the housekeeper, but if she was going to live here she would have to know who everyone was, and with a reluctant sigh she ventured: ‘Mr Coulston works for Mr Sheldon?’
‘‘Course he does.’ Mrs Harris stood back from the table, and nodded her greying head. ‘Sort of shepherd and general handyman he is, when he’s sober.’
‘Isn’t it a little early in the evening for anyone to be—intoxicated?’ Joanna asked doubtfully, but Mrs Harris only laughed, a rather unpleasant gurgling cackle, that split her thin lips and displayed a dearth of teeth in her lower jaw.
‘When Matt goes on one of his binges, time doesn’t have anything to do with it,’ she declared with a sniff. ‘He’ll have been drinking since early this morning, and by now he’ll be roaring drunk. There’s only Mr Sheldon can handle him at times like that, but he’ll get him back to his cottage and lock him in until he sobers up.’
‘I see.’ Joanna took her first mouthful of the soup and managed to hide her distaste as its powdery consistency clung to the roof of her mouth. ‘Well—thank you, Mrs Harris. I—er—I’ll have to eat alone.’
For an awful moment after she’d uttered those words, Joanna wondered if the housekeeper would imagine they were some kind of an invitation, but apparently Mrs Harris had other things on her mind.
‘You’re staying, then?’ she probed, lingering by the door. ‘Or is he just putting you up for the night, until you can get a train back to London?’
Joanna was tempted to say it was none of her business, but that would have been unreasonable. After all, Mrs Harris had to cater for the household, though judging by the state of the place her ministrations were by no means satisfactory.
‘I’m staying,’ she replied now, taking another mouthful of soup after surreptitiously stirring it with her spoon. ‘At least for the present. I hope I may have more success than those ladies had.’
‘Some hopes,’ muttered Mrs Harris dourly, and Joanna looked up.
‘You sound pessimistic, Mrs Harris. Anyone would think you didn’t want me to succeed.’
‘Oh, no. No,’ the housekeeper denied this hastily. ‘O’ course, I hope you’re successful. It’s just that—well, Anya’s not like an ordinary child, if you know what I mean. Been too much with adults, she has——’
‘I think you should leave me to learn about—Anya—for myself,’ replied Joanna firmly, cutting her off. ‘This soup is very nice. What are you going to offer me as an entrée, I wonder?’
Mrs Harris frowned, screwing up her mouth. ‘I don’t know what you mean by no on-tree,’ she declared, sniffing again. ‘But there’s lamb chops to follow, and a piece of my custard.’
Joanna endeavoured to appear enthusiastic, and to her relief Mrs Harris took her dismissal. But as the meal progressed, she began to understand why Jake Sheldon had suggested that Mrs Harris’s meals were best taken hot. Lamb was a greasy dish at any time, and in Mrs Harris’s unskilled hands it had been allowed to swim in its own fat. Left to go cold, it would be revolting, and she wondered whether her employer would be expected to eat it later. The vegetables, boiled carrots and potatoes, had fared a little better, but the gravy, like the soup earlier, was inclined to be floury. The custard tart to finish was not set properly, and as she sat over a cup of instant coffee, which anyone could make, Joanna wondered if the housekeeper would object to being given a few tips. Cooking was one of Joanna’s few accomplishments, and although in the past it had been confined to preparing sauces and desserts for far more elaborate meals, she didn’t think she could do much worse than the unfortunate Mrs Harris.
With supper over, she wandered aimlessly into the sitting room, switching on the standard lamp by the window, and drawing the heavy repp curtains. She discovered a rack of paperback books in an alcove, and a pile of outdated science magazines, and the furnishings were completed by a pair of buttoned horsehair sofas, that gave as liberally as a saddle when one sat upon them, and a black and white television set. Two corner cupboards faced the wide fireplace, but their contents of chipped and dusty porcelain inspired only a fleeting interest. There were no dolls in evidence, no toys at all that she could see, except a couple of jigsaw puzzles, stuffed into the bottom of the bookcase. None of the items present in the room seemed to reflect Jake Sheldon’s personality, and Joanna wondered whether he had bought—or leased?—the property already furnished. That would account for its deplorable lack of taste, she thought, although why she should imagine Jake Sheldon might have any taste was not a proposition she cared to explore.
Picking up one of the paperback books, she attempted to glean some interest in the activities of a well-known private detective, but her ears were constantly alert for any sound of her employer’s return, and the events being described in the book seemed far less improbable than her own situation. She wondered if there was a phone so that she could ring her mother, but the idea of assuring her of her daughter’s well-being seemed totally ludicrous in the present circumstances, and she decided to wait and write when she felt less emotional than she did at present.
She guessed she must have fallen asleep on the sofa, despite its hardness, because when she next looked at the clock on the stone mantelpiece, it was after ten o’clock. She thought some sound must have wakened her, but she was still alone in the room, and inclined to be chilly because of the lowering of her body temperature during her nap.
She got stiffly off the couch and walked to the door into the hall, but there was no one about, and a frown furrowed her brow. She supposed she might as well go to bed as wait here indefinitely for her employer to appear, and with a feeling of flatness she went up the stairs to her room.
It was only as she opened the bedroom door that a sudden thought struck her. She had neither seen nor heard from Antonia all evening, and while her father had declared she was safely in bed, remembering the incident in the woods, Joanna couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. She had read books about naughty children who upset suitcases and squeezed out toothpaste and even put lizards in their governesses’ beds. While she had been lazily snoozing downstairs, Antonia—or Anya—could quite easily have wrought havoc up here.
She pushed open the door tentatively, half prepared to step back if some awful booby trap was waiting for her, but after groping for the switch and turning the light on, she found no apparent signs of mayhem. On the contrary, the room was exactly as she had left it, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door.
She undressed quickly, shivering as she put on the nightgown she had rummaged out of her case. The rest of her belongings could wait until the morning to be unpacked, she decided firmly, and after a speedy trip to the bathroom she climbed eagerly between the sheets.
The mattress was at least interior sprung, but the nap she had had downstairs had left her wide awake now that she wanted to fall asleep. She tossed and turned incessantly, wondering about Antonia, wondering whether she ought to have checked on the child to see if she was all right before going to bed, wondering whether Jake Sheldon would expect her to be waiting up for him whatever time he chose to come back. She finally fell into a fitful slumber that was rudely destroyed by someone drawing back the curtains and shaking her awake.
‘What is it? What time is it?’ she mumbled, not really conscious of her whereabouts as she struggled to push off the bony hand, and Mrs Harris’s face swam before her, maliciously amused in the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.
‘It’s time you was up, Miss Seton,’ the housekeeper declared, setting down a cup of tea on the bedside table and folding her arms, a favourite position of hers. ‘After eight o’clock, it is, and Mr Sheldon
