Читать книгу Death Makes a Prophet - Ernest Elmore - Страница 9

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“My dear,” said Mrs. Hagge-Smith, as she swept into the breakfast-room of Old Cowdene, “don’t speak to me for a moment. I want to sit perfectly silent and let the Influences flow into me. I’ve had a vision! A wonderful, inspiring vision!” She sniffed appreciatively. “Ah, am I right in suspecting walnut steak? Yes, my dear, you can serve me with a small helping and pour my coffee. It’s wrong to neglect our earthly bodies. We must never forget that they’re the temporary dwelling-places of our Better Selves.”

She was addressing her secretary, a young and extremely pretty brunette with a stylishly slender figure and a nice deferential manner that went well with her position in the household. That this manner was the only false thing about her, Mrs. Hagge-Smith had never realised. That behind her charming presence Denise Blake concealed an unswerving dislike of her employer was something so fantastic that Mrs. Hagge-Smith would have refused to credit it. She was used to deference, smiling faces, quick obedience and good service—the result, she felt sure, of an irresistible personality rather than a bloated bank balance. She liked to have Denise about because she was quiet and efficient and deft. She had, moreover, a pale blue aura which Alicia had always found particularly soothing.

Having crossed to the sideboard and served Mrs. Hagge-Smith, Denise poured her coffee and returned to her own place at the breakfast-table. She began to nibble her toast, slyly watching Alicia from under her long lashes. There was no doubt from the smile of beatitude on her face that the Influences were flowing in. Denise wondered what form her latest enthusiasm would take and just where it was destined to land them. From a certain congested look about those raddled and monumental features there was no doubt that the vision was a thumping big one.

At the end of ten minutes, Mrs. Hagge-Smith came out of her state of “non-being” like a cork from a bottle. She reached for the toast and marmalade, demanded a second cup of coffee and rapped out:

“We shall be leaving for Welworth on the ten-ten. You will come with me. See that Millie has me packed by nine-thirty sharp and order the car round for nine-forty-five.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hagge-Smith.”

“And ring the Endive Hotel and reserve our rooms for a week.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hagge-Smith.”

Denise, despite the gloomy November day beyond the window, brightened considerably. Anything to get away from the deadly dull routine which reigned at Old Cowdene. Even Welworth Garden City would seem like Paris and Buenos Aires rolled into one after this waterlogged, isolated corner of Sussex. Although she had been with Mrs. Hagge-Smith for nearly six months, she had never before accompanied her on any of her many visits to this Canterbury of Cooism. She had often tried to imagine what Mr. Mildmann and Mr. Penpeti and many other of the Coo celebrities looked like, for at one time or another Mrs. Hagge-Smith had dictated letters to all of them. Now she would have the chance to see for herself. She imagined the experience would be rather amusing.

Out in the hall, she got through to the Endive Hotel and was informed with regrets that every room in the place was booked up for at least a fortnight. There was a Hand Weavers Conference due to start that very day. Denise went up to Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s dressing-room and gave her the information.

“How tiresome, my dear. But we mustn’t lose control. You must telephone Mr. Mildmann at once and see if he can have us. Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him I’ve had a vision in connection with our great work. I must discuss it with him without delay.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hagge-Smith.”

Ten minutes later it was all arranged. Mr. Mildmann, who really had no option, said he’d be only too delighted to accommodate Mrs. Hagge-Smith and her secretary under his humble roof. He would expect them for lunch. Little did Denise realise as she turned away from the phone that the Hand Weavers Conference was destined to alter the whole future aspect of her existence. Little did she realise, as she packed her well-worn, imitation leather suitcase, that she was moving towards an experience before which all previous experiences would pale into insignificance.