Dorothy Eden

Dorothy Eden by Eerie Nights in London

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Authors: Eerie Nights in London
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a child (he had been almost grown-up while she was still a little girl, and that perhaps explained his habit of domination over her), that her parents were both dead, her father just recently, after which she had stayed on in the family home, letting half of it to the resident schoolmistress. She had thought that after her father’s death Tom would want to marry her at once, but he had cautiously kept to the original plan of buying and furnishing their home first.
    “And letting you grow older and more responsible,” Arabia commented shrewdly. “This Tom is taking no risks, I can see. Go on.”
    To earn money, of which there was very little, Cressida worked on a small local newspaper, reporting weddings and social gatherings, which she found intensely boring, and which gave her no outlet at all for her creative talent. As well, she arranged flowers for parties, and did a little buying and selling of antiques, attending such auction sales as there were in neighboring houses. That was all. She was always poor. She didn’t know where money went. It slipped away, just as her life had been slipping away in that quiet town, with only Tom to give it his masterful direction.
    “I was really suffering from frustration when we quarrelled,” she confessed.
    “And my dear, do I wonder at it! Why, that was the life for an octogenarian. You must discover the world. It’s so full of things. And money is the least, really. I am so glad you know that already. Ah, we’ll have fun together. I shall start going to theatres again. And museums. And we might take a boat on the river, or go to Battersea funfair. Life! That’s what we shall have.”
    “Arabia,” said Cressida, “who was Monty?”
    She felt the old lady stiffen. Or had she just been bracing herself against a sudden sharp breeze—for her voice, when she replied, was as bland as ever.
    “Monty? Never heard of him!”
    “He was in Lucy’s diary. The entry had been crossed out, but I could just read the name.”
    “Then your eyes must be better than mine. I have never seen or heard of the name before. Lucy knew a lot of boys, of course. She was a very popular girl. If you look right through the diary you will find other names besides Larry’s. Let me see, there was John and Martin and Hamish—”
    “Then if there were others, how are you so certain there was no Monty?”
    “Because that’s a most unlikely name for one of Lucy’s friends to have had,” Arabia snapped. “It must have been the name of one of her friends’ dogs. That’s what it sounds like.”
    “Yes, of course,” Cressida agreed politely, knowing now that there had been a Monty, and that he had been someone whom Arabia had not liked. Perhaps he had been Lucy’s one slip from perfection. At least that made her more human. Cressida’s conviction that there was a story behind Lucy grew. The next time she went up to that empty bedroom she would take the precaution of removing the key from the door. In no other way would the practical joker intimidate her.
    “And here we are,” Arabia said briskly, “at Mr. Mullins’s. Now come in and look your most charming. Albert is a cheat and a rascal, but I adore him.”
    Mr. Mullins did not look either a cheat or a rascal. He was small and round, and he had a face like a Dresden cupid. He greeted Arabia with affection, wanting to hold her heavily ringed hand softly in his, but she impatiently snatched it away and plunged it into the large handbag she was carrying.
    “Albert, I have brought you the Marie Antoinette clock, and a new assistant.”
    Mr. Mullins’s pink face dimpled with pleasure. His hands went out reverently for the crumpled brown parcel that Arabia produced.
    “My dear lady! At last!”
    “Don’t be so avaricious,” Arabia said sharply. “Take a look at your new assistant. Her name is Cressida Barclay, and she is living with me, and she knows all there is to know, probably a great deal more than you do, about antiques.” Mr.

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