Malice Aforethought by Francis Iles

Author:Francis Iles
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Courier Publishing
Published: 2018-10-22T16:00:00+00:00

PART II

CHAPTER VIII

1

MISS PEAVY was giving a tea-party.

The preparations had begun yesterday morning. The Crown Derby tea-service had been taken out of the ormolu cabinet in the tiny drawing-room and washed by Miss Peavy’s own hands (such an operation could not be entrusted, of course, to Ethel) with, miraculously, not a single resulting breakage. In the afternoon Miss Peavy, her head swathed in a check duster, her small body in a voluminous overall, and her hands encased in white cotton gloves two sizes too large for them, had superintended Ethel’s turning out of the drawing-room, with such help as experience and superior strength had to afford. Ethel was only fourteen and heavy of hand; she lived at the last cottage of the village proper, the nearest one to Miss Peavy’s, and described herself proudly as Miss Peavy’s help. She had been Miss Peavy’s help ever since she was twelve (nine to eleven of a morning, and afternoons when wanted special), and in some ways, Miss Peavy thought secretly, she was more of a hindrance; but between the two of them the job was done at last to Miss Peavy’s satisfaction.

Then, on the morning of the party itself, there had been a great baking of cakes. Supervised by Ethel in the capacity of critic, admirer, and Hermes (“Now fetch me the baking-powder, Ethel. The small tin at the left-hand end of the middle shelf. No, the middle shelf, dear. The left-hand end. No, the small tin. Never mind, I’ll get it myself.” “Oo, it ain’t in that tin, miss, not now it ain’t. It was empty, an’ I put the cloves in it. I thought it’d come in handy for the cloves, like. So I put them in it, miss.” “Well, where is the baking-powder?” “There ain’t none, miss.” “Dear, dear, you ought to have told me that before. Really you ought, Ethel. Now you’ll have to run up to Mrs. Stinvell and get a tin. Sevenpence, and now my hands are all . . . Where is my purse, dear? I think I left it . . . no, I didn’t. Really, Ethel, you should have told me, you know.”), Miss Peavy had made a chocolate cake, iced with chocolate, an orange cake, iced with orange, and a great quantity of rock buns and Eccles cakes, not iced at all. And only the rock buns had been what you could really call burnt, and those not irrevocably. At least three-quarters, with judicious paring, were made presentable. A most successful morning.

It was to be quite an important tea-party. Mrs. Torr and Quarnian were coming, Janet Wapsworthy of course, Gwynyfryd Rattery, with the Major if she could persuade him, Mr. Torr had promised faithfully to look in if he could find the time, and Ivy Chatford and her husband were actually coming over from Merchester specially. If only poor Mrs. Bickleigh were still alive. . . . Only Mrs. Hatton-Hampstead had definitely refused. And Madeleine Bourne, of course; but she refused all invitations nowadays, it seemed.

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