Free The Ivy Tree by Mary Stewart Page B

boarding-house room, this time in a big house in the tangle of busy streets east of the Haymarket. I had left my previous lodgings the day after my first meeting with Lisa, and, on her recommendation, had taken this room under the name of Winslow.
    â€˜Because,’ said Lisa, ‘though I don’t imagine for a moment that anyone will see us together who knows me, or knew Annabel, if they should happen to see us before you turn up at Whitescar, or if they do make enquiries, at least they won’t find that Lisa Dermott and Con Winslow were seeing an awful lot of one Mary Grey just before “Annabel” turned up at home to eat the fatted calf.’
    â€˜You seem awfully sure of that fatted calf,’ I said drily. ‘Let’s hope you’re right. You’ll have to be completely honest with me, both of you, about Grandfather’s reactions when he gets the news I’m coming. If he seems to have the slightest suspicion of a doubt – and if he so much as mentions having me investigated – you’re to tell me, and—’
    â€˜We’ll think again, that’s understood. You don’t imagine we’d be too keen on an investigation, either? We’ll look after you, you know. We have to. It cuts both ways.’
    I laughed: ‘Don’t think I haven’t realised that! The possibilities for mutual blackmail are unlimited, and quite fascinating.’
    She gave her faint, unreadable smile. ‘The point is, surely, that it is mutual?’ She patted the book which lay on the arm of her chair. Brat Farrar had become, for her, the textbook of our enterprise. ‘It was the same in this book . . . only you’ve less to worry about than the impostor there; you’re not coming back just to claim a fortune, and it’s easier to make your story – the reasons for your flight and your return – hang together.’
    â€˜Is it? You know, Lisa, there is one point at which the story doesn’t hang together at all well.’
    I thought she looked wary. ‘Where?’
    â€˜Well, unless Con intends to come through with some pretty convincing reasons for a most almighty row the night she went, I can’t believe that a normal “lovers’ quarrel”, however bitter, would drive a girl away for good, from the only home she had, even if her grandfather didn’t side with her over it. I’d even have thought that Con might have been the one to be shown the door.’
    It was a moment or two before she replied. Then she said slowly: ‘I expect that Con intends to tell you exactly what passed, when he – when he gets to know you better. I don’t know it all myself, but I believe it does – what was the phrase? – hang together, quite well, really.’
    â€˜All right. We’ll leave it to Con. Well, at least,’ I said cheerfully, ‘I’ll be able to relax and tell the truth about my travels abroad. The truth, wherever possible . . . There never was a better alibi. Let’s go through our stuff again, shall we?’
    And, for the fiftieth time, we did.
    She was the best possible teacher for the purpose, with an orderly mind, and very little imagination. Her patience, her almost Teutonic efficiency, never failed to amaze me, and her matter-of-fact calmness began to have its effect on me. In her company, any doubts I had seemed to become merely frivolous; moral quibbles were hardly worth the trouble of thought; apprehensions were baseless, mists to be blown aside by the steady gusts of common sense.
    With the methods outlined in Brat Farrar as our modus operandi , Lisa had taught me all the facts about Whitescar, its environs, and the house itself, in those afternoon sessions during my three-weeks’ apprenticeship. And, like the impostor-hero of the book, I soon found myself to be not only involved, but even excited by the sheer difficulties of the deception. The thing was an