‘I’d have liked you,’ said Antonia, coming up out of the nineteenth century, and addressing the long-ago Daniel Glass. ‘I like the angry compassion you had for the patients, and I like the way you tried to help some poor frightened little kitchenmaid. I wonder if you did try hypnotism on your patients, and if so, how successful it was?’
As she worked through the rest of the papers, making notes as she did so, she wondered how Dr Glass would react to today’s methods and treatments, and how he would feel about Antonia reading his letters. She had the feeling he would not have minded at all, and might have been rather amused. You could be one of the ghosts that occasionally wander around in this cottage, Dr Glass, but I don’t mind that because I think you’re rather a friendly ghost.
The ten-minute walk to Quire House this afternoon ought not to be such a massive ordeal. It was a lovely autumn day–the kind of day Richard had always enjoyed. Antonia wondered if she could think about Richard as she walked, and this struck her as a good idea because if Richard was with her when she went out, she would be fine. It would probably not be too painful, after so long she could blot out that last sight of Richard lying on the floor, with that hellish Caprice music spattered with his blood. She could focus on good memories instead: on how his eyes used to narrow when he was amused, and how immensely still he always was when he listened to music. The way they had always laughed at the same things, and how she could never hide it from him if she was upset or angry, no matter how much she tried, because he always sensed what she was feeling. No one but Richard had ever done that; Antonia did not think anyone else ever would.
Godfrey Toy was delighted Miss Weston kept their appointment. He had been a bit worried as to how serious she had been over helping to catalogue the cellar’s contents. Halfway through the morning he had begun to wonder if he was being too trusting and whether he ought to ask Miss Weston for a reference of some kind–Oliver would probably think he ought to. But it seemed rather discourteous and even a touch melodramatic. It was not as if there were likely to be any state secrets or incriminating letters in Quire’s cellars, and even if there were, Miss Weston would hardly turn out to be a Middle East spy, or a blackmailer of cabinet ministers or royalty. It was true that one or two of the smaller display items had recently vanished–jewellery and a pair of enamelled snuff-boxes–but that was one of the hazards of running this kind of place. Godfrey did not entirely trust Greg Foster, but he was trying to be fair to the boy, so he had not said anything. The thief was just as likely to be one of the visitors.
Still, he hoped the professor would not make one of his snarky comments about gullibility or manipulative females. If he did, Godfrey would just remind him of the other occasions when they had allowed people to do local research at Quire.