dogs crunched bones happily under the table.
“We shall take more than we did for the Save the Children last year,” said Rhoda gleefully.
“It seems very extraordinary to me,” said Miss Macalister, the children's Scottish nursery governess, “that Michael Brent should find the buried treasure three years in succession. I'm wondering if he gets some advance information?”
“Lady Brookbank won the pig,” said Rhoda. “I don't think she wanted it. She looked terribly embarrassed.”
The party consisted of my Cousin Rhoda, and her husband, Colonel Despard; Miss Macalister; a young woman with red hair, suitably called Ginger; Mrs Oliver; and the vicar, the Rev Caleb Dane Calthrop and his wife. The vicar was a charming elderly scholar whose principal pleasure was finding some apposite comment from the classics. This, though often an embarrassment and a cause of bringing the conversation to a close, was perfectly in order now. The vicar never required acknowledgment of his sonorous Latin; his pleasure in having found an apt quotation was its own reward.
“As Horace says...” he observed, beaming round the table.
The usual pause happened and then:
“I think Mrs Horsefall cheated over the bottle of champagne,” said Ginger thoughtfully. “Her nephew got it.”
Mrs Dane Calthrop, a disconcerting woman with fine eyes, was studying Mrs Oliver thoughtfully. She asked abruptly:
“What did you expect to happen at this fкte?”
“Well, really, a murder or something like that.”
Mrs Dane Calthrop looked interested.
“But why should it?”
“No reason at all. Most unlikely, really. But there was one at the last fкte I went to.”
“I see. And it upset you?”
“Very much.”
The vicar changed from Latin to Greek.
After the pause, Miss Macalister cast doubts on the honesty of the raffle for the live duck.
“Very sporting of old Lugg at the King's Arms to send us twelve dozen beer for the bottle stall,” said Despard.
“King's Arms?” I asked sharply.
“Our local, darling,” said Rhoda.
“Isn't there another pub round here? The - Pale Horse, didn't you say,” I asked, turning to Mrs Oliver.
There was no such reaction here as I had half expected. The faces turned toward me were vague and uninterested.
“The Pale Horse isn't a pub,” said Rhoda. “I mean, not now.”
“It was an old inn,” said Despard. “Mostly sixteenth-century I'd say. But it's just an ordinary house now. I always think they should have changed the name.”
“Oh, no,” exclaimed Ginger. “It would have been awfully silly to call it Wayside, or Fairview. I think the Pale Horse is much nicer, and there's a lovely old inn sign. They've got it framed in the hall.”
“Who's they?” I asked.
“It belongs to Thyrza Grey,” said Rhoda. “I don't know if you saw her today? Tall woman with short grey hair.”
“She's very occult,” said Despard. “Goes in for spiritualism and trances, and magic. Not quite black masses, but that sort of thing.”
Ginger gave a sudden peal of laughter.
“I'm sorry,” she said apologetically. “I was just thinking of Miss Grey as Madame de Montespan on a black velvet altar.”
“Ginger!” said Rhoda. “Not in front of the vicar.”
“Sorry, Mr Dane Calthrop.”
“Not at all,” said the vicar beaming. “As the ancients put it -” he continued for some time in Greek. After a respectful silence of appreciation, I returned to the attack.
“I still want to know who are 'they'? Miss Grey and who else?”
“Oh, there's a friend who lives with her. Sybil Stamfordis. She acts as medium, I believe. You must have seen her about. Lots of scarabs and beads - and sometimes she puts on a sari. I can't think why - she's never been in India -”
“And then there's Bella,” said Mrs Dane Calthrop. “She's their cook,” she explained. “And she's also a witch. She comes from the village of Little Dunning. She had quite a reputation for witchcraft there. It runs in the
“We shall take more than we did for the Save the Children last year,” said Rhoda gleefully.
“It seems very extraordinary to me,” said Miss Macalister, the children's Scottish nursery governess, “that Michael Brent should find the buried treasure three years in succession. I'm wondering if he gets some advance information?”
“Lady Brookbank won the pig,” said Rhoda. “I don't think she wanted it. She looked terribly embarrassed.”
The party consisted of my Cousin Rhoda, and her husband, Colonel Despard; Miss Macalister; a young woman with red hair, suitably called Ginger; Mrs Oliver; and the vicar, the Rev Caleb Dane Calthrop and his wife. The vicar was a charming elderly scholar whose principal pleasure was finding some apposite comment from the classics. This, though often an embarrassment and a cause of bringing the conversation to a close, was perfectly in order now. The vicar never required acknowledgment of his sonorous Latin; his pleasure in having found an apt quotation was its own reward.
“As Horace says...” he observed, beaming round the table.
The usual pause happened and then:
“I think Mrs Horsefall cheated over the bottle of champagne,” said Ginger thoughtfully. “Her nephew got it.”
Mrs Dane Calthrop, a disconcerting woman with fine eyes, was studying Mrs Oliver thoughtfully. She asked abruptly:
“What did you expect to happen at this fкte?”
“Well, really, a murder or something like that.”
Mrs Dane Calthrop looked interested.
“But why should it?”
“No reason at all. Most unlikely, really. But there was one at the last fкte I went to.”
“I see. And it upset you?”
“Very much.”
The vicar changed from Latin to Greek.
After the pause, Miss Macalister cast doubts on the honesty of the raffle for the live duck.
“Very sporting of old Lugg at the King's Arms to send us twelve dozen beer for the bottle stall,” said Despard.
“King's Arms?” I asked sharply.
“Our local, darling,” said Rhoda.
“Isn't there another pub round here? The - Pale Horse, didn't you say,” I asked, turning to Mrs Oliver.
There was no such reaction here as I had half expected. The faces turned toward me were vague and uninterested.
“The Pale Horse isn't a pub,” said Rhoda. “I mean, not now.”
“It was an old inn,” said Despard. “Mostly sixteenth-century I'd say. But it's just an ordinary house now. I always think they should have changed the name.”
“Oh, no,” exclaimed Ginger. “It would have been awfully silly to call it Wayside, or Fairview. I think the Pale Horse is much nicer, and there's a lovely old inn sign. They've got it framed in the hall.”
“Who's they?” I asked.
“It belongs to Thyrza Grey,” said Rhoda. “I don't know if you saw her today? Tall woman with short grey hair.”
“She's very occult,” said Despard. “Goes in for spiritualism and trances, and magic. Not quite black masses, but that sort of thing.”
Ginger gave a sudden peal of laughter.
“I'm sorry,” she said apologetically. “I was just thinking of Miss Grey as Madame de Montespan on a black velvet altar.”
“Ginger!” said Rhoda. “Not in front of the vicar.”
“Sorry, Mr Dane Calthrop.”
“Not at all,” said the vicar beaming. “As the ancients put it -” he continued for some time in Greek. After a respectful silence of appreciation, I returned to the attack.
“I still want to know who are 'they'? Miss Grey and who else?”
“Oh, there's a friend who lives with her. Sybil Stamfordis. She acts as medium, I believe. You must have seen her about. Lots of scarabs and beads - and sometimes she puts on a sari. I can't think why - she's never been in India -”
“And then there's Bella,” said Mrs Dane Calthrop. “She's their cook,” she explained. “And she's also a witch. She comes from the village of Little Dunning. She had quite a reputation for witchcraft there. It runs in the
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