Free Let Him Lie by Ianthe Jerrold Page A

uncertainly:
    â€œYou said that that woman’s father was rector of Hunsley too!”
    â€œI didn’t! I was going to, but—”
    â€œYou did! Don’t be silly, Jeanie! How should I know what you were going to say? You said it!”
    â€œBut, my dear, I didn’t!”
    â€œYou did! You did!” persisted Agnes, trembling. “Oh, look at this! A broken mirror, on top of everything else! Oh Jeanie, haven’t I got enough to bear without anything more? You did say so! You said, it’s a funny thing, but the former tenant of Yew Tree Cottage said her father was Rector of Hunsley, too!”
    Agnes sank down upon her knees and began, sobbing under her breath, to collect the fragments of broken glass. Jeanie stooped in silence to help her. After a moment she was surprised to hear Agnes murmur submissively:
    â€œPerhaps you didn’t, Jeanie. Perhaps you didn’t say so. Only, you see, Jeanie dear, I’ve heard the tale so often before, from lots of people. Her father was a clergyman, it seems. He was Rector of Hunsley at some time or another. I just jumped to what you were going to say. You see?”
    Yes, Jeanie saw. She saw the plausibility of this. What she did not see was why Agnes had been in the first place startled into dropping her mirror and asserting so frantically such an obvious untruth.
    She stayed the day at Cleedons, at Agnes’s request. Molyneux’s lawyer had arrived, a black-robed costumier seemed mournfully to haunt the upper corridors with armfuls of black clothes, a cousin of Molyneux’s had come to offer consolation and help, letters flooded the entrance hall at every post, and two policemen in plain clothes appeared and disappeared in the garden and orchard.
    Agnes went early to bed, and Jeanie looked forward with relief to the prospect of her own home and hearth. She was just letting herself out of the parlour French windows on to the starlit terrace when the movement of one of the tree-like patches of darkness caught her eye, and froze her hand on the latch. It was a still, clear evening, and but for an owl calling, the country was quite silent. Though there was no moon, Jeanie could see the bare branches of trees against the sky. Standing uncertainly, half-fearful, in the doorway, she saw a man a little way down the terrace, his white face in the darkness turned towards her.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    The dark figure moved, came towards her.
    â€œI thought you were Agnes. I’m sorry if I startled you.”
    â€œNo. I’m Jeanie Halliday.”
    â€œI’m Peter Johnson. I’m terribly sorry I startled you. You see, I thought you were Agnes.” 
    Jeanie inquired with a faint smile:
    â€œDid you want to startle Agnes, then?”
    â€œI wanted to speak to her,” said the young man inexpressively. He looked extraordinarily pale in the starlight, and lined. Jeanie would hardly have recognised the pleasant carefree youth she had met as Mr. Molyneux’s secretary in the summer.
    â€œI’m afraid you can’t. She’s gone to bed. But come in, won’t you? We’ve met before, you know, in the summer.”
    â€œI remember. Before the tragic happenings of our last chapter.” Peter gave a grim laugh and followed Jeanie back into the room, shutting the French windows on to the frosty terrace. He looked at the remains of the warm log fire.
    â€œI don’t know whether I ought to cross this threshold.”
    â€œYou’ve often crossed it before.”
    â€œThat was in my respectable days,” said the dark young man with a sort of bitter humour. “Since the summer, I’ve sunk to all sorts of depths.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” said Jeanie lightly, reviving the fire with the bellows.
    â€œYes, I’ve been a thief for some time,” said Peter meditatively. “And now it seems I’m a murderer as well.”
    Jeanie dropped the