Miss Hargreaves Read Free Page B

been fond of fishing. The sexton, after a little encouragement, readily agreed.
    About twenty minutes later we came to the west door, still talking enthusiastically of the late vicar. Henry stood a little apart from us, uneasily smothering laughter into a handkerchief. He’s like that, I’m afraid; not completely reliable.
    ‘And now,’ said Squint, ‘you will please to give me your name so that I may tell Miss Angela when I next write that a friend of her darling reverend father has–’
    ‘I did
not
know Mr Archer myself,’ I snapped.
    Immediately the sexton’s happy smile vanished and an angry flush came over his face.
    ‘You did not know Mr Archer,’ he hissed, ‘and, Holy God, there was I showing you the Communion plate!’
    ‘My friend,’ I explained, ‘she knew him.’
    His face brightened. ‘Ah. Your friend! And what is his name?’
    ‘A
lady
,’ I corrected sharply. For one second I paused. Then, ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ I said. ‘Miss
Connie
Hargreaves,’ I added.
    It seemed to me there was a sort of stirring of air in the church, like like what? Rather like someone opening a very old umbrella. I looked round sharply, but couldn’t see anything unusual. A ray of feeble sun had broken through the dark clouds and was shining down on the dust in the galleries. I realized I was trembling. Sweating too. No doubt about it. I was precariously poised on the Spur of the Moment. Father’s ancient warning came back to me. No good now. When you’re on the Spur you can’t go back. I wiped my brow with my handkerchief and smiled at the sexton. I knew I was powerless to move except in one direction.
    ‘Miss Connie Hargreaves,’ echoed Henry.
    ‘Miss Connie Hargreaves,’ re-echoed the sexton.
    ‘Who lives in Rutlandshire,’ I added.
    ‘And knew Mr Archer many, many years ago,’ said Henry; ‘long before daylight saving and such things.’
    ‘Childhood friends,’ I continued happily. I could feel I was getting into my stride. ‘They had never once met since those happy far-off days. Many are the stories–many, many are the stories–delightful and otherwise–that Miss Hargreaves has told me about Mr Archer.’
    ‘And this lady, this Miss Hargreaves, she is still alive?’
    ‘Ten minutes old, precisely,’ said Henry.
    I trod on his toe brutally.
    ‘The soul of youth,’ I said. ‘She is a poet,’ I added dreamily.
    ‘She would be an old lady,’ said Squint. ‘Over eighty.’
    ‘Nearer ninety,’ said Henry.
    ‘A touch of rheumatoid arthritis,’ I said, ‘but no more than a touch.’
    We began to wander out of the church at last.
    ‘You must give me your friend’s address,’ said the sexton, ‘so that I may tell Miss Angela. The darling lady likes to keep in touch with the Reverend’s old connections.’
    I took out my pocket-book and wrote.
    ‘Henry,’ I said, ‘is it 28 or 29 Dawsington Road, Oakham?’
    ‘Oh,’ he said easily, ‘she’s too well known to bother about the number. In any case, the name of the house–Sable Lodge–is more than sufficient.’
    ‘Of course,’ I murmured. I wrote on the paper: ‘Miss Constance Hargreaves, Sable Lodge, Oakham, Rutlandshire,’ and handed it to the sexton.
    ‘This is a happy day,’ he said as we walked slowly away down the drive.
    ‘A niece of the Duke of Grosvenor,’ remarked Henry.
    ‘And writes poetry,’ I emphasized.

    ‘Oh, bravo, Norman!’ said Henry when we’d finished laughing. ‘I already feel as though I’ve known her all my life.’
    I was modest. ‘I can’t take the entire credit for her,’ I said. ‘Your bits helped enormously.’
    ‘I suppose you agree to her connection with Grosvenor?’
    ‘Oh, definitely! That was first class. Full marks.’
    ‘Still, she’s entirely your creation.’
    ‘Yes. I’m afraid she is,’ I said.
    ‘Why afraid?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
    A beggarman wandered up the street, playing ‘Over the sea to Skye’ on a melancholy penny whistle. I gave him sixpence