Shortly after Ben and Freddy left, Mrs. Malloy headed upstairs-supposedly to prepare mentally for her reunion with Melody but probably to lose herself in machinations that would ultimately result in Lord Rakehell’s transformation from villain to devoted husband. Ha! I stomped into the kitchen to bewail the treachery of men in general and Ben in particular.
Feeling abandoned and heartily sorry for myself, I got busy at the sink, sloshing cups and saucers around in water both too hot and too soapy. My children were gone. My husband had left me. Even my cat had turned tail and gone outside, refusing to come back in when I called, in spite of the rain. Why hadn’t I gone with Ben and Freddy to the Dark Horse?
The answer rumbled down from the thunderous night sky. Because I’d relished cutting off my nose to spite my face. Having laboriously dried the last plate, I was left with nothing to do beyond kicking myself in the shins. To go up to bed leaving Tobias outside was not an option. After another futile endeavor to lure him back inside with the promise of taking him to see Cats for his birthday, I trailed disconsolately back to the drawing room, where I was made further despondent by finding the dismembered feather duster buried under a chair. Reflecting that with my luck it would turn out to be on the endangered species list and I would be whapped with an enormous fine should word leak out to the Chitterton Fells Council on Conservation, I rearranged some ornaments that had been perfectly fine as they were. Then I straightened some magazines and plumped a couple of pillows. Had there been a fire in the grate, I would have poked it.
The mantelpiece clock was chiming seven P.M. when a pitiful meow sounded at the window and, feeling that life was marginally improving, I crossed the room to let Tobias in. Far from being grateful at being rescued from the elements, he shot past me in a streak of wet fur to deposit himself on a chair and assume his most ill-used expression. If it’s true that misery loves company, I should have been elated. Had I been kinder, I would have told him to finish off the feather duster and forget the consequences. Instead, I turned off most of the lights, leaving only one rose-shaded lamp glowing, and sank down on the sofa facing the windows.
Immediately I found myself weighed down with fatigue. It wasn’t the pleasant lassitude that is often the precursor to drifting off into untroubled sleep; I felt heavy and lumpish, beset by physical discomfort. The cushions would not conform to my back. The floor became unreachable to my feet. My shoulders wouldn’t hold my arms up properly. I thought about going up to bed, but not only was it too early, there would be that slog up the wooden mountain. Added to which I wasn’t entirely sure I was awake and wasn’t about to take up sleepwalking. Offstage, the thunder had transformed itself into an overture for Cats, with a more than permissible number of wrong notes. I could hear the audience rhythmically clicking its teeth. No, that was the clock ticking away like a metronome inside my head, growing increasingly louder until it, along with the Chitterton Fells Philharmonic Orchestra, got pushed into the background by a more imperative intrusion. A bird, sent by the Endangered Species Commission, was tapping at the windows.
“Tobias, do something about that,” I murmured huffily.
No meowed response. As I struggled to sit up and reach around for my feet, which I was almost sure I’d had on when I sat down, the noise got louder. The room was in shadow, adding to my foggy state of mind. Even so, it occurred to me that there might be someone-a person sort of someone, not a blackbird or thrush-trying to get my attention.
“Who is it?” I asked, through lips that didn’t belong to my face.
“It’s me,” said a spectral voice.
“Who?” I crept forward without so much as the poker in hand to protect myself. Against the dark sweep of curtain, a wedge of open window was revealed. Realizing I must have failed to close it when letting Tobias in was not cheering. It was my own fault that I was about to die wearing an elderly bra and no earrings.
“Oriole!” At least that’s what I thought the voice said.
My heart pounded and my throat squeezed shut. Here was no ordinary everyday intruder with a bad back and a wife or mother waiting at home, eager to present him with a cup of tea before hearing how he had done on the job and whether the proceeds would allow for a little extra being set aside for Christmas. Lurking behind that pane of glass was the nastyminded child ghost from The Night Visitor. My mouth went dry. Ice prickled down my spine. I regretted never having learned to fall without hurting myself, this surely being an acceptable moment for a Victorian-style faint. No need for a breath-constricting corset. It took Tobias, looking at me with whisker-twitching contempt, to bring me back to reality.
“How clearly do you think when you’re half asleep?” I asked him defensively. Then I again addressed the window. “Say again who you are?”
“Ariel.”
“Ariel Hopkins?”
“Yes.”
This was a stunner, but I didn’t waste time gasping; I hurried into the hall, opened the front door, and ushered her in. She was a pitiful sight, wet and bedraggled; her feet in inadequate sandals, her sandy plaits looking as though they had swabbed decks.
“Hello, Ellie.” She sized up my welcome through rain-fogged spectacles, as I peeled off the sodden raincoat and tossed it over the banister. Her face was a pale pinch-lipped blur. I envisioned Jane Eyre’s friend Helen Burns and held my breath against the pathetic eruption of a consumptive cough.
“Sorry to burst in on you like this.” She didn’t sound regretful.
“Why tap at the window, instead of ringing the bell?”
“I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot by waking the children if they were in bed.”
“That was thoughtful, but they’re with their grandparents in London.”
“What about Ben?”
“He’s at the pub with my cousin. Let’s get you into the drawing room where it’s warmer.” I led the way, still in something of a dream state.
“You won’t believe the horrible time I had getting here. Sometimes life can be too cruel,” she said, as I settled her on the sofa. “Would you believe, Ellie, there wasn’t a buffet on the train? It almost made me wish I hadn’t come.”
“And where would that be from?” I asked, switching on extra lighting before closing the window against more visitors.
“Yorkshire.”
Why was I not surprised?
“I had to wait ages for a taxi after my train got in.”
“Ariel”-I sat down across from her-“do your father and Betty know you’re here?”
“I told them I was going to my friend Brandy’s house and that her parents were okay with my spending the night.”
“Ariel!” Unable to think, I bundled a sofa blanket around her. “After I’ve made you a cup of cocoa and something to eat, you have to let them know what’s going on. Meanwhile, take off those wet shoes and settle back comfortably. Wipe your glasses.” I pointed to a paper napkin on the table beside her that I had failed to pick up earlier when tidying away the tea things. I headed for the door. “Now you’re defogged you can see where you are. Try and relax.”
“How can I when my life is in turmoil?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute.” It was good to draw breath in the hall, but before I could fully recuperate I was summoned back to the drawing room by a piercing scream.
“A cat jumped out at me.” Ariel glared at me through her now-clear lenses. “A great, horrid tabby cat.”
“He lives here.”
“I hate cats.”
“Do you?” I forced a smile. Receiving none in return, I fled back into the hall, where I beheld Mrs. Malloy descending the stairs, majestically crowned with purple hair rollers. Having been engaged in her nightly ablutions, she was only wearing one eyebrow. This did not stop her, while clutching her matching dressing gown around her chest, from informing me that I looked pale.
“I feel pale.”
“I thought I heard the kettle whistle.”
“That was a scream.”
“Whose?” She followed me into the kitchen, the clicking of her high heels echoing through the house. “Not Mr. H, waking up to a hangover?”
“He’s not back. He’s only been gone half an hour.”
“You, clearing your lungs?”
“Ariel Hopkins. She absconded from home.”
“The girl you send the books to? The one that’s parents won the lottery?”
“That’s her.”
“Talk about surprises. After you and Mr. H were just discussing them!” Mrs. Malloy hovered at my elbow while I made the cocoa and put a slice of chocolate cake and some digestive biscuits on a plate.
“Ariel could probably do with a sandwich or, better yet, something hot to eat,” I said, picking up the tray, “but I don’t want to waste unnecessary time. I need to phone Tom and Betty. She told them she was staying at a friend’s house. But if they’ve checked and found she’s not there, they’ll be worried to death.”
“Where did she spring from?” Mrs. Malloy graciously held the kitchen door open for me.
“Yorkshire.”
“You don’t say! Why’s she come?”
“That’s the burning question.” I drew up short outside the drawing room door. “If only Ben were here!”
“No sense standing weighing down the floor, is there? Here, give me that tray.” Mrs. Malloy stopped fussing with her purple rollers to give an exasperated sigh. “Your hands are shaking, Mrs. H, and you’ve slopped the cocoa. Talk about making our little guest feel welcome!”
We entered to find Ariel sitting with Tobias on her lap.
“He climbed on and I haven’t been able to get him to budge.” She aimed a fierce look at me through glasses that were way too big for her face.
“I’ll take him,” I offered.
“He can stay if he goes on behaving himself. When he’s still, he’s like a hot-water bottle. And I think he’s picked up on the fact that I don’t put up with any nonsense. Who’s this?” She pointed a finger at Mrs. Malloy.
“Got a mouth, haven’t you?” Mrs. Malloy operates on the theory that children won’t get the upper hand if you don’t let them get taller than you, which is one of the reasons, I suppose, that her ridiculous heels keep getting higher.
Having enthroned herself in the most comfortable chair in the room, she patted the purple crown of rollers and smiled complacently down at her feet.
“I know someone who wears stupid shoes like those.” The cocoa mustache Ariel now wore did nothing to diminish her hauteur. I pitied Tom and Betty, being stuck with the job of preventing her from alienating entire populations at a time. Would they offer Ben and me a substantial bribe to keep her?
“Ariel,” I said firmly, “I need to phone your parents.”
“Betty’s not-”
“Never mind that.”
“Can’t it wait until I’ve told you everything?” She swallowed a mouthful of chocolate cake.
“Has either of them been mistreating you?”
“They won’t let me have a TV in my room.”
“That doesn’t count. Give me the phone number.”
“There’s no need. I’m not the usual fussed-over child. They won’t check up on me at my friend’s house. They’re not that sort. Maybe if I had a real mother it would be different.”
Impervious to this tugging at the heartstrings, Mrs. Malloy got to her feet. “I’ll make the call if you like, Mrs. H; that way it can be kept short and simple. The child’s here safe and sound, and you’ll ring them when you’ve got her story. Give me your phone number, young lady.”
I was grateful for this intervention; it seemed to be in the cards that Tom or Betty would blame me for this escapade, either because I had sent those parcels of books or because I happened to be living and breathing somewhere in England. Ariel mumbled her number, and before she had finished glowering at me, Mrs. Malloy returned to report she had met with incoherence from Betty, in the midst of which the phone had been handed to Tom, who’d added a couple of snorts to the dialogue.
“I expect they’ll have a row deciding what to do with me.” Ariel smirked. “Why have you only got one eyebrow?” she demanded of Mrs. Malloy.
“Because I was in the middle of taking off me makeup when your arrival brung me downstairs.”
“I thought it might be the first sign of some horrible pestilence.”
Mrs. Malloy resumed her seat with a thump sufficient to send a purple roller flying off her head. “Enough chitchat, Miss Rude Face. What brings you here?”
“To talk to Ellie.” Ariel tossed back her sandy plaits. “Last night in bed it came to me she’s the ideal person to help me sort out what’s been going on.”
“And what’s that?” Displaying interest, I leaned forward in my chair.
“Finding myself living in a gothic novel. It all started when Dad won the lottery six months ago and Betty insisted on moving to Yorkshire. Their friends-Mr. and Mrs. Edmonds; I can’t stand them-had gone there to live, and they raved about this grand house not far from them, with parts that date back to Elizabethan times. They thought Dad and Betty should buy it.”
“Where in Yorkshire?” Mrs. Malloy was ready to handle the interrogation with all the aplomb of a chief superintendent from Scotland Yard, while I sat back like the green young sergeant, eager to learn how the great man did things.
“Milton Moor. It’s about twenty miles from Haworth, if you know where that is and why it’s famous.” Ariel licked her cocoa mustache.
“Yes, we do know.” I’d decided against playing the silent sidekick.
“Why, if that isn’t something!” Mrs. Malloy evinced delighted amazement. “Milton Moor’s the little town where me sister lives. I couldn’t remember the name when Mrs. H and me was talking earlier.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” Ariel gave Tobias a nudge when he attempted a nibble at the biscuit she was holding. Disliking selfishness, he got off her lap.
“Melody Tabby. She’s secretary to an accountant.”
“Has to be Mr. Scrimshank. He’s the only one in Milton Moor, it’s that small a place. He handled things when Dad and Betty bought Withering Heights.” Ariel returned my stare. “That’s what I call it, because an icy chill went down my spine the first time I saw it. Not that anyone listened to me. Its real name is Cragstone House. Mr. Scrimshank is a friend of Lady Fiona, as well as being her lawyer.”
“Who’s Lady Fiona?” I asked.
“Cragstone’s previous owner. And according to Betty, now the first thrill of living in a mansion has worn off, a coldblooded killer.”
Mrs. Malloy lost another purple roller as she jerked forward in her chair. “Who’s the victim?”
“Nigel Gallagher. Her ladyship’s husband. He’s just an ordinary mister; she was born to the title. The house and grounds had been in her family for generations. I suppose that could have made him feel a bit inferior. Anyway, Betty thinks he’s buried somewhere on the grounds and one day he’ll get dug up with the new potatoes.”
“What put that jolly thought in her head?” Mrs. Malloy’s ears were practically flapping.
“Mr. Gallagher disappeared about eighteen months ago. The police didn’t make a thing of it, because it wasn’t the first time he’d taken off without warning for extended periods on expeditions to foreign parts, as Mrs. Cake puts it. She says the man was always an odd duck, but better a man that likes a bit of travel than one that sits on his bum all the time finding fault with what’s on the telly.”
“Who’s Mrs. Cake?” It seemed expedient to get a grip on the mounting cast of characters.
“The cook.”
“Got the name for the job,” quipped Mrs. Malloy.
“Mrs. Cake’s a very nice lady who doesn’t deserve having jokes made about her. She was with the Gallaghers for years. They’re quite old, fifty or sixty at least.” Ariel took no notice of Mrs. M’s wince. “And she-Mrs. Cake-stayed on at Withering… Cragstone to work for us. She’s the only really normal person there, which is why I think her falling down the stairs the other night and spraining her ankle is the worst thing that’s happened so far.”
“What else has been going on?” I noticed Tobias looking out of the window and wondered if he heard Ben’s car.
“When we first moved in, it was small things that could be explained away. Pictures that fell off walls. Lights turning on or off by themselves. Finding the front door wide open in the morning.”
“Like you say”-Mrs. Malloy repositioned a roller-“those sorts of occurrences do happen. And nasty as it must have been for Mrs. Cake, who I’m sure is a lovely person, people do fall downstairs without some evil force being responsible.”
Ariel eyed her mulishly. “It was her behavior afterward that was unnerving. At first she said she woke up in the middle of the night to hear someone moving about and got up to check out who it was. Not finding anyone and thinking they might have left by the back entrance, she was heading down to the kitchen when she tripped over something left on the stairs. But the next morning she acted really nervous and said he’d woken from a bad dream and had been imagining things. I heard her talking to Betty, and it was clear she wasn’t herself.”
“A sprained ankle’s no fun,” I pointed out.
“I know that. And Mrs. Cake hates having to sit in her chair with her foot up, unable to do more than shell peas and watch Betty let the saucepans boil over. But I’m telling you, there was more to it.”
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“I think someone was moving around that night up in the part of the west wing where the indoor servants slept in the days when there were lots of them. Now there’s just Mrs. Cake, in the room closest to the stairs leading down to the kitchen.” Ariel adjusted her specs. Only the wind and rain attempted to interrupt her. “I think it was a real live person up there, the one who wants us out of Withering… Cragstone. Betty thinks it was Mr. Gallagher’s ghost and Mrs. Cake was afraid to say so in case it made her sound loopy, but the next morning decided it might make more of an uproar if it was thought there had been an intruder.”
“If it were a ghost,” said Mrs. Malloy, “I know just the person to-”
Unwilling to let her get started on Madam LaGrange, I cut her off. “Let’s get back to what else has you worried, Ariel, beyond the incidents that you admit can be explained away.”
The expression on the girl’s face was hard to read. “The thing is, most of them have happened to Betty, who’s far from my favorite person and likes to draw attention to herself. But she doesn’t have enough imagination-seeing as she never reads anything beyond fashion magazines that don’t do her any good-to make things up on a grand scale. She’s a really boring person. I don’t think Dad minds a bit that she moved into a bedroom of her own because of his horrible snoring. At least it stopped some of her nagging. I don’t see how he could ever have been in love with her after being married to my mother. Grandma Hopkins said she was an angel that God wanted back in heaven. Honestly, I wish Dad and Betty would be sensible and get a divorce. But of course he’d never consider it because he’s such a strict Catholic. He wouldn’t even go for an annulment. He told me once when he heard of a couple from church getting one that such loopholes should be reserved for marriages that haven’t been consummated. And horrible as it is to think about, he has had sex with Betty. He admitted it when he was giving me the Talk.” Her voice capitalized it. “They’ve done it more than once, too, not just to get it over with.” She shuddered. “Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve all this grief. Perhaps I was a murderer, or something equally wicked, in a past life.”
“Interesting you should bring that up-” began Mrs. Malloy.
Again I hurried to prevent the interjection of Madam La-Grange. “Ariel, what frightening things have happened to Betty?”
“She went into the study one morning-she always goes in there first thing to have her coffee-and found a funeral wreath, a horrible moldy one that looked as if it were weeks old, hanging on the nail that used to hold Mr. Gallagher’s portrait. And another time she discovered three dead ravens on her bedroom windowsill.” Ariel paused, to good effect. “As I just said, she has her own bedroom, so Dad can’t say whether this next thing is true or not, but last week she was woken in the middle of the night-or so she says-by a mournful disembodied voice calling her name. When she asked what it wanted, it said, “Help me, Betty, get me out of this dark place!” And then the shadow of a man with a lion’s-head walking stick appeared on the wall at the foot of the bed. Mr. Gallagher has… had… a lion’s-head walking stick.”
Clearly thrilled to the core, Mrs. Malloy was rendered speechless, leaving me to ask Ariel if she had believed her stepmother.
“Like I said, I’m not her biggest fan, but I can’t see her making it up, even to get attention. If that had been the idea, wouldn’t she have screamed the house down and brought Dad running, and maybe even me? But she didn’t say anything until the next day. And she was quite calm about it. She said it confirmed her suspicions that Lady Fiona had murdered her husband, and she was going to draw up a plan of the grounds and start digging in likely spots.”
“Was that before or after Mrs. Cake fell, or was maybe even pushed, down the stairs?” Mrs. Malloy was on the rim of her chair.
“Before. And I know what you’re getting at.” Ariel shrugged. “It explains why Betty was sure Mrs. Cake had seen Mr. Gallagher’s ghost.”
“Okay,” I said. “We have two choices here. Either Betty is producing these stage effects for her own reasons, or someone is attempting to frighten the life out of her.”
“I’ve been telling you, Betty’s not scared. She’s not that sort. A bomb could go off under her and she wouldn’t blink. She sees herself as a cute Miss Marple about to show the police they’ve had the wool pulled over their eyes. This is giving her something to do, now that she doesn’t go out to work and hasn’t any ideas on how to turn Cragstone into a showplace. Val’s taken over that job.”
“Who?” Mrs. Malloy and I inquired in unison.
“Val. She’s the one who wears silly high heels like yours.” Ariel eyed Mrs. M’s feet disparagingly. “The weird thing is that Betty, who’s not keen on getting in thick with people these days because she thinks they’ll try to squeeze money out of her and Dad, seems quite okay with Val. Mrs. Cake says it’s hard not to take to someone who’s not only helpful but also lovely to look at. And I suppose Val doesn’t look bad for someone over thirty.”
“Is she a new acquaintance?” I repositioned myself as Tobias climbed onto my lap.
“She moved into the Dower House a couple of months ago to take care of her great-aunt, who was Mr. Gallagher’s nanny when he was a little boy. The nanny’s really doddery now and very upset that he’s gone, besides being angry that Lady Fiona, whom she never liked, sold Cragstone when Mr. G wasn’t around to have any say about it.”
“That seems one point against her ladyship having murdered him and buried the body somewhere on the grounds. Even without Betty conducting a search, there’s the risk of the grave being discovered. Far better, I’d think, for her ladyship to stay put in the ancestral home.”
“She had to sell. Her finances were in a terrible mess.”
“How about your dad’s response to what’s been going on?” Mrs. Malloy, who had patently resented the insult to her footwear, managed a smile.
“He’s afraid people will get wind of Betty’s suspicions about Lady Fiona and insist she’s trying to destroy the woman’s character. He says there’ll be a lawsuit for defamation-Lady Fiona could use the money-and it will be in all the papers: COUPLE WHO WON LOTTERY ACCUSES FORMER HOUSE OWNER OF MURDER. Dad’s got a horror of the press because of the articles written about the accident that killed my mother. That’s one reason I want to find out what’s really going on-such as Nanny Pierce trying to drive us out of the house so that Mr. Gallagher can move back in when he returns from his travels.”
“A doddery old lady indulging in scare tactics?”
Ariel shifted restlessly in her chair. “Val could be helping her. Maybe that’s the real reason she moved into the Dower House and has been so helpful to Betty with the decorating. It gives her the perfect excuse to be in and out of Withering… Cragstone all the time. Maybe Nanny has promised to leave her a nice inheritance in return for her cooperation.”
I smiled. “You’ve read those gothic novels I sent you.”
“But you’re the expert on them, Ellie. You know how the plots are woven to lead readers astray… making us think we’ve figured out what’s going on and then springing a throat-gripping surprise at the end. What if both Betty and I have got it wrong? What if it isn’t Nanny Pierce who wants us out of Cragstone, but someone else who resents our moving in? Like Mr. Scrimshank, who’s a walking creep show. Just wait till you meet him!” She gave Mrs. Malloy a pitying look. “Perhaps he’s madly, obsessively in love with Lady Fiona and thinks that if we are forced out no one else will dare buy the place and she’ll get it back for next to nothing.”
“Or could the prankster be Mrs. Cake, the devoted cook?” I was compelled to suggest. “I know you’re fond of her, Ariel, but she’d need to appear likable and trustworthy in order for her scheme to work, wouldn’t she?”
“I suppose. This is why I need you, Ellie-and I suppose Mrs. Malloy as well, seeing that her sister lives in Milton Moor-to come home with me and help me solve the mystery.”
“Well, now, that does seem a solution.” Far from sounding vexed at Ariel’s begrudging inclusion of her, Mrs. Malloy beamed like a little girl on discovering she has sprouted a head of curls as a reward for eating her vegetables.
“There’s a problem,” I said. “Your dad and Betty have made it clear by not letting the family know where they live that they wish, at least for the time being, to be left alone. So I can’t imagine they will welcome a visit, particularly when they don’t know me, let alone Mrs. Malloy.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t tell them I was coming here. But if you take me back they’ll have to ask you to stay for lunch, at least. Dad might even want to, if Ben came too. I know it wouldn’t have been easy if the children were at home, but with them being at their grandparents’ it’s not a problem.”
“Ariel, Ben has his restaurant, and he wants to put in a lot of hours this week on the cookery book he’s starting.”
“Then we’ll just have to come up with a way to get Betty to decide she wants you to stay for a few days. It’s a pity you can’t sprain your ankle, but I suppose with Mrs. Cake already having done that it would seem too much of a bad thing and you’d be shoved hobbling out the door.” Ariel wrinkled her brow. “If only I could think of something really great to do for Betty to put her in a good mood.”
My spirits would improve, I thought, if Ben were to walk into the room before Tom or Betty rang, wanting to know why I hadn’t called back to let them know the reason for Ariel’s mad escapade. These were his relatives, not mine. The first thing I would do would be to whisk him away and ask if there had ever been the least suspicion that the car accident that killed Tom’s wife might not have been an accident. During the course of Ariel’s account, the nasty suspicion had crept into my mind that he of all people might be the one most likely to play games with Betty’s mind in the hope that she would react in the approved gothic fashion, by casting herself off the battlements. I didn’t want to think this. Tom was a cousin, and so far as I knew murder did not run in Ben’s family. What I would not contemplate was that Ariel might be a child of devious intent, equal to the evil little stepdaughter in The Hidden Forest.
Some hopes are answered. Footsteps in the hall. I excused myself to Mrs. Malloy and Ariel, along with Tobias, whom I dislodged from my lap, and hurried from the room. Ben was in the hall, taking off his raincoat. It was one of those moments that crop up sometimes, even after all our years together, when time turns back to front and I seem to be seeing him for the first time, awed by his dramatic good looks and the energy he generates with an economy of movement. And this time there was the wonderful comfort of his arms, held open to gather me close.
“I left Freddy at the Dark Horse for someone else to bring home,” he murmured against my hair. “I should never have gone out on our first evening without the children. Forgive me, sweetheart. It was that damned review!”
“I know.” I returned his kiss. “Darling, you have no idea how lucky I feel. It’s like winning the lottery to realize how blessed I am to have you and how our normal life is. You see, while you were gone we had a surprise visitor.”
“Who?”
“You’ll never believe it.”
Through the open doorway I heard Mrs. Malloy telling Ariel about Madam LaGrange’s expertise in the arena of the supernatural.