II
“Went off without a word to me,” said Mrs. Crump, raising her red,
wrathful face from the
pastry1 she was now rolling out on the board.
“Slipped out without a word to anybody. Sly, that’s what it is. Sly! Afraid
she’d be stopped, and I would have stopped her if I’d caught her! The idea!
There’s the master dead, Mr. Lance coming home that hasn’t been home
for years and I said to Crump, I said: ‘Day out or no day out, I know my
duty. There’s not going to be cold supper tonight as is usual on a Thursday,
but a proper dinner. A gentleman coming home from abroad with his
wife, what was
formerly2 married in the aristocracy, things must be prop-
erly done.’ You know me, miss, you know I take a pride in my work.”
Mary Dove, the
recipient3 of these confidences, nodded her head gently.
“And what does Crump say?” Mrs. Crump’s voice rose angrily. “ ‘It’s my
day off and I’m goin’ off,’ that’s what he says. ‘And a
fig4 for the aristo-
cracy,’ he says. No pride in his work, Crump hasn’t. So off he goes and I
tell Gladys she’ll have to manage alone tonight. She just says: ‘All right,
Mrs. Crump,’ then, when my back’s turned out she
sneaks5. It wasn’t her
day out, anyway. Friday’s her day. How we’re going to manage now, I
don’t know! Thank goodness Mr. Lance hasn’t brought his wife here with
him today.”
“We shall manage, Mrs. Crump,” Mary’s voice was both
soothing6 and au-
thoritative, “if we just simplify the menu a little.” She outlined a few sug-
serve that quite easily,” Mary concluded.
“You mean you’ll wait at table yourself, miss?” Mrs. Crump sounded
doubtful.
“If Gladys doesn’t come back in time.”
“She won’t come back,” said Mrs. Crump. “Gallivanting off, wasting her
money somewhere in the shops. She’s got a young man, you know, miss,
though you wouldn’t think it to look at her. Albert his name is. Going to
get married next spring, so she tells me. Don’t know what the married
state’s like, these girls don’t. What I’ve been through with Crump.” She
sighed, then said in an ordinary voice: “What about tea, miss. Who’s going
to clear it away and wash it up?”
“I’ll do that,” said Mary. “I’ll go and do it now.”
The lights had not been turned on in the drawing room though Adele
Fortescue was still sitting on the sofa behind the tea tray.
“Shall I switch the lights on, Mrs. Fortescue?” Mary asked. Adele did not
answer.
Mary switched on the lights and went across to the window, where she
pulled the curtains across. It was only then that she turned her head and
saw the face of the woman who had
sagged9 back against the cushions. A
half-eaten
scone10 spread with honey was beside her and her tea cup was
still half full. Death had come to Adele Fortescue suddenly and swiftly.
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