“A labourer I suppose,” queried Miss Tibbutt.
“Yes, only a labourer,” responded the Duchessa quietly.
Miss Tibbutt was silent. She had a vague feeling of uneasiness, and yet she did not know why she had it. She was perfectly certain that something was wrong; and, whatever that something was, it had occurred between the time Pia had set off in the pony-cart with Clinker after lunch, and her return, very late for tea, in the evening. Also, Pia had said she didn’t want any tea, but had gone straight to her room. And that was unlike her,—certainly unlike her. It would have been far more natural for her to have ordered a fresh supply, and insisted on Miss Tibbutt sharing it with her, quite oblivious of the fact that she had already had all the tea she wanted, and was going to eat again at a quarter to eight.
“I walked over to Byestry,” said Miss Tibbutt presently. “Yes, I know it was very hot, but I walked slowly, and took my largest sunshade. I wanted to get some black silk to mend one of my dresses. I saw Father Dormer. He was very glad to hear that you were back. I told him you had only arrived on Thursday, and I had come on the Tuesday to get things ready for you. My dear, he told me Mr. Danver is dead.”
“Mr. Danver,” exclaimed the Duchessa, her preoccupation for the moment forgotten.
“Yes. I wonder none of the servants happened to mention it. But I suppose they forgot we didn’t know, and probably they have forgotten all about the poor man by now. It’s sad to think how soon one is forgotten. It appears he went to London in March with Doctor Hilary to consult a specialist and died the day after his arrival in town. Perhaps the journey was too much for him. I should think it might have been, but Doctor Hilary would know best, or perhaps Mr. Danver insisted on going. Anyhow the place is in the hands of caretakers now; the butler and his wife are looking after it till the heir turns up, whoever he may be. There’s a rumour that he is an American, but no one seems to know for certain. But they must be keeping the garden in good order. Golding is staying on, and the other men, and they’ve just got another under-gardener.” She paused.
“Have they?” said the Duchessa carelessly, and a trifle coldly. Nevertheless a little colour had flushed into her cheeks.
“I’m afraid you think I’m a terrible gossip,” said Miss Tibbutt apologetically. “I really don’t mean to be. But in a little place, little things interest one. I am afraid I did ask Father Dormer a good many questions. I hope he didn’t—” And she broke off anxiously.
“You dear old Tibby,” smiled the Duchessa, “I’m sure he didn’t. Nobody thinks you’re a gossip. Gossiping is talking about things people don’t want known, and generally things that are rather unkind, to say the least of it. You’re the soul of honour and charity, and Father Dormer knows that as well as everyone else.”
“Oh, my dear!” expostulated Miss Tibbutt. “But I’m glad you think he didn’t——”