The Silence Of The Library

“Aunt Araminta,” as Veronica called her, was an elegant, though reclusive, widow of considerable means, and she looked upon her ward as one would upon one’s own child. The relations between woman and girl were warm and affectionate, and Mrs. Buff-Orpington trusted in Veronica’s courage and good sense to carry her through any situation.

As she rang the bell to summon back the butler, Veronica knew she would have to keep her wits about her.

The servant appeared quickly, and Veronica followed him with grim determination to a sitting room on the ground floor. He motioned for Veronica to wait, and he opened the door and stepped inside. Veronica moved closer, intent on hearing anything the man said.

“Madam,” he intoned, “Miss Derivale is here. Are you ready to receive her?”

A trembling voice responded. “Oh, yes, Bradberry, show her in immediately.”

Veronica stepped back, and not a moment too soon. The door swung open wide, and the butler motioned her in.

“Madam, Miss Derivale.”

Veronica entered the room and paused a moment to survey her surroundings. The furniture and the appointments of the room called to mind the trappings of the Victorian age. Heavy, ornate, and, Veronica suspected, somewhat dusty. She suppressed a sneeze as she approached a middle-aged woman who reclined on a damask-covered chaise longue.

“That will be all, Bradberry,” Mrs. Eden spoke in a firmer tone.

“As you wish, Madam.” The butler withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Veronica gazed at her hostess, struck by the woman’s unhealthy pallor and feverish gaze. Why, Mrs. Eden appeared positively ill. Was the expected Miss Derivale a nurse, by any chance? she wondered.

Mrs. Eden forced herself upright and stared hard at Veronica. “Oh, dear, you are younger than I expected, but I am in such desperate straits, you will have to do.” Her voice broke into a sob, and Veronica hastened to comfort the distraught woman.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Eden?” she asked. “I will gladly do whatever I can to aid you, but you must confide in me.”

The older woman’s body trembled under Veronica’s comforting grasp. “I am in terrible danger, but I dare not leave this house.”

I grinned as I closed the book and put it aside. As an adolescent, I had found those chapter endings completely thrilling, and I always had to turn the page to see what happened next. Over four decades later I recognized melodrama when I read it, and tonight I was too tired to read further.

I glanced at the bedside clock. Quarter after ten. I figured Helen Louise might be home by now, so I picked up the phone and punched in her number.

The phone rang five times, and I was getting ready to leave a message when Helen Louise, slightly out of breath, answered and said, “Hello, love. Are you and Diesel already in bed?”