My meditations were interrupted by the advent of a smart parlourmaid. Yes, Mrs Folliott was at home. I was ushered into a big drawing-room, and looked round me curiously as I waited for the mistress of the house. A large bare room, some good bits of old china, and some beautiful etchings, shabby covers and curtains. A lady’s room in every sense of the term.
I turned from the inspection of a Bartolozzi on the wall as Mrs folliott came into the room. She was a tall woman, with untidy brown hair, and a very winning smile.
‘Dr Sheppard,’ she said hesitatingly.
‘That is my name,’ I replied. ‘I must apologize for calling upon you like this, but I wanted some information about a parlourmaid previously employed by you, Ursula Bourne.’
‘Ursula Bourne?’ she said hesitatingly.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you don’t remember the name?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I–I remember perfectly.’
‘She left you just over a year ago, I understand?’
‘Yes. Yes, she did. That is quite right.’
‘And you were satisfied with her whilst she was with you? how long was she with you, by the way?’
‘Oh! A year or two – I can’t remember exactly how long. She – she is very capable. I’m sure you will find her quite satisfactory. I didn’t know she was leaving fernly. I hadn’t the least idea of it.’
‘Can you tell me anything about her?’ I asked.
‘Anything about her?’
‘Yes, where she comes from, who her people are – that sort of thing?’
Mrs Folliott’s face wore more than ever its frozen look.
‘I don’t know at all.’
‘Who was she with before she came to you?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t remember.’
There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.
‘Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?’
‘Not at all,’ I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology in my manner. ‘I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.’
Her anger left her and she became confused again.
‘oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I? It – it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.’
One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when people are lying to you. I should have known from Mrs Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my questions – minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to be a woman quite unused to deception of any kind, and consequently rendered acutely uneasy when forced to practise it. A child could have seen through her.
But it was also clear the she had no intention of telling me anything further. Whatever the mystery centring round Ursula Bourne might be, I was not going to learn it through Mrs Folliott.
Defeated, I apologized once more for disturbing her, took my hat and departed.
I went to see a couple of patients and arrived home about six o’clock. Caroline was sitting beside the wreck of tea things. She had that look of suppressed exultation on her face which I know only too well. It is a sure sign with her of either the getting or the giving of information. I wondered which it had been.
‘I’ve had a very interesting afternoon,’ began Caroline, as I dropped into my own particular easy-chair and stretched out my feet to the inviting blaze in the fireplace.
