Free The Dower House Mystery by Patricia Wentworth Page A

widower’s household. People are so unkind about that sort of thing. Don’t you think so?”
    â€œSome people are,” said Amabel. She looked straight at Mrs. King as she spoke, and received a beaming smile.
    â€œYes, indeed . But I always think it’s so horrid. Why shouldn’t poor Mr. Bronson have a charming governess? It’s much nicer for Angela. And, as to there being anything wrong —I think it’s dreadful of people to think of such things. Don’t you? I think they must have horrid minds.”
    â€œYes,” said Julian.
    â€œI think one should try and see good in everybody,” said Nita King sweetly. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Grey,—yes, just half a cup—such delicious tea. Now, there are some other neighbours of ours, the Millers. They’ve built a little bungalow down by the bridge, and when they first came, really , people said the unkindest things about them. I used to get furious about it. Why should everyone assume that they are Germans just because Müller and Miller are so much alike?”
    â€œIt doesn’t seem quite an adequate reason,” said Julian, meeting an appealing glance with gravity.
    â€œNo, indeed . That’s what I kept on saying. Of course her name is Anne—so like Anna—, and some people think that he has a slight accent. But I do think one ought to be charitable. Don’t you? Why, if one believed everything one heard—” She broke off and threw a glance about the room. “People have even said things about this charming old house,” she declared with a ripple of laughter. “Too absurd, of course—just because it has stood empty for so long—such ridiculous stories!”
    â€œAh,” said Julian with sudden interest. “Now, I wonder what your stories are. They’re all different, you know. Is yours the one about the tenant who ran away, or the much better one about the postman meeting the stray donkey in the drive? That’s my favourite, really.”
    Nita King gazed at him with a hint of reproach.
    â€œOh, Mr. Forsham,” she said, “I don’t think one ought to—mock at the supernatural, I don’t indeed. Mrs. Grey, you agree with me, I am sure. We women are not such scoffers as the men. Not, of course I mean, that one need believe everything one hears. For instance, I don’t think it really can be true that—but perhaps I’d better not repeat it; it might make you nervous.”
    â€œI’m not a nervous person,” said Amabel.
    â€œNo, of course you’re not, or you wouldn’t be living here, would you? So brave of you! Tell me,”—she glanced over her shoulder and dropped her voice—“you haven’t seen anything, have you?”
    Amabel laughed and shook her head.
    â€œNot—not anything at all?”
    â€œNot a thing,” said Amabel.
    Mrs. King’s voice fell to the merest whisper.
    â€œOr—or heard anything? They say—oh, it’s all nonsense of course—they say that you hear wings, and something that cries in the night.” She shuddered violently, and sprang to her feet. “How stupid of me to talk about it. I haven’t frightened you, but I’ve frightened myself; and now I’m afraid to go home in the dark. Mr. Bronson did say that he would call for me, but he must have been kept.”
    She turned with an appealing gesture to Julian.
    â€œWould you just see me down the drive, Mr. Forsham? It’s so dark there, and if I saw anything,”—she broke off with another shudder—“I’m not nearly so brave as Mrs. Grey.”
    It ended, of course, in Julian walking back with her to Forsham Old House. On the way he heard that Edward Berkeley was considered peculiar ; that the vicar was breaking up very fast; and that some people said—but of course it wasn’t true—that Mr. Bronson drank. He fished in vain for any definite