Free Ivy Tree by Mary Stewart

reasons for your flight and your return—hang together."
    "Is it? You know, Lisa, there is one point at which the story doesn't hang together at all well." I thought she looked wary. "Where?"
    "Well, unless Con intends to come through with some pretty convincing reasons for a most almighty row the night she went, I can't believe that a normal 'lovers' quarrel', however bitter, would drive a girl away for good, from the only home she had, even if her grandfather didn't side with her over it. I'd even have thought that Con might have been the one to be shown the door."
    It was a moment or two before she replied. Then she said slowly: "I expect that Con intends to tell you exactly what passed, when he—when he gets to know you better. I don't know it all myself, but I believe it does (what was the phrase?) hang together, quite well, really."
    "All right. We'll leave it to Con. Well, at least," I said cheerfully, "I'll be able to relax and tell the truth about my travels abroad. The truth, wherever possible . . . There never was a better alibi. Let's go through our stuff again, shall we?"
    And, for the fiftieth time, we did.
    She was the best possible teacher for the purpose, with an orderly mind, and very little imagination. Her patience, her almost Teutonic efficiency, never failed to amaze me, and her matter-of-fact calmness began to have its effect on me. In her company, any doubts I had seemed to become merely frivolous; moral quibbles were hardly worth the trouble of thought; apprehensions were baseless, mists to be blown aside by the steady gusts of common sense.
    With the methods outlined in Brat Farrar as our modus operandi, Lisa had taught me all the facts about Whitescar, its environs, and the house itself, in those afternoon sessions during my three-weeks'
    apprenticeship. And, like the impostor-hero of the book, I soon found myself to be not only involved, but even excited by the sheer difficulties of the deception. The thing was an adventure, a challenge, and, I told myself (with how much self-deceit I didn't pause to consider), I would, in the long run, do no harm. As for Julie ... But I didn't let myself think much about Julie. I shut my mind to the future, and kept to the task in hand, pitting my wits against Lisa's day after day, hour after hour, in those interminable cross-examinations.
    "Describe the drawing-room . . . the kitchen . . . your bedroom ..."
    "What does your grandfather eat for his breakfast?"
    "What was your mother's Christian name? The colour of her hair? Where was her home?"
    "The day your father was killed, and the news was brought, where were you?"
    "Go from the kitchen door to the hay-loft.. ."
    "Describe the front garden; what plants did you put in? Your favourite flowers? Colours? Food? The names of the horses you rode at the Forrest stables? The dogs? Your old cat? The name of the farmer at Nether Shields ... the head cattleman at Whitescar ... the horse-keeper at Forrest... ? "
    "Describe Mrs. Forrest. . . her husband . .
    But, as a rule, the personalities of the game were left to Connor to bring to life for me. He managed, on several occasions (once when Lisa was there, but usually alone), to come out for an hour or so while his great-uncle was resting in the afternoons.
    The first time he came was when Lisa had already been with me for a couple of hours. We had expected him that day, and had been listening for the sound of his car stopping in the quiet street. When he came at length, I was absorbed, over the teacups, in describing for Lisa the old Forrest Hall grounds as she had taught me them, and as Annabel would remember them, before the house had been burned down and the Forrests gone abroad.
    I was concentrating hard on what I was saying, and had failed to hear anyone mount the stairs. It was the sudden change in Lisa's impassive, listening face that told me who was at the door. It was she who called "Come in!" before I had even turned my head, and she was on her feet as he