Free The Dower House Mystery by Patricia Wentworth Page B

story about the Dower House.
    Ten minutes after Julian and Mrs. King had left, Jenny announced Mr. Bronson. He came in, shook hands, and seemed surprised that his guest had not waited for him. Amabel looked at him with interest, and decided that the Old House might have fallen into worse hands.
    Mr. Bronson had good manners and an agreeable voice. He was a strongly built man in the late forties, with a pale, clean-shaven face, very straight eyebrows, and the lightest of light grey eyes. He wore rough tweeds, and they seemed a little incongruous; one would, somehow, have expected broadcloth and a heavy gold watch chain. He sat down, and talked pleasantly enough for about quarter of an hour. He hoped that Mrs. Grey was comfortable, didn’t find the house damp or—er, anything. Presently he took his departure, and Jenny crept in to take away the tea things.

Chapter VIII
    Amabel was reading that evening when Ellen came in with the tray. She finished a paragraph before she looked up; but what she saw brought her quickly to her feet.
    Ellen was leaning against the wall, the tray sloping at a highly dangerous angle, and her face—
    Amabel rescued the tray, set it down, and half pulled, half pushed Ellen into a chair.
    â€œI come over so queer. Oh, my dear ma’am, shut the door!” Ellen’s lips were very white, and the words came in gasps.
    â€œYes. I’ve shut it. What’s the matter? No, don’t try and speak for a minute. It’s all right; there’s nothing to be frightened of.”
    Ellen held her hand painfully tight.
    â€œOh, my dear ma’am!” she said, and burst into tears.
    Amabel let her cry, and busied herself with pouring out a cup of tea. When Ellen had drunk it she said in a sobbing whisper,
    â€œAll the way up the stairs behind me, and I never dropped the tray. I don’t know ’ow I ’eld it, but ’old it I did. Oh, my dear ma’am!”
    â€œThat was splendid of you,” said Amabel. “Now, do you think you could tell me what happened—just from the beginning, you know, quietly?”
    â€œI never turned my ’ead to look, because I dursn’t,” said Ellen. “I never turned my ’ead, but I know’d that it was there.”
    Amabel was conscious of an answering shudder, but she kept her voice firm and cheerful.
    â€œNow, Ellen, do begin at the beginning. You got my tray—and then?”
    Ellen shivered.
    â€œI got your tray same as I always do, and I come along with it, and as I come past the Browns I calls out to Jenny, and she says ‘all right.’ And then I come into the ’all with the tray, and when I was ’alf-way up the stair I thought I ’eard Jenny come after me. Well I just stood with the tray in my ’and, and I says ‘Is that you, Jenny?’ And all at once I knowed it wasn’t Jenny. And I took and come along just as fast as I could, and I ’eard it come after me, and I dursn’t turn my ’ead.”
    â€œBut perhaps it was Jenny,” said Amabel.
    â€œIt wasn’t no yuman being,” said Ellen. “There’s yuman things, and there’s things that isn’t yuman.” She paused. “Don’t ask me how I knowed, for there’s things as I couldn’t put into words—but it wasn’t Jenny.”
    Amabel went to the door, opened it, and stood in the lighted passage. It was empty and shadowless. She walked as far as the stair-head and looked down into the hall below. To right and left the closed doors of the dining-room and drawing-room. There was a red and blue Indian rug, very faded; the old chest with the Dutch mirror above it; three or four chairs standing primly against the panelling; the portrait of a great-uncle of Julian’s in wig and gown—these familiar and peaceable objects alone met her gaze. She switched off the light in the lower hall, and turned back to the sitting-room. As she closed the