‘What do you mean, puzzling?’
‘What they call discrepancies, Miss Bryony.’ The word was pronounced with care. ‘Invoices and delivery notes for things never delivered to Quire, but not a one of them in my pantry inventory, and you can’t argue against that, can you?’
Byrony supposed you could not, and did not say that at Charity Cottage food was bought as it was needed, and put in the meat safe or onto the cold slab, according to what it might be. The state of the larder was largely reliant on the state of the finances, although the larder’s deficiencies were frequently augmented by Bryony’s father. In the Irish house hospitality had been so casual but so lavish, that no one had ever seemed to mind if two people turned up for a meal or twenty. No one would have bothered about pantry invoices or discrepancies either, because it would not have occurred to anyone that such things needed to be written down.
‘Very extravagant items of food they were, Miss Sullivan. Jars of preserved pears and peaches in brandy, and expensive foreign cheeses. Camembert and Brie, and the best water biscuits to go with them.’
She nodded several times, and Bryony looked round to see if there was any hope of being rescued from this, but the only person anywhere nearby was the Reverend Skandry. It would be better to stay with Mrs Minching who was saying that she would never believe Miss Thomasina and Mr Simon could have got themselves shut inside Twygrist, not if fifty crowners said so, and would Miss Bryony be so kind as to pass round the shrimp patties.
The idea of a memorial to Thomasina was being discussed in several corners of the room by this time. It appeared to have captured people’s interest, although it sounded to Bryony as if opinions as to the form it could take differed wildly. It was perhaps as well that the suggestions being made by several gentlemen who had looked on the wine when it was red did not reach Reverend Skandry’s hearing.
They had reached Dr Glass’s hearing, though. Bryony saw his eyebrows go up at one point. He wandered over to where she was standing, and said had she ever noticed that funerals produced a remarkable degree of bawdiness in some people.
‘It’s simply the relief that they’re still alive,’ said Bryony. ‘In Ireland they all get roaring drunk. In fact, I think there are still places where they prop the corpse up in a corner of the room.’
‘Wouldn’t the parish priest object to that?’
‘He’s usually roaring drunk with them,’ said Bryony caustically.
Dr Glass grinned, and said, ‘I’ve been to Ireland, but I’ve never seen your Ireland, Bryony, and I’d like to do so someday.’ Before Bryony could think how to reply to this, he said, ‘I was thinking though, that if Amberwood really wants a memorial to Thomasina, they could make it in the form of a bequest to one of the hospitals. A new ward, or, at the most, some new equipment. Do you think that’s a good idea, Bryony?’
He had rather a nice way of saying her name. She said, ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea.’
‘And if people want something permanent to look at and remember Thomasina Forrester, then I’ll personally pay for something to be stuck on the side of Twygrist. A clock perhaps. It’d look hideous, but it’s probably what people would like. What do you think?’
‘I think it would look hideous too, but I think it would be very well received.’
At first Maud did not realize where she was, except that she was in a small room inside a rambling echoing place, with long soulless passages.
Awareness came gradually, like stagnant water trickling into her mind, and like sly throaty whispers inside her head.