Patricia Wentworth - Pilgrim’s Rest

“Don’t be stupid! Why should you give her dreams?”

If the words were blunt, she had a friendly smile and a friendly voice. A pleasant-looking young thing-nice brown hair, nice teeth, blue overall-looked at him as if he was a human being and not an object of pity. His hand had dropped. He said,

“Well, I’m not very pretty-am I?”

He thought she looked surprised.

“Because you’ve got a scar? What difference does it make? Men don’t have to bother about their complexions. As for Penny-she kissed you, didn’t she? Will you really take her off my hands for a bit? It would be awfully kind. But mind you turn her out if she’s too much for you or anything like that. I shall be doing your bathroom, and then Miss Janetta’s room.”

She went away without really giving him time to answer, leaving the door as she had found it. She left the bathroom door open too. As she cleaned the bath and tidied up, snatches of Androcles and the Lion came to her-snatches of Penny in comment, argument, appreciation. The story was undoubtedly going down well.

When she collected her, Penny’s eyes were like stars. Jerome received the throttling embrace which was her highest tribute, and the departure was a reluctant one.

To the surprise of the family, Jerome came down to lunch.

“I am going down to Holt St. Agnes tomorrow,” said Miss Silver. “But before I go I should like to ask you some questions. I am very glad that you are able to afford me the opportunity of doing so.”

The curtains were drawn in her cosy sitting-room. She wore a figured silk dress, bottle-green with a sort of Morse code of multi-coloured dots and dashes, which had been her last summer’s best, and over it a short black velvet coatee which was one of the veterans of her wardrobe. In his more impudent moments Frank Abbott had indulged in speculation as to whether it did not date from before the last great war. He sat in front of the fire on a padded stool with the same curly walnut legs as Miss Silver’s chair. Hands clasped about his knees, he turned and permitted himself to smile.

“We do get off occasionally, you know. As Lord Tennyson has truly remarked, ‘The leisured hour, how sweet a thing it is.’ ”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I do not recall the passage.”

As Master Frank had just made it up, this was not surprising. He preserved the smile, and said without a blush,

“One of my favourites. What did you want to ask me?”

To pull Maudie’s leg was an awful joy. The thing he was never sure about was, did she know that he was pulling it? Sometimes he had a horrid suspicion that she did. He gazed at her ingenuously and said,

“Anything I can do-”

Miss Silver knitted in silence for a moment. She had made a very good start on Ethel’s birthday jumper, but she had come to a place where it was necessary to count her stitches. Her lips moved, the needles clicked. Then she said,

“You can tell me more about the Pilgrim family. Major Pilgrim was in so nervous a state that I did not wish to give him the feeling that he was being cross-examined. That is one of the things I wanted to ask you about-has he always been of a neurotic temperament?”

“No, I shouldn’t say he had. He wasn’t supposed to be strong, but he grew out of that. He’s just been through a pretty gruelling experience, you know-Western Desert- prison camp-escape-hospital-his father’s death-uncertainty about his brother-I suppose he told you they’d no news of him since Singapore. And then all this ceiling-falling and room-burning business. I don’t think you can be surprised if he’s jumpy.”

“No, indeed, poor young man. I hope it may be possible to relieve his mind. He left me in a state of some uncertainty, but I have had a note from him since, asking me to go down there tomorrow. I told him that it would be as well if I could appear as an ordinary visitor, and he informs me that he has confided in Miss Columba Pilgrim, and that she agrees with my suggestion. I am, in fact, to be an old schoolfellow. This is made possible by the fact that Miss Columba went away to boarding school, whereas Miss Janetta, who was considered delicate, remained at home and shared in the studies of the Vicar’s daughters, who had an admirable governess. One of the things I wished to ask you was whether Miss Columba can be relied upon to be perfectly discreet.”

Frank Abbott laughed.

“She says so little at any time that the chances of her saying one word too much are, I should say, practically nil. She’s good solid stuff, you know, but she’s always taken her own way and had her own thoughts. Don’t ask me what they are, because nobody but Miss Columba knows.”

Miss Silver counted again for a moment before she said,

“What is your opinion of the invalid cousin, Jerome Pilgrim?”

Frank Abbott’s face settled into gravity.

“Jerome? He was one of the best. He’s a good bit older than Roger and I. Let me see-I’m twenty-nine, and Roger’s a couple of years younger-Jerome must be forty-one or forty-two. We looked up to him like anything. You know the way schoolboys do. Then I hardly saw him for years-you know how it is, one gets off on to another line-until-well, something happened that brought us together again, and by that time the poor chap was a wreck. Not too good, seeing him like that.”

Miss Silver looked at him very directly.

“Frank, you know these people, you know all the circumstances. Do you think Jerome Pilgrim is responsible for what has been happening?”

“Not unless he’s off his head. I mean, the Jerome Pilgrim I knew was quite incapable of anything that wasn’t straight. But after a knock on the head like he had-well, you know-”

“Is he considered to be mentally affected by his wound?”

“No, he isn’t. The doctors hoped he’d get all right. I gather the position is this. He shrinks from going out because he thinks he’s worse disfigured than he is-imagines he gives everyone a turn-that sort of thing. The answer to that is, he ought to be encouraged to go out and get over it. Well, various people have encouraged him-my cousins, Lesley Freyne, myself. And what happens? Every time he does the least thing extra, there’s the most unfortunate reaction. He starts having nightmares again, shouts the house down in the middle of the night, and scares everybody into fits. So the doctors say let him alone, keep him quiet, don’t force anything. And there you are! They’re lucky in the nurse they’ve got-she seems to understand him.”

“Miss Lona Day?”

“Yes. They’re all devoted to her.”

“How long has she been with him?”

“Three years?… Yes, it must be quite that, because she was there when Henry Clayton went.”

Miss Silver rested her knitting on her knee and said,

“Yes. I would like you to tell me about that.”

“About Henry Clayton?” He sounded a little surprised.

“If you please, Frank.”

“Well, it’s ancient history-three years ago. But it’s really quite up your street. No connection with what’s going on now of course, but odd enough to be intriguing. Henry Clayton was a first cousin-may be still for all I know-of Roger and Jerome. His mother was a sister of Miss Collie and Miss Netta. He was about the same age as Jerome, and he’d been a bit of a rolling stone-been all sorts of things-done a spot of farming, a spot of prospecting, a spot of journalism. When the war broke out he landed in the Ministry of Information- don’t ask me why. A very agreeable chap, very good-looking, always had lots of friends, generally stone broke. Well, some time towards the end of the phony war he got engaged to Lesley Freyne. Owing to the general landslide that summer they weren’t getting down to being married until early in ’41. To tell you the honest truth, the impression in Holt St. Agnes was that Henry wasn’t any too keen. I don’t know if anyone’s told you about Lesley. She’s got a good figure and a heart of gold, but she’s no glamour-girl, and Henry had a reputation for liking them glamorous. On the other hand, she had, and still has, pots of money, and I suppose Henry thought he could do with some of it. As Tennyson says, ‘Don’t ee marry for money, but go where money is.’ ”