and tell her she was trespassing.
She reached the front door and rang the bell, listening to the buzz deep in the heart of the house, a shrill, annoying sound like an egg timer. It seemed to Laura it would be very uncomfortable to have a doorbell that sounded as though something had just boiled.
Miss McInnes took a long time coming to the door, and when she did, she left the wire screen closed, speaking through it. Her tone was uninviting. “Yes?”
Laura took a deep breath and launched into her rehearsed speech. “My name is Laura Horton. I live in the Visconti house and I am trying to find out something about its history. Mrs. Carlton at the library thought you might be able to help me.”
“What do you want to know?”
It was hard talking through a wire screen. Laura wondered if she might ask Miss McInnes to open it but decided that it would be no use — Miss McInnes was looking at her very distrustfully. It occurred to Laura that she must be a similar age to Mrs. Murphy, but Mrs. Murphy was large and comfortable and didn’t worry about her clothes at all, whereas Miss McInnes was small and thin and probably worried a great deal about what she wore. Laura suddenly wished that she’d had time to change before coming.
“Do you know why Mr. Visconti settled here?”
“No one knows that,” replied Miss McInnes sharply. But the shadow of something, a memory or perhaps a scrap of gossip, crossed her face, and Laura was sure she knew more than she was saying.
She tried again. “Someone must have an idea, a suggestion.”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Miss McInnes paused. “Have you read the local history pamphlet?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t tell you much more. Mr. Visconti came here from Milan, I believe. He built the house and he lived there. On his own. He kept to himself. No one knew him well. I’m sorry; I can’t really help you with your project.”
“It’s not a project, Miss McInnes.” Laura tried to look as enthusiastic and trustworthy as possible. “I’m just interested because I live there.”
Miss McInnes was not impressed. “Well, that’s all I know. Now you’ll have to go, I’m afraid. I’ve got chutney simmering on the stove, and I have to get back to it.”
There was nothing for Laura to do but say thank you and leave.
As she walked away, thoughts were spinning in her head. She felt sure that Miss McInnes was hiding something, but she also knew from her own experience that making someone talk if they didn’t want to was not easy. It seemed strange, though, that Miss McInnes should be so secretive. Why would she not want to talk about Mr. Visconti?
Still puzzling about Miss McInnes, Laura came over the hill and looked down to the train tracks and Mrs. Murphy’s house. Mrs. Murphy was, as usual,working in her garden, and Laura watched her thoughtfully. Mrs. Murphy and Miss McInnes had both lived in the town for a very long time, possibly all their lives, and they were about the same age. Despite their differences, they must know each other. Maybe Mrs. Murphy would help her find out what Miss McInnes was hiding. Laura quickened her step, but by the time she reached the white weatherboard house, Mrs. Murphy had gone inside and there was no sign of movement.
Laura turned to continue up the hill, then stopped and took a deep breath. After all, Mrs. Murphy had said she enjoyed talking with her and had given her the tomatoes. Surely she wouldn’t mind if Laura knocked on her door. She pushed the gate open and walked down the path.
It was Leon who answered her knock. Laura shifted uncomfortably, remembering their last conversation.
“Is your grandmother at home?” she asked.
“Yes. She’s always at home.” But Leon did not move or call out to Mrs. Murphy. He just stood there, holding the door ajar, waiting. He looked as though he was protecting someone or something. Laura could see the heavy curtain behind him, concealing the endof the hallway, and an old wicker stand
She reached the front door and rang the bell, listening to the buzz deep in the heart of the house, a shrill, annoying sound like an egg timer. It seemed to Laura it would be very uncomfortable to have a doorbell that sounded as though something had just boiled.
Miss McInnes took a long time coming to the door, and when she did, she left the wire screen closed, speaking through it. Her tone was uninviting. “Yes?”
Laura took a deep breath and launched into her rehearsed speech. “My name is Laura Horton. I live in the Visconti house and I am trying to find out something about its history. Mrs. Carlton at the library thought you might be able to help me.”
“What do you want to know?”
It was hard talking through a wire screen. Laura wondered if she might ask Miss McInnes to open it but decided that it would be no use — Miss McInnes was looking at her very distrustfully. It occurred to Laura that she must be a similar age to Mrs. Murphy, but Mrs. Murphy was large and comfortable and didn’t worry about her clothes at all, whereas Miss McInnes was small and thin and probably worried a great deal about what she wore. Laura suddenly wished that she’d had time to change before coming.
“Do you know why Mr. Visconti settled here?”
“No one knows that,” replied Miss McInnes sharply. But the shadow of something, a memory or perhaps a scrap of gossip, crossed her face, and Laura was sure she knew more than she was saying.
She tried again. “Someone must have an idea, a suggestion.”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Miss McInnes paused. “Have you read the local history pamphlet?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t tell you much more. Mr. Visconti came here from Milan, I believe. He built the house and he lived there. On his own. He kept to himself. No one knew him well. I’m sorry; I can’t really help you with your project.”
“It’s not a project, Miss McInnes.” Laura tried to look as enthusiastic and trustworthy as possible. “I’m just interested because I live there.”
Miss McInnes was not impressed. “Well, that’s all I know. Now you’ll have to go, I’m afraid. I’ve got chutney simmering on the stove, and I have to get back to it.”
There was nothing for Laura to do but say thank you and leave.
As she walked away, thoughts were spinning in her head. She felt sure that Miss McInnes was hiding something, but she also knew from her own experience that making someone talk if they didn’t want to was not easy. It seemed strange, though, that Miss McInnes should be so secretive. Why would she not want to talk about Mr. Visconti?
Still puzzling about Miss McInnes, Laura came over the hill and looked down to the train tracks and Mrs. Murphy’s house. Mrs. Murphy was, as usual,working in her garden, and Laura watched her thoughtfully. Mrs. Murphy and Miss McInnes had both lived in the town for a very long time, possibly all their lives, and they were about the same age. Despite their differences, they must know each other. Maybe Mrs. Murphy would help her find out what Miss McInnes was hiding. Laura quickened her step, but by the time she reached the white weatherboard house, Mrs. Murphy had gone inside and there was no sign of movement.
Laura turned to continue up the hill, then stopped and took a deep breath. After all, Mrs. Murphy had said she enjoyed talking with her and had given her the tomatoes. Surely she wouldn’t mind if Laura knocked on her door. She pushed the gate open and walked down the path.
It was Leon who answered her knock. Laura shifted uncomfortably, remembering their last conversation.
“Is your grandmother at home?” she asked.
“Yes. She’s always at home.” But Leon did not move or call out to Mrs. Murphy. He just stood there, holding the door ajar, waiting. He looked as though he was protecting someone or something. Laura could see the heavy curtain behind him, concealing the endof the hallway, and an old wicker stand
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