better today.”
If she had happened to have looked out of one of the front windows of Collerton House at the right time that afternoon Elizabeth Busby might actually have seen Constable Brian Ridgeford and the Boiler
If Elizabeth Busby had been really interested in what had been going on in the water during the afternoon she could have done more than just glance out of the window. She could have stepped out onto the stone terrace in front of the house and taken a closer look at the River Calle through the telescope that was permanently mounted there.
This telescope was currently kept trained on a pair of great crested grebes which had built their nest at the edge of a large clump of reeds, but it was so mounted that it could be swung easily from side to side and up and down to take in the entire estuary from Kinnisport and the sea to the west right up the river to Billing Bridge in the east.
The reason why Elizabeth Busby did not happen to look out of the window that afternoon was that she had so many other things to do. Collerton House had been built in more spacious times: times when servants were, if not two a penny, at least around for ten pounds a year all found. Now it was a case of first find someone willing to work at all in the house. That couldn’t be done very easily any more—quite apart from the consideration of the expense.
Notwithstanding this there were very few rooms in Collerton House that did not boast a bell-push or a bell- pull of some description—some of them of a very ornate description—as a reminder of a more comfortable past. The only one of them that Elizabeth Busby knew for certain was in good working order was the one that had been in her aunt’s bedroom. Aunt Celia had rung it when she was ill and Elizabeth had answered it—and had gone on answering its each and every summons right up until the day when Celia Mundill had died in that very bedroom.
Another reason why Elizabeth Busby was too busy to look out of the window was that she was deliberately undertaking as much hard work in the day as she possibly could. If there was a job that looked as if it could be packed into her waking hours then she put her hand to it and carried on until it was done. Even Frank Mundill, himself sunk in gloom since his wife’s death, had advised her to let up a little.
“Take it easy, Elizabeth,” he’d mumbled at breakfast time only that morning. “We don’t want you cracking up as well.”
“I’ve got to keep busy,” she’d said fiercely. “Just got to! Don’t you understand?”
“Sorry. Of course.” He’d retreated behind the newspaper after that and said no more about it and Elizabeth Busby had gone on to devote the day to turning out the main guest room. It was too soon to be making up the bed but there was no harm in getting the room ready. Besides, giving the bedroom a thorough spring-clean somehow contrived to bring those who were going to occupy it next a little nearer.
There was some real comfort to be had in that because it was her own father and mother who were due to come to stay and who would be moving into the room. Each and every touch that she put into the spring-cleaning of the bedroom brought its own reminder of them. Quite early on she had gone off through the house in search of a bigger bedside table for her father. He always liked a decent-sized table beside his bed—not one of those tiny shelves that could take no more than book and reading glasses. He’d lived abroad for so long—usually in strange and far-away places—that he was accustomed to having everything he might need in the night right beside him.
She’d never forgotten his telling her that when he was a young man he used to sleep with a gun under his pillow—but she had never known whether that had been true or not. It had been the same night that she had lost a milk tooth. She had been inconsolable to start with about the tooth—or perhaps it had been about the gap that it had left.
“Put it where I put my pistol, Twiz,” he’d said, “and the Tooth Fairy will find it and leave you a silver sixpence.”
“Did the Tooth Fairy find your pistol?” she had wanted to know, forgetting all about her tooth. “What did she leave you for your pistol?”
That had been on one of her parents’ rare and glorious leaves when for once they had all been together as a family. Then, all too soon, it had been over and her mother and father had gone again. By the time they came back on their next furlough Elizabeth had all her second teeth and had grown out of believing in fairies of any ethereal description. Even sixpences had been practically no more.
So today she’d humped an occasional table along to the guest bedroom to put beside the bed. She even knew which side of the bed her father would choose to sleep on. The side nearer the door. That was another legacy from years of living in foreign and sometimes dangerous places…
The table had been heavier than she had expected but when she came to move it she realised that Frank Mundill must have gone back to work—his office was in the converted studio right at the top of the house—and so wasn’t around to give her a hand. That was after they’d had a scratch luncheon together in the kitchen—Mundill had heated up some soup and rummaged about in the refrigerator until he’d found a wedge of pate for them both. He’d hovered over the electric toaster for a while and promised to rustle up something more substantial that evening.
“Don’t worry, Frank.” She’d brushed her hair back from her face as she spoke. “I’m not hungry.”
“Can’t honestly say that I am either,” he shrugged wryly. “Still, we’d better try to eat something, I suppose…”
She had given him a look of genuine pity. Frank Mundill’s profession might be architect but his great hobby was cooking and it had been quite pathetic during his wife’s last illness to see him trying to tempt her failing appetite with special delicacy after special delicacy. On her part Celia Mundill had gallantly tried to swallow a mouthful or so of each as long as she had the strength to do so—but the time had come when even that was more than she could manage.
“I’ll have the bedroom done by tonight,” Elizabeth had said abruptly. She tried not to think about Aunt Celia’s last illness. It was too soon for that.
“Don’t overdo it, though, will you, Elizabeth?”
She shook her head.
Only her father and mother were allowed to call her Twiz. With everyone else she insisted upon Elizabeth in full. None of the other traditional diminutives were permitted either. She never answered to Liz or Betty or Beth or —save the mark—Bess. Peter had teased her about that once.
“Even Queen Elizabeth didn’t mind that,” he’d said. “Good Queen Bess rolls around the tongue rather nicely, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t, and don’t you dare call me Bess either, Peter Hinton. I won’t have it!”
And now she had to try not to think about Peter Hinton either.
“Give me a call when you’re ready for some tea,” she’d said to Frank Mundill that afternoon. His secretary was on holiday this week. “I expect I’ll still be up in the bedroom,” she added. “I’m making a proper job of it while I’m about it.”
So the afternoon—the afternoon that the body of the unknown man was brought ashore at Edsway—passed for her in hard work. It was the only way in which Elizabeth Busby could get through the days. Anyway it wasn’t so much the days—they were just periods of time to be endured—as the nights. It was the nights that were the greatest burden.
They were pure hell.
For the first time in her life Elizabeth had come to see the long stretches of the night as something to be feared. The leaden march of the night hours shook her soul in a way that the hours of the day didn’t. The days were easier. There were punctuations in the day. There were, too, the constant demands of civilised behaviour to be met and there were the recurring needs of her body to be attended to. She had to wash, to dress, to eat and to drink— even if she could no longer be merry. All the blessedness of a routine was there for the using.
She found rather to her surprise that she washed, dressed and—sometimes—ate just as she had always done. She answered the telephone, wrote letters, did the dusting and attended—acolyte-fashion—to the washing
