My breakfast was ready soon after eight o’clock, and afterwards I went to Earl’s Court to watch the house in Longridge Road. By dint of careful inquiries in the neighbourhood I was told that Mrs. Tennison had gone away a few days before—to Paris, they believed.
“The young lady, Miss Tennison, appears to be rather peculiar,” I remarked casually to a woman at a baker’s shop near by, after she had told me that she served them with bread.
“Yes, poor young lady!” replied the woman. “She’s never been the same since she was taken ill last November. They say she sustained some great shock which so upset her that her mind is now a little affected. Old Mrs. Alford, the servant there, tells me that the poor girl will go a whole day and never open her mouth. She’s like one dumb!”
“How very curious!” I remarked. “I wonder what kind of shock it was that caused such a change in her? Was she quite all right before November?”
“Perfectly. She was a bright clever girl, and used often to come in here to me for chocolate and cakes. She was full of life and merriment. It is really pathetic to see her as she is nowadays. She seems to be brooding over something, but what it is nobody can make out.”
“Very remarkable,” I said. “I’ve noticed her about, and have wondered at her attitude—like many others, I suppose.”
“Yes. Her mother has taken her to a number of mental specialists, I hear, but nobody seems to be able to do her any good. They say she’s suffered from some shock, but they can’t tell exactly what it is, because the young lady seems to have entirely lost her memory over a certain period.”
“Is Mrs. Tennison well off?” I asked.
“No—the reverse, I should think,” the baker’s wife replied. “I’ve heard that Mr. Tennison was a very rich man, but when he died it was found that he was on the verge of bankruptcy, and the widow was left very poorly off.”
It is curious what intimate knowledge the little tradespeople glean about their neighbours, even in London. From the woman I gathered one or two facts of interest.