The Tall House Mystery (Musaicum Murder Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

beat a man, he's 'got a touch of liver,'" came the retort, "or he's 'coming down with the 'flu.' Or he's 'most fearfully knocked with the heat,', or his 'wrist is wonky,' or 'one of his knees is giving him trouble again.' It's the aim of my life to live long enough to beat a really well man."

      Warner burst out laughing. "So a grouch against the world was steeling those wrists," he said placatingly. "Let's have a rest and a talk. You've got me sunk already." He held out his cigarette case.

      "But haven't you come down for a game?" She hesitated, taking one.

      He shook his head. "For quiet."

      "Good Heavens!" She sat so as to face him, her lip curling. "Fancy coming for quiet! Fancy wanting the stuff! Well, you've chosen the right tomb."

      "So that's the trouble," he murmured in a kindly tone, "ah, yes, you're straining at your bonds. We all do—did. I'm not sure—-"

      "Don't tell me that you aren't sure we're not happier when toddling round in pinafores, or lisping our prayers at mother's knee than when sitting on the Woolsack, or hobbling into the House of Lords," she interrupted again, even more hotly than before.

      Warner eyed her. He felt a bit sorry for mother. This young lady looked as though she might have an awful temper. There was frustration in her face—and bitterness. She was quite handsome in a hard, clear-cut way. He was not attracted to her. But she had arresting eyes.

      "I'm on a newspaper," he said simply, "and naturally the idea of quiet appeals."

      "On a newspaper!" She drew a long breath, and almost choked herself with her cigarette. "Heavenly job!"

      "Hardly." His eyes twinkled. "Interesting, if you like. But hardly heavenly."

      "What are you? An editor?" She regarded him with envy.

      He nodded. "Something of that sort." He was a newspaper proprietor.

      "How does one get newspaper work?" she asked breathlessly.

      "By writing clever articles," he said vaguely. Suddenly he saw an abyss opening at his feet. "That is to say—for real genius, that's the way," he corrected hastily.

      "Oh, genius!" she said heavily. "But—had you genius?" She spoke with an air of sincerity that took the rudeness out of the question.

      His shake of the head answered.

      "I suppose you had a tremendous lot of determination," she went on, looking thoughtfully at his shovel of a chin. "There's nothing like a will of one's own for getting on, they say."

      In Warner's case it had been a will of his uncle's that had deposited him in one of the high places of the newspaper in question. But he nodded. She, too, had a forceful jaw, he thought.

      "Tenacity of purpose is necessary, yes," he agreed. Then he changed the subject of his own arrival on the mountain top by saying, "But, besides genius, you know, the thing to do is to be on the look-out for a scoop. By that—" Her ironic gaze told him that even in Bispham that word was familiar.

      "I'm afraid there's not much chance of a scoop down here," she said. "My father's sermons, and my mother's chats at meetings, hardly lend themselves to that sort of thing. As for crimes—well, it's true a policeman got drunk once, and we still shudder at the tale, but that was years ago, when my father was a boy. The only dramatic happening I remember was when a woman lost her purse on the station platform, and I lent her half a crown—all my worldly possessions. As it was in this part of the world, she returned the money next day."

      He laughed too. Then he tilted his cap further over his eyes and said meditatively, "And yet, that's what first gave me my taste for newspaper work, and set me on my feet—a scoop. A body was found floating in the river. Well, it might have been suicide. I worked it up into a three weeks front page thriller." He spoke with pride.

      "Was it suicide?" she asked.

      "I believe it was." His tone implied that what it really was did not figure in the balance sheet, except as enhancing the credit of the decorations, "but it isn't the facts. It's the way they're handled—treated."

      "I see." She sat silent a moment. "But if nothing happens, what does one do to get out of the rut? I should love newspaper work," she finished, in a tone of fervor that was positively alarming—to an editor.

      Warner decided to go all out on the scoop theory of advancement. He did not want a young female besieging him with postal packets of manuscript which would probably have no return stamps. He decided to be more wary.

      "A scoop is really the only way," he repeated dogmatically. "Something mysterious happens, or something that can be made to look so."

      "Here in Bispham?" Her tone was raillery itself, but she waved to him to proceed.

      "If you're the first in the field you can offer your stuff to almost any newspaper and, later, you can possibly work into a post on it. Now what about finishing the round?"

      She played so badly that he knew her mind was wandering. It is a curious fact, he reflected, that your mind may be on something else, and you can do your work quite decently, but let your mind wander ever so slightly at a game, and the game is ruined. Which looks as if games were harder than work...a little third article might be made out of the idea, treated humorously...

      He thanked her when they were back at the clubhouse again, and suggested cocktails. She declined. Her father expected her to be home to pour out tea, but she spoke as though half dreaming. He watched her long stride making for the gate with some misgiving.

      "I hope she won't murder the verger so as to qualify for a post with me," he thought. "She looks capable-of a good deal."

      At the rectory, Alfreda came to a sudden halt in the shabby old hall. Surely she knew that hat, that voice, and stepping through on to the veranda there rose up before her the man whom she had never expected to see again—Lawrence Gilmour. The sun glinted on his brown hair and seemed to shine in his brown eyes. Suddenly a wave of hatred passed over Alfreda such as she had never dreamed that she could feel. He to stand there smiling, after leaving her to the tender mercies of the village gossips! For the first time she dared to realize how much she had suffered. In pride, in dismay, in hopes lost, in the pity and the scarcely veiled amusement of the countryside, and which of those two last had been the harder to bear she could not tell. It all welled up inside her now. Usually pale, there was a flush like a soft rose in her thin cheeks, her lips were a vivid bow of color unhelped by any cosmetics. Alfreda did not use cosmetics. They were expensive, and what was the use—at Bispham? Her eyes were sparkling as she looked into his.

      "Alfreda!" he said, coming forward and taking her hand. "I find that I can't get on without you. Have you missed me, too?"

      She could not speak. She dared not. Words were thronging behind her clenched teeth which it would have been madness to utter. She seemed to be standing outside herself, and she was amazed at what she was watching. A shiver passed over her. Alfreda closed her eyes, and as he put his arms about her, felt as though she could have struck the face bending down to kiss her, and struck it again and again. Hard.

      "Why did you leave me?" she asked in a low whisper. "Because I wanted to be sure. And to give you time to be sure too," he replied gravely. "I am sure now. Will you marry me, darling?"

      "No!" she said with a sort of shout, and then saw her mother come into the room. Mrs. Longstaff jumped. "Alfreda! Mr. Gilmour!"

      "Mrs. Longstaff, I've come back to marry the dearest girl in the world."

      Mrs. Longstaff could not conceive of Alfreda in quite that light.

      "Indeed?" was all she could say for the moment, then came the knowledge of all that this would mean. Only last week the charwoman had ventured to speak pityingly of "Miss Freda" for being so lonely. Her daughter well married...Gilmour was in the Civil Service, and had ample pay...there would be no pension for his wife, but he would, of course, carry a handsome life insurance...

      "My dear children," said Mrs. Longstaff and gave a hand to each. Alfreda took it, and committed herself. After all, anything was better than the life she