Mystery at the Rectory (Musaicum Vintage Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

that but for the ramrod stiffness of the girl she would have kissed her. "I want you to come to us," Lady Revell said softly, "I want you to come and stay at The Flagstaff, Olive, and let us get to know each other. Gilbert here feels just as I do—"

      "Oh, rather!" said Gilbert awkwardly, but with emphasis. His eyes were very friendly as he looked at the girl who, but for this unexpected tragedy, would have been his sister-in-law. Olive did not look at either mother or son.

      "I don't think I can...I can't leave Miss Avery at once—"

      Lady Revell was very sweet and soothing, and let the invitation drop for the moment as she moved away to speak to a very smartly-turned-out young woman, thin as a rail, whose expensive perfume filled the air, whose paint lay like plaster on her cheeks, and yet Lady Witson was good-looking in her own way, with a very intelligent face under all its make-up. And she was quite young—well under thirty.

      As for Grace and her brother, they drove to the rectory in silence, each busy with their own thoughts.

      On the rectory steps, they heard Doris's laugh floating out through the open window. Joyous and happy. Free and clear. Looking into the morning-room Grace and the rector came on Doris radiant, hugging a letter to her heart.

      "I've found it behind the hall table. And the cable is its postscript. He's coming home! He's left the Service He's going to buy a place near you, Jack! He's at Las Palmas!—" Doris was almost incoherent with sheer joy.

      "You sound happy—" Grace said almost reprovingly. "It's not a very happy day for most of us—" she looked after Olive who had run on up the stairs.

      "I know! I know!" Doris's tone was remorseful for a second only, "But I'm too happy to live!"

      The rector thought of Anthony's words to Doctor Black. He could not but be pleased at the joy shown by Doris after her agony of Thursday morning. It might not indicate a high degree of unselfishness, so to forget Anthony and Olive, but who could be vexed with a wife looking as Doris looked now at hearing that her husband was on his way home?

      "Well," Grace said, closing the door, "did you think that Olive acted to Lucy Revell as to her all-but mother-in-law? You can see now that I was right. Olive didn't care for Anthony—"

      "I have no way of guessing what goes on inside Olive Hill's heart," the rector said, "presumably she has one, but only presumably."

      "I think it's given to young Byrd."

      The rector frowned. "You said that before. I hope not, I sincerely hope not. How could she have got to know him sufficiently. I should have thought that you would have seen to it that Olive did not see much of him," the rector said in a tone of some warmth. "She's in your charge. An orphan girl—"

      "My dear Jack—" Grace only called him that when she was very annoyed, "you know as well as I do that Olive has all along done what she liked—apart from her set duties I mean, and whom she saw, or when she saw them, are things no one knows but herself."

      "Then what makes you persist in thinking—" began the rector.

      "I saw her kissing Byrd about a fortnight ago. Lost to the world, my dear."

      "A good-bye perhaps," the rector said shortly.

      "Oh, probably," Grace agreed, "Olive is very thorough. She would never try to play a double game. But that's what I meant by wondering if Anthony might not have shot himself. He was spoilt, passionate, and really immensely in love. And if she told him that after all she loved Byrd—and he knew he had lost her—she's a most fascinating person, John."

      "Really?" he asked dryly.

      "Oh, quite inexplicably so. You notice her absence, you notice her all the time. I don't know what she's going to do now—"

      "I hope not marry Byrd," the rector said gravely. "Putting aside what you told me about her, you must do your best to prevent that. Byrd has no standards, no health, no morals, no desire to work—nothing that would mean happiness if he had to provide for two. His temper is proverbial—it's won him the nickname, of Blackbird. As for the rest, he told me that he had thirty shillings a week to live on and not a hope of a penny more. He bought that cottage he has called The Hut with money he won on a bet. He can just manage to live on his lordly income—somehow. But a wife?"

      "Funny," Grace now said, "I was just thinking that no one seems to care much for Anthony's death, and yet a month ago one would have said that every one would be awfully grieved. I except that artist woman—she is all in."

      "And you can except me, and yourself too, and Gilbert, and Lady Revell, and many many other people, Grace," the rector said firmly. "But as a matter of fact, I don't think that most of us can realise yet that Anthony is gone. That we shall never see his handsome face again—nor hear his eager voice—" and real emotion made the rector stop for a moment, before going on to his study.

      On the Monday, Doris woke with a vague feeling that some sound in her room had wakened her. She sat up and looked at the clock beside her bed. It was only a little past five, when as a rule she was in her soundest sleep. Could the cat have got in? Bending lithely over her bed, she called it. Nothing stirred. Then she saw that one of her slippers was lying on its side and had evidently been stepped on. Not by Doris. She had put them as usual side by side ready to thrust her feet into. That was what had wakened her. She lay back and tried to think out what it meant. She had nothing in her room worth stealing. Nothing of any interest to any one. Yet some one had stepped on her slipper, which meant that they must have been very near her bed, been bending over it, or over her...But she was very sleepy and, turning over, she fell asleep again on the instant.

      After breakfast, Olive stepped into the morning-room. She wanted to know whether Doris could use her services as a secretary "or anything of that sort." From things Doris had said, Olive thought that there might be a great deal to do just now, before her husband got back home...

      Doris was puzzled. It seemed to her an odd request. What about Grace? she asked, for since Olive's engagement the three women called each other by their Christian names.

      "I want to get work as a secretary rather than a companion," Olive said, "and I can't do that without having a reference for my work. If I could stay with you for a while—it would be a help—"

      Doris fuzzled the cat's ear and thought hard. Something lay behind this request, or rather this plan. What? Curiosity was always strong in Doris.

      "But you have to know shorthand to be a secretary," she said finally.

      "I'm fairly good at it," Olive replied, "I've been having lessons in it. I've taken down the rector's last sermons quite easily. He speaks fairly slowly of course, but I shall improve, I know."

      Doris laughed. "So that's why you have taken to coming to church, is it?" she said easily. "I wondered at it when I heard you had been there. Grace and I have to go, of course, in common decency whenever the rector himself preaches, but I wondered—" She had thought that Olive had merely gone to show that she knew what would be expected of her after her marriage.

      So, Olive had only gone to practise her shorthand. But surely, as Revell's wife, Olive would not have needed shorthand. Doris's eyes spoke for her. Olive read them correctly.

      "I began to learn shorthand months ago. And I always hate to lose anything I have learnt how to do, don't you?"

      Doris agreed that she did. But it was odd...just as it was odd being wakened this morning by some one tripping over her slipper. Doris was puzzled by Olive. She wondered what she was up to.

      "Wouldn't you rather go quite away for a while," she asked in a kindly voice.

      Olive shook a decided head. "It would make it worse. I would very much like to stay on here until I can make up my mind what to do next."

      "If you've really made up your mind to leave Grace, and if she doesn't grudge me you," Doris said in her pretty and flattering way, "I shall be only too glad to have your help," and on that Olive went on up to her own room. Doris looked in on Grace, and told her of what had just been arranged.

      "That is, if you