Coral Glynn (9 page)

“Good evening, Mrs Prence. I know that visitors at this time of day are a terrible inconvenience, but I wonder if I might have a word with Major Hart?”

“He is not at home at the moment,” said Mrs Prence.

“Really? I thought I would be sure to find him here. Where is he?”

“He is out,” said Mrs Prence.

“I see,” said Inspector Hoke. “Well, in that case, I wonder if Miss Glynn is available?”

“The nurse—Miss Glynn—is no longer here. Are you the police?”

“Yes,” said Inspector Hoke, “in fact I am. Or a representative thereof. I wonder, Mrs Prence, if I might talk with you for just a moment.”

“Talk about what?”

“A little girl was killed in the Sap Green Forest recently, not at all far from here. Have you heard anything about it?”

“Only what’s been in the newspaper,” said Mrs Prence. “It’s a horrible thing.”

“It is. Just as you say: a horrible thing. And since Hart House is so near to the woods, it would help me very much to talk to you, just for a moment or two. May I come in?”

Mrs Prence hesitated. The jackdaws had quit the sky and it was almost dark. It was dark inside the house, too: she had hurried upstairs from the kitchen when she heard the bell and had opened the door without turning on any of the lamps.

“Pardon me, but have you got a badge or something? You could be anyone, couldn’t you?”

“Of course, of course,” said the Inspector. “How very wise of you to be so cautious. I should have shown it to you immediately. Here is my identification.” He pulled a wallet from a pocket inside his coat and opened it to reveal his identification. “I have aged a bit since this photograph was taken, but I believe a likeness remains.”

He chuckled, but Mrs Prence did not seem amused. By way of reply, she stepped back and opened the door wider. The Inspector entered the dark house and said, “Where were you when the lights went out?”

“Pardon?” Mrs Prence closed the door.

“I was only attempting to be humorous. The dusk comes so suddenly, doesn’t it? How I long for our lingering summer evenings. They are one of the few benefits of inhabiting a northern clime.”

“I couldn’t say,” said Mrs Prence, having lost the train of Inspector Hoke’s thoughts.

“Is there someplace we might sit for a moment? I should just like to ask you a few very simple questions.”

Mrs Prence could not imagine entertaining the Inspector in either the drawing room or the library, so she suggested he follow her down into the kitchen, where she invited him to have a seat at the table.

“My mother always said that the kitchen was the heart of the home,” said the Inspector. “Would you agree, Mrs Prence?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Mrs Prence, since the phrase was ready.

“Well, it is a very cosy sanctuary you have here,” said Inspector Hoke.

“Would you like some tea?” Mrs Prence asked.

“Some tea might be very nice indeed, if it is not too much trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all,” said Mrs Prence, and lit the flame beneath the kettle.

“Very cosy indeed,” said the Inspector.

Mrs Prence opened a cabinet and dropped two iced buns thunkingly upon a plate. Then she waited for the kettle to boil and filled the teapot, and when this little repast was prepared, she carried it to the table upon a tray. “Have a bun,” she said, “if you’d like. Currant.” She sat and filled a cup with tea and slid it across the table. Then she filled another for herself.

“Is my hunger so apparent?”

Mrs Prence was about to resort to her now standard line but stopped herself and said, “I think a bun is always nice.”

“A truer word was never spoken.” If the Inspector believed this, he did not act according to his principles, for he ignored the buns. He spooned sugar into his tea and then dribbled it with milk. “Now, about this horrible business in the forest. I wonder, Mrs Prence, if you have seen anyone in the area in recent weeks?”

“I stay out of the forest,” said Mrs Prence. “There’s nothing in there that interests me.”

“I see,” said Inspector Hoke. “What about around the house, or on the road? Any strangers lurking about?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” said Mrs Prence. “Except for Miss Glynn, of course. The nurse.”

“But she is not a stranger. You have seen no one else? The little girl herself, perhaps?”

“I’ve seen nothing,” said Mrs Prence. “I’m too busy in the house to be gazing out the windows. There was a stray dog hanging about a while ago, but I didn’t feed it, so it’s gone. It’s always a mistake to feed wild creatures—it upsets them.” She nodded her head at the plate of buns that sat on the table between them. “If you think they’re nasty store-bought buns, they’re not. I baked them myself.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I don’t believe in buying what you can make yourself. People have gotten too good for themselves.”

“I’m sure there is something in what you say,” said Inspector Hoke.

Mrs Prence moved the plate with the buns closer to him and kept her hand on it, making it clear she would not release it until he had taken one of the buns. He selected the smaller one and tried to place it upon his saucer, but it was too large to fit. He brought it to his mouth and took a bite, which took him a moment to process successfully. “Delicious,” he said when he had finally swallowed and was able to fit the now reduced bun upon the saucer.

“Miss Glynn walks in the woods,” said Mrs Prence. “She’s very keen on it.”

“Is she?” asked the Inspector. “Perhaps she has seen something, then. I’ll have to have a word with her.”

“She’s staying at the Swan,” said Mrs Prence. “They’re getting married, you know.”

“Yes,” said the Inspector, “I had heard something about that.”

“It’s all rather odd, if you ask me,” said Mrs Prence.

“Odd? In what way?”

“She’s odd. There’s something not right about her, if you ask me. And why are they getting married? I’d like to know. Major Hart’s never been interested in that kind of business. I suppose it’s because he’s lost his mother and feels alone. Thinks he needs someone to take care of him. But he’s in for a nasty surprise, I’ve no doubt.”

“Oh, really? What sort of surprise?”

“That girl is as likely to take care of him as she is to skin a rabbit. She’ll take care of his money, perhaps, but not him.”

“It seems that you have a low opinion of Miss Glynn.”

“I have no opinion of her whatsoever,” said Mrs Prence. “I just know what I see.”

“And what have you seen?”

“It’s not so much what I’ve seen as the feeling I’ve got. You only have to look at her to know she isn’t to be trusted.”

“Did she not take good care of Mrs Hart?”

“If you call killing your patient good care, then I suppose she did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said, although perhaps I shouldn’t have said it.”

“You think Miss Glynn killed Mrs Hart?”

“All I know is that she’s fine in the morning and Miss Glynn disappears for an afternoon and before you can say Jack Sprat, Mrs Hart is dead.”

“I was under the impression that Mrs Hart was very ill.”

“Ill, yes, but dead’s something else entirely! And who’s to stop her from doing the same to Major Hart? Marry him first and kill him just the same as his mother, and who’ll be sitting pretty then? I’ll be afraid for my own life when she comes back here.”

“Why? She has nothing to gain from you.”

“Nothing but peace of mind. She knows I don’t like her. I knew what she was up to from the start, and made things difficult. The night Mrs Hart died, she gave me a look that froze my blood. And I wonder now—now that you come asking these questions—what she was doing in the woods? Walking, she said, but in those nasty dark woods in all sorts of horrible weather? I think somehow that poor little girl must be tied in to it all. Perhaps she saw something—the little girl, I mean—or Miss Glynn told her something. People talk to children so freely, and regret it. They think they’re not listening, don’t understand, but they are. They do. They’ve got minds like traps, children. Perhaps you think this is all nonsense, but you asked me what I think, so I’ve told you.”

“On the contrary,” said the Inspector. “You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Mrs Prence, and your mind seems quite keen.”

“Well, I only know what I see, which is what I said. There can be no harm in telling the truth.”

“Did you ever see Miss Glynn talk to the little girl?”

“Not exactly,” said Mrs Prence. “Not with my own eyes.”

“Does Major Hart walk in the woods?”

“Goodness, no. He’s lame, you know. He can walk all right for a bit, but not to go traipsing through the woods. Not like her. Like an explorer, she was.”

“Do you plan to stay on here, Mrs Prence, when Miss Glynn returns as Mrs Hart?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m thinking I might go live with my sister in Hovenden, but there’s some bad feeling between us, so it might be unwise. So I shall probably stay, for as long as I am wanted. I know Major Hart wants me to, he said as much directly to me—you’ll always have a home here, Mary, he said. But Miss Glynn is a different kettle of fish.”

“But you have no plans to leave immediately, do you?”

“No,” said Mrs Prence. “I’m debating it all, I suppose you could say. I’ve been here a very long time, and I always thought I’d take care of the Major after Mrs Hart died—because, as I said, he never seemed to be the marrying kind—but it appears as though I was wrong about that. Or perhaps he’s wrong about it, I don’t know.”

“Wrong about what?”

“Marrying. She’s made him think somehow he’s the marrying kind. Are you married, Inspector Hoke?”

“I am not, Mrs Prence. I suppose I am not the marrying kind, either.”

“Well, there’s no knowing these things,” said Mrs Prence.

“And you, Mrs Prence—are you married?”

“I am a widow,” said Mrs Prence. “My husband died in the first war. I was married young, and widowed young.”

“I’m very sad to hear it,” said Inspector Hoke.

“His name was Arthur Gordon Prence. I had a child as well. She died in her infancy.”

“How very sad. I’m very sorry for you.”

“Her name was June,” said Mrs Prence. “It is hard to remember these things. It has been a long time, but it is still hard.”

“Indeed it is,” said Inspector Hoke.

“You might think it would get easier, or that you’d forget, but you don’t. At least, I do not.” Mrs Prence reached out and felt the teapot. “Would you like more tea, Inspector? It is still warm.”

“No, thank you,” said the Inspector. “But I wonder if I might ask you for something else?”

“What?”

“To do something for me. What you have told me about Miss Glynn is most interesting, and I would like to know more about her. I wonder if I could trouble you to befriend her, and then she might tell you more, perhaps even confide in you.”

“She will think it odd if I act friendly all of a sudden,” said Mrs Prence. “She knows that I do not like her. I have made it plain.”

“I don’t mean anything unnatural or extraordinary,” said the Inspector. “Nothing that would seem false to her. Just a bit of simple kindness, which, as she is all alone here, would mean a great deal to her. She could very well be desperate for someone to confide in. If she is, indeed, guilty of any wrongdoing.”

“And then I would tell you all she told to me?”

“Of course not. Only if she tells you something that has bearing on the matter at hand. The girl in the woods.”

“And there is the death of Mrs Hart as well. As I told you, I have my suspicions in that quarter as well.”

“Well, of course, if she tells you anything about that—or any criminal activity, for that matter—I would be most interested to hear it. But if this makes you uncomfortable, Mrs Prence, please have no worries. I should understand.”

“I am an honest woman,” said Mrs Prence, “and it may be difficult for me to express affection when none is felt, but I consider it my duty to at least try and do as you say. I do not think Miss Glynn is a strong person, so it may not be difficult at all to convince her of false feelings.”

“Well,” said the Inspector, “I would be very grateful if you tried. As I said, nothing unnatural—we do not want to alarm her or cause her to be suspicious. But a little kindness goes a long way in situations like these, I have found. People who feel alone will jump at any chance for friendship, especially if they harbour worries.” Inspector Hoke stood and picked up the remnant of his bun. “I shall take this delicious bun with me and enjoy it on my drive back into town. You have been most cooperative, Mrs Prence, and I thank you very much for your time and trouble. I shall leave my card here with you, and ask you to call me if you see or hear anything.” He replaced the bun on the table and withdrew a card from his wallet and handed it to Mrs Prence. “Will you tell Major Hart that I was here and that I would like to have a word with him tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs Prence.

“And you said Miss Glynn is at the Swan?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Prence, “but they are both visiting friends of Major Hart’s this evening.”

“I see. Then I believe my work for today is complete, and I shall trouble you no farther.”

Mrs Prence said it had been no trouble at all and followed the Inspector up the stairs. After he left, she entered the drawing room and turned on a few lamps and then stood in the centre of the room. It was unusual for her to be alone in the house. Even with Mrs Hart bedridden and the Major something of a ghost, she was always aware of their presence, and it was rare for either of them to leave it, especially simultaneously. In these few moments alone in the house, she liked to think of it as her own. All the things in it, hers: the furniture, the rugs and drapes and paintings, the clothes hanging in the closets, the linen folded in the cupboards, the leather-bound books in the library, the china and the cutlery, the hummingbirds inside their glass dome, the marble eggs, the cloisonné boxes, the collection of ivory figurines and majolica. It seemed to her as if only the slightest barrier stood between her and the true possession of all these things—that it was only a matter of passing through some gossamer wall to find herself the true mistress of Hart House.