Dear Trustee by Mary Burchell Page B

her, however, there was nothing in her manner to suggest that, she even remembered the quick, half-broken phrases with which she had recalled the past. And when Cecile explained that she wanted to know how soon she might come to live in the flat, her mother said,
    “Then you really are coming?”
    “Yes, of course. I told you—Gregory agreed. And neither of the other trustees will want to interfere.”
    “No. I suppose not.”
    At first, Cecile thought there was not going to be any further talk of what had happened between herself and Gregory. Then, rather as though she could not help it, her mother said, “How did you persuade him, Cecile? Was there a very unpleasant scene?”
    “Oh, no! It wasn’t a bit like that. First of all, he told me his version of the story. About his sister and brother-in-law—and you.”
    “Making it all sound pretty sordid, I suppose?”
    “No. He made it sound simple and tragic—for all three of you. Naturally his own point of view was coloured by the fact that he loved his sister. But that didn’t prevent his listening to what I had to say. In the end, he accepted the idea—at least, I think he did—that it was not for us to guess how much this—this Hugh Minniver acted on his own initiative, or how much he was prompted.”
    Her mother stared at her with bleak, speculative eyes, as though the very name of Hugh Minniver raised ghosts.
    “And aren’t you going to ask me which it was?” she asked bitterly.
    “No,” Cecile said. “And don’t try to tell me. Probably you can’t even say yourself, at this date. It’s over, Mother. For good or ill, it has been over for fifteen or sixteen years. Please, please put a line under the past, and be happy in the present, with me.”
    Laurie was silent for a long moment. Then she said slowly, “I’ve never believed that one can bury the past. I’ve always supposed that somehow it works its way to the surface again. But—when you talk in that innocent, vehement way—I wonder. You are such an extraordinarily hopeful creature, Cecile. I don’t know why. Your father was not. And neither am I.”
    “Perhaps you would have been, in other circumstances.” Cecile put out her hand and the other woman took it and held it tightly for a moment.
    “I am going up north—back home—for about a week,” Cecile said. “I hope to get things more or less settled in that time, and leave the sale of the house and the furniture to take its course. After all, I’ll come back. May I come to you then?”
    “You can come whenever you like,” her mother replied. And perhaps in token of that, she allowed Cecile to hug and kiss her with eager affection, before she finally dismissed her, as it was getting near the time for her to go to the theatre.
    When Cecile got back to the hotel, she found to her surprise—and her unexpected pleasure—that Gregory Picton was waiting for her. He was sitting in a chair in the lounge, writing, and he did not notice her until she came right up to him.
    “Hello.” He jumped to his feet. “I was just scribbling a note to you. I had decided you weren’t coming in, after all.”
    “I went to see M—Laurie. Did you want to see me about something special?”
    “I dropped in to see Carisbrooke, just after you left, and found he had forgotten to get your signature to two papers in connection with your father’s estate. I offered to bring them along!”
    “How nice of you.”
    “Not at all. It is the business of a trustee to see his ward sometimes,” he retorted, a little mockingly.
    “Oh. Then it is a business visit?”
    “It’s whatever you like to call it, Cecile.” He stood smiling down at her. And suddenly she remembered her conversation with Mr. Carisbrooke.
    “Gregory,” she put out her hand quickly on his arm, “Mr. Carisbrooke told me that he had a talk with you yesterday. He repeated something you said. And it seemed that, for the first time, you questioned the certainty of—of Laurie’s complete