Look to the Lady by Margery Allingham

with latticed windows and a red tiled roof. It had three entrances, the main one to the corridor on the level of the road, the bar parlour up four steps upon the left, and the four-ale down two steps on the right.
    It was at about five o’clock, when the whole village was basking in a quiet yellow light, that the Bentley drew up outside the Three Drummers and deposited Val Gyrth and Campion at the centre door. Lugg took the car across the road to the smithy ‘garage’, and the two young men stepped into the cool, sweet-smelling passage. Val had turned up his coat collar.
    â€˜I don’t want to be spotted just yet,’ he murmured, ‘and I’d like a chat with Penny before I see the Governor. If I can get hold of Mrs Bullock, she’ll fix everything.’
    He tiptoed down the passage and put his head round the door of the kitchen at the far end.
    â€˜Bully!’ he called softly.
    There was a smothered scream and a clatter of pans on a stone floor. The next moment the good lady of the house appeared, a big florid woman in a gaily patterned cotton dress and a large blue apron. Her sleeves were rolled above her plump elbows and her brown hair was flying. She was radiant. She caught the boy by the arm and quite obviously only just prevented herself from embracing him vigorously.
    â€˜You’ve made it up,’ she said. ‘I knew you would – your birthday coming and all.’
    She had a deep resonant voice with very little trace of accent in spite of her excitement.
    â€˜Won’t you come into the bar and show yourself? – sir,’ she added as an afterthought.
    Val shook his head. ‘I say, Bully,’ he said, ‘things aren’t quite settled yet. Could you give my friend Mr Campion here a room and find us somewhere we can talk? I’d like a note taken up to Penny if possible. How is everyone at the Tower? Do you know?’
    Mrs Bullock, who had sensed the urgency of his request, was wise enough to ask no questions. She had been the faithful friend and confidante of the children at the Tower ever since her early days as cook at that establishment, and their affairs were as always one of her chief concerns.
    She led her visitors upstairs to a magnificent old bedroom with a small sitting-room leading out of it.
    â€˜You write your note, sir, and I’ll bring you up something,’ she said, throwing open the window to let in the scented evening air. ‘You were asking about the folk, Mr Val. Your father’s well, but worried looking. And Penny – she’s lovely. Oh, I can see your mother in her – same eyes, same walk, same everything.’
    â€˜And Aunt?’ said Val curiously.
    Mrs Bullock snorted. ‘You’ll hear about your aunt soon enough,’ she said. ‘Having herself photographed with the Thing.’ She dropped her eyes on the last word as though she experienced some embarrassment in referring to the Chalice.
    â€˜I’ve heard about that,’ said Val quietly. ‘Otherwise – she’s all right?’
    â€˜Right enough, save that she fills the whole place with a pack of crazy no-goods – strutting about in funny clothes like actors and actresses. Your Ma’ll turn in her grave, if she hasn’t done that already.’
    â€˜The artists?’ Val suggested.
    â€˜Artists? They ain’t artists,’ said Mrs Bullock explosively. ‘I know artists. I’ve ’ad ’em staying here. Quiet tidy little fellows – fussy about their victuals. I don’t know what your aunt’s got hold of – Bolsheviks, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ll find paper and pen over there, Mr Val.’ And with a rustle of skirts she bustled out of the room.
    Val sat down at the square table in the centre of the smaller room and scribbled a few words.
    â€˜
Dear Penny
,’ he wrote, ‘
I am up here at “The Drummers.” Can you come down for a minute? Love,