The Dower House Mystery by Patricia Wentworth Page A

both doors.
    It was after breakfast next morning that Ellen presented a tearful ultimatum.
    â€œIf it was just a plain, ordinary ghost, I’d put up with it,” she declared. “My Aunt Ellen that I was named for was ’ousekeeper in a real big ’ouse that ’ad an ’aunted wing. Many’s the time that she’ve told me of it. A lady in ’er night-dress, with ’er ’air down ’er back, that one was—and never did no ’arm to nobody, pore young thing. That’s what I call a yuman ghost. ’Er name was Lady Sapphira, or Sophia, or some such. But as for these ’ere ’orrible ’owlings, and footsteps, and cats where there ain’t none—it’s not in nature, and you can’t get from it. Oh, my dear ma’am, you won’t stay, will you?”
    Amabel turned rather a white face upon her old servant.
    â€œI must stay, Ellen. But you needn’t,” she said.
    Ellen produced a large and very neatly folded handkerchief with her name embroidered across one corner. She shook it out and buried her face in it. Through muffled sobs she could be heard protesting her willingness to “do anything in yuman power, only another night like last night is what I can’t do, not for nobody, not even for you, ma’am.”
    â€œI won’t ask you to,” said Amabel. “You shall go back to the cottage. Miss Lee will be very glad to have you, I know.”
    The scene lasted a long time, prolonging itself, indeed, until the moment of Ellen’s tearful departure. Amabel had to combat Ellen’s own plan which was to have a room in the village and “come up every day and do for you, ma’am.” Ellen could not see that this was likely to raise a new crop of stories about the Dower House. She wept, protested, argued, and then wept again. If Amabel felt a lonely sinking of the heart as she watched the cab disappear down the weed-grown drive, she felt also a certain relief. As it turned out of sight, a telegraph boy on a bicycle shaved past it, swerved, and came zig-zagging up the slope towards her.
    She took the orange envelope with a little feeling of dismay. What could it be? Then with sudden relief she read, “Marmaduke has turned up here. Shall I keep him?” It was signed “Lee.”
    â€œAny answer, ma’am?”
    â€œYes,” said Amabel. “Oh, yes.”
    She wrote, “Please keep Marmaduke,” and watched the boy out of sight with a frowning gaze that did not really see him at all.
    Marmaduke had turned up at the cottage which she had let to Miss Lee. Little Middle-bury was forty miles away! Marmaduke who lay down and growled if a walk lasted for more than half an hour!
    She went back into the house, and sat with her head in her hands, thinking, thinking, thinking.

Chapter IX
    â€œLady Susan Berkeley,” said Jenny at the door; and Amabel jumped up with a quick smile and her hands out. Lady Susan caught them in her own and pressed them warmly.
    â€œJulian told me it was you—came in last night on purpose. My dear, how nice of you not to be a fat old lady. I don’t know why we thought you were going to be, but we did; and I was simply groaning at having to call. Let me look at you. I asked Julian if you’d changed, and he said ‘Go and see for yourself.’”
    â€œWhat did he mean by that?” said Amabel, laughing.
    â€œCouldn’t say, I’m sure. I should have known you, anyhow. Personally, I don’t think it’s any compliment to a woman to say she looks the same at forty as she did at twenty It’s either a downright lie, or else it means she’s got the sort of face that don’t show anything, chiefly because there isn’t anything to show—no heart, no feelings, nothing of that sort. You’re just as nice looking as you were; but you’ve grown.”
    â€œWell, yes, I suppose I have,” said Amabel.
    They