The conclusion, even the formal verdict of an inquest, would be that a terrible — a ‘tragic’—accident had occurred. And this conclusion was reached not just from lack of witnesses or evidence to the contrary, but because it was the conclusion that everyone — the Sheringhams and Hobdays particularly, who had considerable connections with local officialdom — wished to reach. No one wished to believe that, two weeks before his marriage to Miss Emma Hobday and while actually driving to meet her, Paul Sheringham had driven fatally into a tree for any other reason than that it was an accident.
Mr Sheringham senior would no doubt have explained, when asked, that because of the peculiarity of the day there would have been no one at Upleigh when his son departed. Both the cook and the maid, he would have stated, would have been at their mothers’ homes. And this might have produced another breast-shaking spasm from Mrs Sheringham. And the visiting policeman might have thought that he had asked questions enough, and put away his notebook.
But she, Jane Fairchild, would not have to answer any questions. Why should she? She was only the maid at Beechwood, not even at Upleigh. She had simply ridden off on her bicycle, and gone nowhere near, as it happened, the scene of the accident (though Mr Niven might have thought that was why she had gone pale). Then she had returned, somewhat early.
And she had never heard — it was a never-spoken fact — as she wandered naked round that house any distant ‘crump’. Would there have been a detectable ‘crump’? And she had never seen, in so far as she’d looked from any window, any smudge in that blue sky.
Though she had heard the telephone ring.
Mr Niven didn’t actually take hold of her. Not then. And she didn’t faint, even if she had gone pale.
He repeated, ‘I’m so sorry, Jane, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.’
Why did it seem, at that complexion-changing moment, that she might have been someone else? It was an expression: ‘not to be yourself ’. Why did it seem that she might have been Emma Hobday? Or that she might have been Mr Niven’s own daughter (though Mr Niven didn’t have one), who was also Emma Hobday. That Mr Niven was, himself, Mr Hobday. That the characters in this story had all been jumbled up.
Why did it seem that Mr Niven was projecting onto her a whole confusion of scenes that she might have been in, but wasn’t? She was only the maid — and, temporarily, not even that. Why did it seem that this day and its now terrible meaning — it wasn’t Mothering Sunday any more at all — had blurred the usual order of things between herself and Mr Niven?
He might have been speaking to his wife.
‘Jane. Jane, I have left Clarissa — Mrs Niven — with the others. In Henley. She felt she might be of better — service — there. Of course Emma — Miss Hobday — will drive to be with them. If she is able to. There was the question of whether they might all drive to her — to Bollingford. She is in Bollingford. Did I explain that? Or whether they might all drive to be at the Hobdays’. There is the question, Jane, of where everyone — ought to be. But I thought I should be here, Jane. I thought I should be here to. .’
‘Yes, Mr Niven?’
‘To go to Upleigh.’
‘Upleigh?’
‘Yes. I stopped here first to use the telephone. I have just done so. I was just leaving. I have spoken to Clar — to Mrs Niven. They are still at Henley. But they have decided to meet Miss Hobday — at the Hobdays’. That is the decision. I think that is the best plan. Miss Hobday must come first. Mr and Mrs Sheringham do not wish to return yet to Upleigh. Not yet. You can understand. I shall drive to the Hobdays’ myself later. I am glad — I mean I am sorry — to be able to explain all this to you. But, Jane, you are back early—?’
‘I thought, sir — it doesn’t matter now — I might just come back here and read my book for a bit.’
‘Your book?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, if you— I mustn’t—’
‘It doesn’t matter, Mr Niven. My book doesn’t matter.’
‘Someone must inform the staff at Upleigh, you see. Mr Sheringham has told me that your — opposite number — is called Ethel. And the cook is called Iris.’
‘But—’
‘Yes, I know, they have gone to their families. Like Milly. But they must be made aware as soon as possible of the — circumstances. Mr and Mrs Sheringham told me — oh good God — that Paul drove them both to the station this morning, but they will return separately. This — Ethel — most likely first. So I must go to Upleigh, you see, to await her. To inform her.’
‘Not the station, sir?’
Had she gone pale twice?
‘That might not be the best place for such a purpose. In any case — how can I put this, Jane?’
‘Put what, sir?’
‘I feel that someone must — ascertain the situation at Upleigh in any case. I mean the situation as Mister Paul would have left it.’
‘But—’
‘Yes, of course, he would simply have left the house. Good God, he was going to be brushing up on his law apparently. Yes, he would simply have left the house. There is no situation. But I feel — someone should check the situation. To prepare the Sheringhams. I mean, to reassure them. They are not ready to return there yet. They feel they should be with Miss Hobday. But you can imagine, Jane, you can imagine. The state of their— I offered to do what I have just told you. To make sure of things at Upleigh. They said that when he — when Mister Paul — left, and as the house would have been empty, he would have left a key, under a piece of stone — a stone pineapple, they said. Mrs Sheringham said it was a stone pineapple. By the front porch. So—’
‘So—?’
‘I must drive to Upleigh. To wait for this Ethel. And to ascertain—’
Mr Niven did not seem entirely ready for the task he had plainly volunteered for. He cleared his troubled throat.
‘Jane — may I ask you something?’
‘Ask me what, Mr Niven?’
She was still gripping the handlebars of the bicycle. She realised she was even squeezing its brake levers, though she was standing, quite still, beside it.
‘If you would accompany me.’
‘Go with you, sir?’
‘Of course, I understand it is still your day. If you wish, Jane, if you wish just to read your book—’
‘Your book, Mr Niven.’ She had no idea why she corrected him.
‘Of course.’
A brief contortion crossed his face, as if the beginning of a smile had turned into something else.
Was he going to sob? This wasn’t his son. He was only an entangled neighbour.
‘Yes, sir. I will go with you.’
‘I appreciate that, Jane. That is very good of you. I don’t suppose you have ever been inside Upleigh House—’
‘Would you mind, Mr Niven, if I went in first and had a glass of water?’
‘Yes — of course. Forgive me. This is all such a shock. And you have been cycling around all day! Yes, yes, of course, you will need to collect yourself, refresh yourself. Forgive me. I will be here, Jane, by the car, when you are ready.’
And perhaps that five minutes or so made all the difference. And when had it ever happened before: Mr Niven waiting for her? Even standing by the car, when she reappeared, with its leather-lined door opened for her. She thought again of Ethel and Iris.
Inside the house — inside another empty house — her face had momentarily flooded, before she drenched it anyway with cold water. She might even have stifled a scream.