Jemima Shore at the Sunny Grave Read Free

mansion had a comfortable air. More than that, it conveyed an impression of gracious and old-fashioned tranquillity. As Jemima drove her own rented sawn-off Mini up the long avenue of palm trees—much taller than those in the churchyard—she could fancy she was driving back in time to the days of Governor Archer, his copious banquets, parties and balk, all served by black slaves. For a moment the appearance of a young woman on the steps, with coffee-coloured skin and short black curly hair, did not disillusion her. However, unlike the maids in Jemima’s own hotel who wore a pastiche of bygone servants’ costumes at dinner—brightly coloured dresses to the ankle, white muslin aprons and turbans—this girl was wearing an up-to-the-minute scarlet halter top and cutaway shorts revealing most of her smooth brown legs. Old Sir Valentine, in public at any rate, would definitely not have approved.
    Tina Archer: for so she introduced herself. It did not surprise Jemima Shore one bit to discover that Tina Archer—formerly Harrison—was easy to get on with. Anyone who abandoned the hostile and graceless Greg Harrison was already ahead in Jemima’s book. But with Tina Archer chatting away at her side, so chic, even trendy in her appearance, the revelation of the interior of the house was in fact far more of a shock to her than it would otherwise have been. There was nothing, nothing at all ofthe slightest modernity about it. Dust and cobwebs were not literally there, perhaps, but in every other way, in its gloom (so different from her own brightly painted hotel!), its heavy wooden furniture (where were the light cane chairs so suitable to the climate?), above all in its desolation, Archer Plantation House reminded her of poor Miss Havisham’s time-warp home in
Great Expectations
.
    And still worse, there was an atmosphere of sadness hanging over the whole interior. Or perhaps it was mere loneliness, a kind of sombre sterile grandeur which you felt must stretch back centuries. All this was in violent contrast to the sunshine still brilliant in the late afternoon, the bushes of rioting brightly coloured tropical flowers outside. None of this had Jemima expected. Information garnered in London had led her to form quite a different picture of Archer Plantation House, something far more like her original impression of antique mellow grace, as she drove down the avenue of palm trees.
    It was just as Jemima was adapting to this surprise that she discovered the figure of Miss Archer herself to be equally astonishing. That is to say, having adjusted rapidly from free and easy Tina to the mouldering sombre house, she now had to adjust with equal rapidity all over again. For on first inspection, the old lady—known by Jemima to be at least 80—quickly banished all thoughts of Miss Havisham. Here was no aged abandoned bride, forlorn in the decaying wedding-dress of fifty years before.
    Miss Izzy Archer was wearing a coolie straw hat, rather similar to Jemima’s own, but apparently tied under her chin with a duster, a white loose man’s shirt and faded blue jeans cut off at the knee. On her feet were a pair of what looked like a child’s brown sandals. From the look of her she had either just taken a shower wearing all this or had been swimming. For Miss Izzy was dripping wet, making largepools on the rich carpet and dark polished boards of the formal drawing-room, all dark red brocade and swagged fringed curtains, where she had received Jemima. It was possible to see this even in the filtered light seeping through the heavy brown shutters which shut out the view of the sea.
    “Oh, don’t fuss so, Tina dear,” exclaimed Miss Izzy impatiently (although Tina had in fact said nothing). “What do a few drops of water matter? Stains? What stains?” (Tina still had not spoken.) “Let the government put it right when the time comes.” Although Tina Archer continued to be silent, gazing amiably, even cheerfully, at her employer,