walls and a polished wooden floor. The only ornaments were an interesting piece of abstract sculpture and a number of delightful watercolours — the work, I suppose, of Natasha herself. Since the room was empty, however, I did not pause to admire them but continued on into the hallway.

There were a number of doors leading from the hallway, all closed. I called out a little nervously “Hello — is