A Darker Music Read Online Free Page B

she said, feeling like a hostess welcoming a guest. ‘Can I get you a comfortable chair?’ The only seats in this room were the wooden dining chairs.
    Mrs Hazlitt considered the question. ‘You could get one from Ellen’s room …’ She waved a hand to indicate the front rooms.
    ‘Sure.’ Mary edged past Mrs Hazlitt, detecting a hint of green-apple shampoo.
    ‘On the left side,’ Mrs Hazlitt murmured.
    Mary hadn’t yet been into this room, opposite the one where the men spent their evenings. Entering it was like slipping into a time warp. Wallpaper patterned in dark art-nouveau arabesques, together with the jarrah of the floor and joinery, made the room dim. The air was musty, with an overtone of mothballs. The pictures hanging on the walls were old photographs, and in the corner was a piano, complete with tarnished brass candlesticks hinged on the front panels. A trio of armchairs covered with faded rose-coloured linen was arranged in a conversational semi-circle next to the window. More than this, Mary didn’t take in; Mrs Hazlitt was waiting. She picked up one of the chairs. It was lighter than she expected, and she carried it easily out to the kitchen and positioned it near the stove where it wouldn’t block her own access. Mrs Hazlitt lowered herself into it, bracing her descent with a hand on the chair’s arm. As the seat took her weight, a flicker of something that might be pain distorted her features, and Mary felt sympathy for her, spiced by a sharp curiosity. Mrs Hazlitt sat for a while, looking quietly around her as if she were a stranger here.
    ‘I’m enjoying your cooking. I’m glad you’re here.’ The idea of a smile disturbed the parchment of her face, and Mary smiled back. Mrs Hazlitt’s gaze at once became distant, as if fearful of any show of friendliness. Mary wondered why she was looking to her housekeeper for company when she had a perfectly good husband and son, not to mention the other people who lived here.
    ‘You should do a stocktake of the freezers,’ Mrs Hazlitt said. ‘There must still be some fish there, and prawns … there could even be some marron.’ Her smile this time was a real one. ‘I quite fancy something along those lines, if you can find it.’ Her expression softened further. ‘My mother always gave us fish when we were getting over an illness, so it must be good for … for convalescents.’
    ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ Mary said; she’d been planning to check the freezers anyway. A question occurred to her. ‘You called that front parlour Ellen’s room. Who’s Ellen? Do you mind my asking?’
    Again, the near-smile, followed by a sigh, a downward droop of the head. ‘Ellen. A formidable woman …’ She paused, as if deliberating what to tell Mary. ‘Ellen was Paul’s grandmother. She and her husband Edgar came here from England in 1913. Ellen grew up near a town called Downe, in Sussex, which is why they called this place Downe. It was Ellen who set up the stud. She died in 1972.’ She turned her gaze to Mary. ‘I don’t think Paul ever got over it.’
    ‘What about Paul’s mother and father?’
    She paused before replying. ‘As far as I can tell, Peter and Morna were social butterflies. They weren’t interested in the farm. They spent most of their time up in Perth. They died young. I never met either of them. It was Paul, not his father Peter, who took over after Ellen died.’
    Mary was interested. ‘You weren’t married then?’
    Mrs Hazlitt seemed to be slipping into a reverie, staring through the bay window at the garden beyond. Since noon the cloud cover had crept up from the south as it did most days, but there’d been no rain. The wind was lashing the branches of the orchard trees, and over the soft crackle of the fire they could hear it sighing around the eaves, faintly moaning through the pine trees.
    After a few moments, Mrs Hazlitt brought her attention back to Mary’s question. ‘No. No, I didn’t meet Paul till later. By