Free Down the Garden Path by Dorothy Cannell Page A

“Oh dear, how very awkward. Or, dare I hope, child, that you have sensed some indication of incipient recovery?”
    This was tricky. If I made my case too hopeless, the Tramwells might deem me beyond the powers of a Maude Krumpet. On the other hand, to underplay my part would defeat my object. Clasping my hand to my brow, I whispered regretfully, “Strange—as your dog came across the hall, a memory—frightening ... someone trying to hurt me, but it is gone. Everything is a complete ...”
    “Fog,” supplied Miss Tramwell with a bright little nod. Setting her string bag and shawl on top of the hot water bottles, she was about to lead the way across the hall when that door in the panelling opened again and the other Miss Tramwell materialized. Today she was wearing a knitted orange suit which sagged at the shoulders and dipped at the hemline. The violent colour emphasized her sallow skin and made her black hair not only suspicious but blatantly dishonest. Had I noticed in the cafe how dark and hooded were her eyes?
    “Primrose, my dear, tea is growing cold. You know how I dislike ...” She broke off when she saw me. “Good afternoon.” The heavy lids descended even lower. “I believe you are the young person who called the other day, collecting for the Uninsured Motorist Fund. Surely our butler told you then that we do not give at the door. Primrose, really, you must not be so soft-hearted.”
    “Hyacinth, you are mistaken.” Primrose gently ushered me forward. “Something frightful has occurred,” she whispered. “I came upon this poor girl being attacked by some ruffian in Abbots Walk. The most contemptible fellow in a purple silk jacket with a cravat at the throat. And yes! I am positive he limped. So fortunate that my memory has not yet failed me. Oh dear, how frightfully insensitive. The terrible truth is, Hyacinth, that this abused girl has completely lost her memory. Knows not who she is, where she comes from, or who that villain was.”
    “So she hasn’t come collecting?” Hyacinth sounded more relieved than anything. “Such an annoyance, strangers rapping on the door, particularly when”—a meeting of their eyes from which I was somehow excluded—”when You-Know-Who’s little problem prevents our keeping petty cash around.”
    Both Minnie and I pricked up our ears, hoping to hear more of You-Know-Who and his problem. But we were out of luck. The sitting room into which Hyacinth led us was another room of ample proportions. Pictures hung thick upon its walls. A time-muted carpet covered the centre of the oak floor, flanked by two sagging rose-and-green chintz sofas. In front of the massive stone fireplace lay a lumpy patchwork blanket where Minerva immediately disported herself, giving us full benefit of her unique profile. On a walnut coffee table between the sofas, tea awaited. Graceful curves of a silver teapot spout and handle protruded from a bumble-bee-striped cosy. A Wedgwood biscuit stand, stacked with an assortment of broken digestives and custard creams, stood next to the blue-and-white-striped milk jug and sugar bowl and the mismatched assortment of plates, cups, and saucers for three.
    Hyacinth gestured for me to sit down on the sofa facing the French windows overlooking the lovely back garden but I hesitated, eyes on the china. “Excuse me, I must be very much in the way—I see you are expecting company.”
    Primrose understood at once. She gave her pretty tinkling laugh. “Dear child, you will think us very silly, but Minnie always joins us for afternoon tea. Hers is the Queen Victoria coronation cup. Makes our big girl feel important. But I am sure she will be a kind, unselfish person and let you have it, seeing that you are feeling poorly.”
    “Please, no!” I cried. No faking the faintness in my tone this time. “Minerva is quite put out by the idea!”
    “I fear so.” Primrose wagged a reproving finger at the inert lump. “The trouble with you, Miss Minerva, is that