Melrose refused to open his eyes when he heard what must have been a mug of tea placed on his bedside table. He shut them more tightly still when the curtains on wooden rungs were slowly pressed back and the window raised. Why on earth did people seem to think one could not move without the morning tea, and that one's private bedroom was Liberty Hall? Nor did he hear the footsteps of the Person recede. The Person must have been standing in the room-the slow breathing seemed to come from the direction of the foot of the bed-staring like a ghoul as he slept. Nothing could be more unnerving except perhaps lying in a trench with the enemy standing over you wondering if you were, indeed, dead.
Finally, he heard skulking steps, the door gently close.
After a few seconds, he opened one eye to sunlight and a fine day and a cow staring at him, ruminatively, through the window.
Melrose threw back the covers and didn't give the cow the satisfaction of knowing he had spotted it.
Major Poges and the Princess were the only ones at the table when he entered the dining room. Ruby had just served Major Poges his boiled egg. The Princess was drinking coffee and sitting several chairs away down the other side of the table. She fluted a good-morning to Melrose.
Ruby, her hair pulled back from sallow skin and a face like a lozenge-mildly palliative-recited a rather extensive menu to Melrose, including mutton chops. Melrose ordered tea, toast, and porridge. Solemnly, Ruby took the order, collected some of the used crockery, and took herself off.
"And bring some more hot water, Ruby," the Major called after her.
One could tell a great deal (Melrose had always liked to think) about the way a person approached his boiled egg. Major Poges did not behead his (as did Agatha), but tapped and tapped the top gently all round with the back of his egg spoon and peeled it.
From her end of the table, the Princess called down, "We're the last. Or you are. It's nearly ten."
"Miss Denholme appears to be very liberal with her mealtimes."
"And her food," said the Princess, whose plate, from what Melrose could see, did not attest to this. It was empty. "She caters to one's tastes." The Princess raised her finely chiseled face to the ceiling and exhaled a stream of smoke. This morning she was dressed in rose wool with one of the Weavers Hall shawls (this one of magenta) gathered about her arms and fastened with something pricey that winked in the sunlight.
"She's also quite a decent person, if a bit on the broody side. When I came here the first time, she was off nursing her sister-Iris, I think her name is. I understand the doctors feared the poor woman would have a miscarriage. I have never had children, myself." Her tone suggested she couldn't understand why anyone would.
"They'd have turned out to be Malcolms, every one." The Major scooped up his egg. "Doesn't come on as the motherly type, not to me. Why'd she take over the child? Doesn't seem to care much about her. As for catering to your tastes," the Major went on as he jammed up a toast round. "What taste? You scarcely eat anything." He turned to Melrose. "She will only eat what is quiet and needn't be cut."
He called down to her: "For God's sakes, come to your usual place and sit down."
Her expression declared that this was the opening for a rejoinder she'd been dying to make. "I am sitting down here, Mr. Plant, because I do like my morning cigarette. And it is beastly manners to smoke whilst others are eating. So I've been told."
Sotto voce, the Major said, "Oh, shut up." Then to the Princess, he called again, "We refuse to sit here and yell. I complained once, oncewhen you were smoking that cheroot. Come back to your usual chair."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, rising. "Thank you so much."
Melrose smiled as she made her languid (and supposedly underfed) way down the table to the chair at the Major's left, which he had risen to hold out for her. The Major's sigh was huge and resigned; he reeked of martyrdom. Her thank you simply breathed of feigned deference, as did her paralytic smile at him as she slid into the magisterial chair.
"Now the one who fascinates me is the Braine woman. She's quite loopy, that one. Did you know she was on her way to Hadrian's Wall? She claims to be in touch with the Emperor Hadrian, which must be difficult as he's been dead for several centuries." The Princess leaned closer to Melrose. "Second sight is what she claims to have. Knew there'd be a murder near here, that's what turned up in her 'magnetic field.' She was 'drawn here' by some irresistible force."
"Second sight so often turns out to be hindsight, I've found," said Melrose. "I imagine she predicts further trouble."
Major Poges looked mildly surprised. "She did. How'd you know?"
"I didn't. But isn't it always safe to predict further trouble? Won't there always be?"
"No wonder Malcolm's the little beast he is. They're off, she says, to meet Hadrian's spirit. Tomorrow. Noonish." She nicked some ash onto a plate. "And people think killers are crazy."
"Is that what they're saying about this woman who killed her husband? I'd imagine there'd be a great deal of speculation there."
"Speculation, yes. The family's very old, very county," said the Major. "I've met them. Well, him. Charles Citrine. Done a bit of shooting with him."
"The Gun, here," said the Princess, nodding toward Poges, "has never brought back anything for our meager table."
"Stop calling me that. Just because a fellow likes an early ramble on the moors and a bit of shooting-"
"His kill-to-cartridge ratio is about one to one thousand."
Melrose smiled. "This Charles Citrine-"
He was interrupted by Ruby's coming in with the tray, setting Melrose's porridge and tea before him and the hot water before the Major. She then set about collecting the dirty dishes as if she were nicking them. For some time she held a goblet before her with an abstracted air, frowning at its blood-red glass, then quickly set it on the tray and picked up a plate with several mutton-chop bones on it and nearly ran from the room.
"Is she always like that?" asked Melrose, plugging a large square of butter into the center of his porridge and watching the melting rivulets trickle off.
"She's a goose. Pay no attention to her," said the Major, digging in the jar of marmalade.
"I hadn't thought of the porridge," said the Princess, leaning to get a better look at Melrose's bowl.
Major Poges looked up sharply. "Don't give it to her. She's right onto it, Mr. Plant, but don't give it to her." To the Princess he said, "If you want porridge, ask for porridge." He slammed down the marmalade pot.
A delicate ribbon of smoke trailed upward as she said, "One can't keep the kitchen open all day, Major."
"Ha! Then have a boiled egg." He shoved the silver dish toward her.
The Princess reared back slightly, her mouth in a moue.
"If you want to waste your time tapping and cracking and peeling, go ahead. And then one nearly has to carve round the white to get it out as if one were a sculptor. No, thank you. You don't seem to be having such a fine time with yours." She leaned closer to his plate. "Look at all of the tiny bits of shell-"
"You're the laziest damned woman I know." He put down his spoon and snapped his paper open, back half-turned to her. But he wasn't finished with his recital. To Melrose, he said, "Nearly everything is too much trouble for her to eat." Secretively, he leaned toward Melrose as if the Princess weren't there. "Do you know what she dined on last night? A plate of creamed potatoes, mashed swede, and one forkful of peas. One!" He held up his index finger.
The Princess stuck out her tongue at his back, then rested her chin across the back of her hands in an artfully contrived pose. "One can hardly eat peas after they've left the heap, can one? I'm not about to chase them."
Major Poges nearly buried his face in his crushed paper. "When we were in London once I made the mistake of suggesting we dine at Wheeler's. Is there anyone who thinks Dover sole is hard to eat?"
"Yes. They never fillet anything properly. There's always the odd bone large enough to drive through the heart of Dracula." She sipped her coffee and inhaled deeply.
Melrose wondered if he were to be forever reminded of Vivian's upcoming marriage.
The Princess sighed. "The only implements one needs are a blender and a Cuisinart. That's all I have in my kitchen."
"Kitchen?" Major Poges looked up from his newspaper to stare at her. "What kitchen?"
"Major, you know I have a house in London."
He shrugged and went back to his search of the paper. "Oh, that. Surely, the kitchen was boarded up long ago. Ah, here's an item. You wouldn't think they'd be burying this killing at the inn toward the back of the paper, would you? I expect it's because there's nothing new. They've merely taken the old stuff and given it a good shaking."
The Princess stubbed out her cigarette and laced her hands beneath her chin again. "I find it very interesting that the accounts go on and on about the husband's marvelous reputation. And his 'courageous' refusal to pay the ransom all those years ago. It's as if shewere straight out of it. The few times I've spoken with her, Mrs. Healey struck me as rather reserved, but certainly not a stick, and certainly not without a bit of steel in her spine."
Melrose finished his tea. "It sounds as if you're a little suspicious of the husband."
"Good heavens, I question anyone who is reputed to be flawless. Anyway, it sounds chauvinistic, the courageous husband and the wife who was apparently struck by the vapors. It was as if she had nothing to say in the whole matter. Well, she finally said it, didn't she?"
"A person'd think you approved of what she did." The Major folded his paper, fanwise.
"Oh, I do. So dramatic. No sneaking about trying to pick him off in a dark alleyway. Her solicitors would have to be idiots not to get her off."
"Get her off? The woman killed him in plain sight of a detective."
She answered the Major but looked at Melrose. "That makes no difference. It's the motive. The man refused to pay that ransom." She waved another cigarette in Melrose's direction.
Melrose lit it for her and said, "That wouldn't stick, would it? Had she done it right after, or six months later, or even a year, I imagine they could plead extreme depression."
The Princess rose, gathering up her cigarette case. "I wasn't aware there was a statute of limitations on despair, Mr. Plant. It's snowing again. There goes my afternoon in Leeds. Will you be dining with us? I surely hope so. It does make a change." The flowery scent trailed behind her as she left the room.
Grumpily, Major Poges watched her go. "Damned woman. Gets the last word in, you can be sure of that. Well, I'm for a walk. Snow or no snow. Care to join me? Mr. Plant?"
Melrose looked up. "Oh, sorry. No, I don't think so. I was just wondering, have you seen Miss Taylor this morning?"
"Not this morning, not since I heard her shoot through the night on that motorcycle probably mashing everything in her path."
"That's just it: wouldn't we have heard it when she came in?"
Major Poges checked his watch, shook it, held it up to his ear. "Who said she did? She's from New York, after all."
He turned and left the room, murmuring something about bullying Rose into joining him on Stanbury Moor.
New York or not, thought Melrose, there was hardly anything in Haworth to be getting up to. He sat there, feeling decidedly uncomfortable, staring out at the slow fall of snow. It might have been five minutes or fifty, as he brooded over collisions on icy roads, when he was more or less brought round by the voice behind him.
"Are you coming, then?"
He turned from the window and saw Abby Cable in what looked like proper gear for an Eskimo. He could barely see her face; he could feel the glare, though, like ice struck by light. "What? Coming where? Have you built an igloo?"
There was a silence. Her face was muffled in scarves, shawls, and something feathered on the edges that moved with her breath. But he felt the penetrating stare. "To find the sheep. You said you wanted to."
He had? When he didn't jump from his seat, she said, "Good-bye, then."
Adults lie. That was in the tone, pure and simple, something she was used to.
"I don't know what to wear for this adventure."
Silence. The Eskimo turned. "A coat would help." She left the doorway to which Melrose rushed. "Can't you wait for three minutes?"
She opened the door to the great snow-swamped outside. The dog Stranger sat there with snow on his coat. "Okay," she said, flatly.
As he strived with his Wellingtons he could hear the clock ticking.