The Devil And Drusilla. Paula Marshall

you had not long been married, I collect. I suppose, then, that you and he were rarely apart, so that his disappearance must have come as a great shock to you.’

      ‘Oh, yes, but not so great a shock as his untimely and dreadful end.’

      ‘And while he was alive, neither you nor he ever saw strangers in your grounds?’

      ‘No,’ Drusilla answered a little sharply, for she was not sure where this questioning was going—nor why Devenish was engaging in it.

      But something, somehow, in the quizzical look which he then gave her jogged her memory.

      ‘Except…’ she began slowly, and then stopped. ‘No, it could not be related to this.’

      ‘Except,’ Devenish mused, his bright blue eyes hard on her. ‘I do dislike excepts—when they lead nowhere, I mean. They intrigue me, and for the rest of the day I am more bad-tempered as well as being ruder than ever, I fear. Pray finish and do not condemn me to that—you would not like it, and consequently I should feel the edge of your tongue!’

      ‘Very well. He said one day, about nine months before he was found dead, that he was surprised that the path to the Abbey was being so heavily used, and that it must be at night, since he had never seen anyone on it during the day time.

      ‘He told me that he would investigate the matter as it seemed rather odd. But nothing further came of it other than that he had spoken to Mr Harrington of it and he had assured him that he must be mistaken. Two of his gardeners used it. And that was that. The path had become worn, he said, and it did not need heavy use to cut it up.’

      ‘Your husband never spoke of it again?’

      ‘No, never. I am sure that it was simply one of Jeremy’s whim whams—he was given to them. His father was the same, wasn’t he, Cordelia?’

      ‘Oh, yes. He had the oddest fancies which disappeared as soon as made, you know. Why, I remember old Mr Faulkner swearing that there were strange goings-on in the countryside around Lyford, but since his mind became very feeble before he died, no one thought anything of what he said.’

      Another dead end. He could scarcely believe that the whim whams of the Faulkner men had any connection with dead servant girls and a sheep on an altar.

      Except—and it was a good except, he thought wryly—that Jeremy Faulkner had died a strange and unexpected death. Like the sheep.

      He dared pursue the matter no further even although it enabled him to stand next to Mrs Drusilla Faulkner and admire her pure and perfect profile. He dared swear that—like old Mr Faulkner—he was running mad to be so occupied by the charms of a country widow. Rob would be sure to twit him when he returned home.

      All the way back to Tresham Hall what disturbed him the most was that it was not only her looks and figure which charmed him, but her ready, rebuking tongue. Who would have thought that such a gentle-seeming creature would be so morally fearless?

      Rob met him in the stable-yard—and began to tease him immediately—and to warn him off.

      ‘So, how was the pretty widow, Hal? Not so overset as that companion of hers, I dare swear.’

      ‘No, not at all.’

      ‘And did you find her in looks?’

      ‘Why this inquisition, Rob? What point are you trying to make.’

      ‘A serious one, and I advise you to take what I am about to say equally seriously. This is a good woman whom you are beginning to pursue, not one of the barques of frailty who haunt London, and may be regarded as rightful prey. It would be wrong of you to treat her as a pretty toy to exploit in order to reduce the boredom of country living. You must not trifle with her affections. To do so would be most unworthy of you.’

      ‘How many moral guardians must a man acquire in one short afternoon before he is allowed to make his own judgements?’ Devenish murmured enigmatically. ‘The world and his wife are determined to have me turn parson, I see. Yes, I found Mrs Faulkner in looks, but it is not her looks which intrigue me. I leave you to discover what does—you might as well have something concrete to worry about rather than simply engaging in pious whim whams about my behaviour.

      ‘And speaking of whim whams, tell me this. You have lived here these past ten years. Have you observed any whim whams in the behaviour of the Faulkner father and son?’

      ‘Of the father, yes. He was light in the attic towards the end of his life. Of the son, no. He seemed a down-to-earth fellow to me, quite unlike his father.’

      ‘And tell me another thing before we adjourn. Were there any persons recorded as missing during the lifetime of old Mr Faulkner—or is that simply a phenomenon of the past few years?’

      If Rob thought that Hal was engaging in whim whams himself he did not say so. He had too much respect for his employer’s intellect.

      ‘Not that I know of.’

      ‘And strange goings-on in the countryside, you have heard nothing of that?’

      Rob shook his head. ‘Not until the servant girls began to disappear, and the two men of whom we spoke. Why?’

      ‘Nothing. Like my moral sense, my curiosity is light-minded and frivolous—as you well know. Only people are telling me different stories about the same thing.’

      He did not elaborate, but left Rob looking after him, wondering what Devenish was up to now. Rob sometimes thought that perhaps Devilish was not a bad nickname for his friend, even though he knew that it was undeserved.

      What was puzzling Devenish was why Drusilla and Cordelia Faulkner—who both struck him as possessing souls of simple truth—should believe that Jeremy Faulkner engaged in whim whams like his father’s, whilst Rob, that man of sense, did not. There must be a sensible answer to that, and one which he would endeavour to discover.

      The advantage being that whilst he did so he could further his acquaintance with Jeremy’s widow.