Lucy turned pale.

“I’ll see to her,” she said.

“You’d better go. People upset her. Leave her to me. I’ll manage.”

I was only too glad to do so; the sight of Flora filled me with misgiving.

As soon as he saw me, Crispin realized that I was disturbed.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“It’s Flora Lane,” I said.

“I went to see her this afternoon.”

He looked alarmed.

“What did she say?”

“It was very strange. She’s changed a lot. She said that she had heard that we were married and it could not be.”

“What?”

“She said: ” You haven’t married Crispin. ” And then … oh, it was horrible! She pointed to the mulberry bush in the garden and said, ” You couldn’t have married Crispin because he is there. ” She looked wild and mad.”

He drew a deep breath.

“You shouldn’t have gone there,” he said.

“I’ve always visited her now and then. But she’s changed. I think she is really going mad. Before it was like an obsession. This is different.”

“Was Lucy there?”

“Lucy was shopping. I ran out and found her.”

“Lucy knows how to look after her. Heaven knows, she’s been doing it for years. Poor Lucy!”

“She told me not to worry.”

He nodded.

“Well, I expect she’ll settle down when Lucy’s there. I wouldn’t go there again, darling. It upsets you.”

“She used to seem as though she liked me to go.”

“Well, don’t worry. Lucy knows what’s best for her.”

I could not forget Flora and I noticed the change in Crispin. I saw the haunted look in his eyes and the screen which came down, shutting me out. I began to feel that whatever it was which had disturbed me in the past was in some way connected with the House of the Seven Magpies.

There was constraint all through the evening. Crispin was a little absent-minded and I knew his thoughts were far away.

I said: “What’s wrong, Crispin?”

“Wrong?” He spoke almost testily.

“What should be wrong?”

“I thought you seemed … preoccupied.”

“Burrows thinks some of the fields at Greenacres should be fallow for a while. That will affect output, of course. He’s asking my advice.

Then there are those outbuildings at Swarles. I’m not sure whether they’d be a good thing. “

But I did not think his mood anything to do with fields lying fallow or outbuildings at Swarles Farm.

I awoke with a start. It was dark. A feeling of intense uneasiness had come to me. I put out my hand. Crispin was not beside me.

I was then fully awake. I sat up in bed. In the gloom I could make out his shape as he sat by the window, apparently staring out.

“Crispin,” I said.

“It’s all right. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Something’s wrong,” I said.

“No … no. It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’ll come back now. I just wanted to stretch my legs.”

I got out of bed and put a dressing-gown round my shoulders; and I went to him and, kneeling beside him, put my arms round him.

“Tell me what it is, Crispin,” I said.

“Nothing … nothing… I just could not sleep.”

“There is something, Crispin,” I said firmly.

“And it is time you told me.”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about or me either, for that matter.”

“It is,” I said.

“And it is not new. It has been there for a long time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Crispin, I love you very much. You and I are as one person. I am for you and you are for me; and if there is anything wrong for you it is wrong for me.”

He was silent.

I went on: “I know there is something. I’ve always known it. It has been there between us.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then he said: “There is nothing between us.”

“If that were so, I should know it. You wouldn’t be keeping secrets from me … holding something back.”

“No,” he said vehemently, and I looked at him appealingly.

“Crispin, tell me. Let me share.”

He stroked my hair.

“There is nothing … nothing to tell.”

“I know there is something,” I told him earnestly.

“It is there between us. I can’t get close to you while it is there. It’s a barrier and it has always been there. There are times when I can forget it, and then I am aware of it. You mustn’t shut me out, Crispin. You must let me in.”

For some seconds he said nothing, and then: “There have been times when I have been on the point of telling you.”

“Please … please, tell me now. It is very important that we should share everything.”

He did not speak and again I entreated him.

“I must know, Crispin. It is very important that I should.”

He said slowly: “So much hangs on it. I cannot think what would happen.”

“I shall not have a moment’s peace until I know.”

“I see it has gone too far. I have been debating with myself. I knew I should have to tell you some day. It goes back years … to the beginning of my life.” Again he paused. His face was creased in anxiety. I wanted to comfort him, but I could not until I knew the cause of his trouble.

He went on: “The Lanes lived on the estate. The father, Jack, was one of the gardeners; he had two daughters, Lucy and Flora. Lucy went to London to work as a nursemaid; Flora was the younger. Jack Lane died and his wife stayed on at the cottage and Flora was employed in the house here. She wanted to be a nursemaid like her sister, and when a child was about to be born it was decided that she should become his nurse. In due course a son was born at St. Aubyn’s.”

“You,” I said.

“Crispin was born,” he said.

“You must hear from the beginning. The parents, as you know, were not very interested in the child. They were glad to have a son as most people are, particularly in their position, to carry on the name and inherit and all that. But they were more interested in the social life they led. They were rarely in the country. Had they been devoted parents, this might have been discovered in the beginning.

“One day, Lucy came home. She was in deep trouble. She had left her post in London some weeks before and had been living on the little money she had saved, and now that was gone. She was going to have a child. You can imagine the consternation in that cottage. The father was dead; there was the mother and Flora who was in service in St. Aubyn’s, preparing to take care of the child which was about to be born.”

He stopped and I knew that he was reluctant to go on. He seemed to steel himself.

“Lucy,” he said, ‘was a strong woman. A good but trusting young woman.

She was like many before her. She had listened to promises, been seduced and deserted. A not unusual predicament for a girl to find herself in, but no less terrifying for that. Such girls were ostracized and when they were without means their position was desperate. Can you imagine the mother’s anguish?

They had been living in that little cottage among a small community for years, proud of their independence and their respectability, and now here was the daughter, of whom they had been so proud because she had had a fine post in a grand London house, come home bringing disgrace with her in which they would all share. “

“She had the child, then?”

“Yes. But they could not keep it a secret for ever. They thought they would do so until they made some plan for the future, Mrs. Lane had practised midwifery at one time and it was easy to manage the birth.

The big problem lay before them. They could not keep a child hidden for ever. They thought of leaving the place and going to London, where Flora and Lucy would find work while their mother looked after the child. That was what they decided. One thing was certain. They could not remain in Harper’s Green to face the scandal. “

“What a terrible position for them!”

“They hesitated. There were times when Mrs. Lane thought of going to Mrs. St. Aubyn and asking for help. She fancied that she and her husband might be slightly less shocked than some of the inhabitants of Harper’s Green. And then this extraordinary thing happened.”

He paused, as though he found it difficult to go on.

“Crispin was now a few weeks old. Flora was his nurse. And then, suddenly, there came this way out of their troubles. It was macabre in the extreme … but it offered a solution. And, remember, they were desperate people.

“You have seen Flora and you know the distressing state of her mind. I think she must always have been a little simple. Perhaps she should never have been given the charge of a child. But she had always been devoted to children and many a mother in the village had allowed her to look after her children because she loved them so much. They said she was a born nurse and mother. Of course, we haven’t seen her as she was then. We only know the poor deranged creature she has become. Gerry Westlake, son of one of the local farmers, began to take notice of her.”

“I remember him. He came here, some little time ago. He went out to New Zealand, I believe.”

“Yes, that was soon after it happened. Gerry was an energetic young man-little more than a boy. He was very interested in football and was practising throwing and kicking a ball about wherever he went.

That is the story I heard. He used to do odd jobs at St. Aubyn’s and he saw Flora there. He used to whistle to her and she would come to the window to look out. He would throw the ball at her and she would throw it back to him. She would go down and stand by watching him kicking his ball. He would explain to her the importance of the manner in which he kicked it.