She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. 265 The madness crept around her like smoke under a door. He seemed to have expected them. So you are Prudence Remenham. Suddenly she became aware of the fact that he had brought no lunch.
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