The Witness on the Roof by Annie Haynes Read Free Book Online Page B

is only ten years since I came to the Hall, but I cannot help feeling the whole time that I have seen you before and that in some way you are familiar to me.”
    Warchester leaned forward.
    â€œI feel as if I had known you all my life. How shall we explain it? Perhaps,” with a laugh, “in another incarnation we met—-were friends.”
    â€œJoan!” It was Reggie Trewhistle’s voice. His usually florid, good-tempered-looking face was pale and perturbed. “Aunt Ursula is not well; she—I think you had better go home.”
    â€œGranny!” Joan stood up. The sudden revulsion of feeling from the thoughtless enjoyment of the moment before seemed to overwhelm her. She clutched blindly at the curtain behind her. Not for an instant did the apparent carelessness of her cousin’s words deceive her. Her grandmother had never been ill since her coming to Warchester, but she knew instinctively that it was no light thing that had overtaken her poor grandmother now.
    â€œWhat—what is it?” she asked. “Not—”
    Warchester was standing behind; over the girl’s head his eyes met Reggie’s in a glance of perfect comprehension. The next moment he stepped forward and drew Joan’s hand within his arm.
    â€œI think, Miss Davenant, we had better find Mrs. Trewhistle:”
    Joan made no resistance. It did not seem strange to her that the music in the ball-room had stopped, that already people were leaving, so sure had she been from the first what had happened.
    â€œOh, Joan, my poor dear!” Cynthia took her from Warchester, drew her into the boudoir, and kissed her cold cheek. “I am so sorry, dear child.”
    Joan drew herself a little away.
    â€œI don’t seem to understand,” she said in an odd, tired voice. “Tell me, Cynthia, how it was?”
    Cynthia’s pretty face was disfigured by tears. She had not cared for Aunt Ursula and had never pretended to do so, but it was dreadful to hear of this.
    â€œIt—it was quite sudden,” she told Joan, with a little break in her voice. “Bompas had given her milk and brandy as she always did last thing—it was later than usual, for she had been busy writing—and when she had emptied the glass she just slipped down among the pillows with a fluttering breath and was gone. Poor Bompas could not believe it. Now dear Joan, you—”
    â€œI must go back,” Joan said calmly. “Poor Granny! She did not care much for me, you know, Cynthia, but I think she would have liked me to be there now.”

Chapter Five
    â€œA CCORDING to the terms of my husband’s will, I bequeath Davenant Hall with its appurtenances and revenues to my granddaughter Evelyn Cecil Mary, elder daughter of John Spencer and Mary Evelyn his wife, and I appoint the said Evelyn Cecil Mary Spencer my residuary legatee. To my younger granddaughter Mary Ursula Joan Davenant, I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds a year, to be paid quarterly.”
    Mr. Hurst read out the foregoing sentences in his usual calm voice.
    His auditors looked at one another in consternation. They heard little of the legacies to the servants with which the will ended; all their thoughts were for the tall, pale girl in black who sat at Mr. Hurst’s right, and who was apparently less affected by what had passed than anyone in the room. The silence that followed the reading of the will was broken by an exclamation from Mrs. Trewhistle.
    â€œWell!”
    She and Joan were the only women in the room. The men included Septimus Lockyer, K.C. , the dead woman’s brother; her nephew, Reginald Trewhistle; two distant cousins and a younger brother of Reggie’s; and Sir Edward Fisher, who, like Septimus Lockyer, had been appointed executor.
    â€œThat is all,” concluded Mr. Hurst, with a dry cough.
    â€œI may add that the documents, with blanks I left for the names, were prepared for Mrs. Davenant three weeks