Fear Stalks the Village (Murder Mystery Classic). Ethel Lina White

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      Owing to some curious run of bad-luck, both the Squire's wife and Lady d'Arcy had sent deputies. Kind little Mrs. Sheriff—when she pleaded a racking headache—had rebelled against her husband, and insisted that Vivian should take her place. The vague Lady d'Arcy, who was sufficiently practical to make use of others—merely told Joan to offer her apologies.

      Joan's inventive powers proved equal to the strain, and she was only too glad to stay, for, although she had acquired a certain respect for Art, in Chelsea, she was a backslider where Miss Corner's comfortable home was concerned.

      It had its own electric-plant, so that the novelist was able to indulge her passion for brilliant lighting, and it possessed a perfect system of central-heating. In spite of the scraps of Fourteenth-century barns which composed its outer walls, its interior was entirely modern, with built-in drawers and cupboards, amusing metal furniture, aluminium-sprayed rubber curtains and planet-lamps. In the place of pictures, there were numerous mirrors.

      "I like to see a lot of Julias," explained Miss Corner. "Those fat girls are my company. You've heard, haven't you, how a fat girl can love, even if no one loves her?"

      Vivian's smile was polite and non-committal, for she was not feeling entirely at her ease. She was a pretty girl—fair-haired and turquoise-eyed—with exquisite colouring. Like most of the local ladies, she had the delicate air of one reared entirely under glass, so that, in comparison with her, Joan looked like a rosy apple placed beside a hot-house peach.

      They appeared to be the same age, although, in reality Vivian possessed only the sterilised youth of the village.

      She raised her gossamer brows when Joan began to talk about the anonymous letter.

      "What do you think about it, Miss Corner?" she asked.

      "Thrilled," replied the novelist. "It's been said that the anonymous letter-writer is the only really interesting criminal."

      "I think it's disgusting," said Vivian. "And to send it to Miss Asprey—of all people."

      "Why should she be exempt?" demanded Miss Corner. "She's not sacred, is she?"

      "No. But she's so—so spiritual. I've rather a passion for her. I think she must have an aura—a blue or violet one. Anyway, I'm sure she's an influence for good. Whenever I am at 'The Spout', I'm conscious of being in a state of perfect peace."

      As it was difficult to connect Vivian with any emotion, neither Joan or Miss Corner were impressed.

      "You're lucky," declared the novelist. "I wish I could say the same. She always seems to drain my brain dry of ideas, and she makes me feel like a wet rag. In fact, when I'm in process of literary gestation I don't dare go near her barn."

      "Barn?" echoed Vivian reproachfully. "Miss Asprey's house and furniture are perfect Tudor period."

      "Yes, and I don't sit down in the Sixteenth Century. It's true that Nature has thoughtfully provided me with padding—but it's not fair to count on guests bringing their own cushions...But Miss Brook has nothing to eat."

      Miss Corner broke off to offer Joan a selection of cakes.

      "Those flaky things are dee-licious," she said, "but they're not safe to be let loose without a plate. They're the underhand kind that spit cream in your eye. Here you are, my dear—plate and nappy. I'm not one of your Society sadists, who tempt pure young girls to eat oranges in public...Hum. Mrs. Scudamore's late."

      The novelist glanced at the clock and poured herself another cup of tea, while her eyes grew speculative, with pin-prick pupils.

      "Let's get back to Miss Asprey," she said. "Have you noticed that though she looks as if a puff of air would blow her away, she's unusually strong. And her brain still bites like a badger...Sometimes, I wonder if she draws her reserves from others, now that she's growing old. When I first came here I wasn't conscious of being affected by her, and it's odd the way her powers don't seem to fail with age. You know, my dears, there are people who sap your vitality."

      "You mean—human vampires?" Vivian's flower-like face grew pink. "But that's a terrible thing to say of Miss Asprey."

      Joan hastened to change the subject.

      "I wonder you don't keep a pet, Miss Corner," she said. "Cats and dogs are better company than looking-glasses."

      "I'd love to," replied the novelist wistfully. "But—I'm alone."

      "That's what I meant."

      "And that's what I meant, too. If anything happened to me, what about them? I'm too fond of animals to risk them."

      Joan missed the hint of tragedy which clouded the novelist's eyes, for she was looking at the inch of Oxford-blue ribbon on Miss Corner's broad white chest.

      "Is that your Temperance badge?" she asked.

      "Yes," replied the novelist. "That is to show I drink nothing—in public."

      Joan laughed with her hostess, because she remembered her friend's ridiculous serial.

      "I think Miss Asprey's letter is nothing but a silly practical joke," she declared. "And if the joker follows it with a second, you will, probably, be accused of being a secret drinker."

      "But I am," grinned Miss Corner. "Only, no one in the village possesses any sense of humour, except the doctor."

      "Dr. Perry?" cried Vivian incredulously. "He's always so quiet."

      "Exactly. Beware the dog that doesn't bark. Did you know he has a secret passion for me? There is someone who loves a fat girl...This is our guilty signal."

      She picked up an empty black-and-gilt tea-cup, and, crossing to one of the small windows, balanced it on top of the open casement.

      With the insolence of youth, Joan thought she was rather pathetic. And the novelist, from her safe vantage of experience, pitied Joan. 'No beauty, no money, no talent,' she reflected. 'If she grabs the parson, her market's made. If she doesn't, Heaven help her.'

      She looked up with her usual beam of welcome, as her loyal, stupid maid—May—announced Mrs. Scudamore.

      The important lady made her usual gracious entrance and created her special impression. She was wearing a last year's gown and coatee, of grey lace, and appeared, definitely, a middle-aged English-woman, of the type that is accepted as representative, on the Continent.

      Her good features were just a shade too large; she displayed too much hair, and not enough style.

      But everyone paid instinctive homage to the Spirit of the Village. Joan, who was lounging back in her chair, with outstretched feet, drew herself upright. Vivian looked relieved, as though welcoming moral support, while Miss Corner whispered to May, 'Fresh tea-pot.'

      Mrs. Scudamore was very gracious to everyone. Presently, when she was sipping tea and subduing one of the treacherous cakes—after having declined a plate—she spoke, smilingly, to Joan.

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