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‘I think so, too, I want to start with the right idea of your guardian. Mrs Rubrick was your guardian, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you must have known her very well.’
‘I think I did. Though we didn’t meet until I was thirteen.’
‘I should like to hear how that came about.’
Ursula leant forward, resting her bare arms on her knees and clasping her hands. She moved into the region of firelight.
‘You see –’ she began.
CHAPTER TWO ACCORDING TO URSULA HARME (#ulink_9526758a-469e-53b9-b055-1e603f27cf4b)
I
Ursula began haltingly with many pauses but with a certain air of championship. At first Fabian helped her, making a conversation rather than a solo performance of the business. Douglas Grace, sitting beside Terence Lynne, sometimes spoke to her in a low voice. She had taken up a piece of knitting and the click of the needles lent a domestic note to the scene, a note much at variance with her sleek and burnished appearance. She did not reply to Grace but once Alleyn saw her mouth flicker in a smile. She had small sharp teeth.
As Ursula grew into her narrative she became less uneasy, less in need of Fabian’s support, until presently she could speak strongly, eager to draw her portrait of Florence Rubrick.
A firm picture took shape. A schoolgirl, bewildered and desolated by news of her mother’s death, sat in the polished chilliness of a headmistress’s drawing-room. ‘I’d known ever since the morning. They’d arranged for me to go home by the evening train. They were very kind but they were too tactful, too careful not to say the obvious thing. I didn’t want tact and delicacy, I wanted warmth. Literally, I was shivering. I can hear the sound of the horn now. It was the sort that chimes like bells. She brought it out from England. I saw the car slide past the window and then I heard her voice in the hall asking for me. It’s years ago but I can see her as clearly as if it were yesterday. She wore a fur cape and smelt lovely and she hugged me and talked loudly and cheerfully and said she was my guardian and had come for me and that she was my mother’s greatest friend and had been with her when it happened. Of course I knew all about her. She was my godmother. But she had stayed in England when she married after the last war and when she returned we lived too far away to visit. So I’d never seen her. So I went away with her. My other guardian is an English uncle. He’s a soldier and follows the drum and he was very glad when Aunt Florence (that’s what I called her) took hold. I stayed with her until it was time to go back to school. She used to come during term and that was marvellous.’
The picture sharpened on a note of adolescent devotion. There had been the year when Auntie Florence returned to England but wrote occasionally and caused sumptuous presents to be sent from London stores. She reappeared when Ursula was sixteen and ready to leave school.
‘It was Heaven. She took me Home with her. We had a house in London and she brought me out and presented me and everything. It was wizard. She gave a dance for me.’ Ursula hesitated. ‘I met Fabian at that dance, didn’t I, Fabian?’
‘It was a great night,’ said Fabian. He had settled on the floor, his back was propped against the side of her chair and his thin knees were drawn up to his chin. He had lit a pipe.
‘And then,’ said Ursula, ‘it was September, 1939, and Uncle Arthur began to say we’d better come out to New Zealand. Auntie Florence wanted us to stay and get war jobs but he kept on cabling for her to come.’
Terence Lynne’s composed voice cut across the narrative. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘he was her husband.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Douglas Grace and patted her knee.
‘Yes, but she’d have been wonderful in a war job,’ said Ursula impatiently. ‘I always took rather a gloomy view of his insisting like that. I mean, it was a thought selfish. Doing without her would really have been his drop of war work.’
‘He’d had three months in a nursing-home,’ said Miss Lynne without emphasis.
‘I know, Terry, but all the same … Well, anyway, soon after Dunkirk he cabled again and out we came. I had rather thought of joining something but she was so depressed about leaving. She said I was too young to be alone and she’d be lost without me, so I came. I loved coming, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Fabian murmured.
‘And there was you to be looked after on the voyage.’
‘Yes, I’d staged my collapse by that time. Ursula acted,’ Fabian said, turning his head towards Alleyn, ‘as a kind of buffer between my defencelessness and Flossie’s zeal. Flossie had been a VAD in the last war and the mysteries had lain fallow in her for twenty years. I owe my reason if not my life to Ursula.’
‘You’re not fair,’ she said but with a certain softening of her voice. ‘You’re ungrateful, Fab.’
‘Ungrateful to Flossie for plumping herself down in your affections like an amiable, no, not even an amiable cuttlefish? But go on, Ursy.’
‘I don’t know how much time Mr Alleyn has to spare for our reminiscences,’ began Douglas Grace, ‘but I must say I feel deeply sorry for him.’
‘I’ve any amount of time,’ said Alleyn, ‘and I’m extremely interested. So you all three arrived in New Zealand in 1940? Is that it, Miss Harme?’
‘Yes. We came straight here. After London,’ said Ursula gaily, ‘it did seem rather hearty and primitive but quite soon after we got here the member for the district died and they asked her to stand and everything got exciting. That’s when you came in, Terry, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Lynne, clicking her needles. ‘That’s where I came in.’
‘Auntie Floss was marvellous to me,’ Ursula continued. ‘You see, she had no children of her own so I suppose I was rather special. Anyway she used to say so. You should have seen her at the meetings, Mr Alleyn. She loved being heckled. She was as quick as lightning and absolutely fearless, wasn’t she, Douglas?’
‘She certainly could handle them,’ agreed Grace. ‘She was up to her neck in it when I got back. I remember at one meeting some woman shouted out: “Do you think it’s right for you to have cocktails and champagne when I can’t afford to give my kiddies eggs?” Aunt Floss came back at her in a flash: “I’ll give you a dozen eggs for every alcoholic drink I’ve consumed.”’
‘Because,’ Ursula explained, ‘she didn’t drink, ever, and most of the people knew and clapped, and Aunt Florence said at once: “That wasn’t fair, was it? You didn’t know about my humdrum habits.” And she said: “If things are as bad as that you should apply to my Relief Supply Service. We send plenty of eggs in from Mount Moon.”’ Ursula’s voice ran down on a note of uncertainty. Douglas Grace cut in with his loud laugh. ‘And the woman shouted “I’d rather be without eggs,” and Aunt Floss said: “Just as well perhaps while I’m on my soap-box,” and they roared with laughter.’
‘Parry and riposte,’ muttered Fabian. ‘Parry and riposte!’
‘It was damned quick of her, Fabian,’ said Douglas Grace.
‘And the kids continued eggless.’
‘That wasn’t Aunt Florence’s fault,’ said Ursula.
‘All right, darling. My sympathies are with the woman but let it pass. I must say,’ Fabian added, ‘that in a sort of way I rather enjoyed Floss’s electioneering campaign.’
‘You don’t understand the people in this country,’ said Grace. ‘We like it straight from the shoulder and Aunt Floss gave it to us that way. She had them eating out of her hand, hadn’t she, Terry?’
‘She was very popular,’ said Terence Lynne.
‘Did her husband take an active part in her public life?’ asked Alleyn.
‘It practically killed him,’ said Miss Lynne, clicking her needles.
II
There was a flabbergasted silence and she continued sedately. ‘He went for long drives and sat on platforms and fagged about from one meeting to another. This house was never quiet. What with Red Cross and Women’s Institute and EPS and political parties it was never quiet. Even this room, which was supposed to be his, was invaded.’
‘She was always looking after him,’ Ursula protested. ‘That’s unfair, Terry. She looked after him marvellously.’
‘It was like being minded by a hurricane.’
Fabian and Douglas laughed. ‘You’re disloyal and cruel,’ Ursula flashed out at them. ‘I’m ashamed of you. To make her into a figure of fun! How can you, when you, each of you, owed her so much.’
Douglas Grace at once began to protest that this was unfair, that nobody could have been fonder of his aunt than he was, that he used to pull her leg when she was alive and that she liked it. He was flustered and affronted and the others listened to him in an uncomfortable silence. ‘If we’ve got to talk about her,’ Douglas said hotly, ‘for God’s sake let’s be honest. We were all fond of her, weren’t we?’ Fabian hunched up his shoulders but said nothing. ‘We all took a pretty solid knock when she was murdered, didn’t we? We all agreed that Fabian should ask Mr Alleyn to come? All right. If we’ve got to hold a post-mortem on her character which, personally, seems to me to be a waste of time, I suppose we’re meant to say what we think.’
‘Certainly,’ said Fabian. ‘Unburden the bosom, work off the inhibitions. But it’s Ursy’s innings at the moment, isn’t it?’
‘You interrupted her, Fab.’
‘Did I? I’m sorry, Ursy,’ said Fabian gently. He slewed round – put his chin on the arm of her chair and looked up comically at her.
‘I’m ashamed of you,’ she said uncertainly.
‘Please go on. You’d got roughly to 1941 with Flossie in the full flush of her parliamentary career, you know. Here we were, Mr Alleyn. Douglas, recovered from his wound but passed unfit for further service, going the rounds of a kind of superior Shepherd’s Calendar. Terry, building up Flossie’s prestige with copious shorthand notes and cross-references. Ursula –’ He broke off for a moment. ‘Ursula provided enchantment,’ he said lightly, ‘and I, comedy. I fell off horses and collapsed at high altitudes, and fainted into sheep-dips. Perhaps these antics brought me en rapport with my unfortunate uncle who, at the same time, was fighting his own endocarditic battle. Carry on, Ursy.’
‘Carry on with what? What’s the good of my trying to give my picture of her when you all – when you all –’ Her voice wavered for a moment. ‘All right,’ she said more firmly. ‘The idea is that we each give our own account of the whole thing, isn’t it? The same account that I’ve bleated out at dictation speed to that monumental bore from the detective’s office. All right.’
‘One moment,’ said Alleyn’s voice out of the shadows.
He saw the four heads turn to him in the firelight.
‘There’s this difference,’ he said. ‘If I know anything of police routine you were continually stopped by questions. At the moment I don’t want to nail you down to an interrogation. I want you, if you can manage to do so, to talk about this tragedy as if you spoke of it for the first time. You realize, don’t you, that I’ve not come here, primarily, to arrest a murderer. I’ve been sent to try and discover if this particular crime has anything to do with unlawful behaviour in time of war.’
‘Exactly,’ said Douglas Grace. ‘Exactly, sir. And in my humble opinion,’ he added, stroking the back of his head, ‘it most undoubtedly has. However!’
‘All in good time,’ said Alleyn. ‘Now, Miss Harme, you’ve given us a clear picture of a rather isolated little community up to, let us say, something over a year ago. At the close of 1941 Mrs Rubrick is much occupied by her public duties, with Miss Lynne as her secretary. Captain Grace is a cadet on this sheep station. Mr Losse is recuperating and has begun, with Captain Grace’s help, to do some very specialized work. Mr Rubrick is a confirmed invalid. You are all fed by Mrs Duck, the cook, and attended by Markins, the houseman. What are you doing?’
‘Me?’ Ursula shook her head impatiently. ‘I’m nothing in particular. Auntie Florence called me her ADC. I helped wherever I could and did my VAD training in between. It was fun – something going to happen all the time. I adore that,’ cried Ursula. ‘To have events waiting for me like little presents in a treasure-hunt. She made everything exciting, all her events were tied up in gala wrappings with red ribbon. It was Heaven.’
‘Like the party that was to be held in the wool-shed?’ asked Fabian dryly.
‘Oh dear!’ said Ursula, catching her breath. ‘Yes. Like that one. I remember –’
III
The picture of that warm summer evening of fifteen months ago grew as she spoke of it. Alleyn, remembering his view through the dining-room window of a darkling garden, saw the shadowy company move along a lavender path and assemble on the lawn. The light dresses of the women glimmered in the dusk. Lancelike flames burned steadily as they lit cigarettes. They drew deck-chairs together. One of the women threw a coat of some thin texture over the back of her chair. A tall personable young man leant over the back in an attitude of somewhat studied gallantry. The smell of tobacco mingled with that of night-scented stocks and of earth and tussock that had not yet lost all warmth of the sun. It was the hour when sounds take on a significant clearness and the senses are sharpened to receive them. The voices of the party drifted vaguely yet profoundly across the dusk. Ursula could remember it very clearly.
‘You must be tired, Aunt Florence,’ she had said.
‘I don’t let myself be tired,’ answered that brave voice. ‘One mustn’t think about fatigue, Ursy, one must nurse a secret store of energy.’ And she spoke of Indian ascetics and their mastery of fatigue and of munition workers in England and of air-raid wardens. ‘If they can do so much surely I, with my humdrum old routine, can jog along at a decent trot.’ She stretched out her bare arms and strong hands to the girls on each side of her: ‘And with my Second Brain and my kind little ADC to back me up,’ she cried cheerfully, ‘what can I not do?’
Ursula slipped down to the warm dry grass and leant her cheek against her guardian’s knee. Her guardian’s vigorous fingers caressed rather thoroughly the hair which Ursula had been at some expense to have set on a three days’ visit down-country.
‘Let’s make a plan,’ said Aunt Florence.
It was a phrase Ursula loved. It was the prelude to adventure. It didn’t matter that the plan was concerned with nothing more exciting than a party in the wool-shed which would be attended by back-country men and their womenkind, dressed unhappily in co-operative store clothes, and by a sprinkling of such runholders as had enough enthusiasm and petrol to bring them many miles to Mount Moon. Aunt Florence invested it all in a pink cloud of anticipation. Even Douglas became enthusiastic and, leaning over the back of Flossie’s chair, began to make suggestions. Why not a dance? he asked, looking at Terence Lynne. Florence agreed. There would be a dance. Old Jimmy Wyke and his brothers who played accordions must practise together and take turn about with the radio-gramophone.
‘You ought to take that old piano over from the annexe,’ said Arthur Rubrick in his tired breathless voice, ‘and get young Cliff Johns to join forces with the others. He’s extraordinarily good. Play anything. Listen to him now.’
It was an unfortunate suggestion and Ursula felt the caressing fingers stiffen. As she recalled this moment, fifteen months later, for Alleyn, he heard her story recede backwards, into the past, and this quality, he realized, would be characteristic of all the stories he was to hear. They would dive backwards from the moment on the lawn into the events that foreshadowed it.
Ursula said she knew that Aunt Florence had been too thoughtful to worry Uncle Arthur with the downfall of young Cliff Johns. It was a story of the basest sort of ingratitude. Young Cliff, son of the manager, Tommy Johns, had been an unusual child. He had thrown his parents into a state of confusion and doubt by his early manifestations of aesthetic preferences, screaming and plugging his ears with his fists when his mother sang, yet listening with complacency for long periods to certain instrumental programmes on the wireless. He had taken a similar line over pictures and books. When he grew older and was collected in a lorry every morning and taken to a minute pink-painted State school out on the plateau, he developed a talent for writing florid compositions which changed their style with each new book he read, and much too fast for the comprehension of his teacher. His passion for music grew precociously and the schoolmistress wrote to his parents saying that his talent was exceptional. Her letter had an air of nervous enthusiasm. The boy, she said bravely, was phenomenal. He was, on the other hand, bad at arithmetic and games and made no attempt to conceal his indifference to both.
Aunt Florence hearing of this took an interest in young Cliff, explaining to his reluctant parents that they were face to face with the Artistic Temperament.
‘Now, Mrs Johns,’ she said cheerfully, ‘you mustn’t bully that boy of yours because he’s different. He wants special handling and lots of sympathy. I’ve got my eye on him.’
Soon after that she began to ask Cliff to the big house. She gave him books and a gramophone with carefully-chosen records and she won him completely. When he was thirteen years old, she told his bewildered parents that she wanted to send him to the nearest equivalent in this country of an English Public School. Tommy Johns raised passionate objections. He was an ardent trades unionist, a working manager and a bit of a communist. But his wife, persuaded by Flossie, overruled him and Cliff went off to boarding-school with sons of the six runholders scattered over the plateau.
His devotion to Florence, Ursula said, appeared to continue. In the holidays he spent a great deal of time with her and, having taken music lessons at her expense, played to her on the Bechstein in the drawing-room. At this point in Ursula’s narrative, Fabian gave a short laugh.
‘He plays very well,’ Ursula said. ‘Doesn’t he?’
‘Astonishingly well,’ Fabian agreed, and she said quickly: ‘She was very fond of music, Fab.’
‘Like Douglas,’ Fabian murmured, ‘she knew what she liked, but unlike Douglas she wouldn’t own up to it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by that,’ said Ursula grandly and went on with her narrative.
Young Cliff continued at school when Florence went to England. He had full use of the Bechstein in the drawing-room during the holidays. She returned to find him a big boy but otherwise, it seemed, still docile under her patronage. But when he came home for his summer holidays at the end of 1941, he was changed, not, Ursula said emphatically, for the better. He had had trouble with his eyes and the school oculist had told him that he would never be accepted for active service. He had immediately broken bounds and attempted to enlist. On being turned down he wrote to Florence saying that he wanted to leave school and, if possible, do a job of war work on the sheeprun until he was old enough to get into the army, if only in a C3 capacity. He was now sixteen. This letter was a bombshell for Flossie. She planned a university career, followed, if the war ended soon enough, by a move to London and the Royal College of Music. She went to the manager’s cottage with the letter in her hand, only to find that Tommy Johns, also, had heard from his son and was delighted. ‘We’re going to need good men on the land as we’ve never needed them before, Mrs Rubrick. I’m very very pleased young Cliff looks at it that way. If you’ll excuse me for saying so, I thought this posh education he’s been getting would make a class-conscious snob of the boy but from what he tells me of his ideas I see it’s worked out different.’ For young Cliff, it appeared, was now a communist. Nothing could have been further removed from Flossie’s plans.
When he appeared, she could make no impression on him. He seemed to think that she alone would sympathize with his change of heart and plans and would support him. He couldn’t understand her disappointment nor, as he continued in his attitude, her mounting anger. He grew dogmatic and stubborn. The woman of forty-seven and the boy of sixteen quarrelled bitterly and strangely. It was a cruel thing for him to do, Ursula said, cruel and stupid. Aunt Florence was the most patriotic soul alive. Look at her war work. It wasn’t as though he was old enough or fit for the army. The least he could do was to complete the education she had so generously planned and in part given him.
After their quarrel they no longer met. Cliff went out with the high-country musterers and continued in their company when they came in from the mountains behind droning mobs of sheep. He became very friendly with Albie Black, the rouseabout. There was a rickety old piano in the bunkhouse annexe and in the evenings Cliff played it for the men. Their voices, singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and strangely Victorian ballads, would drift across the yards and paddocks and reach the lawn where Flossie sat with her assembled forces, every night after dinner. But on the night she disappeared, his mates had gone to the dance and Cliff played alone in the annexe, strange music for that inarticulate old instrument.
‘Listen to him, now,’ said Arthur Rubrick. ‘Remarkable chap, that boy. You wouldn’t believe that old hurdy-gurdy over there had as much music in it. Extraordinary. Sounds like a professional.’
‘Yes,’ Fabian agreed after a pause. ‘It’s remarkable.’
Ursula wished they wouldn’t talk about Cliff. It would have been better to have told Uncle Arthur about the episode of the previous night, she thought, and let him deal with Cliff. Aunt Florence shouldn’t have to cope with everything and this had hurt her so deeply.
For the previous night, Markins, the manservant, hearing furtive noises in the old dairy that now served as a cellar, and imagining them to be made by a rat, had crept up and flashed his torch in at the window. Its beam darted mothlike about dusty surfaces of bottles. There was a brief sound of movement. Markins sought it out with his light. Cliff Johns’ face sprang out of the dark. His eyes were screwed up blindly and his mouth was open. Markins had described this very vividly. He had dipped the torch beam until it discovered Cliff’s hands. They were long and flexible hands and they grasped a bottle of Arthur’s twenty-year-old whisky. As the light found them they opened and the bottle crashed on the stone floor. Markins, a taciturn man, darted into the dairy, grasped Cliff by his wrist and, without a word, lugged him unresisting into the kitchen. Mrs Duck, outraged beyond measure, had instantly bustled off and fetched Mrs Rubrick. The interview took place in the kitchen. It nearly broke Florence’s heart, Ursula said. Cliff, who of course reeked of priceless whisky, said repeatedly that he had not been stealing, but would give no further explanation. In the meantime Markins had discovered four more bottles in a sugar bag, dumped round the corner of the dairy. Florence, naturally, did not believe Cliff and in a mounting scene called him a sneak-thief and accused him of depravity and ingratitude. He broke into a white rage and stammered out an extraordinary arraignment of Florence, saying that she had tried to buy him and that he would never rest until he had returned every penny she had spent on his schooling. At this stage Florence sent Markins and Mrs Duck out of the kitchen. The scene ended by Cliff rushing away while Florence, weeping and shaking, sought out Ursula and poured out the whole story. Arthur Rubrick had been very unwell and they decided to tell him nothing of this incident.
Next morning – the day of her disappearance – Florence went to the manager’s cottage only to be told that Cliff’s bed had not been slept in and his town clothes were missing. His father had gone off in their car down the road to the Pass. At midday he returned with Cliff whom he had overtaken at the crossroads, dead-beat, having covered sixteen miles on the first stage down-country to the nearest army depot. Florence would tell Ursula nothing of her subsequent interview with Tommy Johns.
‘So Uncle Arthur’s suggestion on that same evening that Cliff should play at the dance came at rather a grim moment,’ said Ursula.
‘The boy’s a damned conceited pup if he’s nothing worse,’ said Douglas Grace.
‘And he’s still here?’ said Alleyn. Fabian looked round at him.
‘Oh, yes. They won’t have him in the army. He’s got something wrong with his eyes, and anyway he’s ranked as doing an essential job on the place. The police got the whole story out of Markins, of course,’ said Fabian, ‘and for want of a better suspect, concentrated on the boy. I expect he looms large in the files, doesn’t he?’
‘He peters out about halfway through.’
‘That’s because he’s the only member of the household who’s got a sort of alibi. We all heard him playing the piano until just before the diamond clip was found, which was at five to nine. When he’d just started, at eight o’clock it was, Markins saw him in the annexe, playing, and he never stopped for longer than half a minute or less. Incidentally, to the best of my belief, that’s the last time young Cliff played on the piano in the annexe, or on any other piano, for a matter of that. His mother, who was worried about him, went over to the annexe and persuaded him to return with her to the cottage. There he heard the nine o’clock news bulletin and listened to a programme of classical music.
‘You may think that was a bit thick,’ said Fabian. ‘I mean a bit too much in character with the sensitive young plant, but it’s what he did. The previous night you must remember he’d had a snorting row with Flossie, and followed it up with a sixteen-mile hike and no sleep. He was physically and emotionally exhausted and dropped off to sleep in his chair. His mother got him to bed and she and his father sat up until after midnight, talking about him. Before she turned in, Mrs Johns looked at young Cliff and found him fathoms deep. Even the detective-sergeant saw that Flossie would have returned by midnight if she’d been alive. Sorry, Ursy dear, I interrupt continually. We are back on the lawn. Cliff is playing Bach on a piano that misses on six notes and Flossie’s talking about the party in the shearing-shed. Carry on.’
Ursula and Florence had steered Arthur Rubrick away from Cliff though the piano in the annexe continued to remind them of him. Flossie began to plan her speech on post-war land settlement for soldiers. ‘There’ll be no blunders this time,’ she declared. ‘The bill we’re planning will see to that. A committee of experts.’ The phrases drifted out over the darkling garden. ‘Good country, properly stocked … adequate equipment … Soldiers Rehabilitation Fund … I shall speak for twenty minutes before supper …’ But from what part of the wool-shed should she speak? Why not from the press itself? There would be a touch of symbolism in that, Flossie cried, taking fire. It would be from the press itself with an improvised platform across the top. She would be a dominant figure there. Perhaps some extra lighting? ‘We must go and look!’ she cried, jumping to her feet. That had always been her way with everything. No sooner said than done. She had tremendous driving power and enthusiasm. ‘I’m going to try my voice there – now. Give me my coat, Douglas darling.’ Douglas helped her into the diaphanous coat.
It was then that he discovered the loss of the diamond clip.
It had been a silver wedding present from Arthur, one of a pair. Its mate still twinkled on the left lapel of the coat. Flossie announced simply that it must be found, and Douglas organized the search party. ‘You’ll see it quite easily,’ she told them, ‘by the glitter. I shall walk slowly to the shearing-shed, looking as I go. I want to try my voice. Please don’t interrupt me, any of you. I shan’t get another chance and I must be in bed before ten. An early start in the morning. Look carefully and mind you don’t tread on it. Off you go.’
To Ursula’s lot had fallen a long path running down the right-hand side of the tennis lawn between hedges of clipped poplars, dense with summer foliage. This path divided the tennis lawn from a farther lawn which extended from the front along the south side of the house. This also was bordered by a hedged walk where Terence Lynne hunted, and, beyond her again, lay the kitchen gardens, allotted to Fabian. To the left of the tennis lawn Douglas Grace moved parallel with Ursula. Beyond him, Arthur Rubrick explored a lavender path that led off at right angles through a flower garden to a farther fence, beyond which lay a cart track leading to the manager’s hut, the bunkhouses and the shearing-shed.
‘No gossiping, now,’ said Flossie. ‘Be thorough.’
