The Coldstone by Patricia Wentworth

lavender bush, slipped into the dark living-room, and slid the bolt. She couldn’t see anything at all, it was so dark. “Black as the inside of an oven,” Gran would say.
    She felt her way to the stairs and went slowly, slowly up, each step solid under her foot without a creak, and the heavy rail smooth as glass under her hand. Hundreds of years of polish had made it as smooth as that—just the slipping of hands going up and down for three hundred years.
    She reached the top, felt for the wall—and heard her name: “Susan—” It made her pringle all over. She hadn’t made a sound.
    â€œSusan—”
    Susan pushed open the door of old Mrs. Bowyer’s room and went in.
    â€œWhat is it, Gran?”
    â€œWhere ha’ you been?” The voice came out of the dark very composedly.
    Susan didn’t know what to say. Gran was the limit. She laughed, because that was easiest, and Mrs. Bowyer said,
    â€œIt’s no laughing matter.”
    â€œGran dear, I went out for a breath of air. It’s so hot.”
    â€œYou needn’t trouble to tell me lies, my dear.”
    â€œ Gran! ”
    There was the splutter of a match. Mrs. Bowyer sprang into view in a white frilled nightcap, leaning over on her elbow to light a candle in an old candlestick that was rather like a shovel with a piece of metal to grip the candle. When the wick had caught, she pulled herself bolt upright against the head of the bed and looked at Susan. Her eiderdown covered with red turkey twill was drawn up to her waist. She wore a flannelette nightdress trimmed with crochet of her own making. Her eyes rested with sarcasm upon Susan’s uncovered neck and the diaphanous black of her dress with its long floating sleeves.
    Susan burst out laughing.
    â€œIt’s a fair cop!” she said. “But you’re not going to ask me a lot of questions, are you?”
    â€œYou’ve been meeting a lad.”
    â€œI didn’t want to, Gran— honest injun. He came and whistled under my window, and I thought of Mrs. Smithers putting out her head to listen, or Miss Agatha, or Miss Arabel, or their awfully proper cook. So I just went out to tell him he must go away. You see, Gran darling, it really was most frightfully compromising for you. I don’t know what Mrs. Smithers would say if she thought young men came serenading you.”
    â€œCome here, Susan!” said Mrs. Bowyer.
    Susan came reluctantly. She sat down on the red eiderdown, and Gran’s black eyes bored through and through her.
    â€œWas it Anthony Colstone?”
    â€œGood gracious, no! What a frightfully amusing idea, Gran! I wish it had been!”
    â€œWishes come home to roost,” said old Susan Bowyer. She picked up a fold of the thin black dress. “What d’you call this stuff, eh?”
    â€œ Georgette, Gran.” Her cheeks grew hot. “I dragged it out of my box because it was black, and I should have hated to frighten Mrs. Smithers or the cook by being all white and ghostly.”
    â€œYou’ve a good tongue, my girl. Who ha’ you been meeting?”
    â€œI can’t tell you.” Susan put her hand down on the old fingers and stroked them. “You needn’t worry—I can look after myself.”
    â€œI never knew a maid that couldn’t—until ’twas too late. Are you in love with him?”
    â€œOf course I’m not.”
    â€œIs he in love with you?”
    â€œHe’s a nuisance,” said Susan, frowning. Then she jumped up. “I do want to go to sleep so badly.”
    She bent forward and blew out the candle.
    â€œGood-night, Gran.”
    Mrs. Bowyer’s voice followed her on to the landing:
    â€œIf I don’t ask no questions, I won’t be told no lies. Is that your meaning?”
    Susan’s laughter came back to her, and the sound of the closing door.
    Mrs. Bowyer lay down flat on her one pillow and straightened the sheet.