Chapter 1: The Step-Daughter

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It was a grand house, to be sure. Old-fashioned, perhaps, but surrounded with willows and roses and many quintessentially English shrubs. Lady Mary Crawe stepped from the car and peered at the dignified sign resting at the drive entrance.

MRS. MONTGOMERY'S BOARDING HOUSE

INEXPENSIVE PLEASANT ROOMS FOR RESPECTABLE PEOPLE.

Well, that was that, then. She called to her daughters, told the driver, "Just wait here. They'll send someone out for the luggage," and advanced up the old brick stairs.

Mrs. Montgomery heard the silver bell above the door jingle as Lady Mary came in. Owning a boarding house for twenty years gave a person a certain intuitiveness for the personalities behind unknown faces. As Lady Mary stepped up to the counter in the small, comfortable reception hall, Mrs. Montgomery was smiling, but she was musing thoughtfully as her gaze swept over the features of the woman. A face like a fox, she reflected. At a generous stretch, one would put her age somewhere near 40, though expertly applied art diminished the appearance of creases…gaunt, beak-nosed, bullying type, husband probably dead…

Lady Mary said, "I telephoned ahead. We have two rooms. Crawe is the name."

Mrs. Montgomery nodded amiably. She reached behind her and took out two large brass keys, which caused the air to simmer with a faint metallic odor. "Rooms 26 and 28, ma'am," she said. "I prepared them myself. Betsy will show you the way. Hugo, bring in the lady's suitcases." With these various instructions, Mrs. Montgomery dispatched a rosy-cheeked maid and a short green-suited footman, and watched as Lady Mary left the room, followed by her two daughters.

They looked just like their mother, albeit twenty years younger; dark, dry hair, brown eyes, and rather unattractive faces. The taller one was rather striking owing to a pair of strongly marked eyebrows and deeply colored lips; the shorter one was pale and blank and wore a round pair of spectacles.

Seconds after they withdrew, voices were heard along the corridor leading to the library, and a young man and what looked to be his sweetheart emerged, laughing and talking.

The girl went immediately to the counter and handed a key over. "We'll be out to lunch, Mrs. Montergomery." She was slight, blond little thing, pretty in a bland way. She hooked her arm through that of the man. "What about your key, Danny?"

"In my pocket," said Daniel, through a mouthful of lozenges. "You trust me, and all that sort of thing, don't you, Montgum'ry?"

Mrs. Montgomery did not answer. She placed the key in the box behind her. The girl and Daniel went out.

Mrs. Montgomery shook her head. Ah, young hearts weren't what they used to be. A boy-friend here, a fiancée there, she supposed. But the girl did seem to be attached to this one – Daniel, was it? And what was her name? Mrs. Montgomery flipped through the thick register. There. Daniel Lewellyn, checked in May of nineteen-twenty. And Cynthia Crawe…Crawe? Good heavens, could she be related to that woman – Lady Mary? She didn't look a thing like her. Of course, there had to be loads of Crawes. But still, it was most peculiar. Then again, with all the divorces and marriages and living-in-sin that was going on these days, one was hardly surprised at anything. Cynthia might be a stepdaughter, after all…

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The tea-room was quiet and stuffy. Cynthia Crawe liked it. It was painted a pale lavender with white and yellow trimmings, and lunch was good and hot.

"Oy, Fred," said the proprietress, a large, red-faced lady with a stained apron. "Two more plates of mash."

Cynthia and Daniel sat at a small table – near the window, at Daniel's insistence. Of course, it was not entirely proper to be out alone together without a chaperone. But Cynthia was wearing her engagement ring, and they looked rather married; so she remained oblivious to the impropriety of the situation. Daniel said nothing about it, and they ate in comfortable silence.

"Cindy, darling," said Daniel after a moment.

"Danny?"

"Don't you ever think – well – hang it all, you're such a mystery to me, you know."

Cindy went a shade paler under her hat. She stirred her malt. "Danny, don't let's talk about it."

"But we're going to get married, darling. All I know is how we met at that ghastly party of my parents."

"I told you about Dad," said Cindy in a low voice. "And about Mary."

"Yes, but you know, dear, heaps of people have step-families.I don't know why you won't talk about them – why you insisted we had to run away to get married. And it's caused my family so much bother, too." Daniel lit a cigar in an irritated manner. "Did they belong to a cult, or something like that?"

"No." Cindy shook her head. "Don't be awful."

"Well, anyway, I think you ought to tell me – "

"Don't make me, Danny," said Cindy desperately. "I don't like talking about them because they were beastly, and Dad dying was the horridest part of all so – I don't want to remember."

"I won't, then," said Daniel in a kinder tone. "Let's talk about more interesting things, all right, darling?" He took a long draught from a teacup. "Cindy? Are you ill?"

For Cindy was sitting bolt upright, with a rather curious expression on her pale face. Her large blue eyes were wide, and her mouth hung slightly open. She was staring in the direction of the door.

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Author's Note: I attempted to juxtapose the writing styles of Agatha Christie and Stella Gibbons. With both of them being geniuses, this was a little difficult…