hall for you—and even now, we can’t stay.”
“How good of you. But can’t you both just come in for a cup of coffee? I haven’t met Mr. Sutton,” she added hesitantly.
Philippine frowned and then smiled. “Roger,” she called, and then louder: “Roger.” The man turned but made no reply. “Come and have a cup of coffee.”
“Really, Phil, we haven’t time to stop. You said—”
Philippine, with a gesture of impatience, hurried down the path to the car. She spoke to Roger quietly and, a moment later, the man uncoiled himself and followed Philippine up the walk. But it was obvious in every line of his body that it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.
As he came nearer and Fredericka saw his scarred and seamed face, she could understand his reluctance. She also realized that the sensitiveness which made him hate to be seen would also make him bitterly resent any move that might be interpreted as sympathy. She shook his hand which was firm but cold in hers and then said: “Come in,” abruptly, and hurried ahead of them into the kitchen. As the two women sat down at the table in the window, Roger took his cup and stood leaning against the shelves with his face away from the light.
Conversation was difficult at first and soon the two women were doing most of the talking with Roger standing by nervously. It was obvious that he was anxious to be on his way.
“You can see from our clothes that we are off for the day,” Philippine said. “We must collect the wild herbs before they dry up altogether.” Roger was wearing a torn and very dirty pair of khaki trousers but his shirt was clean and his hair neatly brushed. He did not seem to be dressed for anything in particular. Philippine was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, open at the neck. It was true that she looked much less spick-and-span than when she had first met Fredericka, but much less carelessly dressed than Margie and the other village girls were at all times.
“You both look good enough for the party, to me. But aren’t you coming then?”
“No,” Roger announced suddenly. He walked across the room to put down his empty coffee cup in the sink and then stood over Philippine, nervously clenching and unclenching his hands.
I couldn’t stand that for long, Fredericka thought. Then, as she looked across the table at Philippine a look of understanding and sympathy passed between them. We could be friends, Fredericka thought, but we’re both too occupied with our own affairs so there won’t be time.
As if to underline this thought, Philippine got up to go and Fredericka sighed as she returned to her desk. She had wanted Philippine’s friendship and, if one could make the effort, there must be something worth finding out about Roger Sutton—couldn’t he be helped? She reached for the pile of publisher’s catalogues and tried to forget her visitors. She could hope for a quiet morning in the shop since everyone would be busy getting ready for the bazaar. But she had no sooner managed to concentrate on her morning’s work than Margie Hartwell came walking in the back door.
During the week Margie had given up even the formality of knocking, and Fredericka had given up trying to make her change her ways. This morning the girl was excited and looked better than Fredericka had imagined to be possible. Even the bad complexion had been skilfully hidden under a mask of face cream and powder and for once her dress was clean and neat.
“I’m not working today,” she announced at once, “except, of course, at the fete. But that’s more fun than washing bottles and test tubes which is about all I ever do in the lab lately. I guess they’ll shut up shop for the day at the Farm. Mrs. Sutton’s coming, of course. She always does, but Roger won’t—he hates crowds, and I don’t know about Philippine. They say they are going off to hunt wild herbs and heaven alone knows when they’ll be back.”
Fredericka, for some reason, did not feel it necessary to mention her early callers. “Is Mrs. Clay coming?”
“Oh, her! I wouldn’t know. I expect she will if dear James gets back in time.”
“Are they engaged?” Fredericka couldn’t resist asking, and then regretted her question when she saw Margie’s look of Pleased Informer that she had often had occasion to observe before.
“Engaged? Everything but, I should think. What he sees in her I can’t think but, of course, he’s no ball of fire. Lately, though, he’s been hanging around the lab a lot. I think, myself, he’s sweet on Philippine—and that makes more sense…”
Margie was prepared to go on about this pleasant subject indefinitely but Fredericka felt it would be wise to call a halt. “Well, you needn’t help here, either. Why don’t you run along and join in the preparations.”
But Margie, contrary as always, pouted and said slowly, “I’d just as soon help. Mom said I could so long as it wasn’t dirty work.”
“I really haven’t anything for you to do.” Fredericka felt suddenly tired. “Unless you’d like to sit down with a book and wait on any customers.”
“Oh, there won’t be any customers this morning—and I don’t like reading much, so I guess I will go along then.”
And before Fredericka could attempt a reply, Margie had flounced out the front door and disappeared down the path. Once more Fredericka returned to her desk and this time she was not disturbed. Margie’s prediction proved accurate and there were no customers at all. For once, Fredericka was glad of this as she planned to shut up shop early and spend the afternoon as well as the evening at the bazaar.
When Peter Mohun called for her at half past two she was quite ready and waiting outside in her best pink linen and large straw hat.
“You don’t half look a picture, you don’t,” he greeted her. “And if that’s too negative for you I’d say, ‘ascribed to Gainsborough’; will that do?”
Fredericka laughed and a feeling of holiday took possession of her. “Did he ever paint the oppressed working classes? I feel like Maid’s Day Out and more than ready for it,” she answered. “Not in the least like gentry keeping their gloves clean.”
“Good. So do I, or rather, so don’t I. These things must always be approached with the whole heart committed. Otherwise—hello! There’s friend Carey—Thane Carey and his wife, Connie. I’d like you to meet them. Shall we ask them to sit with us at dinner?”
“Yes, of course. But who is he?”
“Oh, he’s our chief of police—swell guy—and shares our passion for murder. And luckily Connie’s a fine listener.”
“Enter the cop,” Fredericka muttered.
“No need to be snooty,” Peter said stiffly. “He happens to be my good friend.”
Fredericka blushed and then stumbled over her words. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I was only thinking of that murder mystery you and I were talking about last night.”
“Did I hear the words ‘murder’ and ‘mystery’?” Thane Carey greeted them. “My bloodhound’s ears prick eager forward.”
As Peter introduced them, Fredericka decided that she liked this young man and his wife. He had an honest, serious and ugly face in which none of the features seemed to match, but he was tall and well-built and immediately gave the impression of being both capable and businesslike. His wife was equally attractive. Her calm blue eyes gave one a sense of repose and she seemed the perfect foil to his restless energy.
“I’m on ‘dooty’, Mohun, so don’t detain me long. Not murder, I fear. Only after pickpockets and petty thieves.” He laughed pleasantly and Connie smiled.
Peter suggested that they should all sit together at the bean feast and talk shop—both book and crime, and the others agreed with alacrity.
“You’ll like Thane and Connie,” Peter said when the two had disappeared in the crowds.
“I like them both already. Does he do anything besides police the town?”