Fear Stalks the Village (Murder Mystery Classic). Ethel Lina White
Asprey seemed unaffected either by heat or exertion. It was obvious that she was trying to find subjects which would interest Joan, for she broke off a lucid analysis of the International Debt problem, to talk about Swiss winter resorts. It was with mingled envy and surprise that Joan noticed that while she, herself, occasionally gasped for breath, Miss Asprey's voice was entirely under control.
'Is she trying to rub it in that I'm one of the rotten younger generation?' she thought. 'If so, I'll take her on, and walk her to a finish.'
She made a spectacular spurt, but Miss Asprey continued to walk at her usual pace, and Joan fell back again. In order to take her thoughts off her growing discomfort, she tried to lead the conversation to a subject of more human interest.
"I suppose your Rescue Work was frightfully interesting," she said.
"Frightfully," agreed Miss Asprey.
"Did you get many failures?"
"Yes. But one success redeemed fifty failures."
"Were the girls grateful?"
"We didn't expect gratitude."
Joan mopped her face and glanced at Miss Asprey. 'She's walking like a machine,' she thought. 'She's only a Robot.'
Some of her annoyance betrayed itself in her next sentence.
"Personally, I've a lot of sympathy with those wretched girls. It seems to me pretty damnable to dress them in hideous uniforms and set them to wash other people's pretty things."
Miss Asprey turned her silver head and regarded Joan with amused, tolerant eyes.
"Do you send your own lingerie to a laundry?" she asked.
"No," replied Joan. "I wash them, myself. But I'm a poor 'working goil'."
"Exactly. And rich women naturally expect their maids to do their private laundry. So, you see, our girls had not to undergo that special refined mental torture that you are inventing for them."
"I suppose you think me a fool," said Joan bluntly, as once again she was conscious that the village reservoir of cool commonsense was drawn through the channels of such antiseptic minds as Miss Asprey's and Mrs. Scudamore's.
The ground now rose before them at a sharp gradient, so that she was forced to stop talking, in order to reserve herself for the last stiff pull. When she reached the summit she threw herself, panting, down on the short turf, while Miss Asprey looked at her with a smile of gentle compassion.
"My dear child," she said, "why didn't you tell me you were exhausted? You should have rested."
"I'm all right, thanks. I simply loved it," declared Joan.
She shut her eyes and lay still, until Miss Asprey, who was standing like the statue of a saint erected to guard the encircling countryside, glanced at her watch.
"Time to go back," she said. "We must adhere to the timetable of the Roman Legion."
True to her declaration, she continued to walk at her three miles an hour, while Joan ran down the slopes with a sense of joyous freedom. It was good to feel that every step was taking her nearer home, for a walk in the company of a Roman legionary had proved only a penance. In the glow of her sudden warmth, she remembered poor little Miss Mack.
"Miss Asprey," she said, "will you let Miss Mack come with me next time?"
There was a perceptible pause before Miss Asprey spoke. Instead of replying to Joan's question, she, in her turn, asked another.
"Have you taken any special liking to Miss Mack?"
"No," replied Joan. "But I feel there should be some common bond between us." She laughed lightly. "We're both upper servants. And I'm so lucky. Lady d'Arcy gives me such a lot of freedom."
"So you contrast poor Miss Mack's lot with your own?"
"Of course not. I'm sure you're wonderfully good to her, too."
"Thank you. Do you consider her unhappy?"
Joan thought of Miss Mack's plump smiling face.
"Oh, no," she cried.
"I'm glad of that," said Miss Asprey quietly. "It would grieve me to think otherwise. And it would be a terrible reflection on myself...But I'm going to ask you not to invite her again to accompany you on any of your excursions...It's not good for her."
Joan felt as though she'd received a slap in the face.
"Oh—but why?" she cried.
"Because," Miss Asprey's voice was like tinkling ice—"she is of a different disposition to yourself. I don't want her to be over-excited—or grow restless. Believe me, I have her welfare at heart."
Joan gazed resentfully at the ivory profile against the burning blue sky. It was so bleak, so purged of human passion—that she was reminded of the mental detachment of the Inquisition, when it tortured bodies to gain souls.
"Oh, very well," she said coldly. "I won't ask her."
A few yards lower down, she gave a little cry.
"Hang. I've lost my brooch."
"I don't think so," said Miss Asprey. "You were not wearing a brooch."
"But I was," persisted Joan. "Miss Mack warned me that the pin wasn't too safe."
"In that case," remarked Miss Asprey, with a perceptible tightening of her well-cut lips, "you have probably lost it on your climb. It may be on the top, where you lay down. We'll go back and search for it."
"No, thanks," said Joan quickly. "It's worth twopence."
"But even a twopenny brooch has that value. As you're so tired, sit down, and I'll go back for it."
Joan bit her lip as she staggered to her feet.
'She only wants to humiliate me,' she thought. 'I'm going, too, if it kills me. She saw that I resented Miss Mack—and she is going to punish me. She's not a saint. She's cruel.'
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.