Patricia Wentworth - Pilgrim’s Rest

Jerome Pilgrim kept his room that afternoon. When Judy came down to supper she found her feet halting and reluctant. The farther they took her from Penny, the more clearly did Lona Day’s words come echoing back in the empty spaces of her mind-“Don’t leave her alone with him, my dear.”

“Don’t leave her alone-” But she was leaving Penny alone, and just along at the end of the passage was the door behind which Jerome Pilgrim sat in his big chair. She knew quite well by now just how he would look, sitting there, his head propped on his hand, staring into the fire. Suppose he really wasn’t sane. Suppose he was dangerous. Suppose-no, she couldn’t even suppose that he would hurt Penny. But… Her feet stopped of their own accord, and she found that she was turning round and going back. Frank hadn’t wanted her to come here-Frank had begged her not to come. And she had been obstinate about it.

She had almost reached her own door, when the door at the end of the passage opened and Jerome came out in a dark suit, with the rubber-shod stick he used about the house. As she stood uncertain and a little afraid, he called out to her in a friendly manner,

“Are you going down? Then we can go together.”

Judy had a change of mood. Her fear of a moment ago seemed monstrous. She felt so much ashamed of it that she made her voice extra warm as she said,

“Oh, how nice! Are you coming to supper?”

She went to meet him, and kept pace with him along the corridor.

“Lona’s furious,” he said. “She’d like to lock me in and take the key. She’ll come down presently draped in sweet reproach. She’s marvellous at registering the emotions. She’s wasted as a nurse of course-she ought to be at Hollywood.”

Judy said cautiously, “She’s attractive-”

He nodded.

“Oh, very. And a most excellent nurse-I owe her a lot. But one likes to escape once in a way, and if you must know, I’m dying to see Aunt Collie’s school friend. What is she like?”

Judy looked over her shoulder and said,

“Ssh! She’s got the room next mine.”

He actually laughed.

“Couple of conspirators-aren’t we? Is she a dragon?”

They had begun to negotiate the stairs. Jerome had to take his time. Judy thought, “He’s quite easy with me now-I might have been here for years. He’d get used to seeing people-I’m sure he would. It can’t be right to keep him shut away. He’s friendly. You can feel it when he comes out of his hole.” She said with a little laugh,

“Oh, no, not a dragon at all-prim and Victorian, like the people in Aunt Cathy’s nineteenth-century books. I was brought up on them. She makes you feel like schoolroom tea.” She paused, and added with a warmth that surprised herself, “She’s nice.”

At supper Jerome actually talked. Miss Columba, delighted to see him, found herself a good deal embarrassed by the interest he displayed in the school-days which she was presumed to have shared. Judy, tickled, could not help admiring the dexterity displayed by Miss Silver.

“To tell you the truth, Captain Pilgrim, those days seem now so very far away-quite like a dream, or something one has read about in a book. They do not, if you know what I mean, seem to be at all actual. Your aunt will, I am sure, bear me out. I could not myself give you the names of half a dozen of my contemporaries at school, yet I recall the personalities of many more, and am aware of the manner in which each of them affected me.”

She had caught his attention. He said musingly,

“Names are just a label. They’re nothing-like clothes, to be changed. Individuality is what counts. That goes on.”

She gave him one of her really charming smiles.

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

His interest deepened. There was something in the look and the quality of the smile which enabled her to get away with about the most hackneyed quotation in the whole range of literature. He was conscious of annoyance when Miss Janetta said fretfully,

“There really ought to be a law against people calling their children after film stars. Lesley Freyne has two Glorias amongst her evacuees. It’s bad enough of the Pells, but when it comes to three Glorias in one village!”

Miss Silver said brightly, “I heard of some people called White who had their son christened Only Fancy Henry. So it made Only Fancy Henry White. Not very considerate to mark a child out in that way. Names present a great many pitfalls. There are, of course, such charming ones for girls.” She smiled at Miss Columba. “Your name, for instance-most unusual and attractive. And your sister’s too. But when it comes to boys, I must own to a preference for what is solid and plain-William, George, Edward, Henry-all good names, and all, I am informed, quite out of fashion at present.”

Miss Columba looked up from a baked apple.

“My father’s name was Henry.”

Miss Silver gave her the look with which she might have encouraged a diffident or tongue-tied child and said,

“An excellent name. Has it been passed on to the present generation?”

There was one of those pauses. Roger muttered something that sounded like “Yes-a cousin,” and Miss Janetta began in a hurry to deplore the prevalence of Peters.

“I’ve nothing against the name, but there really are too many of them.”

Miss Silver agreed.

They went on talking about names.

As they talked, Miss Silver’s eyes went from one to another, seeing all that was on the surface and searching for what might lie beneath. When Robbins came and went she watched him too. Such a secretive face-but a well-trained manservant will look like that for no reason at all. In his own way a goodlooking man-straight regular features and an upright carriage. Perhaps off duty and in his own quarters he could relax and be off guard. The word kept coming back to her. He was on guard. Over what? It might be his professional good manners, his dignity as an old family servant, or it might be something else. She felt a good deal of interest in Robbins.

Miss Columba conducted her school friend all round the house next morning. She did it with an air of gloom, because it is impossible to take anyone over an interesting old house without more conversation than she cared about. It was also an exceptionally good day for the garden and she wished to put in a row of early peas. Pell said it was too soon, but she didn’t intend to let him down her. If the weather was to change over night, it would give him a very unfair advantage, and he would certainly make the most of it. She knew her duty, and she did it without a protest, but certainly not in any spirit of cheerfulness, and she wore her gardening slacks and fisherman’s jersey so as to be ready to go out and confront Pell at the first possible moment.

The house had three stories, and they began at the top. In her capacity as showman Miss Columba was obliged to talk. As a matter of fact, once the ice was broken and she had made up her mind to it, the house was the one topic upon which she could, if she chose, find words. She would not be prodigal of them, but she could produce enough to serve the purpose in hand.

As they emerged upon the top landing, she said,

“The hall used to run right up to here. It was sealed over in the early eighteenth century to make the rooms below. These used to be one large garret. They were partitioned off at the same time.”

Miss Silver looked about her with the bright interest of a bird who hopes to breakfast on the early worm. The ceilings were low, the rooms small. There were a great many of them, and none in use except the largest, which was apparently occupied by the Robbinses. Mrs. Robbins came out of it as they passed.

Miss Columba said, “Good-morning. I am showing Miss Silver the house,” and added, “Mrs. Robbins has been with us for a great many years-how many is it, Lizzie?”