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s say for contemplation； shall we？“
‘they’re knocking it down soon。 i suppose you know？“
‘i know。“ he stroked the cat； absently； fondly。 ”it’s a shame； isn’t it？ i shall miss the old place。 actually i thought you were one of their people when i heard you。 a surveyor or something。 but you’re not。“
‘no； i’m not a surveyor。 i’m writing a book about someone who used to live here。“
‘the angelfield girls？“
‘yes。“
aurelius nodded ruminatively。 “they were twins； you know。 imagine that。” for a moment his eyes were far away。
‘will you e again； margaret？“ he asked as i picked up my bag。
‘i’m bound to。“
he reached into his pocket and drew out a card。 aurelius love； traditional english catering for weddings； christenings and parties。 he pointed to the address and telephone number。 “do telephone me when you e again。 you must e to the cottage and i’ll make you a proper tea。”
before we parted； aurelius took my hand and patted it in an easy； old…fashioned manner。 then his massive frame glided gracefully up the wide sweep of steps and he closed the heavy doors behind him。
slowly i walked down the drive to the church； my mind full of the stranger i had just met—met and befriended。 it was most unlike me。 and as i passed through the lych…gate； i reflected that perhaps i was the stranger。 was it just my imagination； or since meeting miss winter was i not quite myself？
gravesi had left it too late for the light； and photographs were out of the question。 so i took my notebook out for my walk in the churchyard。 angelfield was an old munity but a small one； and there were not so very many graves。 i found john digence； gathered to the garden of the lord； and a woman； martha dunne； loyal servant of our lord； whose dates corresponded closely enough with what i expected for the missus。 i copied the names； dates and inscriptions into my notebook。 one of the graves had fresh flowers on it； a gay bunch of orange chrysanthemums； and i went closer to see who it was who was remembered so warmly。 it was joan mary love； never forgotten。
though i looked； i could not see the angelfield name anywhere。 but it did not puzzle me for more than a minute。 the family of the house would not have ordinary graves in the churchyard。 their tombs would be grander affairs； marked by effigies and with long histories carved into their marble slabs。 and they would be inside； in the chapel。 the church was gloomy。 the ancient windows； narrow pieces of greenish glass held in a thick stone framework of arches； let in a sepulchral light that weakly illuminated the pale stone arches and columns； the whitened vaults between the black roof timbers and the smooth polished wood of the pews。 when my eyes had adjusted； i peered at the memorial stones and monuments in the tiny chapel。 angelfields dead for centuries all had their epitaphs here； line after loquacious line of enium； expensively carved into costly marble。 another day i would e back to decipher the engravings of these earlier generations； for today it was only a handful of names i was looking for。
with the death of george angelfield； the family’s loquacity came to an end。 charlie and isabelle—for presumably it was they who decided—
seemed not to have gone to any great lengths in summing up their father’s life and death for generations to e。 released from earthly sorrows； he is with his savior now； was the stone’s laconic message。 isabelle’s role in this world and her departure from it were summed up in the most conventional terms： much loved mother and sister； she is gone to a better place。 but i copied it into my notebook all the same and did a quick calculation。 younger than me！ not so tragically young as her husband； but still； not an age to die。
i almost missed charlie’s。 having eliminated every other stone in the chapel； i was about to give up； when my eye finally made out a small； dark stone。 so small was it； and so black； that it seemed designed for invisibility； or at least insignificance。 there was no gold leaf to give relief to the letters so； unable to make them out by eye； i raised my hand and felt the carving； braille style； with my fingertips； one word at a time。
charlie angelfieldhe is gone into the dark night。
we shall never see him more。
there were no dates。
i felt a sudden chill。 who had selected these words； i wondered？ was it vida winter？ and what was the mood behind them？ it seemed to me that there was room for a certain ambiguity in the expression。 was it the sorrow of bereavement？ or the triumphant farewell of the survivors to a bad lot？
leaving the church and walking slowly down the gravel drive to the lodge gates； i felt a light； almost weightless scrutiny on my back。 aurelius was gone； so what was it？ the angelfield ghost； perhaps？ or the burned…out eyes of the house itself？ most probably it was just a deer； watching me invisibly from the shadow of the woods。
‘it’s a shame；“ said my father in the shop that evening； ”that you can’t e home for a few hours。“
‘i am home；“ i protested； feigning ignorance。 but i knew it was my mother he was talking about。 the truth was that i couldn’t bear her tinny brightness； nor the pristine paleness of her house。 i lived in shadows； had made friends with my grief； but in my mother’s house i knew my sorrow was unwele。 she might have loved a cheerful； chatty daughter； whose brightness would have helped banish her own fears。 as it was； she was afraid of my silences。 i preferred to stay away。 ”i have so little time；“ i explained。 ”miss winter is anxious that we should press on with the work。 and it’s only a few weeks till christmas； after all。 i’ll be back again then。“
‘yes；“ he said。 ”it will be christmas soon。“
he seemed sad and worried。 i knew i was the cause； and i was sorry i couldn’t do anything about it。
‘i’ve packed a few books to take back to miss winter’s with me。 i’ve put a note on the cards in the index。“
‘that’s fine。 no problem。“
that night； drawing me out of sleep； a pressure on the edge of my bed。 the angularity of bone pressing against my flesh through the bedclothes。
it is her！ e for me at last！
all i have to d