Nothing Like Blood by Leo Bruce Page A

those passionate people who seem to throw a tremendous amount into the mere business of living and I must appear to be a rather quiet old party. Yet this evening, after dinner, she got me alone for a moment. “Mrs Gort,” she whispered quickly. “Could I possibly ask a favour of you? It’s only that I would like to talk with you.”
    She seemed so intense that I deliberately treated this lightly. “Of course,” I said.
    â€œI mean a private talk. Could I come to your room?”
    â€œYes, certainly, if you like,” I said, “though I don’t see why we shouldn’t sit in the garden.”
    â€œNo, please. I don’t want anyone to see us talking. You’ll understand why when I tell you.”
    â€œBut if you were seen coming to my room …”
    â€œI shan’t be. I have the room in the tower, as they call it, and use the bathroom on your floor. So no one would be surprised to meet me in the corridor.”
    All this was said hurriedly and she seemed to be looking about her as though afraid someone would observe even this brief exchange.
    â€œWhat time may I come? “Her voice was pleading.
    â€œI usually go up about eleven and read or write for atime before going to bed. Come as soon as possible after I go up.”
    She nodded and hurried away.
    I certainly could not complain of being left out, I reflected. Everyone seemed anxious to confide in me. Everyone except Miss Godwin and Miss Grey, and perhaps they had nothing to confide.
    I joined them on the terrace and we chatted rather feebly for a time, for I was absent-minded, wondering what on earth I was going to hear from Sonia, and they quietly continued with their needlework. I remembered Mrs Jerrison’s story about Miss Godwin’s one unexpected outbreak but, as they sat there, they looked complacent and assured, the last people to have ugly suspicions of their fellows.
    We chatted of the weather, of course—it was hard to do otherwise in that late un-English heat wave—then relapsed into comfortable silence. Their calm made me feel that perhaps after all the whole thing was preposterous and I ought never to have listened to Mrs Jerrison or anyone else. While these two very ordinary old ladies could remain in the house coolly continuing to change their books at the lending library and do their needlework, oblivious of or indifferent to the suspicions around them, there could not be much wrong.
    Then Miss Godwin gave me a look as keen as the needle she was using. “I saw the Grissells talking to you this afternoon,” she said.
    It was a relief to hear her use the first person singular. The ‘we’ of Natterleys and Grissells always seemed somewhat unnatural to me. But there was no mistaking the sharpness in her voice.
    â€œYes,” I said blandly. “At least the bishop talked. His sister as you know only puts in a word now and again.”
    â€œIt’s quite enough,” said Miss Godwin. “I suppose they told you of their suspicions about Lydia Mallister.”
    â€œYes, but everyone seems to do that, except you and Miss Grey. It’s a relief to be with you.”
    The needles never stopped.
    â€œI never discuss it,” said Miss Godwin.
    â€œHow calm the sea is tonight! “put in Miss Grey, speaking for the first time since I had joined them.
    When at last I went up to my room it was little more than half past ten but in a few minutes there was a gentle knock on the door. I did not call ‘come in’ but went across and opened it. Sonia Reid stood there and with a hurried smile quickly entered. I pointed to a chair and we sat facing one another. She did not seem in the least nervous or embarrassed, but had an almost mischievous smile on her face, as though she wanted me to join her in playing a practical joke.
    â€œYou must think this very odd of me,” she began.
    â€œI’ve ceased to think anything odd,” I told