House of Shadows by Iris Gower Page B

imagined would have happened if Tom had come in with me. Would I have allowed him into my bedroom, into my bed? On the other hand, how could he have walked away from me? I was his for the taking, wasn’t I?
    I sat at the kitchen table and rubbed my eyes wearily. I had been saved from making a fool of myself by Tom’s good sense; he was an American officer and he would never take advantage of a drunken friend.
    When I opened my eyes again, Beatrice was sitting opposite me. ‘What were all those strange people doing here?’ she asked.
    â€˜Oh –’ I pulled my senses together as much as I could after drinking all evening – ‘they were visitors, looking for ghosts. Remember your suggestion? Well, I thought about it and decided ghost hunting was a very good idea.’
    â€˜I presume they were paying good money to stay here then?’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose they were, but they all enjoyed themselves and intend to come again.’ I was a little on the defensive.
    â€˜Well, don’t let the old house down, and don’t forget your vow to solve the murders, my dear. I would like my late husband’s name cleared.’
    â€˜I didn’t know I had actually made a vow,’ I said, puzzled.
    â€˜Well, you did.’ She smiled a beautiful and somehow old-fashioned smile. ‘In spirit, anyway.’
    I began to laugh. Everything seemed so funny suddenly: Tom, me, my ghost nights, and my struggle to build up a crumbling old house. I was a painter – what was I doing trying to be a businesswoman?
    â€˜Go to bed, dear,’ Beatrice said reprovingly. ‘You’re a little bit the worse for wear, I believe.’
    Like a child, I obeyed and went meekly to bed.

TEN
    I didn’t see Tom the next day. I deliberately stayed in my bright studio, working on my painting of Aberglasney. At one point I stood back a little way and thought that the light and shade I had added worked well and that the shadowy figure in an upper window looked rather like Beatrice. I smiled fondly. She was becoming a good friend, a companion, soothing me when my nerves were frayed.
    Mrs Ward called early afternoon and I beckoned her into the kitchen. I lit the stove and set out two cups. ‘Do you take milk Mrs Ward?’ I asked cheerfully.
    She nodded and put a basket on the table. ‘I’ve brought you some eggs, Miss Evans.’ Her voice was hoarse from her continuous smoking, and as she sat down she lit up another Woodbine. ‘My Rosie didn’t come home last night, Miss Evans. She told me she stayed with you.’ She was narrowing her eyes against the smoke and scrutinizing my face.
    I poured the tea to give myself time to think. The last I’d seen of Rosie was her dancing with a handsome American airman. ‘Well, there’s plenty of room here,’ I prevaricated. ‘And I was a little bit . . . tired myself, so everything is a bit blurred, but I’m sure if that’s what Rosie says that’s what she did.’
    â€˜I see, miss.’
    I was sure she did: right through me. I hadn’t the heart to let Rosie down, but I meant to have a word with her when I next saw her. How dare she use me as an alibi when she had obviously been up to no good?
    â€˜When will you want me and Rosie again, miss?’ Mrs Ward’s voice broke into my thoughts. I looked at her and saw her brows were drawn into a frown. She knew I was lying, and she was displeased with me.
    â€˜In a month’s time, Mrs Ward,’ I said flatly. She was being paid to help me, not to question me. ‘If you have the time to come and work for me at Aberglasney, that is.’
    â€˜Yes, I want to come. I need the money, and anyway, I like cooking and waiting on town folks and foreign folks alike. But –’ her eyes narrowed – ‘I don’t like them dark-skinned airmen down at the barracks. Up to no good, they are. Chasing after respectable girls like