carmine, and the stain on the ceiling that was the shape of the map of Ireland. I thought of the high moors and the curlews calling and the beeches coming into leaf in the windbreaks. And of the collie-dog waving his tail, and the straight blue stare of Connor Winslow...
It was disconcerting to feel the faint prickle of nervous excitement along the skin, the ever-so-slightly quickened heartbeat, the catch in the breath. Because of course the thing was crazy. Dangerous and crazy and impossible. This silly, stolid pudding of a woman couldn't possibly have realised how crazy it was .. . No, I thought. No. Go while the going's good. Don't touch it.
"Well?" said Lisa Dermott.
I went to the window and dragged the curtains shut across it. I turned abruptly back to her. The action was somehow symbolic; it shut us in together, story-book conspirators in the solitary, sleazy upstairs room that smelt of too much cigarette-smoke.
"Well?" I echoed her, sharply. "All right. I am interested. And I'll come, if you can persuade me that it can possibly work ... Go on. I'll really listen now."
CHAPTER IV
Or take me by the body so meek, Follow, my love, come over the strand—
And throw me in the water so deep, For I dare na go back to Northumberland.
Ballad: The Fair Flower of Northumberland.
IT took three weeks. At the end of that time Lisa Dermott vowed that I would do. There was nothing, she said, that she or Con knew about Whitescar and Annabel that I, too, didn't now know. My handwriting, even, passed muster. The problem of the signature had been one of Lisa's worst worries, but she had brought me some old letters, written before Annabel's disappearance, and when I showed her the sheets that I had covered with carefully-practised writing, she eventually admitted that they would pass.
"After all, Lisa—" I used Christian names for her and Con, and made a habit of referring to Matthew Winslow as "Grandfather"—"I shan't be doing much writing. The person who matters is Grandfather, and I shan't have to write to him. As, far as the bank's concerned, the signature is all that's needed, and I've got that off pretty well, you must admit. In any case, even a signature might change a bit in eight years; it'll be easy enough to account for any slight differences, one would think." We were in another boarding-house room, this time in a big house in the tangle of busy streets east of the Haymarket. I had left my previous lodgings the day after my first meeting with Lisa, and, on her recommendation, had taken this room under the name of Winslow.
"Because," said Lisa, "though I don't imagine for a moment that anyone will see us together who knows me, or knew Annabel, if they should happen to see us before you turn up at Whitescar, or if they do make inquiries, at least they won't find that Lisa Dermott and Con Winslow were seeing an awful lot of one Mary Grey just before 'Annabel' turned up at home to eat the fatted calf."
"You seem awfully sure of that fatted calf," I said drily. "Let's hope you're right. You'll have to be completely honest with me, both of you, about Grandfather's reactions when he gets the news I'm coming. If he seems to have the slightest suspicion of a doubt—and if he so much as mentions having me investigated —you're to tell me, and—"
"We'll think again, that's understood. You don't imagine we'd be too keen on an investigation, either? We'll look after you, you know. We have to. It cuts both ways."
I laughed: "Don't think I haven't realised that I The possibilities for mutual blackmail are unlimited, and quite fascinating."
She gave her faint, unreadable smile. "The point is, surely, that it is mutual?" She patted the book which lay on the arm of her chair. Brat Farrar had become, for her, the text-book of our enterprise. "It was the same in this book . . . only you've less to worry about than the impostor there; you're not coming back just to claim a fortune, and it's easier to make your story—the
It was disconcerting to feel the faint prickle of nervous excitement along the skin, the ever-so-slightly quickened heartbeat, the catch in the breath. Because of course the thing was crazy. Dangerous and crazy and impossible. This silly, stolid pudding of a woman couldn't possibly have realised how crazy it was .. . No, I thought. No. Go while the going's good. Don't touch it.
"Well?" said Lisa Dermott.
I went to the window and dragged the curtains shut across it. I turned abruptly back to her. The action was somehow symbolic; it shut us in together, story-book conspirators in the solitary, sleazy upstairs room that smelt of too much cigarette-smoke.
"Well?" I echoed her, sharply. "All right. I am interested. And I'll come, if you can persuade me that it can possibly work ... Go on. I'll really listen now."
CHAPTER IV
Or take me by the body so meek, Follow, my love, come over the strand—
And throw me in the water so deep, For I dare na go back to Northumberland.
Ballad: The Fair Flower of Northumberland.
IT took three weeks. At the end of that time Lisa Dermott vowed that I would do. There was nothing, she said, that she or Con knew about Whitescar and Annabel that I, too, didn't now know. My handwriting, even, passed muster. The problem of the signature had been one of Lisa's worst worries, but she had brought me some old letters, written before Annabel's disappearance, and when I showed her the sheets that I had covered with carefully-practised writing, she eventually admitted that they would pass.
"After all, Lisa—" I used Christian names for her and Con, and made a habit of referring to Matthew Winslow as "Grandfather"—"I shan't be doing much writing. The person who matters is Grandfather, and I shan't have to write to him. As, far as the bank's concerned, the signature is all that's needed, and I've got that off pretty well, you must admit. In any case, even a signature might change a bit in eight years; it'll be easy enough to account for any slight differences, one would think." We were in another boarding-house room, this time in a big house in the tangle of busy streets east of the Haymarket. I had left my previous lodgings the day after my first meeting with Lisa, and, on her recommendation, had taken this room under the name of Winslow.
"Because," said Lisa, "though I don't imagine for a moment that anyone will see us together who knows me, or knew Annabel, if they should happen to see us before you turn up at Whitescar, or if they do make inquiries, at least they won't find that Lisa Dermott and Con Winslow were seeing an awful lot of one Mary Grey just before 'Annabel' turned up at home to eat the fatted calf."
"You seem awfully sure of that fatted calf," I said drily. "Let's hope you're right. You'll have to be completely honest with me, both of you, about Grandfather's reactions when he gets the news I'm coming. If he seems to have the slightest suspicion of a doubt—and if he so much as mentions having me investigated —you're to tell me, and—"
"We'll think again, that's understood. You don't imagine we'd be too keen on an investigation, either? We'll look after you, you know. We have to. It cuts both ways."
I laughed: "Don't think I haven't realised that I The possibilities for mutual blackmail are unlimited, and quite fascinating."
She gave her faint, unreadable smile. "The point is, surely, that it is mutual?" She patted the book which lay on the arm of her chair. Brat Farrar had become, for her, the text-book of our enterprise. "It was the same in this book . . . only you've less to worry about than the impostor there; you're not coming back just to claim a fortune, and it's easier to make your story—the
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