The Toff And The Curate

“Rolly!” she cried.

“Hallo!” He took her hand and kissed her on the cheek which she presented laughingly. Then he held her at arm’s length and eyed her with his head on one side and a gay smile in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said at last “An improvement, even in you! Isobel, it’s good to see you!”

“What an ass you are!” said Isobel, allowing herself to be drawn through the hall into the drawing-room. She took off her hat and dropped it into an easy chair, looking at him all the time. “How are you, Rolly?”

“I was jaded,” declared Rollison. “In fact I was wondering how I could cheer myself up and lo! I open the door and a vision enters.”

“Jaded?” asked Isobel, quickly. “Why?”

“Oh, the weather—” began Rollison.

“The weather never worried you yet and I don’t believe it ever will,” said Isobel. “And I don’t believe you are ever at a loose end.”

“And I thought you’d come to ask me to take you out to dinner!”

“Well, I haven’t, I’m on duty tonight,” said Isobel, “I haven’t had an evening tree for weeks.”

“Don’t rub it in,” said Rollison. “I can’t dance attendance on you like your young men and—”

“Rolly,” said Isobel, still smiling but with a more serious note in her voice, “I’m afraid you’ll want to show me the door when I tell you why I’ve come but—well, I felt that I had to. It’s rather a queer business. Are you very busy?”

“That depends,” said Rollison, “if I can help you in any way I gladly will. I—confound you!” he broke off, laughing at her, “I wondered why you spoke up when I said I was jaded, you thought it meant that I’d jump at any excitements you might be able to offer. Isobel, you’re too cunning for beauty!”

“Are you busy?” persisted Isobel.

“It still depends on what you want,” said Rollison.

He poured her out a long drink; the weather was still hot, although cooler than the previous day, and there was a breeze fresh enough to stir the curtains at the windows. A clear blue sky was visible above the house-tops and just within sight a barrage balloon floated with lazy majesty, as if disdainful of all that went on below.

To some people, Isobel Crayne appeared disdainful, too, for she had a careless manner, at times one almost of condescension; but the Toff knew her for a warm-hearted young woman who did much good privately. She was working for one of the voluntary organisations and had been doing so since the beginning of the war. Not only did it take up most of her time but it also cost her a great deal of money.

Abruptly, she said:

“I’ve been working in your favourite hunting ground for some time, Rolly.”

“East of Aldgate Pump?”

“Yes. We’ve a depot down there.”

“Much good work by the Red Cross?”

Isobel looked at him in astonishment.

“What a hopeless memory you’ve got! I’ve told you a dozen times that I do not work for the Red Cross. I’m WVS and we’re running canteens for dock-workers. I can’t imagine how you built up such a reputation as a detective, if you forget so easily.”

“I forget what it isn’t necessary to remember,” said Rollison, justifying himself urbanely. “Whether you work for the Red Cross, Aid to China, Aid to Russia, Book Salvage, National Savings, Bone Recovery, ARP or any one of a dozen other equally worthy causes doesn’t matter; that you do the work matters a great deal.”

“I am not impressed,” said Isobel. “In any case, ARP is now Civil Defence! Are you trying to side-track me?”

“Certainly not. I’m waiting patiently for you to get to the point.”

Isobel made a face at him.

“I don’t suppose it’s anything that would interest you,” she went on, “but if you can possibly look into it, I would be glad. Honestly, I think it’s a deserving case. Don’t look like that!” she exclaimed, as Rollison’s expression grew long-suffering. “It’s not a girl who’s taken the wrong turning or a father of twelve who’s been picking pockets. It’s about—”

Rollison’s expression altered so much that Isobel broke off and stared at him, and then went on: “A young curate, who—”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Rollison, “so Ronald Kemp has a way with him!”

“You know about it?” asked Isobel, incredulously.

“I’ve heard about it,” said Rollison. “And you can set your mind at rest. If the great Richard R can turn the scales, the scales are in the process of being turned. How did Kemp win you to his side?”

“He doesn’t even know my name,” Isobel told him. “I heard him preach in Mayfair some time ago and he came to the depot the other day, to see if we had a few odds and ends that he needed for a rummage sale. Have you met him?”

“Yes.”

“No one should have allowed him to go down there,” declared Isobel. “He’s hopelessly out of place. I felt sorry for him the moment I saw him and in the last day or two I’ve heard rumours that he’s being persecuted. But you