Bird of Prey by Henrietta Reid Read Free Book Online

retreating figure disconsolately, knowing full well that if she were to receive her marching orders it would not be because of Mrs. Creed’s importunities but rather that the master of Longmere no longer desired her presence. Left to herself she decided that now that the polisher was no longer operating, she would dust the small intricately carved tables that stood at intervals along the corridor. On one stood a bronze bust, and as she dusted it, she decided that there was definitely a great deal of resemblance between the head of the rather austere-looking old gentleman and her employer: there were the same deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks and cold inscrutable gaze. It was probably Randall Craig’s father, she decided.
    Mrs. Creed, when she at last arrived, confirmed this. There was a certain subtle difference in the housekeeper’s manner as she addressed Caroline, a wariness that had not been there formerly. She glanced fleetingly at the polisher, but much to Caroline’s surprise made no remark. Obviously Randall Craig had already smoothed the way for her, as far as the accident with the polisher was concerned.
    “I see you’ve started the dusting,” Mrs. Creed said approvingly.
    Caroline nodded. “Yes.” As she rubbed a gleaming patina was coming up on the bust. A little hesitantly she added, “It looks rather like Mr. Craig, doesn’t it?”
    Mrs. Creed smiled a little grimly. “It’s not surprising, considering he was the master’s father.”
    “He looks so stern and implacable—rather like his son,” Caroline went on, encouraged by the fact that Mrs. Creed’s manner showed none of its former hostility. “Did you know him?”
    The housekeeper shook her head. “No. The old master was dead many years before I came here. He was killed in an accident and Mr. Craig had to take over the place when he was little more than a lad. But from all accounts he was, as you say, a stern old gentleman and ruled the house with a rod of iron.”
    Rather like his son too, then, in that respect, Caroline thought a little mutinously.
    But Mrs. Creed had obviously other things on her mind and was not interested in discussing the former master of Longmere. “It seems,” she said tentatively, “that you’re a sort of cousin of Mrs. Brant.”
    Caroline nodded, still polishing assiduously. “Yes, we are, in a sort of way,” she admitted. “She’s related to my mother. She was a Perdue too, although we haven’t seen much of each other. ”
    “And you were going to visit her when Mr. Craig saw you on the platform?” queried Mrs. Creed, looking puzzled.
    “Well, not exactly,” Caroline owned. “Not as a guest, you understand. You see, I’m not well off now, not since my parents died, and I was hoping that I could pay for my keep by acting as a nursery governess to her little boy, Robin.”
    The housekeeper paused, and neatly looped the flex of the polisher as she considered this explanation. “I didn’t know you were related to Mrs. Brant. You should have told me. It makes quite a difference.” Her voice held a slight note of apology. “You may stop working here for the moment, Caroline. We have elevenses at this time. Perhaps you’d care to join me for coffee. You can get on with the dusting later.” Caroline laid down her duster feeling a little disconcerted. It was somehow faintly embarrassing to find the acidulous Mrs. Creed so greatly changed in manner. She followed her along passages and down the back stairs and found herself ushered into a cosy little sitting-room that held a small round table and several comfortable armchairs: a bright fire crackled in the brass-fendered grate. The chairs were covered with pretty chintz flower-patterned loose covers and the furniture shone and winked in the reflective flames of the fire.
    They were no sooner seated when Betty came in with a tray on which was a pot of steaming coffee and a plate of rich biscuits. She laid her burden down on the table, her eyes opening wide