Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd Read Online Free PDF Page A

it was.
    “I hate to send you out in the rain, but our car’s cracked a piston or a connecting rod or some such impossible part, and Bert Archer says he can’t get it back to us before next Wednesday.”
    “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I feel better in the rain.”
    It was true. The human brain performs more efficiently when taking in humid air than it does in hot or cold dry weather. My theory is that this is some kind of throwback to our fishy ancestors, who lived in the sea and breathed water, and some day when I have sufficient time, I intend to write a paper upon the subject.
    “Do you know where Stowe Pontefract is?”
    Cynthia’s voice broke in upon my thoughts.
    Of course I did. It was only a mile or so as the crow flies from Bishop’s Lacey; two miles, perhaps, if the crow has to ride a bicycle and keep to the roads and lanes. In spite of its spelling, the name of the place was pronounced “Stowe Pumfret,” and it was something of a joke in Bishop’s Lacey.
    “It’s a hamlet,” Daffy had once told me. “Too small to be a village—too big to be an omelette.”
    “It was done Stowe Pontefract style,”
people in Bishop’s Lacey would sometimes say, meaning seldom, poorly, or not at all.
    “Yes, I know the place. It’s between here and East Finching,” I said. “First road to the right at the top of Denham Rise. Just past Pauper’s Well.”
    “That’s it!” Cynthia said. “Thornfield Chase is no more than a quarter mile in.”
    “Thornfield Chase?”
    “Mr. Sambridge’s place. Although I’m afraid it’s not nearly so grand as it sounds.”
    “I’ll find it,” I said.
    I could be there and back in an hour. It was not yet mid-morning. Plenty of time to get home and scrubbed for my first visit to Father.
    “What would you like me to do?” I asked.
    “Just deliver an envelope to Mr. Sambridge, dear. He’s a very clever wood-carver. More of an artist, I suppose. Denwyn’s been trying to entice him into replacing—or at least restoring—some of the carved medieval angels on the hammer-beam ends. The poor man suffers dreadfully from arthritis—to be quite frank, he’s as stiff as a board—so that we hate to ask him to come in again. Still, Dr. Darby says keeping active is the best thing for it. Shocking what the deathwatch beetle can do once it gets into old oak. You’re sure you don’t mind?”
    Whether Cynthia was talking about Mr. Sambridge’s joints or the carved angels, I couldn’t work out, and I didn’t want to ask.
    “Not at all,” I said. “I’d be happy to help.”
    And it was true, although what I was happy about was not so much being helpful, but being able to get away from Buckshaw, Undine, and my blasted sisters, even for a couple of hours. A ride in the rain would do me good. It would blow out the cobwebs that had been forming in my cranium for quite some time.
    —
    To the north of Bishop’s Lacey, the road rises steeply in a series of folds. I stood on Gladys’s pedals and pumped for all I was worth. There was no traffic, but if there had been, the drivers would have seen a red-faced girl in a yellow mackintosh swerving slightly and wobbling from side to side as she fought the hill and the furious gusting of the north wind.
    Like an aeroplane, a bicycle is capable of stalling at too low a speed, and one has to be prepared to step off and push at any moment. Even with the lowest gear engaged, it was a rough go.
    “Sorry, Gladys.” I puffed. “I can only promise you that it’s downhill all the way home.”
    Gladys gave a little squeak of delight. She loved coasting as much as I did, and if there was no one in sight, I might even put my feet up on her handlebars: a bit of bicycle artistry that she loved even more than ordinary free-wheeling.
    The turnoff came sooner than I expected. A weathered fingerpost pointed east in the direction of Stowe Pontefract. The road was no more than a narrow, rutted lane, but at least it was level. Dense, wild holly