XXVI“Will you see Miss Moira, my lady?”
Lady Pemberley had breakfasted in bed. She was now reading the paper. She said,
“Miss Moira? She’s very early. Yes, of course. Take the tray, and ask her to come up.”
The paper she had been reading lay tilted to the light. A black headline showed—“Murder in a Country House. Guests Questioned.” When the door opened and Moira Lane came in it was the second thing she saw. The first was Sibylla Pemberley’s face, pale and rather austere under the thick iron-grey hair which she wore drawn back in a manner reminiscent of the eighteenth century. Everything in the room was very good and very plain—no fripperies, no bright colours; a dark oil painting of the late Lord Pemberley over the mantelpiece; a jar of white camellia blooms on the shelf below; a purpl
