Three Blind Mice Read Free

Harriet’s back.”
    “I’ll take your suitcase upstairs,” said Giles. “East room?”
    “Yes,” said Molly.
    Mr. Wren skipped out into the hall again as Giles went upstairs.
    “Has it got a four-poster with little chintz roses?” he asked.
    “No, it hasn’t,” said Giles and disappeared round the bend of the staircase.
    “I don’t believe your husband is going to like me,” said Mr. Wren. “What’s he been in? The navy?”
    “Yes.”
    “I thought so. They’re much less tolerant than the army and the air force. How long have you been married? Are you very much in love with him?”
    “Perhaps you’d like to come up and see your room.”
    “Yes, of course that was impertinent. But I did really want to know. I mean, it’s interesting, don’t you think, to know all about people? What they feel and think, I mean, not just who they are and what they do.”
    “I suppose,” said Molly in a demure voice, “you are Mr. Wren?”
    The young man stopped short, clutched his hair in both hands and tugged at it.
    “But how frightful—I never put first things first. Yes, I’m Christopher Wren—now, don’t laugh. My parents were a romantic couple. They hoped I’d be an architect. So they thought it a splendid idea to christen me Christopher—halfway home, as it were.”
    “And are you an architect?” asked Molly, unable to help smiling.
    “Yes, I am,” said Mr. Wren triumphantly. “At least I’m nearly one. I’m not fully qualified yet. But it’s really a remarkable example of wishful thinking coming off for once. Mind you, actually the name will be a handicap. I shall never be the Christopher Wren. However, Chris Wren’s Pre-Fab Nests may achieve fame.”
    Giles came down the stairs again, and Molly said, “I’ll show you your room now, Mr. Wren.”
    When she came down a few minutes later, Giles said, “Well, did he like the pretty oak furniture?”
    “He was very anxious to have a four-poster, so I gave him the rose room instead.”
    Giles grunted and murmured something that ended, “. . . young twerp.”
    “Now, look here, Giles,” Molly assumed a severe demeanor. “This isn’t a house party of guests we’re entertaining. This is business. Whether you like Christopher Wren or not—”
    “I don’t,” Giles interjected.
    “—has nothing whatever to do with it. He’s paying seven guineas a week, and that’s all that matters.”
    “If he pays it, yes.”
    “He’s agreed to pay it. We’ve got his letter.”
    “Did you transfer that suitcase of his to the rose room?”
    “He carried it, of course.”
    “Very gallant. But it wouldn’t have strained you. There’s certainly no question of stones wrapped up in newspaper. It’s so light that there seems to me there’s probably nothing in it.”
    “ Ssh, here he comes,” said Molly warningly.
    Christopher Wren was conducted to the library which looked, Molly thought, very nice, indeed, with its big chairs and its log fire. Dinner, she told him, would be in half an hour’s time. In reply to a question, she explained that there were no other guests at the moment. In that case, Christopher said, how would it be if he came into the kitchen and helped?
    “I can cook you an omelette if you like,” he said engagingly.
    The subsequent proceedings took place in the kitchen, and Christopher helped with the washing up.
    Somehow, Molly felt, it was not quite the right start for a conventional guesthouse—and Giles had not liked it at all. Oh, well, thought Molly, as she fell asleep, tomorrow when the others came it would be different.
    The morning came with dark skies and snow. Giles looked grave, and Molly’s heart fell. The weather was going to make everything very difficult.
    Mrs. Boyle arrived in the local taxi with chains on the wheels, and the driver brought pessimistic reports of the state of the road.
    “Drifts afore nightfall,” he prophesied.
    Mrs. Boyle herself did not lighten the prevailing gloom. She was a large,