Free Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker Page B

I shall live in Cornford.’
    ‘Oh.’ I relapsed into an awful gloom.
    ‘
You
, dear’–she turned to me, touched my arm and smiled what the novelists call a ‘brave’ smile–‘you, dear, will have to take Agatha’s place.’

    The Swan is one of those old-fashioned, vast, rambling hotels where neither the food nor the service are particularly good. But it’s so old-fashioned, and has been patronized by so many clergymen, that nobody has ever dared to criticize it. Miss Hargreaves, however, did not find it entirely to her liking.
    We were standing in the hall, surrounded by her luggage. Mr Stiles, the manager, a rather pompous fellow (I remember he was dressed in staggering plus-fours that evening), was holding forth on the question of birds. Miss Hargreaves took very little notice of him; through her lorgnettes she was carefully examining some ancient oak panelling.
    ‘We don’t really reckon to take birds,’ said Mr Stiles. ‘And then there’s the question of this bath–we’re very well fitted up here, you know; hot and cold water in every–’
    ‘What does he say?’ Miss Hargreaves asked me.
    ‘He says they’ve got hot and cold water in every–’
    ‘I dare say–I
dare
say.’ Miss Hargreaves acidly tapped the panelling with her stick. ‘But the question of the bath is one upon which I am not prepared to enter into controversy.’
    She bent down and rapped the panelling with her knuckles.
    ‘Worm!’ she exclaimed to me. ‘I knew it! It really is shocking how people treat these priceless old things. Norman, perhaps we can find another hotel–’
    ‘Of course,’ began Mr Stiles, ‘I’m ready to make a concession. Our terms are–’
    Miss Hargreaves whipped round on him. ‘My good man, will you stop talking and send the manager to me at once?’
    ‘But–I am the manager.’
    ‘You! The
manager
? Good heavens! How things are changing!’
    ‘You’ve got Miss Hargreaves’ room ready, haven’t you?’ I asked quickly.
    ‘Yes, Mr Huntley. But the parrot–I’m rather afraid the other guests will–’
    ‘You have a wooden swan over your front door,’ snapped Miss Hargreaves, ‘and you have the insolence to talk disparagingly of a live and well-educated cockatoo even referring to it as a
parrot
. Scandalous! Monstrous!’
    I caught Mr Stiles’ eye. ‘Come here,’ I whispered. He followed me down into the passage that leads through into the kitchens.
    ‘For God’s sake, don’t put her off,’ I begged. ‘I don’t want to have to search the town for other rooms. She’ll pay you well. Humour her a little and she’ll pay whatever you ask.’
    ‘I don’t want to turn anyone away from the Swan,’ he said. ‘But really–if she’s not satisfied with–’
    ‘She’s a niece of the Duke of Grosvenor, by the way.’
    ‘Oh! Really?’ Mr Stiles seemed more interested in her. ‘Well, of course, I suppose–’ He went back to the hall. ‘I dare say everything’ll be all right, Madam,’ he said to her.
    ‘I trust it will be, manager. I trust so.’
    ‘You won’t object to a small charge for the animals?’
    ‘I am accustomed to that. Poor Agatha,’ she said to me, ‘always cost me an extra half-crown a day, wherever I travelled.’
    ‘Really?’ I nibbled my fingers nervously. Was this damned Agatha a cat or a dog or a guinea-pig? Or an armadillo? ‘I suppose she ate a good deal?’ I ventured.
    ‘Prodigiously!’ She took my arm. ‘And now, let us view my apartment.’ Preceded by half the staff, we trooped slowly upstairs. Every now and again Miss Hargreaves stopped on the fine staircase to point out defects in the furnishing.
    ‘Holes in the carpet, you observe, Norman. Oh’–she shuddered and pointed to a vile green glass vase standing in a large window-sill on the half-landing–‘what an appalling thing! Have people
no
taste?’ She turned round and addressed Mr Stiles. ‘I would like to buy that.’ She pointed to it with her stick.
    ‘Oh, indeed,