‘Nor a butcher, nor a postman. No newspapers. And probably no telephone.’
‘Just the wireless telling us what to do?’
‘At any rate we make our own electric light.’
‘You must run the engine again tomorrow. And we must keep the central heating well stoked.’
‘I suppose our next lot of coke won’t come in now. We’re very low.’
‘Oh, bother. Giles, I feel we are in for a simply frightful time. Hurry up and get Para—whatever his name is. I’ll go back to bed.’
Morning brought confirmation of Giles’s forebodings. Snow was piled five feet high, drifting up against the doors and windows. Outside it was still snowing. The world was white, silent, and—in some subtle way—menacing.
Mrs Boyle sat at breakfast. There was no one else in the dining room. At the adjoining table, Major Metcalf’s place had been cleared away. Mr Wren’s table was still laid for breakfast. One early riser, presumably, and one late one. Mrs Boyle herself knew definitely that there was only one proper time for breakfast, nine o’clock.
Mrs Boyle had finished her excellent omelette and was champing toast between her strong white teeth. She was in a grudging and undecided mood. Monkswell Manor was not at all what she had imagined it would be. She had hoped for bridge, for faded spinsters whom she could impress with her social position and connections, and to whom she could hint at the importance and secrecy of her war service.
The end of the war had left Mrs Boyle marooned, as it were, on a desert shore. She had always been a busy woman, talking fluently of efficiency and organization. Her vigor and drive had prevented people asking whether she was, indeed, a good or efficient organizer. War activities had suited her down to the ground. She had bossed people and bullied people and worried heads of departments and, to give her her due, had at no time spared herself. Subservient women had run to and fro, terrified of her slightest frown. And now all that exciting hustling life was over. She was back in private life, and her former private life had vanished. Her house, which had been requisitioned by the army, needed thorough repairing and redecorating before she could return to it, and the difficulties of domestic help made a return to it impracticable in any case. Her friends were largely scattered and dispersed. Presently, no doubt, she would find her niche, but at the moment it was a case of marking time. A hotel or a boardinghouse seemed the answer. And she had chosen to come to Monkswell Manor.
She looked round her disparagingly.
Most dishonest, she said to herself, not to have told me they were only just starting.
She pushed her plate farther away from her. The fact that her breakfast had been excellently cooked and served, with good coffee and homemade marmalade, in a curious way annoyed her still more. It had deprived her of a legitimate cause of complaint. Her bed, too, had been comfortable, with embroidered sheets and a soft pillow. Mrs Boyle liked comfort, but she also liked to find fault. The latter was, perhaps, the stronger passion of the two.
Rising majestically, Mrs Boyle left the dining room, passing in the doorway that very extraordinary young man with the red hair. He was wearing this morning a checked tie of virulent green—a woolen tie.
Preposterous, said Mrs Boyle to herself. Quite preposterous.
The way he looked at her, too, sideways out of those pale eyes of his—she didn’t like it. There was something upsetting—unusual—about that faintly mocking glance.
Unbalanced mentally, I shouldn’t wonder, said Mrs Boyle to herself.
She acknowledged his flamboyant bow with a slight inclination of her head and marched into the big drawing room. Comfortable chairs here, particularly the large rose-colored one. She had better make it clear that that was to be her chair. She deposited her knitting on it as a precaution and walked over and laid a hand on the radiators. As she had suspected, they were only warm, not hot. Mrs Boyle’s eye gleamed militantly. She could have something to say about that.
She glanced out of the window. Dreadful weather—quite dreadful. Well, she wouldn’t stay here long—not unless more people came and made the place amusing.
Some snow slid off the roof with a soft whooshing sound. Mrs Boyle jumped. ‘No,’ she said out loud. ‘I shan’t stay here long.’
Somebody laughed—a faint, high chuckle. She turned her head sharply. Young Wren was standing in the doorway looking at her with that curious expression of his.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you will.’
Major Metcalf was helping Giles to shovel away snow from the back door. He was a good worker, and Giles was quite vociferous in his expressions of gratitude.
‘Good exercise,’ said Major Metcalf. ‘Must get exercise every day. Got to keep fit, you know.’
So the major was an exercise fiend. Giles had feared as much. It went with his demand for breakfast at half past seven.
As though reading Giles’s thoughts, the major said, ‘Very good of your missus to cook me an early breakfast. Nice to get a new-laid egg, too.’
Giles had risen himself before seven, owing to the exigencies of hotelkeeping. He and Molly had had boiled eggs and tea and had set to on the sitting rooms. Everything was spick-and-span. Giles could not help thinking that if he had been a guest in his own establishment, nothing would have dragged him out of bed on a morning such as this until the last possible moment.
The major, however, had been up and breakfasted, and roamed about the house, apparently full of energy seeking an outlet.
Well, thought Giles, there’s plenty of snow to shovel.
He threw a sideways glance at his companion. Not an easy man to place, really. Hard-bitten, well over middle age, something queerly watchful about the eyes. A man who was giving nothing away. Giles wondered why he had come to Monkswell Manor. Demobilized, probably, and no
