Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker Read Free Book Online Page A

the Cathedral spire, I could see trouble rising. I fell uneasily asleep. Next night too–I fell even more uneasily asleep.
    When I woke up on Monday morning it was with that sort of a ‘different’ feeling you have when things are either very bad or very good. I went down to breakfast–the first down for a change. On my plate was a letter; I saw it the moment I passed through the door. I approached it gingerly. The envelope was long and pea-green; not the sort of colour you want to see at breakfast-time. I picked it up between my fingers, holding it as though it were a bomb. It bore the Hereford postmark. I might have guessed.

    I couldn’t open it at once, but shoved it in my pocket. Breakfast stuck. I could feel the letter close to me, burning me, if you know what I mean. When I got out into the street and was on my way to the Cathedral for Matins, I ripped it open savagely, looking first at the signature.
    It was signed ‘CONSTANCE HARGREAVES’. She was ‘Ever most affectionately’. Sent, of course, from the Manor Court Hotel.
    I stopped in the road. Suddenly I was angry. A joke had no
right
to go on like this. I had a strong instinct to crumple the letter up and throw it away. A warning voice said to me, ‘Norman Huntley, if you read that letter you’ll open out a whole train of troublesome events. Throw it away. Get Miss Hargreaves for ever out of your mind. Behave as though she doesn’t exist.’
    Doesn’t exist . . . doesn’t exist . . . doesn’t exist. I muttered the words Couély over and over again. Next minute I was reading the letter.
    The writing was very broad and flowery, like a Morris wall-paper, full of twirls, and it didn’t leave much room on the envelope for the stamp. In fact, I’ve rarely seen a stamp so crowded out. I didn’t read the letter right through at first; I read random bits here and there. I don’t know about you, but I’m like that with difficult letters; never can tackle them directly, but must look at them inside-out and upside-down. Then comes the moment when, having gathered its tone from stray but important words (suppose it to be a letter from a solicitor reminding me about the tailor’s bill; the sort of words that inevitably stand out are–‘Unless’, ‘Compelled’, ‘Issue’), I am faced with having to wade right through it. In this case the words that caught my eye were–‘Bath’, ‘
bath
’ (observe the distinction), ‘
old
friends’, and–‘luggage in advance to your house’.
    ‘Oh, God!’ I moaned. Then I read it properly.
    ‘MY DEAR NORMAN,
    ‘Your charming letter gave me such
great
pleasure. How
clever
of you to know I should be at Hereford. But then, of course we are such
old
friends–in spite of the discrepancy–of age that you know my habits almost as well, if not better, than I know them myself.’
    (‘
If not better
. . .’Why did that strike me as being so horribly sinister?)
    ‘I have little time for a letter now, as I am about to catch my train to Bath, but this is just to tell you that I look forward greatly to seeing you and your
dear
family on Monday evening. I am curtailing my visit to Bath this year especially to be with you. My train is due to arrive at Cornford at eight-fifteen,
post
meridian. Will you kindly arrange for a cab as I have — as usual — oh, dear! — rather a lot of luggage. I have taken the liberty of having some of it sent by luggage in advance to your house.
    ‘I am most touched by what you say of my dear old friend, Mr Archer — now, alas, “long,
long
ago at rest”. One of my most precious possessions is a
bath
that he gave me years ago. That sounds strange, does it not? But there is a very simple explanation which one day I must tell you if you do not already know.
    ‘There has been such
exquisite
music at the Cathedral this year. Doctor Hull conducted so admirably beautiful
Elijah
– beautiful
Messiah
– beautiful
Beethoven Choral
–
what
a heritage!
    ‘I have just composed a triolet