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illuminated her face and she rang the bell. “Ask Miss Smith to come to me immediately after lunch,” she said to the maid who answered it.

Four
    Patience would never forget that tense week before Christmas. Mrs Ffeathers’ five pounds was not returned and under her relentless inquisitorial proddings the household broke more and more into suspicious family units. There was whispering in corridors and hurried conferences broke out in the unsympathetic corners of futuristic rooms.
    Patience avoided these, though Mark made various efforts to enrol her in the Brigance brigade, as he called it. “We’ve nothing to hide; come on, Patience, and hold our hands.” The remark was aimed clear across the big, blank drawing room to where Ludwig and Leonora were deep in talk over a catalogue. Ludwig ignored it, but Leonora raised dark eyes to stare coldly across the room at Mark for a minute.
    â€œLord,” he said, “talk about Medusa. Come and cheer us up, Patience, there’s a dear; we need it. I’m having fits about the allowances and Mar’s scared stiff about what’s going to happen to Tony Wetherall. You don’t know what surprises Gran’s planning for Christmas, do you? I bet she’s got some honeys up her sleeve.”
    â€œNo, I don’t.” Patience was relieved that it was the truth. “But she looks awfully pleased with herself.” Mrs Ffeathers had remained in her room for the last few days, in order,perhaps, to underline the disgrace in which her family lay. Immured there, she held long conferences with Mrs Marshland, the housekeeper, and badgered Patience for information about what went on downstairs. Patience had begun by refusing to tell tales. Mrs Ffeathers had thereupon threatened to cut her out of her will and Patience had urged her to do so. This surprised the old lady, who promptly burst into tears – very decorative ones, as an actress should – and told Patience she was a heartless ingrate. It seemed to Patience that perhaps she was. After all, except for Mark no one but old Mrs Ffeathers had made any particular effort to see that she was happy or even comfortable in this strange household. Why should she deny the old woman the gossip that was obviously life’s blood to her?
    From then on she doled out innocuous scraps of information with what relish she could give them, hoping that by sharing them out evenly among the family she would do real harm to no one. Joseph and Josephine had quarrelled at the dinner table – the old lady’s eyes sparkled; Mark and Mary had gone into Brighton on a mysterious errand – “Mark didn’t ask you, eh? You’re slipping, Patience.” Leonora and Ludwig were more silent than ever and did not even talk about fowl pest at meals. Patience did not add that their mother came down to breakfast every morning with eyes almost closed with crying, while their father was composing a fugue of inconceivable dreariness on the white piano in the drawing room – Mrs Ffeathers had heard that for herself. “Music,” she sniffed. “I could do better myself. Used to accompany myself in one show – scarlet boots on the pedals and the gallery in tears. What’re the white mice doing – Emily and Priss?”
    â€œMaking Christmas presents.” Patience was delighted to have so innocuous an answer.
    â€œUgh. Ink-wipers and pincushions and sweet little flowered bags. And I thought Joseph was a bright boy once. You be careful who you marry, Patience, or see he dies young. I’ll always be grateful to my Joseph. A tower of strength while he lasted: never missed a cue or muffed an entrance, and died like a gentleman, just when it suited me best. None of his children can hold a candle to him, nor his grandchildren. You wouldn’t have found him dangling around an old lady’s apron-strings for her money, so I tell them.”
    It was the only time Patience ever