On the previous day, she had marked down one principal teashop, two rising and competitive teashops, one slightly passé and declining teashop, a Lyons and four obscure and, on the whole, negligible teashops which combined the service of refreshments with a trade in sweets. It was now half past ten. In the next hour and a half she could, with a little exertion, pass in review all that part of the Windle population which indulged in morning coffee.
She posted her letter and then debated with herself where to begin. On the whole, she inclined to leave the Lyons for another day. It was an ordinary plain Lyons, without orchestra or soda fountain. She thought that its clientele would be chiefly housewives and clerks. Of the other four, the most likely was, perhaps, the “Central.” It was fairly large, well lighted and cheerful and strains of music issued from its doors. Nurses usually like the large, well lighted and melodious. But the “Central” had one drawback. Anyone coming from the direction of Mrs. Wrayburn’s house would have to pass all the others to get to it. This fact unfitted it for an observation post. From this point of view, the advantage lay with “Ye Cosye Corner,” which commanded the bus stop. Accordingly, Miss Climpson decided to start her campaign from that spot. She selected a table in the window, ordered a cup of coffee and a plate of digestive biscuits and entered upon her vigil.
After half an hour, during which no woman in nurse’s costume had been sighted, she ordered another cup of coffee and some pastries. A number of people—mostly women—dropped in, but none of them could by any possibility be identified with Miss Booth. At half past eleven, Miss Climpson felt to stay any longer would be conspicuous and might annoy the management. She paid her bill and departed.
The “Central” had rather more people in it than “Ye Cosye Corner,” and was in some ways an improvement, having comfortable wicker chairs instead of fumed oak settles, and brisk waitresses instead of languid semi-gentlewomen in art linen. Miss Climpson ordered another cup of coffee and a roll and butter. There was no window table vacant, but she found one close to the orchestra from which she could survey the whole room. A fluttering dark blue veil at the door made her heart beat, but it proved to belong to a lusty young person with two youngsters and a perambulator, and hope withdrew once more. By twelve o’clock, Miss Climpson decided that she had drawn blank at the “Central.”
Her last visit was to the “Oriental”—an establishment singularly ill-adapted for espionage. It consisted of three very small rooms of irregular shape, dimly lit by forty watt bulbs in Japanese shades, and further shrouded by bead curtains and draperies. Miss Climpson, in her inquisitive way, wandered into all its nooks and corners, disturbing several courting couples, before returning to a table near the door and sitting down to consume her fourth cup of coffee. Half past twelve came, but no Miss Booth. “She can’t come now,” thought Miss Climpson, “she will have to get back and give her patient lunch.”
She returned to Hillside View with but little appetite for the joint of roast mutton.
At half past three she sallied out again, to indulge in an orgy of teas. This time she included the Lyons and the fourth teashop, beginning at the far end of the town and working her way back to the bus stop. It was while she was struggling with her fifth meal, in the window of “Ye Cosye Corner,” that a hurrying figure on the pavement caught her eye. The winter evening had closed in, and the streetlights were not very brilliant, but she distinctly saw a stoutish middle-aged nurse in a black veil and grey cloak pass along on the nearer pavement. By craning her neck, she could see her make a brisk spurt, scramble on the bus at the corner and disappear in the direction of the “Fisherman’s Arms.”
“How vexatious!” said Miss Climpson, as the vehicle disappeared. “I must have just missed her somewhere. Or perhaps she was having tea in a private house. Well, I’m afraid this is a blank day. And I do feel so full of tea!”
It was fortunate that Miss Climpson had been blest by Heaven with a sound digestion, for the next morning saw a repetition of the performance. It was possible, of course, that Miss Booth only went out two or three times a week, or that she only went out in the afternoon, but Miss Climpson was taking no chances. She had at least achieved the certainty that the bus stop was the place to watch. This time she took up her post at “Ye Cosye Corner” at 11 o’clock and waited till twelve. Nothing happened and she went home.
In the afternoon she was there again at three. By this time the waitress had got to know her, and betrayed a certain amused and tolerant interest in her comings and goings. Miss Climpson explained that she liked so much to watch the people pass, and spoke a few words in praise of the Café and its service. She admired a quaint old inn on the opposite side of the street, and said she thought of making a sketch of it.
“Oh, yes,” said the girl, “there’s a many artists comes here for that.”
This gave Miss Climpson a bright idea, and the next morning she brought a pencil and sketchbook with her.
By the extraordinary perversity of things in general, she had no sooner ordered her coffee, opened the sketchbook and started to outline the gables of the inn, than a bus drew up, and out of it stepped the stout nurse in the
