Free The Burden by writing as Mary Westmacott Agatha Christie Page B

aback.
    â€˜Miss Franklin?’ he said. ‘But you’re not –’ His smile suddenly widened again, confidently. ‘I expect she’s your sister.’
    â€˜You mean Shirley?’
    â€˜That’s it,’ said Henry, with evident relief. ‘Shirley. I met her yesterday – at a tennis-party. My name’s Henry Glyn-Edwards.’
    â€˜Do sit down,’ said Laura. ‘Shirley ought to be back soon. She went to tea at the vicarage. Won’t you have some sherry? Or would you rather have gin?’
    Henry said he would prefer sherry.
    They sat there talking. Henry’s manner was just right, it had that touch of diffidence that is disarming. A charm of manner that was too assured might have aroused antagonism. As it was, he talked easily and gaily, without awkwardness, but deferring to Laura in a pleasant well-bred manner.
    â€˜Are you staying in Bellbury?’ Laura asked.
    â€˜Oh no. I’m staying with my aunt over at Endsmoor.’
    Endsmoor was well over sixty miles away, the other side of Milchester. Laura felt a little surprised. Henry seemed to see that a certain amount of explanation was required.
    â€˜I went off with someone else’s tennis-racket yesterday,’ he said. ‘Awfully stupid of me. So I thought I’d run over to return it and find my own. I managed to wangle some petrol.’
    He looked at her blandly.
    â€˜Did you find your racket all right?’
    â€˜Oh yes,’ said Henry. ‘Lucky, wasn’t it? I’m afraid I’m awfully vague about things. Over in France, you know, I was always losing my kit.’
    He blinked disarmingly.
    â€˜So as I was over here,’ he said, ‘I thought I’d look up Shirley.’
    Was there, or was there not, some faint sign of embarrassment?
    If there was, Laura liked him none the worse for it. Indeed, she preferred that to too much assurance.
    This young man was likeable, eminently so. She felt the charm he exuded quite distinctly. What she could not account for was her own definite feeling of hostility.
    Possessiveness again, Laura wondered? If Shirley had met Henry the day before, it seemed odd that she should not have mentioned him.
    They continued to talk. It was now past seven. Henry was clearly not bound by conventional hours of calling. He was obviously remaining here until he saw Shirley. Laura wondered how much longer Shirley was going to be. She was usually home before this.
    Murmuring an excuse to Henry, Laura left the room and went into the study where the telephone was. She rang up the vicarage.
    The vicar’s wife answered.
    â€˜Shirley? Oh yes, Laura, she’s here. She’s playing clock golf with Robin. I’ll get her.’
    There was a pause, and then Shirley’s voice, gay, alive.
    â€˜Laura?’
    Laura said drily:
    â€˜You’ve got a follower.’
    â€˜A follower? Who?’
    â€˜His name’s Glyn-Edwards. He blew in an hour and a half ago, and he’s still here. I don’t think he means to leave without seeing you. Both his conversation and mine are wearing rather thin!’
    â€˜Glyn-Edwards? I’ve never heard of him. Oh dear – I suppose I’d better come home and cope. Pity. I’m well on the way to beating Robin’s record.’
    â€˜He was at the tennis yesterday, I gather.’
    â€˜Not Henry ?’
    Shirley’s voice sounded breathless, slightly incredulous. The note in it surprised Laura.
    â€˜It could be Henry,’ she said drily. ‘He’s staying with an aunt over at –’
    Shirley, breathless, interrupted:
    â€˜It is Henry. I’ll come at once.’
    Laura put down the receiver with a slight sense of shock. She went back slowly into the drawing-room.
    â€˜Shirley will be back soon,’ she said, and added that she hoped Henry would stay to supper.
3
    Laura leaned back in her chair at the head of the dinner-table and watched the other two. It was