The Watersplash by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

nine. The hope was a vain one. Unassuming and obliging as Mrs. Ball had proved herself, neither hints, compliments, nor the offer of a fair exchange had achieved anything but a smiling shake of the head and a perfectly amiable “Oh, I wish I could, but it is a family secret, and I had to promise not to tell before my Aunt Annabel would let me have it.” Mrs. Pomfret, whose husband farmed his own land to the east of Greenings, had offered the real eighteenth-century recipe for frumenty, Miss Sims had tried to drive a bargain against an infallible way of keeping potatoes new until Christmas time, Miss Blake had put forward her great-grandmother’s crême brulée, said to be superior to the famous Oxford variety, but without result. After each overture Mrs. Ball would at some time during the following evening heave a deep sigh and inform the Vicar that she really did feel terribly mean—“Only she did make me promise, John, and she said she would haunt me if I let it go out of the family.” At which Mr. Ball had the barbarity to laugh and say that from what he had heard about her aunt, he would prefer not to have her as a permanent guest.
    Just before ten o’clock everyone was getting ready to go. Mrs. Alexander was heard to catch herself up in the middle of her good-nights and say,
    “If I didn’t nearly forget! That poor Annie Jackson was in early in the afternoon and she’s wanting work, so I said I’d mention it. Seems her husband has lost his job, and there won’t be anything coming in.”
    Miss Blake sniffed.
    “Well, she would marry him, and look what has come of it! I said to her at the time, ‘You’ll only regret it once, Annie, and that will be for the rest of your life.’ I’d known her all the years with Lucy Wayne, and I wasn’t going to hold my tongue. And what do you think she said? ‘We’ve all got our lives to lead, and this is mine.’ And look where it’s brought her! I never did like William Jackson—I don’t know anyone who does! And he’s been going steadily downhill ever since he got his hands on Annie’s savings!”
    Mrs. Ball said,
    “It must be very hard for her.”
    Mildred Blake tossed her head.
    “Oh, she’s brought it on herself! If people won’t be warned they must put up with the consequences! Well, good-night, Mrs. Ball. I can hear Arnold Random practising in the church, so I’ll just step over and have a word with him about Sunday week, because if I’m to play I must have plenty of notice. He can’t expect me just to sit down and rattle off two chants, three hymns and a couple of voluntaries as if I was in the way of doing it every day.”
    Mrs. Ball was glad to get away from the subject of poor Mrs. Jackson. She said,
    “Oh, yes, he was going up to London for the week-end— wasn’t he?”
    The Vicarage stood next to the church. There was no need for Miss Blake to go out on the road and in by the lych gate. She took the short cut through the small side gate into the churchyard and followed it to the door beneath that lighted window. It was, as she had known it would be, ajar. Thirty years before, she had often slipped in to listen to Arnold Random’s playing and walked back with him when he had finished. Those thirty years had not softened her heart or sweetened her temper. They certainly had not left her with any indulgence for Arnold Random.
    As she skirted the church she became aware that he had stopped playing. The sound of the organ had not, in fact, been noticeable since she left the Vicarage, yet she had certainly heard it whilst they were talking about Annie Jackson. Arnold could not have gone, or he would have locked the door behind him. He must be putting away the music. Well, so much the better —she certainly didn’t want to have to sit and listen to his playing now. Music was like a lot of other things, the interest went out of it. Her fingers could still control the keys, but her mind had lost the overtones.
    She pushed open the door and went