“It certainly is tough,” said Anne slowly. “I’m a doctor’s wife, you see.”
“Yes. Freemasonry is nothing compared to the determination with which doctor upholds doctor. Don’t wreck your married life over Sister Monica.”
“No. I shan’t do that, but I shall watch out.”
“Do, my dear. And one last word. You may be interested to know that if you walk up through the park with John Sanderson and ask him into your own house when your husband is out, Sister Monica is quite sure there’s nothing wrong in that.”
“Well, I’m damned!” said Anne.
CHAPTER IV
It was early in the morning of Midsummer Day that Anne Ferens heard her front-door bell jangling away. She had been awake for some time, delighting in the sunshine and the bird song, and debating in her own mind whether she would go to church to honour St. John the Baptist (as a Christian should) and the summer solstice (as a pagan should). Anne wasn’t quite certain which element was predominant in her mind on that divine morning, but she certainly woke up quoting “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive.”
It was half-past six when the bell rang, and she said, “Oh, bother!” because Raymond hadn’t got to bed until after two, for he had been out to a confinement at Long Barrow, away up on the moor. Nevertheless, he woke up when the bell rang, and was out of bed before Anne was.
“Bad luck, but it’s a heavenly morning,” she said to him as he snatched his dressing gown and went out of the bedroom muttering, “I bet it’s that Chandler girl. . . she just can’t count.”
He was back within a minute, all the comfortable sleepiness gone from his face, and he snatched at his shirt and trousers without a word.
“What is it, Ray? Can I do anything?”
“No, and nobody else either, I imagine. It’s Sister Monica. She’s drowned in the millrace. Young Rigg found her and came pounding up here.”
Anne gave a gasp, and Raymond said: “Yes, here’s trouble,” as he flung his clothes on.
“Shall I come?” she asked.
“Lord, no. Stay here and get breakfast. I shan’t be long. It’s the police they want, not me—but one’s got to do the usual.”
He snatched his coat and hurried out of the house, across the garden, through the gate in the yew hedge, and across the dewy lawns of the Manor, taking the short cut to the steep path down through the park. All around him thrushes and blackbirds were calling from the treetops, and chaffinches and bullfinches poured out their clear liquid song: the air was fragrant with the sweetness of midsummer, fragrance of pinks and roses in the garden, hay and meadow flowers in the park. Fat white lambs rushed to mother ewes as Ferens made his way down the steep path, the world vivid and vibrant with life and sunshine.
Raymond Ferens found a sombre group standing by the mill-stream. Venner, the big rubicund miller, was there, and Jack Hedges, the cowman from Moore’s Farm. Wilson, in charge of the generating engine, and Bob Doone from the sawmill were there. They stood round the long dark-cloaked body which lay beside the bank, with wild roses stretching out delicate sprays of palest pink, gold-centred, above the pallid face and dead white hair.
“A bad business, Doctor. Nought we could do,” said Venner.
Ferens knelt down beside the dead woman: one touch was enough to tell him she had been dead for hours.
“We’m telephoned to Sergeant at Milham Prior,” said Venner. “He’ll be along soon. Hours ago it be since her was drowned, be’n’t it?”
Ferens nodded as he busied himself over his examination. “Yes. Several hours. Do you know where the body was found?”
“By them piles, Doctor. Her was swept down by the stream and her cloak caught in them bolts and the weeds twisted all around she. I helped get her out, and a tidy weight her was.”
“She’m been wandering at nights, months past, she has,” said Wilson. “Reckon her mind went, poor soul. Brooded over that young maid, maybe. Same place ’twas. I mind that well.”
“Wandering at nights?” asked Ferens sharply.
“’Tis true enough, Doctor,” said Venner. “Us have seen her. Down through the park she’d come. My wife, she saw her once in the moonlight and fair scared she was. Looked all strange with that white hair and the dark cloak.”
“Iss . . .” Jack Hedges gave the sibilant affirmative which still sounded strange to Raymond Ferens’ ears, accustomed to Midland voices. “Us have seen her, too, like a fay, fair moonstruck. Us marked that. Fearful, ’twas.”
“I reckon ’twas brooding like. Her threw herself in, poor soul,” said Venner, and the others made mournful sounds of agreement.
“We’d better wait until the sergeant comes before we move her,” said Ferens, “but we shall have to decide where to take her body. There will have to be a post-mortem. I don’t think it’s desirable to take her to Gramarye, with all those small children there.”
“You’m right there, Doctor,” said Venner. “All they tiny tots don’t want no more fearsome things. I’m meaning childer should be kept clear of corpses and all,” he added hastily. “But Dr. Brown, he’ll be along any minute. My wife went to tell he. A shock, ’twill be, poor old gentleman. He thought the world of Sister. He’ll best decide where to take her. Knows everything here, Dr. Brown does.”
Ferens nodded. Fie had got up from his
